Wednesday, February 2, 2011

On dwelling, which is not the same as wallowing, because: thank you

Last night we lay in her bed in the blackness of her night, which is to say too dark, she informs me, although I think the space could really only be described as fuzzy indigo at best. The birdie LED night light and the plug-in-the-socket night light and the new birthday-acquired fairy light kept true darkness at bay, as did the knife-point slashes of yellow from her door backlit by the fixture in the hall, and the gray edges at the windows that look out to the streetlight beyond. Maybe the blackness refers more to the fears in her heart, but I know the darkness is one of them.

We always have our most potent conversations in the fuzzy indigo.

Mama, she began, why am I different from everyone in the world?

In that moment I knew which conversation we were beginning but I acted as if I didn't, and so I asked her to begin. "Well, everyone is different from everyone, love – what do you mean?"

And then, if I only I wasn't so sure that she doesn't know how to read yet, I would have accused her of scraping my last post: Why can't I walk away from my mommy like all the other kids can walk away from their mommies? Why am I so scared?

I said I didn't know. I asked her if she knew. She said no and burrowed deep into my side. So I told her what I wrote about Monday night: how I noticed that one girl who didn't know how to count to ten, and that one other girl who couldn't catch and throw a ball. I told her we all have things that come easy to us and things that come hard to us. That girl's hard thing is counting, and her hard thing is walking away from mommy.

I listen, and I rub her back, and I know how she feels.


Do you remember the day of your kindergarten school picture? I was within a month or two of E's age now because I started kindergarten at age four, because that's how it was, there and then. So whenever school pictures happened I was more or less just-five-ish. And I cried. I didn't entirely cry until it was over. But oh, I cried.

The lights were bright and hot and made me feel squinty. There was a stranger there, a man, and he was giving directions and I didn't know him. And he was looking at me. And, apparently, expecting a response. It's hard to give a response when you're squinty-paralyzed, and being non-responsive is further paralyzing to a people-pleaser who didn't want attention, and the lights were getting hotter. My mom had put a barrette in my hair and I didn't want a barrette in my hair and it was too tight on three hairs coming from the very center of my hairline, so my forehead felt itchy. It's hard to ignore itchy when you're supposed to keep your hair nice for pictures, but squinty makes itchy worse. And then the man told me to smile.

Smile? Can't you see what I've been doing? I'm smiling as if my life depends on it, only I'm sure you can't tell because it's hard for all that smile to poke through the squinty sweaty itchy don't scratch desperation of wanting to be done here. Why do you think I've already been smiling? I've been plastered in my best attempt at my best smile for five minutes, to be ready, to be prepared, to be what you expect even though I hate this right now and I'm crumpling inside, I'm smiling I think with an urgency that can't be relayed, because I'm too paralyzed to speak. And anyway I'd never correct a stranger. He has hot lights and is staring at me. There's no way I can talk.

So the only explanation for why he told me to smile even though that's exactly what I've been doing all along is that my smile isn't good enough. I've been doing my best and trying my hardest and acting my bravest and not scratching my itchiest and it wasn't good enough. I'm a failure, and the strange man with the scrutinizing hot lights knows it.

That's how my mind operated when I was five-ish. Is it any wonder the picture came out like this?
1981 or '82. Growing out my bangs, rocking the Izod, and petrified.


Twenty-nine years later, when I rub her back in the indigo, I do so with heartbreaking heaps of understanding.


This is the kind of story that makes me feel tender-hearted for social media, because your support has been immeasurable. Thank you. Thank you for your stories of your own childhood fears; of your late-stage thumb-sucking or bed-wetting; of your school bus memories and kindergarten traumas (real and perceived) endured. Thank you for explaining to me the mighty grip of a child's magical thinking and researching belly-button drawing. Thank you for being a larger, more diverse and more generous pool of support and reassurance than one would ever have time to beg for in face-to-face reiterations of my nerves and worries. You lovely voices in my computer: what would I do without you? Thank you for reminding me that this too shall pass, and that many of the things that bother my sensitive girl so much probably don't even register with anyone else.

You know what I didn't tell you about Monday? I watched one of the teachers observing E, and looking at me. I knew I didn't belong there. I knew I was the only parent to have been dragged across the secret screening divide. I felt somewhere between apologetic and defensive. I gave the teacher a cringed look and a shoulder shrug and I whispered: "she's so shy." The teacher looked squarely at me and answered clearly: "she's doing great."

You know what I didn't tell you about today? I emailed my dad at my parents' house and asked him to find my kindergarten school picture and scan it and send it to me. That picture-taking day in kindergarten is still a clear, awful memory, roughly 29 years later. That picture, for roughly 29 years, has symbolized to me everything that's awkward and unbeautiful and unpolished and ungraceful about me. My dad wasn't sure which photograph exactly to look for or where even to look; their house is not the type where our faces grew progressively in neatly-ordered photo albums. He expressed his doubt at the task but just a little while later sent me this photo, which was exactly what I sought. He included this note:

"Is this what you're looking for? I carry it in my wallet." Pin It


Lenae said...

He still carries it in his wallet?! And... I cry.

Love this.

Anonymous said...

Yes, I do, along with others of Robin and multiple photos of Robin's brother, husband, and children. They're all beautiful, even when rumpled or scared.

Very proud of them all - Robin's dad

JYAA said...

Tears. Love. You and her. And Dad...maybe more cause you got him to paint the ceiling pink;)

Christi said...

Thank *you* so much for writing this blog. You recount your daily life with humor and grace; in the sharing I'm struck with life's beauty, even (especially) during its difficult parts.

SmartBear said...

Robin, my dear. You never cease to amaze me. This is so beautiful. I want to say it is my favorite of what you have written thus far...but you will write something again soon and I will say it is my favorite.
You know what I am thinking now? I am thinking about how much we learn from our kids about ourselves. Yeah, we learn a lot from them...but it is truly a revelation how much I learn about myself every day from my son. It's so amazing because as the loud mouth obnoxious girl I never expected to have such a cautious and clingy kiddo. And to be so frustrated with it sometimes. Oh my, he is like a mirror for me. A voice reflecting back to slow down, relax, enjoy the moment, take your time.
I wrote you back today. I have been thinking of you. I know this has been a worry for you but I also have to say thanks. I needed this reminder.

Bumbling said...

Oh my. That last line just made me sob.

I am just like your little girl. As is my little girl.. Plus ca change...

a li'l bit squishy said...

I`m glad I didn`t get to this post sooner. Or I might have missed your dad`s comment. He`s right, it`s beautiful, as are you.

E will find her way, as you did, because she has parents that will step with her until she does, just like you did.