Growing Up Gilbert

Posted on June 11, 2015 by Nicki

There is a redwood tree in the back yard and a few hydrangea bushes in the front. And behind the black front door at number 58:

“Ssshhh,” I whispered as I tiptoed passed their bedroom. They ignored me.

“Boys. BOYS! Sssshhhhhh.” My teeth hurt I clenched them so hard. “The baby’s sleeping,” I rasped at them. “SSHHHHH.”

The forceful sibilance twisted its way around the back of my neck in a painful spasm. My neck was stretched so taut, I thought my head would snap right off any minute. It would snap off and roll into the room and land in the space between them. They would look at my scary flashing eyes and the ugly, angry scowl on my face and kick my head straight through the window, shattering glass and decibels all over the floor.

They would not, could not hear me.

The doorbell rang. The dog barked. The baby wailed. So did I.

“Fuck. Fuck. FUCK!!” I think I yelled it. My throat hurt so I must have yelled it.

I don’t remember who was at the door, but the dog was still barking and the baby was still crying and, “Juice, Mommy, juice!” She had tried to do it herself and there was apple juice on the floor and in her shoes and dripping onto the cucumbers in the fridge.

The tension marched up and down my spine like an army of angry red ants, gathering in a pinching, hurting cluster along my shoulders. My blood boiled with unexplained rage, or rather perfectly explained rage: all I needed were two hours of quiet so the baby could nap. Two hours. In a 12-hour day packed full of fun and activity and “Dora the Explorer” and crackers and a gazillion sippy cups full of apple juice, were two calm, drama-free hours too much to ask for? Obviously yes, if you’re three, six and eight. And then the dog peed on the rug. GODDAMMIT.

***

The doors are all closed. The dog snoozes in the corner, too old and worn out to hear the doorbell anymore. I hear the TV turn on downstairs and someone is playing the drums in the boys’ room.

From the quiet of my bedroom I look out the window at the giant redwood tree, the green fronds of its branches reaching up to the baby blue sky. Like my own babies reached up to me from their cribs after naps, arms outstretched.

It has grown in the last nine years, this majestic tree.

I didn’t notice while I was nursing and changing diapers and shushing infants to sleep and siblings to keep quiet. While I was overwhelmed by mothering and what felt like too many little children eating and yelling and playing and sleeping. And growing. In this house. Number 58. Behind the black front door, with the big redwood tree in the back yard and a few hydrangea bushes in the front.

I didn’t notice.

***

I didn’t notice the rage, that bubbling, boiling rage, slowly reduce to a gentle simmer. To a soft heat that flared only occasionally when a now tween-age boy talked back or rolled his eyes, when an inquisitive little girl experimented with lipstick not only on her own person but on every bathroom surface, or when an impulsive toddler found a marker in the minivan and decorated the car seats.

As the redwood tree moved ever upward in silence, I didn’t quite notice that the stretches of peace and quiet lasted longer and longer. They could write their own names and fix their own snacks, shoot baskets outside and read to each other. Slowly, imperceptibly, over nine tumultuous years Mommy became Mom, and the fiery cauldron of overwhelming and angry fatigue quietly ceased bubbling on a burner in my belly… and then there were no more babies behind the black front door at number 58.

***

No more babies, but a teen, a couple of tweens and a little boy who stares up in awe. “Is this a redwood tree?”

This summer we say goodbye to the house we’ve grown up in. I stare out my bedroom window and listen. There is no rage rushing through my veins, no sssshhhh hissing from my lips. There are muted voices gently bouncing off the walls and an old dog snores softly in the corner.

And there is a very tall redwood tree stretching silently up to the sky in the back.

This post is dedicated to my friend Matt who first coined the phrase “Growing up Gilbert” about nine years ago, while sitting at our dining room table behind the black front door at number 58. This summer we say goodbye to number 58, but not to our memories and all that we have loved and learned in this house.

This is a Finish the Sentence Friday post, inspired by the prompt, “This summer…” Hosted by Kristi from Finding Ninee, and co-hosted by Lisa from The Meaning of Me, Reta from Calculated Chaos, and Allison from The Latchkey Mom.

Something Is Not So Fresh At The Supermarket

Posted on May 21, 2015 by Nicki

I first notice her between the bananas and the piles of crisp Fuji apples. I catch a glimpse of her long, straight auburn hair and wonder if it’s her, but I need three English cucumbers, and I’m distracted by the bright green mint and beautiful flat-leaf parsley. How is everything still so fresh and abundant in this drought? It’s probably best that I don’t know, and I suppose not everything is from California.

I remember she told me how much she loves shopping in supermarkets in the U.S. Plentiful produce, clean floors, organized shelves.

I turn back toward the cart with my cucumbers and see she is no longer there. I breathe an almost inaudible sigh of relief and shake my head at myself.

This unsociable version of me is new and not all that welcome. Not because she is more reserved and quieter than usual, and not because she would rather be home alone than almost anywhere these days. This is unlike me, but I understand it can happen with age and circumstance and lots of children around all the time. Introspection and inward focus are good things. I’m okay with it. For now.

Antisocial me is unwelcome because she displays a reluctance to greet people she’s recently met. A reluctance, an almost-fear, to meet new people, and a strong desire to blend into the leaves of lettuce and kale for fear of being recognized. If only she were wearing green.

What has me worried and bewildered is that I may be perceived as rude and aloof. Or worse, snooty and unfriendly. The large crowd at the event the other night overwhelmed and frightened me and I stood alone, half-hidden behind a pillar in my brightly colored dress. Silently I prayed nobody would notice me. Nobody would notice me being rude and unfriendly, because how would they know that it was because I was terrified of saying hi to someone new? Terrified to introduce myself to a stranger and embark on a conversation, a connection. Even though it might turn out to be wonderful. The colorful, social butterfly that loves to flit amongst new flowers is suddenly fearful. The flowers look daunting and enormous, and what if she laughs too loud or not at all?

***

I met the woman with the long red hair just three days ago. She and her family are new to town, and she is lovely and friendly. They’ve been living abroad and she seems excited and happy to be back here, close to family and stores that are clean and convenient.

I don’t remember her name but how welcoming and friendly it would be if I walked up to her in the supermarket. Reintroduced myself and asked about her day, her kids. Connected over the brilliantly red strawberries or the boxes of Capri Sun. Five, seven minutes, at the most, of hello and how are you and a smile.

Of course, it’s possible she is feeling as antisocial as I am. Maybe she doesn’t want an almost stranger interrupting her solitude and thoughts. That is possible, but I can’t know for sure.

What I know is that I don’t want to say hello. And I’m disappointed in myself.

I wander around the store, tossing pasta and the organic two percent milk we are always running out of into the cart. Oh good, they have those new yogurt squeezables the kids have been asking for. Of course I forget the cream cheese, which is what I came to the supermarket for in the first place.

I find the shortest checkout line and unload my groceries. I look up from the cart and there she is again, in line right next to me. This is my chance! I can redeem myself, and be the warm, welcoming person I want to be. I take a breath. I open my mouth. The “hi” sticks in my throat and will go no further. It’s a good thing she’s not looking at me.

Suddenly I can’t wait to get home, to unpack all of this, and leave my rudeness in the cereal aisle where it belongs.

I will be back at the supermarket soon enough (probably tomorrow since I forgot the cream cheese). Fresh produce and a fresh start.

This is a Finish the Sentence Friday post, inspired by the prompt, “It started in the line at the grocery store…” Hosted by Kristi from Finding Ninee, and co-hosted by Dawn (this week’s sentence thinker-upper), and me here at Red Boots.

My Boobs Have Grown And I’m Too Old For This

Posted on May 7, 2015 by Nicki

source: les-dessous-de-la-lingerie.fr

I pulled my sweater off with my back to the mirror. My sunglasses slid off the top of my head and I threw them on the pile I’d amassed in the corner: jacket, messy handbag, cell phone. The skull motif on my turquoise scarf looked up at me slyly. They knew, those skulls.

I didn’t need to look in the mirror. I knew too.

Absently, I scratched a dry patch on my hand as I leaned against the wall. My back hurt. I shifted a little on the balls of my feet. Did I need to pee again? I decided to ignore the muted signals my bladder was misfiring to my brain. It was less than an hour since I’d gone.

“Alright honey. Let’s take a look!” She was warm and friendly. Her hair fell in beautiful, black tresses around her face. She beamed with her eyes as well as her mouth.

I turned toward her and gave her a tired smile back. I glimpsed my reflection in profile. I think I heard the skulls snigger.

She sized me up without judgment or a tape measure. I think that’s the secret. “You are definitely in the wrong size. We are going to get you up!” And with that she left, in a flurry of promise and hope.

I turned toward the mirror.

I don’t know when it happened. The aching back. The tired feet. The hands that feel dry no matter how much cream I rub into them. My grandmother’s hands. Long knobbly fingers. Covered in lines.

Was it overnight? A dark quiet night, some time between turning 40 last year and 41 next week? I don’t remember that I woke up on any particular morning in the last 12 months feeling and looking different, older, sweatier, grayer. No matter how much I sleep, the eyes that look back at me in the mirror always resemble an ancient raccoon.

I don’t know when it happened. I don’t know when I started to smell like a teenager in between showers, or when I decided I need a bunch of new bras because mine were suddenly way too small. Puberty for 40-somethings? I don’t remember the details from the first time around, but I do know there is little to control and way too much to relinquish!

“Ookaay hon, what do you think of these?” Beautiful lace in cream and black, pale pink and purple beckoned from her outstretched hands. The delicate colors took my breath away, but it was the wide satin straps and underwire that I was after.

No matter how confidently time marches all over my body, my boobs were not going to be casualties of this hormonal battle!

My hair turns gray when nobody is looking. And every time I sneeze or laugh too hard… well, you know. It’s bewildering and confusing, when and how this happens. In the dead of night or right before my eyes.

I looked at myself once in the mirror. Smiled a real smile, and gave my new friend a big, grateful hug. I gathered up my belongings and shoved that scarf deep into my bag.

I had new underwire. No need for anything else.

This is a Finish the Sentence Friday post, inspired by the prompt, “No one was around when it happened.” Hosted by Kristi from Finding Ninee, Lisa (this week’s sentence thinker-upper) from Flingo, and Jessica from Ramblings of an add mommy. My wise friend, Samantha, told me, “Our boobs deserve the best.” She’s right.

The Matter Of Words

Posted on April 30, 2015 by Nicki

The street was cobbled. Perhaps it was raining. It’s not always wet, but it is usually cold in London in early January. It was barely afternoon and it might have been dark already. I’m sure I didn’t mind the cold pinching my skin that was more used to the hot African sun at that time of year than the chilliness that stroked my bare neck with its icy fingers. South Africans in London are not always prepared for true degrees of freezing.

I didn’t mind. It wasn’t the cold that had my attention right then.

It was at least 20 years ago. The highlights of those weeks backpacking through Europe and London have faded. What I remember with vivid clarity are the details: the snow I saw for the first time in Lucerne, the brave Italian bikers who didn’t care about the side mirrors they snapped off the cars as they whizzed down narrow Roman alleys, and the pillow cases at the inn under the train tracks in Avignon that smelled strongly of vinegar. I knew they were clean.

London was our last stop. My backpack felt heavy after lugging it for weeks on my back, and the cobbled streets were dangerously slick in the rain.

I stepped into the bookstore to move away from the wintry, poking fingers of imminent nightfall and found myself in a world of wonder.

This bookstore was no different to any other I’d ever been in: shelves and stacks and displays of novels and recipe books and travel guides, biographies and plays and the latest bestsellers. An entire carousel of Mr Men. It was all there as expected.

What was unexpected was my reaction. As if I had never been in a bookstore before, the frenzied desire to own them all wrapped itself around my heart like the scarf I had forgotten to bring: Dickens and Austen and George Eliot and every Brontë I could find, including Anne. Poems by Milton and Yeats and Seamus Heaney and a big fat anthology of the works of John Keats. Plays by Moliere and Strindberg and I’m sure a Shakespeare or two.

Somewhere between Robinson Crusoe and Lady Chatterley’s Lover I misplaced my jacket and all my wits. How I would transport my newly acquired, gargantuan stash of classics from London to Johannesburg in a backpack that was already weighing me down was of no consequence. Or even of consideration.

Today, my greatest challenge in that situation would be finding a wifi connection to download all those masterpieces of literature. I would log on to Amazon, maybe read a sample but probably not, click Buy and be done. I could do it while standing on the cobbled street in the cold twilight, possibly using the bookstore’s wifi. Swipe. Click. Adjust the collar of my jacket against the chill.

The books are heavy, weighted with the words, the truths of their authors. Journals of imagination and dreams, pages of exploration and fantasy. Their colorful covers, bright canvases of promise and adventure, guard the path along which we can’t wait to wander or race, meander or gallop.

I love my Kindle, I do. It’s light and nimble, easy to carry, and would occupy little more space than a pair of socks in a heavy backpack. It is a portal to a world of words and anticipation, a world that is truly at my fingertips. And that is nothing less than astounding.

But its shelves are flat and gray. There are no wrinkled spines standing upright or leaning a little to the right, urgently but quietly beckoning to the eager reader. There is no inscription waiting for me on the title page, the date of my sixth birthday underlined in blue pen at the top:

To our own darling Nicky,

Wishing you many happy returns of the day.

All our love and kisses

from your loving

Gran & Sonny

There is no favorite bookstore with every book I’ve been wanting to read beautifully displayed, and no bookstore owner to chat with or to tell me about a little-known gem. She has known all my children since they were born and every recommendation is a winner.

My backpack was heavier than I could have ever imagined, carrying those books home. I even bought a large duffel bag for the overflow. But the sight of them, 20 years later, in my bookshelf and the feel of them in my two hands is worth every last, heavy step.

This is a Finish the Sentence Friday post, inspired by the prompt, “Something I used to love but now hate is…” or “Something I used to hate but now love is…” Hosted by Kristi from Finding Ninee, Allison (this week’s sentence thinker-upper) from The Latchkey Mom, and Kelly from Just TypiKel. Words matter.

BookCover

Squeeze Those…

Posted on April 23, 2015 by Nicki

source: RiDE Oakland

The room is dark and hazy. Pedals whir. Bright eyeballs and shiny teeth glow in the eerie blue light. I smile and say hello to everyone even though I recognize no one. I wonder if I’ve gone through the looking glass along the wall and stepped into an alternate world where the beat is heavy, the energy frenetic… and the language completely mysterious.

Before I know it, I join the one two rhythm and begin the ~~grueling~~ energizing ascent up an imaginary hill. The words I hear seem to have no meaning, and I wonder if all this activity is causing some kind of aphasic episode. Luckily my brain is smarter than I am. It refuses to acknowledge it doesn’t understand the enigmatic instructions, and by the time we reach down for the next quarter turn (um… what?) it is already decoding the cryptic phrases that only make sense right here right now:

Gimme a quarter turn. This does not mean with your body, your head, or any part of your anatomy. Whatever you do, please do not actually turn one quarter clockwise, counter-clockwise or any wise. It’s impossible to do that anyway since you are, hopefully, perched on your bike pedaling like crazy. One two one two one two. “Gimme a quarter turn” is the foundation of a spin class. It means reach down, grab the resistance knob, and turn it one quarter to the right to add resistance. And hope the instructor does not ask you to do it again. It’s a futile hope. Every quarter turn adds more resistance until pretty soon you’re pushing your bike up Mount Everest. Which is the point. It’s worth it.

Tap backs. Yep, that’s what he said. These sound elusive, confusing, and exciting: I’ll tap your back if you tap mine?! Or something. I’m going to leave it there. Some moves are better left unexplained.

Go to the hover. Right, now I’m really in an alternate world. Complete with Marty McFly, hover boards and that must be the easiest way up this hill. Almost. Not quite. What it means is squeeze those abs (more on that later), summon every ounce of strength you may or probably do not have, and hover hummingbird-style above your bike. Don’t stop pedaling! I promise, your thighs (and abs) will thank you one day. If they ever talk to you again!

Singles. I believe this is a shout-out to all the single people in the room. An invitation for them to do those awesome-looking push-ups and tap backs. Since I’m not one of them, I ignore this part. And pretend I don’t hear him say, “Gimme a quarter turn.”

Squeeze those abs. This is my favorite! The one I will never understand, no matter how loud the music. Because… how? How do you squeeze your abs? I’ve deduced that it does not mean grab the kangaroo-like pouch you will forever have after four pregnancies and give it a juicy squeeze with your hand. It has something to do with squeezing from the inside. The problem with this instruction is it assumes you have abs inside to squeeze. I don’t. See aforementioned kangaroo pouch. So I can’t. This is too much resistance.

I love this class. I love the loud music, the beat, and the tap backs. And also disco lights! I love the darkness (because the instructor can’t see that I’m not giving him a quarter turn. Sneaky!), and I love the vibrant, motivating trainer telling me I can do it, especially when I feel like I can’t. Which is almost every day. I believe him when he tells me. And then I do it. Mostly, I love these quirky phrases that really only make sense in this world. Because where else would you hear anything as fabulous as: Squeeze those abs!

This is a Finish the Sentence Friday post, inspired by the prompt, “I wonder…” Hosted by Kristi from Finding Ninee, and co-hosted by Kerri of (Un)Diagnosed and still ok and Jill from Ripped Jeans & Bifocals. I wondered what it would be like to love spinning. Now I know! With very grateful thanks to Deb C, Helen, Jeremy, Luci, Deb R and all the riders at RiDE Oakland. 3, 2, 1… ride.