Into the Wild has been sitting on top of our DVD player for weeks now, waiting to either be watched or returned to Blockbuster. We do this a lot - rent movies and end up owning them - but the good news is that we are not alone in putting off watching movies we know do not end well. Yesterday Tom and I finally had two hours of semi-quiet to sit and fold laundry and watch it, and I’ve been in a funk every since. As far as the movie goes, it was just okay. Too slow, too long, and not brilliantly acted, but it is a great story, and one I was excited by when I heard an interview with the author nearly a year ago on NPR. But the timing was off. I should has taken the movie back and got Ella a Curious George video for 6am, because this week was not the time for me to watch a movie about a 20 something year old kid leaving his family for two years, angry about his childhood, feeling the need for adventure, and then wandering into the woods and dying.
Tomorrow is my brother’s 20th birthday.
I haven’t heard from him in over a year and a half, and have not seen him in almost three years.
I’ve said before that his story is not mine to tell, but my story is. And my story is that my little brother got the short end of the stick in our family, and when I was given the option to save him or save myself, I chose me. And I think about that every day.
The last time we talked, he made it clear - if he wants us in his life, he will let us know. He asked to be left alone, but still, I google his name, I search faces on networking sites, I get anxious and angry, and then I just get sad. I type his name into the search boxes - I try his nicknames, our mother’s maiden name, possible places he could be living. I don’t need details, I don’t want to spy on him, or pry into his life. I just want to know he is okay. I just want to know he is alive.
Because even though he doesn’t want us in his life, he is still in mine. We talk about him a lot. He is included in our nighttime routine of naming family members in the hallway photos, and Ella asks to hear the story about how, when my parents brought him home from the hospital, they told me they found him under a seashell (he was born in a tiny clinic in northern California, close enough to the beach that it’s threatened by high tide). She asks where he lives, and I make up funny places, like the moon, or in a submarine. They know who he is, because I hold out hope that someday he will know who they are also.
I wonder if he talks about us, to whoever is in his life. I wonder if he ever says “My sister Ivory” instead of lumping me into “my family”. I wonder if he is happy. God, do I hope he is happy. I hope he is finding what he is looking for, and that one day I’ll get a call from him and he’ll say “He sis, you won’t believe what I saw today…” and we can go back to being friends. I hope he knows he can come here. I hope he reads this blog occasionally and sees that you can be so much more than your past dictates, and that there is so much joy in the world, even for us.
I hope he’s having a happy birthday, and that someone made him a cake.
Filed under: Everyone's family is insane
One of the nights when my sister and her boys where here, Chance and I were watching trashy late night TV when Ean (the 6 year old) started screaming. Of course Chance rushed downstairs to see what had happened, and after a bit of interrogation, Eli (the 7 year old) told her that Ean had been “having a dance party, so I got up to join in, and we ran into each other”. No music, no light, 3 hours past bed time. Of course they would be having a dance party. Maybe you have to know Ean (silly, creative, impulsive Ean) to know how apt this is, but Chance and I could not stop laughing, even though the poor kid was bleeding. Since then, any time Ella wakes up screaming, Tom and I look at each other and say “Dance party”, and giggle.
Today Ella and I were watching kid’s music videos on youtube (well, that and the cat dance song) and found this video. Okay Ean, maybe you were having a midnight dance party.
Filed under: Adulthood, Cricket, Ella, Everyone's family is insane, Motherhood
Today has been one of those up and down days. We spent the morning with friends, and (despite the normal toddler drama) it was both relaxing and energizing to just stand in my backyard and chat. It isn’t very often that I find people who make it easy for me to be myself around, but I’ve lucked out on the last year or so. I’ve written here before about how bad I am at friendship, (and all the lousy excuses I can think of why) but there comes a point where you just have to realize that you don’t meet many authentically good people in the world, and that it is nice to have friends. Imagine that.
So, the morning was a nice cushion for the call we got not long after everyone left. It’s a subject that I’m not sure how to approach on a public blog, how far to go. It’s not my story, it’s not my place to share, even though it affects our lives every single day. I guess the vague and undramatic way to say it is that someone close to us has a long history of mental illness, and chose to be recommitted last night. And instead of putting their mother and father’s name as their next of kin, they put my two, tiny girl’s names.
And it just breaks my heart (that they thought that was a logical thing to do, that my girls will bear the weight of this love, that my girls share these genes. That my callous heart jumps straight to how this effects me, instead of thinking about their struggle.)
So, now both the girls are sleeping, and instead of celebrating and drinking a cup of coffee while it is still hot for once, I am staring at my hands, amazed at how fragile it all is. The two friends I spent the morning with have seen more than their share of sorrow. So much more. But here they are, standing with me, nursing babies, planning futures, telling their story with a steady voice.
Knowing them gives me hope that it will be okay - we will just have to redefine ‘okay’.
(ETA, just for clarities sake: The person who is struggling with mental illness is not Tom. I forget that sometimes vagueness leads to confusion, so I thought I’d just throw that one out there. Tom is as sane as any man who lives with 3 girls who all use whining as a major form of communication can be.)
I was that kid. You know the one. The one who, at every single opportunity, asked “Why?” “How?” “Can I?” My poor mom, I realize now how frustrating I must have been. Add to my constant questioning the fact that I did not speak clearly until I was 8 or 9 (which you wouldn’t know by how chatty I am now), and I understand why I spent so much time outdoors (aka: out of my mom’s way).
The crux of many of Tom and I’s arguments is that I am still curious to a fault, and he is resoundingly not. We decided to buy a house, and I went into research mode - interest rates and insurance policies and loan applications. He picked up a glossy minimagazine and dog eared houses with big yards. We found out we were having a baby, and I read 28 books about birth. Tom showed up to the classes I picked, and drew babies riding dragons in the margins of the handouts. I bought all the cloth diapers, figured out the washing routine, showed Tom how to use them. He likes the wool pants that have pockets, because “baby pants with pockets! Ha!” We decided to have a wedding, and I spent 6 months losing my goddamnedmind, and he agreed to climb a 20 ft ladder and hang up poof balls.
I over think, over plan, over manage. I enjoy knowing every angle of a decision before I pin down my opinion, where Tom likes to chose based on gut and ease.
I don’t want to make it sound like Tom does not care about these things - he does. Not many men would climb into a birth tub, not once but twice, when they grew up thinking a man’s hand in labor was handing out cigars. He’s went along with all my crazy ideas, not because he doesn’t care about them, but because he trusts me to have researched the issue to death, and chosen the right course for our family.
But tonight we both let the chili burn, while I researched whether white or yellow cornmeal was best for cornbread, and Tom waited for me to tell him when to stir it (after years of me jumping on him for lifting the lid to stir every 4 minutes).
End result of our polar opposite approach to life: Soup from a can, warmed in the microwave. Let that be a lesson.
