Hello Goodbye

Today was a travel day, a quick trip down to North Carolina for work. I thought for sure I was going to miss my flight, but I didn’t. I like to be at the airport a full two hours early because I am an anxious traveler (fine, and anxious person) and also a typical Taurus in that I live for creature comforts so if I can get to the airport with enough time to buy a coffee and a snack and settle in with a book or do some window shopping, I am generally much more amenable to the idea of being forced to spend hours of my time between places that I want to be. So, ideally, I would have been in a cab by 3:15 pm to make my 6:00 pm flight (because Chicago traffic is a miserable nightmare always), but I wanted to see D for a few minutes before I left, so I offered to do school pick-up, which is at 3:35 pm, and then we walked home and talked about books and rocks and the fun night she has planned with her dad, and we got home at 3:45, and it took me another 15 minutes to book a cab because I had a last-minute freak-out about which shoes to pack and kept swapping my Cole Haan oxford heels for tall black riding boots boots (I could give a shit about fashion for the most part but I appreciate clothes with an autumn sensibility) and then realized I needed to change my socks and pack extra socks (I get sweaty feet, yo), and I kissed my family goodbye several times because I kept thinking I was ready to go and then redoing my bags and having to say goodbye again, and then no Lyft drivers were close to my house, and I didn’t get in the car until 4:15, by which time traffic was already rush hour-y and my driver kept making confusing and confused-seeming turns, but I not going to complain because he got me to O’Hare right at 5 and the security line was semi-light and I had time to use the bathroom and refill my water bottle before strolling up to my gate as they were boarding my group– group 4 to be exact, because I am not fancy!

The flight was fine. I was nauseated from the cab ride that was all detours and hungry because it was dinner time, so I ate a giant blueberry muffin from Whole Foods that my husband thoughtfully sent me off with. I used to eat these muffins almost every day on my maternity leave and haven’t had one in years and I forgot how good they are, all crumbly on top and gooey, almost undercooked, in the middle. Toward the end of the flight, when the plane started to descend and my sinuses were blowing up with pressure the way they always do, a toddler in the row behind me started in with the shrieking. It was piercing and terrible but the poor girl looked so exhausted and so sad with fat tears rolling down her round cheeks that reminded me of D’s when she was that age. D is an awesome flyer now, but she always threw at least one screaming fit per flight until she was about three. Watching the wailing kid and her inexplicably mellow mom made me miss D. Traveling alone is easy, but lonely.

The hotel was just a short drive from the airport. Like, less than 10 minutes. Cities where things are close and easy to get to are weird. The main entrance at the hotel opened right up into the restaurant, which had an unexpected party vibe. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it was definitely a business party vibe, with lots of bros and shiny-haired women in suits drinking beers, but it was a lot more activity than I usually see at a Marriott on a Monday night. It was like a really late, really fun happy hour. I had planned to eat at the restaurant but all those people and all those beers felt just a little triggering so I ordered a caprese salad at bar and grabbed a bag of chips from the sundry store and took it all back to my room. I am eating and writing this now. I watched four videos of D and her dad eating ice cream sundaes and playing board games. He planned a special “sleepover” for her to make things fun while I am away, which means he has to sleep on the bottom bunk in her room. That is the price of being a fun dad. I am going to read and eat candy and starfish on this clean white king-sized bed. That is the beauty of being a working mom.

All Saints

I’ve turned the corner into my fourth year with the United Methodist Church, so surely I’ve been in attendence on All Saints’ Day before, but I have no clear memory of it. There is something about a bell, but it’s vague. The church calendar, it seems, takes some time getting used to. Or, more likely, it takes the body longer to acclimate to the pace of Christian life than the mind (wrestling with the new theology from day one) and tongue (learning the new language on the fly). Who knows where my heart is in this transition. Miles ahead or years behind, I’m sure. So today is All Saints’ Sunday and I’m a foreigner to this quality of grief. I’ve lost hardly anyone that wasn’t supposed to go. So I’m quiet in Sunday School, so quiet A asks if I’m okay, but I am more than okay, I feel terrific, just listening and learning from people who know more about death than I. The services are as usual, though the choir director brought saxaphones in for the day, and they are loud and jazzy. The children come back to the group for communion and gather on the steps in front of the sanctuary, which is different. I see D in her shiny winter hat watching Pastor Grace bless and break the bread intently. She serves the children first. I approach the table–it’s an open table, which means it’s okay that I’m not technically a member of this church, okay that the church for whatever stupid pedantic reason does not recognize my Mormon baptism–and take the bread, dip the bread, eat the bread sweet with Welch’s grape juice, walk down the stairs. I find D and we head into the courtyard, join the congregation huddled around the labyrinth. It was cold this morning and still is, but the sun is shining. D’s hat looks like a disco ball. We stand with my friend J and her daughter L in the fluffy hot pink earmuffs. The pastors take turns reading the names out loud, the names of everyone lost from our congregation this year, and it guts me because I knew some of them, but none well enough. I know enough to feel that some of them should be here still. After each name, a clear bell, the silence. The pastors move onto the names of those that the members of our congregation have lost, the parents, and grandparents, and brothers, and sisters, and children, and friends. There are more bells. J weeps. And then we sing in Latin, a three-part round. D learned the words in choir so she sings too. Something about peace. We file inside, upstairs to retrieve the electric tea light all the kids got today from the children’s chapel room upstairs. I try to hug J, but we are both walking, and it’s awkward. We go back downstairs into the Great Hall for fellowship. D brings me a handful of broccoli, “all the broccoli they had” and instead of chiding her, I eat it. We pack sack lunches for the soup kitchen. D and L run to the stage to play. J and I lean against the stage, drinking coffee, talking about her brother, talking about our husbands, talkimg about our kids. We are all saints.

Dynamics In Multi-Generational Dreaming

Last night I had the most fraught dream about mother-daughter relationships. My 6yo daughter was buckling herself into the booster seat in the back of a car. My grandma bent over to help her (not a thing I imagine my 86yo grandma could actually do, physically) and I guess my kid was giving lip because my grandma told my kid to shut up (also not a thing she would do, probably). It was not terribly cruel, just casually unkind. I was standing with my mom outside the car and we exchanged looks, like, did that just happen? My mom leaned in the car and told my kid not to worry, that grandma was going to be put in a time out for talking like that. I barged in to correct the record and explained that we had no authority put grandma in a time out, that she could use whatever words she wanted. She’d earned the right, in my mind. My mom got pissed at me for undermining her in front of D, I got pissed at my mom for being overstepping her bounds, and we all stormed off leaving D in the car and grandma I don’t where. Then I woke up.

Diary: Halloweentown

Today my alarm went off at 4:50 am and instead of rolling out of bed to run in the sleet I reset the alarm for two hours later and went back to sleep. Exactly ten minutes later D clambered down from her bunk bed threw on the lights in the hall, barged into my room to use the master bath (?), and then instead of going back to bed she plopped down on the floor and started crafting. “D. It’s way too early. Go back to bed. Happy Halloween.” Of course she cried. She was just so excited. This kid loves holidays more than anything, all the holidays, all the birthdays, all the anniversaries. Any excuse to celebrate. She gets that from her dad’s side of the family, and I’m happy to say that lust for the extraordinary parts of life have rubbed off on me too. But not Halloween. Not at 5:00 am anyway. After some tears (hers) and pleading (mine) she went back to bed for two more hours and so did I. The rest of the day was business as usual–work, school–except the sleet turned to fat flakes of snow that fell hard without stopping from 8:00 am to 5 pm. My walk home was enchanted autumn meets winter wonderland, fluffy diamond dust piled high on ruby, peridot, and amber leaves, glistening in huge swaths of fake spiders’ webs, gathering in jack-o’-lantern nooks and witchy crannies. The neighbor’s horrible ghoul collapsed in a cold heap. At home, we ate dinner so early I thought I wouldn’t be hungry, but rotisserie chicken and roasty garlicky asparagus changed my mind. We donned costumes. R in a dog mask, me in a hot dog hat, D in a full body hot dog costume with a dog mask and puppy paws. We met the neighbours out front at 5:00 pm, a whole crew of kids six and under in costumes mostly hidden under coats and parents who are game for mostly anything, and walked around the block, watching our kids clamber up slippery wooden stairs, try to ring doorbells with gloved hands, and beg their way into truly astonishing amounts of candy. The families dropped off one by one, their kids were too little and too cold, until it was just me and D left and it seemed that the snow drove even the local teenagers to turn in early. At some point it hit me that I wasn’t anxious, that I hadn’t felt anxious all day, and that this was something. Big days, social stuff, seeing friends usually winds me up tight. We stuffed hand warmers into our hands and boots and hit a few more houses that had gone on all out in the decoration department. D saw a realistic Pennywise, a realistic warewolf, several realistic zombies, and several severed limbs but never admitted defeat. I forced us back in when there were more houses with lights off than on. Back at home, we helped D with her candy dump and sort, warmed up with hot cider, and read out loud. Later, in bed, D cried, “Why does Halloween have to be over?” and talked about about Thanksgiving, calling it “The Worst.” Honestly, I get why a holiday that involves a 5k, cooked vegetables, and no presents is cold comfort at the end of Halloween, but I have no doubt that by the time Thanksgiving rolls around she’ll be bopping around my bedside at 5:00 am and eventually crying herself to sleep she will be so sad to see another good day go.

Mom

Maybe the mom who took to her room / who took to her bed / who sighed and slept and shut the door / maybe she just needed a god(dess)damn minute / to lose her shit out of sight / little pitchers pouring out their eyes / And besides it’s not like / she turned the lock

Redeemed

I thought that marrying the boy would make up for sleeping with him.

I thought converting my husband would make up for marrying outside the church.

I thought that having a baby would make up for out-earning my husband.

I thought that hating my job and changing my job and still hating my job and changing my job again would make up for being a working mom.

I thought that quitting drinking would make up for being a bad Mormon.

I thought that finding God in the rooms would make up for leaving the church.

I thought that writing my life like it was a story would make it all make sense.

What if I never had to do any of that?

What if I was already redeemed?

What if I’m still glad I tried?

Rough

Stumbling onto Richard Bushman’s Rough Stone Rolling on my parents bookshelves years ago, before I left the church, before Ordain Women, before Pants to Church, was like finding contraband. I only knew about the book from borderline apostate podcasts, I knew it had a questionable reputation amongst the most orthodox Mormons, and my parents were true blue. I grabbed it off the shelves, like I grasped at anything that looked like clarity in those days, ambivalent as to whether I hoped it would lead further into or out of the church, and shuttled it back to Chicago in the bowels of my duffle bag.

I never did read it, though I did let it live on my nightstand for a number of years. It’s a really long book.

My workouts are long, too, though, and so is my commute, so I am finally listening to the audio version of the book. It feels like a long time coming. It also feels less dangerous. It’s not like I can leave the church again. The biggest risk is that I’ll gain back a testimony of the Book of Mormon, of Joseph Smith, of the Priesthood, of the restored gospel, which, now that I think of it, would really fuck up my shit, so I hope that doesn’t happen.

I see how it could though. I’m only a few chapters in and can’t stop relating to the Smiths. Not just Joseph Jr. but his firebrand mom Lucy Mack, his wayward family man dad Joseph Sr., his skeptic uncles, his brilliant wife Emma, his children, all those sick sons and daughters.

Am I a seeker because I was raised in the religion Joseph Smith created to justify and redeem his wandering, wondering family? Do I quest because they questioned? Or was I Mormon because I was a seeker? Was I Mormon unthinkingly, because my parents and my parents’ parents were Mormon, or did I last as long as I did because I inherited their yearning?

When I left did I get free, or did I follow Joseph Smith’s finger pointing to the moon, my grandpa’s righteous desires, my dad’s big brain, and my mama’s bleeding heart to something more true?

Fix Me I Hate This

I am desperate to slap a strong label on my emotions, something weighty enough to justify the heft of what I feel. I Google: grief, trauma, loss, SAD, what to do when I am too depressed to work. I wonder: borderline personality disorder, bipolar 2. I dismiss: alcoholism, anxiety, change. I consider: suicide, relapse. I grasp to blame: secondary infertility, Mormonism (and the leaving thereof). I reject: God. I fear: divorce. I fear: hurting D, D already hurt, D hurting, scaring D, D scared, D sad, D unspeakably, unstoppably sad, breaking D, her mind, her spirit, her okayness, crushing/sapping this precious, perfect person who loves me more than life itself, improbably, inexplicably, more than I deserve. I know: I’m just sad. A little anxious. Insecure. Powerless, angry, afraid. A person. A mom. I know: this will pass and I will forget I ever felt like this, or I will remember and think thank God that’s gone forever. I know: these winds will cycle back and sweep me up again and toss me around before depositing me back onto the charred and scarred and fertile ground to pick up where I left off, if I’m lucky, if I don’t have to rebuild first, if I don’t have to find my way back home.

Maundy Thursday…

Is apparently a real day, a day of note during Holy Week, a week of numerous notable days. (The first time I heard it mentioned I thought the pastor was saying “Monday Thursday” and I thought what kind of boring backassward holiday is that?) Maundy Thursday is today! My daughter joined the children’s choir this year and the wonderful, charitable, brilliant choir director lets the children’s choir lead precisely two services, the Ash Wednesday and Maundy Thursday family services, which I gather are the most sparsley attended services of the year. This, of course, is how I found myself at church on a Thursday evening taking my assignment as greeter entirely too seriously as I threw open the church’s heavy wooden doors against the wind, thrust programs into the hands of other weekday worshippers, mostly parents of other small children, and enthusiastically welcoming everyone to Maundy Thursday! Before I had anybody to greet, Pastor Grace saw me standing by the door with nothing but a fistfull of programs and an expectant look and gave me a job, not realizing I already had one, I think. First, she asked me if I knew where the communion goblets were, a question that stumped me on many levels. How would I? Why would I? Where would I even look? This church is huge. Would I know them if I saw them? Should I check with the office, I wondered? The basement? The other greeter peered at me curiously and suggested the kitchen and cleverly offered to assume that task. Pastor Grace told me she had another job, if I would wash my hands. I trotted off to the kitchen to wash up, vaguely worried that people would enter the chapel ungreeted and programless but powerless to say no to our new charismatic leader. I just want her to like me! When I returned, cleansed, she gestured to the front of the chapel told me to find two loaves of bread and put them in two baskets. I found the loaves in a cabinet! And the baskets were in plain sight on top! I couldn’t remember if the loaves went on top of or underneath the linen napkins in he baskets and decided to wrap them because that seemed right. My husband, watching from the pew stage whispered something snarky about my bare hands. “I WASHED,” I hissed back. I blinked back heavy, happy tears. Never did I ever prepare the sacrament in all my thirty years as a Mormon, not because I wasn’t worthy but because I was a girl. Here I am, not even a member of the UMC, not even baptized in the eyes of that church, brand new to the very existence of a whole Holy Week, let alone freaky deaky sounding Maundy Thursday and they are letting me handle the body of Christ? Later, when I was back at my post, waiting for stragglers to greet, Pastor Grace told me I was doing an excellent job. She smiled winkingly and motioned to my hands and told me I was now officially authorized to carry holy things.