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Oh The Joys

Oh The Joys (OhTheJoys): 41, Female
United States

Name or Pseudonym:: Oh, The Joys

About Me:: My husband and I have two toddlers. They are fifteen months apart. The work load is crazy. When it all gets to be too much, we look at eachother and say sarcastic things like, "Oh, the joys" and "Our lives are so rich and full - are you experiencing the richness and fullness right now?" When things get really bad we say, "You're not going to go out for a pack of cigarettes and never come back are you?" When we're amused by two screaming children we share an imaginary cigarette and select a brand name for the occasion. Right before having two children, we traveled in SE Asia, Nepal, India, Africa, Central & South American for 16 months. Our lives are different now. Filled with joys... OH, THE JOYS! Seriously.

Blog:: othejoys.blogspot.com

Oh, The Joys Blog

diastole and systole

It was fall and we were lying on a blanket in Pound Ridge Reservation in Westchester County.

Joseph had recently discovered that K and I were having an affair.

When Joseph said he was moving out, that our marriage was over, he was so calm.

I can't remember why I went to New York.

I think I felt so unhinged that I decided to visit my friend Therese who was living in Chinatown and feeling a bit lost herself.

K happened to be in New York at the same time visiting his mother.

I went out to her house in the suburbs to see him for a night.

There might not be anywhere more beautiful than the Hudson River Valley in the fall, but enjoying myself was a bit out of reach.

My life, as it had been, was falling apart.

Whether or not that was a good thing remained to be seen and I was afraid.

Stretched out on a blanket in the crisp air with colorful leaves falling all around us, K read a poem to me.

To Have Without Holding
Marge Piercy

Learning to love differently is hard,
love with the hands wide open, love
with the doors banging on their hinges,
the cupboard unlocked, the wind
roaring and whimpering in the rooms
rustling the sheets and snapping the blinds
that thwack like rubber bands
in an open palm.

It hurts to love wide open
stretching the muscles that feel
as if they are made of wet plaster,
then of blunt knives, then
of sharp knives.

It hurts to thwart the reflexes
of grab, of clutch; to love and let
go again and again. It pesters to remember
the lover who is not in the bed,
to hold back what is owed to the work
that gutters like a candle in a cave
without air, to love consciously,
conscientiously, concretely, constructively.

I can't do it, you say it's killing
me, but you thrive, you glow
on the street like a neon raspberry,
You float and sail, a helium balloon
bright bachelor's button blue and bobbing
on the cold and hot winds of our breath,
as we make and unmake in passionate
diastole and systole the rhythm
of our unbound bonding, to have
and not to hold, to love
with minimized malice, hunger
and anger moment by moment balanced.

I remember smiling at the idea of "love with the doors banging on their hinges."

I pictured a whole house full of doors and shutters banging madly away.

As crazy about him as I was, K's doors and shutters seemed open, but only just.

They were definitely NOT banging on any hinges.

It would be years before he trusted me enough to love differently.

Letters From My Parents

At different times in my adult life I have wanted to feel closer to both my mother and my father.

I spent a lot of time angry at my mom before I became a mother myself.

Once, in an effort to make things better, she flew here from Seattle and arranged a family therapy visit for the two of us.

I was skeptical and irritated.

What could a therapist do for us in one session?

Pssssshhhh.

What the therapist suggested was that I write down a list of questions for my mother.

I was allowed to make them as difficult or personal as I wanted.

I was instructed to give the list to my mother when I finished composing it.

My mother's job was to write her answers to each question at the rate of one per week.

She was asked to send me one answer per week in writing.

We then had to set up a standing weekly phone date to discuss the most recently answered question.

The therapist asked my mother to answer questions for as many weeks as it took to answer them all.

This process was hard, but ultimately helpful.

Discussing the things that I thought were difficult subjects made me more open towards her and then ready for the way that the damn broke after my children were born.

Once I became a mother myself, I began to see what my mother's perspective might be (or might have been) on so many of the issues that previously filled me with rage.

Our relationship softened and improved.

These days I would even call it good... healthy.

[Though I should really call her more often. I blame the children.]

More recently, I found myself digging in an old box of saved letters where I found mountains from my Father.

He used to write me long letters.

Some of them were funny, some sad and some were stories from his childhood.

I loved these letters and realized he hadn't sent me any in a while.

I asked him if he would start writing to me again and he asked for a list of topics.

[No problem.]

When did you first understand death or what is your first memory of death?
Tell me the story of my birth from your perspective.
Your first memories of your children telling you they loved you (or something else sweet).
How you coped/adjusted with your children growing up and becoming independent of you – what is the transition like – from being their everything when they are little – to them having families of their own and being far away?
What family rituals or traditions did you love – either in your parents house, in the family that you made or both? What do you miss?
Who was your best friend in school? What happened to him/her? What stories can you tell about your escapades with him? (or her.)
What irrational fears do you have?
What is a story that reveals something about whatever you think is your own greatest weakness?
How would you characterize your relationship with your mother? Your father?
What special memories do you have about your grandparents? What were they like? How did they meet? What did they do? How did they die? What was your life arc with them like?
What do you remember about being a new parent?
How would you describe and define your relationship to faith? What were your experiences of faith as a child and how have the shaped the adult you have become?
What defines you? What things, experiences, or whatever make you feel like you and why?
We love our individual children differently. How did that play out for you?
What do you remember about the emergence of civil rights having grown up / come of age in the 1960’s?
Vietnam? Same as above.
Tales from the campground…
Foibles of the Family Vacation…
Greatest disappointments…
Greatest achievements…
What is the life trajectory of your relationship with your sister?
What were your experiences of becoming integrated with your in laws?
Favorite birthday memories…
What do you remember about bedtime routines?

My Dad started writing to me again.

[Though he is only on his eighth question or something and has taken a bit of a hiatus. Get crackin', Dad!]

I remembered all this writing that I have asked of my parents to do when I read Jen's post called Tick Tock that she posted on One Plus Two recently.

Jen's experiences and mine aren't the same but I understood her sentiment. Communicating with parents can sometimes feel so hard.

Jen is someone I know and love in real life.

I wish I knew what path would lead her through her own struggle.

My friendship will have to do.

**********************

I nominated Jen's post Tick Tock for a Perfect Post Award this month.

Next month make sure you recognize a post you found perfect with this award...

All you need to do is e-mail Mamma K -- Petroville(at)gmail(dot)com -- and ask her to put you on the Perfect Post mailing list.

She'll e-mail you every month when it's time to send in your Perfect Post pick.

See all the Perfect Posts at Petroville or Suburban Turmoil.

Less Than

Every night we take turns reading to the kids.

I read to The Rooster when K reads to the Mayor and vice versa.

Without fail, The Mayor is always disappointed when it is my turn to read to him.

He prefers his Father and he is not shy about making that clear.

Tonight, after I read our customary three books to The Mayor (and then some), he said,

"Dad will read to me tomorrow night, right?"

I looked wearily at my son.

"Mayor, why don't you like it when I read to you?" I asked in earnest.

He studied my face.

"Well," he said. "I do like it a little bit when you read to me."

"What don't you like about it, Mayor? Am I doing something wrong?"

"No... it's just that when Daddy reads I like it a little bit better."

"What does he do that you like better?" I asked.

The Mayor paused, studying me.

He seemed to measure his words.

"Well, I just love him a little bit more, Mama."

The color must have drained from my face.

"It's just a tiny bit more, Mom," he said gently.

Reaching up as high as he could, he said

"I love him this much."

Then he lowered his hand some.

"And I love you this much."

I pushed everything down and back and under.

"Time for bed now," I said.

After I tucked him in, I had to lie on my bed and cover my head with my pillow.

The squeezing sensation in my chest felt like someone was trying to fit my heart into a box much too small to contain it.

Our Hero

K and I were talking in the front seat while The Mayor and The Rooster prattled on in the back.

As my conversation with K wound down, I overheard their conversation.

"I will crush you in half with my power!" The Rooster said to her brother.

"I am the strongest and I will fly away!" The Mayor responded.

"Are you guys playing Superheroes?" I asked.

"Yes!" affirmed The Rooster. "The Mayor is Batman and I am Bad Story Reader."

Bad Story Reader?

I was previously unfamiliar with the superhero known as Bad Story Reader, but the more I think about the character, the more I love it.

"I will overpower you with by reading another bad story!" she yelled.

Nice!

Do not try to defy Bad Story Reader!

You will teeter on the edge of the cliffs of insanity from over exposure to Harold, his purple crayon and the resulting existential hell!

If you are able to resist the sure madness usually induced by Harold's crayon ... Bad Story Reader will utilize her ultimate, super weapon...

An enormous stack of Mrs. Frizzle and her Magic School Bus books!

[Fie on Mrs. Frizzle and all her evil little friends at Scholastic Books who try to pass their educational tomes off as narrative! The literature major in me curses you all! Fie! Fie! A pox on your house! A fart in your general direction!]

Bad Story Reader will torture you further by reading Richard Scary's Cars and Trucks and Things That Go over and over and over again until you are nothing but a simpering, gelatinous, wad of goo.

Go, Bad Story Reader, Go!

Fantasy Bear Sighting

Guess who was at the crazy, over-crowded kids festival that I attended this weekend?

Oh, yeah baby...

I was at the festival with a woman that I am just getting to know.

Her daughter and The Mayor have become friends at pre-K so we went to the event together so they could hang out.

"OH, MY GOD!" I squealed. "Look! It's Smokey The Bear!"

The Mayor's friend's mom eyed me suspiciously.

"You don't understand," I said. "I have a National Park Ranger fetish. You have to take my picture."

[I'm not sure that explanation bode well for the future of our relationship, but she took my damned picture.]

On top of Old Smokey...

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At 11:30am on April 8th, 2008, Aimee Greeblemonkey said…: I'm being pushy, darlin. Kid Art Auction for Earth Day. Come join us!

At 7:44pm on November 10th, 2007, Jennic said…: Oh the joys! :-) 15 months apart IS a lot of work. Yikes. Ours are 26 months apart and it's also a lot of work. Seriously it is good. Yea?

At 6:54am on November 4th, 2007, Piper of Love said…: Fancy meeting you here : )

At 3:50pm on November 1st, 2007, Kelly Wright said…: Dang, gurl. Lookee at all them friends. It's a veritable par-tay!

At 12:57pm on November 1st, 2007, Ree Hotfessional said…: Well, I added you back ;-) I'm just glad I noticed.

At 12:14pm on November 1st, 2007, Ree Hotfessional said…: Have you ever had anyone complain that your blog (and others) falls off their reader? I just realized that I've missed a whole bunch of your posts because you suddenly disappeared.

At 12:13pm on November 1st, 2007, Ree Hotfessional said…: I have a question for you!

At 10:42am on November 1st, 2007, Mrs. Flinger said…: Oh the writing!

At 5:04am on November 1st, 2007, Lotus Carroll said…: Under your face, it says, "Oh The Joys is your friend."
Awww. That gives me a warm feeling.

Jess, you're my first NaBloPoMofo Friend.
*rosy cheeked smile, batting eyelashes*