Hey! Look Out for That Curve Ball! Or...I'm Still Thankful

Sometimes, life throws curve balls.  Knocks ya down.  Just when you thought you'd been through the worst of it, and made it out the other side.  I've been preoccupied lately, so much so that I didn't even have the inclination to write a Thanksgiving blog.

Then I realized, that curve balls and all, what doesn't kill me makes me stronger.  I should be quite strong enough by now, God, thanks very much.

All of us have stress in our lives - career, kids, significant others, family members, friends, health, bills.  Even our futures don't seem as certain as they once did.  When I was a kid, they greatest responsibilities I had were school, homework, getting home by the time the street lamps cast their light on the blacktop.  I had chores, sure, but I never worried about my future.  I had a lifetime to decide what I wanted to be when I grew up.  I didn't question whether or not I'd finish school, start a career, get married and start a family.  It was a given.

Now that I'm "here" in grown up land...well, it's a heck of a lot more stressful than I ever anticipated.  In fact, some days, it's down right miserable.  How I long for those days of skipping rocks across the creek, throwing rocks at my neighbor's window, playing Kickball and Ghost in the Graveyard in the cul-de-sac.

But I digress, hope everyone's Thanksgiving was happy.  And (full)filling.  It's a little belated, but hey, being thankful isn't just for turkey day, right?

I am thankful for my childhood.  For those innocent memories.  I am thankful that, while my kids' childhoods are different, they are still innocent.  They are busy making memories, spending time with friends, figuring out what they'd like to be when they grow up.

I'm thankful for all that I've learned in the past 39 years, too, because it makes me a better mom, a more compassionate person.  And, hey, if nothing else, at least I've got some good writing material.

I'm thankful for Connor.  For his awesome, dry sense of humor.  His strength getting through surgeries, his patience with his little sister, his understanding of his brother.  For being child #1, because somebody had to come first, so I could practice.

I'm thankful for Jack.  For his smile that lights up a room, for his ability to know just what to say when I'm feeling down, and for his yummy pancakes. For being the middle child, because that is no easy position to be in, and it takes a strong personality to stand out in the crowd.  He certainly does.

I'm thankful for Ella-Bella.  For her great, big hugs.  For showing me that I can parent a girl, and really love it.  For being #3, because after her two brothers, she's not gonna get away with a damn thing (Although, I do believe that she loves being the baby).

I'm thankful that I can, occasionally put together a string of words to create a coherent, and sometimes, if I'm lucky, entertaining sentence or two.  I'm thankful for a supportive family and wonderful friends, which includes a writing group of really fantastic women who push me, make me think, and never fail to make me laugh so hard I pee a little.

Happy Father's Day...In Honor of My Dad

This Father’s Day, I’m posting my first published essay, “True Measure of a Man,” in honor of my dad (that's him in the picture, teaching me how to sail). This was published in the June 2007 issue of Hot Psychology (a now-defunct, online magazine). It was a really proud moment for me during a very difficult time in my life.

Thanks Dad. For providing the inspiration that started it all, and giving me a very bright moment during a mostly otherwise dark time.

I’ve been writing (and occasionally publishing) essays and articles since this one back in 2007, so I’ve learned a thing or two. The editor in me wants desperately to take a red sharpie to this piece, to cut, refine and polish. But I will resist that urge. Because even with the extra words, and sometimes too-long sentences, the emotion is there. And that, I think, is what’s important. So I ask you, reader, to forgive me my grammatical errors, long-windedness and journalistic faux pas and just…enjoy the read.

In “Measure of a Man,” Sidney Poitier describes a man who is aware of his heritage, connected to his roots, hungry for what lies ahead, disciplined, struggling, never taking short cuts, stubborn, defensive and proud, with deeply-seated morals that he will under no circumstances forgo. Not once does he say that you can measure a man by the broadness of his shoulders, the fierceness in his tone, the words he chooses to cut others to the quick. A man cannot be measured by his bank account, or by the size of his house. His power does not lie in the number of cylinders in the car he drives, or in the number of people who will concede to his wishes.

So what is a man? And how can I raise my sons, nine and seven, to be the kind of man Sidney describes so very simply, yet with such conviction in his latest book. I am a woman and a mom, but I know a man of immense measure.

My father is tall and thin. He never lifted weights, doesn’t drive a Hemi. Works with computers, loves math, savors a good book and would choose a glass of port the size of a thimble over a 12oz Budweiser. But I can guarantee you that he is as much a man – more maybe - as any tough guy in a tank top or hot rod. How do I know this? It is not in the set of his shoulders or in the strength of his arms. It is not in the firm discipline of my youth.

The measure of this man – my father – is as deep as the love reflected in his clear, brown eyes. I know it just as I know that if I close my eyes I can see his hands, peppered with freckles. Feel the strength and warmth of his fingers, strong and kind, closing over mine. His measure is in his actions. It is in his quiet understanding of my need to make mistakes and learn from them, and his constant belief in my dreams. It is in the almost imperceptible nod of his head when he hears of a job well done.

It is in each memory made between us – father and daughter.

I am four years old. The first notes of ‘My Girl’ flow from the radio and I dash across the room to Daddy, step onto his polished shoes and he twirls me around the room singing the words. “What can make me feel this way? My Girl,” he sings to me. I am his dance partner – His girl.

I am a seven year old beauty operator, my favorite customer in the chair before me. Dad sits tall and quiet while I ‘cut’ and style his hair. “What color would you like today, sir?” I ask him. “Hmmm,” he says in a serious tone, “I think I’ll try green this time.” I erupt in a fit of giggles and proceed to ‘wash and color’ his locks.

I am an eleven year old pre-teen, angry and confused. I have skipped school and am now at my father’s apartment, facing my sentence. He sits on the floor, a partly-finished puzzle laid out on the coffee table before him. He does not scold or discipline, but explains gently, as we fit the pieces in, one by one, why sometimes moms and dads just can’t live together.

I am a fourteen year old, struggling student kneeling on the floor next to my math tutor who explains the same algebra problem for the sixth time. When I finally, finally understand it, Dad leans back in his chair with pride in his eyes. “Now you’ve got it,” he says with a grin.

Dad has a reputation to uphold, a legacy to pass on to my children now. I observe him quietly and watch with pleasure each time my daughter pats the floor next to her, and invites Papa to join her in play. I measure his greatness as he grants her wish and folds himself into the space beside her.

I watch as he sits across from my oldest son, deep in concentration, waiting to make his next move on the chess board, and then smiles widely as his grandson proclaims “Check Mate!”

My heart swells as I watch my seven year old climb into my father’s lap just as he did when he was a toddler, to read his favorite book. “This time I’LL read, Papa,” my son says. “NO WAY,” my dad proclaims in awe and holds him just a little tighter as he listens.

This is the measure of a man. These are the lessons I will pass to my sons, who will someday, God willing, be good, humble, kind, loving men of quiet strength and strong conviction. Men like my dad.

He has already begun to leave an impression on my boys.

When my nine-year old lifts his baby sister up into his bed to snuggle and read her a book, I see my father.

When my seven year old rushes to her side after she takes a tumble in the grass, I see my father.

Without so much as a lecture he is teaching them what it means to be a man. He knows the value of actions and just how trite spoken words can be, especially when those words contradict the actions. I watch him cover their small hands with his big, freckled ones and know that those are the hands of a man who is not afraid. Not afraid to love, to be himself, to stand up when it’s needed, and back down when it’s not.

Kindness, understanding, patience, gentleness - these are the measures of a true man.