Thanks a Windmillion

Posted on April 23, 2014 by Nicki

source: talloula.deviantart.com

Turns out I’m not so good at gratitude. I mean, I know how to express it and I send thank you notes and emails and say it out loud to people all the time. I drill my children to say thank you, to show their appreciation for kindness, helpfulness, compliments, gifts. Not only is it polite and good manners, but the giver feels lovely when thanked and – perhaps most important of all – actually saying or writing thank you feels great for the givee too: a time to feel the intention behind the gift, to accept the warm love, kind thoughts, pure heart that almost always accompany an act of giving.

I love to say thank you, and to be thanked, but it’s always instantaneous. In the moment. Right when the delicious deed is done. The gift received. The compliment heard. The assistance appreciated. And I feel great globs of something way beyond gratitude for all the good in my life: my family, my health, my friends, my body that works. That I can open my eyes in the morning, see a sunrise and a lunar eclipse, enjoy the sweetness of mangoes and eat marrow bones, feel love and give love, smell woodsmoke and jasmine, have memories, talk and read and write and hear my kid say things like “We share the world.” This greater-than-gratitude is inherent. With me, in me, always.

But I rarely think about the smaller godsends in my life. The tiny, almost imperceptible openings between the marvelous moments of giving and the greater goodness. The barely noticeable happenings that evoke nuances of emotion, leave me feeling different, with a perspective altered not only in that second but for the rest of the day, the week, or for always.

Last night’s late-night phone fest with my friend Lisa yielded such an opening. In between giggling bouts of hysteria – the release of both husbands away, too many kids too little time for each of us, the intensity of daily A to Z writing that we’re both enveloped in – she suggested I use this color and this topic for T.

“I have no gratitude right now,” I half-joked, half-sniffled, completely dismissed. “Oh well then,” she replied sagely.

Couldn’t get it out of my head. Fell asleep thinking about it. Woke up thinking about it. What does that mean: No gratitude?

So with tremendous thanks to Lisa, who often inspires gratefulness in me, especially in her writings at Flingo, here are my Windmills of Thanks for today:

To my friend J who gives me the biggest hug, whenever she sees me, and tells me, “You look fantastic.” I see her at least twice a week, sometimes two days in a row – we work out together – and I look a lot of things at those times (harried, tired, irritated, pained, hair too long, sweaty, unshowered) but definitely never fantastic. I choose to believe her though. And that hug sure feels fantastic.

To my kids, who started today in that can’t-be-beat way: fighting. Because he wanted to sit in that chair, and how dare she finish the cereal, and he’s an idiot because he breathed. One of the cruelest ways to kick off a Wednesday, listening to their whingeing and whining when I’ve barely taken a breath. But the silence they left in their wake as they argued their way out the door and down the road to school was serene to the extreme.

To same storm-out-the-door son who called me at 8.17am from school to apologize. Truly a breathtaking moment and one that obliterated the day’s sticky start. Thank you, love. (And also thank you to the school for allowing the kids to call their parents no matter what – this time, anyway. It’s not always something to be grateful for).

Thank you to Matthew Weiner for creating the greatest show on TV ever: Mad Men. Yes to Don Draper. Yes to Joan. Yes to fabulous sixties fashion and design. But mostly, yes to amazing writing. And scenes like the one of Betty shooting the pigeons in Season 1. Life-changing (for reasons that deserve a piece of their own – stay tuned. And watch Mad Men).

Thank you Kind Driver for backing all the way up on Clarendon Crescent – possibly the narrowest street in Oakland, made all the more so by the cars, trucks and minivans parked on either side. No mirror is safe on this street. Whether he sensed my impatience at having to navigate this obstacle course or not, his unconditional willingness to help me out, to make life a little easier this morning, restored not only my faith in human kindness, but strangely in myself. When I raised my hand in thanks. When I slowed down. And smiled.

To my sister T (how perfect!) who shows me every day that it is possible to live life with humor and abundant compassion even when it’s all kinds of tough.

Six letters left, one week to go in this A to Z Writing Challenge and I am feeling so much gratitude for the experience, the creativity, the purest joy of writing words so often. I am blessedly thankful to have the opportunity to read the wonderful work of others, and to connect so meaningfully and relevantly with other writers taking this challenge. But I am mostly grateful for all who have read what I have written, who have taken the time, hit like, shared, tweeted and retweeted, sent an email or a text, posted a comment. I could write reams on how much that means to me. But I won’t.

I’ll just say: a million thank yous.

Thanks a Windmillion by OPI

This post was written as part of the April A to Z Challenge. To read more of my A to Z posts click here.

Push and Shove

Posted on April 18, 2014 by Nicki

They spent the afternoon in the snow. Tumbling over each other like overgrown puppies. Laughing. Playing. Together. It was almost 70 degrees, bright blue skies, and most of the snow is already melted.

But they were determined to play in the snow, whatever was left. They left me reading at the pool, got their snow pants and jackets and gloves, grabbed the red and green snowball makers and trekked up the ski hill past the sign that loudly proclaims: No sledding on the ski hill.

So they butt-sledded.

I squinted up the blinding white hill and saw four figures – medium, small, smaller and extra-small, tumbling down the snowy white slope. Over and over again. And over each other. Soaking wet gloves, trashed sneakers, sore butts.

Most often their play ends in anything but. It ends in tears. And raised voices. Shut up. You’re an idiot. Or even an accidental shove that nobody believes was an accident. There are slaps instead of words, and loud wails, and always my disappointment that my very parental and annoying warning “someone is going to get hurt” was unfortunately realized.

There was no pushing and shoving yesterday afternoon. They delighted in each other. So happy to be together. Maybe it was the magical snow. Or the thrill of tumbling down a steep hill on their butts. Or maybe it was because it was just the four of them, up there on the mountain, taking care of each other. And they didn’t know I was watching.

Push and Shove by OPI

This post was written as part of the April A to Z Challenge. To read more of my A to Z posts click here.

Not Like the Movies

Posted on April 16, 2014 by Nicki

The carwash brushes swirl the soap back and forth, back and forth across the windshield. The light reflects off the thick bubbles. There’s a faint slap-slap every time the rubber part hits the glass. Hypnotic. Peaceful.

Cut to the Jewish Community Center. Boxes of something are being packed and organized for a food drive, or a fundraiser or a holiday carnival. “Smile, Girls, I’m going to put this on Facebook and tag you all,” the volunteer in charge says.

She’s a writer. She studied Journalism at college and now she’s a stay-at-home-mom with a blog. Most days she’s still in her sweats when her husband comes home at 6pm, because if she stops to actually get dressed it’s all over.

Ever seen the movie Afternoon Delight? It stars Kathryn Hahn as Rachel – the confused, trying-to-figure-it-out, Jewish, writer-mom-volunteer who finds tremendous solace and inner peace at the carwash. Fifteen minutes into the movie I wonder if writer/director Jill Soloway had been spying on me for several months.

That’s what makes great art great – movies, books, songs that imitate life. That viewers, readers and listeners can relate to: Hey, that kinda happened to me! Wow, I felt that way too. I remember a break-up like that. A family Christmas when that exact thing happened. Sneaking out with my best friend… We love those movies. We love feeling that our experiences and feelings are shared by others. It gives us a sense of belonging, of normalcy even, at a time when we felt left out and different.

But there’s something disconcerting about watching my life play out with uncanny accuracy in a movie, Hollywood or otherwise. While it’s comforting to know that others have similar experiences, that I’m (obviously) not the only Journalism grad who didn’t make a real career out of it, it’s unsettling, uncomfortable and really difficult to watch. On a big screen. From the outside looking in, but also from the inside feeling out.

In Afternoon Delight Rachel is trying so hard to figure it out, she invites a down-and-out young stripper to come live with her and her family. Rachel wants to save her. And of course, we can see, this has trouble written all over it. Rachel really has the best intentions, she loves this woman, wants to help her – but her mom-friends don’t like it so much, her husband doesn’t want to like it, her friends’ husbands love it.

Complicated situations, tested relationships, and at the end of this Hollywood movie, Rachel realizes much about herself and her marriage, and she and her husband indeed figure it all out. The End.

book

There are times I wish I could yell “That’s a wrap!” and high-five myself and everyone around me that yeah it’s all perfect, and worked out for the best, and everything’s good, no great! But life is not like the movies. Thank G-d. I may be a frustrated Journalism graduate, who volunteers at the JCC and drives a minivan. But I haven’t brought an exotic dancer home (yet!) and my afternoon delight is usually a cup of tea and 20 minutes with a good book.

Nope – not like the movies. And that’s a good thing.

Not Like the Movies by OPI

This post was written as part of the April A to Z Challenge. To read more of my A to Z posts click here.

Koala Bear-y

Posted on April 12, 2014 by Nicki

“G’day mate,” he says to everyone he passes, in a perfect Australian accent. He is walking around Oakland’s Lake Merritt. Some people are amused by the friendly ten-year-old chirping out Australian greetings in the midst of Urban California, while others just ignore him. He doesn’t care either way. He loves his Australian lingo, and loves to use it whenever he can.

koala He’s really nothing like a Koala, except for his love of Australia. We have Paul Hogan to thank for that. Nothing like a little Crocodile Dundee with that shark tooth necklace round his neck to inspire romantic notions of the Outback. And a killer Aussie accent. He also eats constantly (my koala that is, not Crocodile Dundee), but thankfully not eucalyptus leaves. Koalas are a little on the lazy side – those leaves don’t provide a lot of energy – and I guess he is somewhat more lazy than the average growing boy his age. He doesn’t like to help clean up, would rather tool around on Instagram than go for a hike or a bike ride, unless it’s round the lake where he can practice his Australian. Or somewhere on a skateboard.

He calls himself the “true middle.” I don’t know how he figures that when he’s the second of four – there are really two middles, or no middles – but he says he’s the true middle. Maybe it’s because he was in the middle first.

Whatever it is, it seems like a tough place to be for him. Easily frustrated. In search of excitement all the time. If we don’t have a fun agenda for every minute of the weekend, he’s mad and disappointed. He nags to have his friends over every day. “No play dates today,” I tell him. It’s already a busy afternoon, and more kids means more chaos. “Fine,” he yells, clearly disappointed, obviously frustrated, feeling many things but definitely not fine.

He worries that plans are going to change without his knowledge. Wears me down with his questions. “Can we see The Muppets Most Wanted, Mom?” “When can we see it?” “Are we going to see The Muppets Most Wanted?” No matter how many times I assure him we will see it, it’s not enough. He wants a firm commitment, a day, a time – preferably today, right now. I can’t commit. “We’ll see it, I said we’ll see it.” My jaw is tight. “But not today. And stop nagging.”

“Fine!”

Oy.

But he has the best sense of humor. Cracks jokes, laughs so hard he cries. Loves to rap, and dance, and play DJ in the car, spinning the dial from channel to channel until he finds the just right song. No alt rock. No Billy Joel. We fight over the radio. He usually wins.

The most friendly. The biggest heart. Compassionate. Sensitive. “What did you do today, Mom?” he asks every afternoon. The others don’t even notice I have a life before 3pm.

Koalas are not actually bears. They are marsupials – like kangaroos and wombats – with a pouch for their babies. A pouch where the young ones feel safe and secure and taken care of. My koala throws his arms around my neck, squeezes me close. I know he’s frustrated when he does that, worried about something, wants to feel safe with me. He plants big kisses on my cheeks every morning.

And yesterday he did something amazing. I wasn’t home, and an elastic band came off his braces. He called me. Here we go, I thought. I’ll have to schedule an appointment, find the time…

“Mom, I called the orthodontist and told them what happened. They said it’s not a big deal and I can just come in tomorrow morning, but I said I had to ask my mom.”

Did I mention that he’s ten? I think he might be leaving the pouch…

I wonder if he spoke to the orthodontist in an Australian accent?

Koala Bear-y by OPI

This post was written as part of the April A to Z Challenge. To read more of my A to Z posts click here.

Getting Acquainted

Posted on April 8, 2014 by Nicki

Given that I only have one daughter, I like to think that I know her pretty well. One daughter, three sons. I like to think that I know them all pretty well, but her especially. Because the two of us are the Girl Power in our testoterone-heavy family. We are a natural duo a lot of the time: she runs errands with me, we get our nails done, go shopping on rare occasions.

She is as boisterous as her brothers, has water balloon fights and nerfgun wars with them, eats as much as they do, and watches whatever they’re watching at full volume (I’m pretty sure they’ve all blown their hearing by now) but every few days their loud, intensely wolfpack boy-energy overwhelms her as much as it does me, and the two of us retreat. Either alone, or together.

She keeps the door of her bedroom closed. Whether she’s in it or not. She says it’s because she doesn’t want Pretzel the dachshund to shuffle in and pee on the fluffy cream rug, but I rather think it’s to keep her she-domain to herself. When she’s nowhere to be found, I quietly push open that bedroom door, and see her dark head bent over her desk, where she’s drawing or making a card for someone or writing a story.

During her seven years with me, I’ve come to know that the only fruit she really likes is pears, and that she loves art and writing. That she wants to be an actress and go to college in New York City. She is shy but social. Good at karate and mediocre at ballet. I know she loves clothes that feel soft. She cuts out the tags because they itch her neck. When she reads to herself she actually says each word out loud in a soft, barely audible undertone that is not a whisper. I know that she loves to take care of her little brother, but is almost always irate and exasperated with the one just above her and a little in awe of the one above him.

But sometimes she reveals herself to me in ways so full of unexpected wonder I feel like I’m meeting her for the first time.

Like when she told me during my library shift at school today that she’s checking out a picture book because she is reading two chapter books at home – I had no idea. Or when she exploded into uncontrollable laughter watching the little guy inhale my skin (he has some kind of olfactory connection with me) – it surprised me that she found it so funny, and her laughter was so completely uninhibited that soon all three of us were hysterical. She makes witty comments now and again, in a voice so dry and deadpan if I’m not watching her face and her lips move, I would miss them. She is not a jokester like her brothers, and it seems out of character yet so perfect when she delivers these one-liners.

The other day she read my post about Dutch Tulips. And she said, “Mom, I like how you have the word ‘tulips’ at the end of the first paragraph, and then you end the whole thing with the word ‘tulips’.”

I stared at her in wonder while my heart skipped many beats and my brain tried to figure out who this girl, with the green-gray eyes and smattering of freckles across her nose, was exactly. Her intuitive insight into an apparently insignificant detail seemed far beyond her seven short years of life. Because of course it’s not an insignificant detail. It’s so significant. And deliberate. It’s how I tied the piece together, and I made a conscious choice to use the word there. And again there.

My little girl has a killer sense of humor. Can read two books at once, and knows her limits. And is developing an intuition for the written word that she is just discovering. And so am I.

My girl and I – we’re still getting acquainted. I hope the “getting” part lasts forever.