The Daily Writes

Seeing Ourselves in our Children

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I am lucky enough to write for an excellent magazine for Golden Gate Mothers Group. As my blog writing drops off (for years sometimes), and my business writing continues to be highly structured, this magazine offers a place where I can flex my creative muscle.

The October/November issue this month includes an I Heart Mom article that I wrote, “Seeing Ourselves in our Children”. This article was a challenge for me. I had to keep putting it aside, for weeks at a time. When I volunteered for this piece, I was certain I’d be able to roll 750 words that worked, that felt real. But after several attempts, with no real progress, I was stymied.

Luckily my writing coach jogged me loose. That and a trip to see family.

I believe this will be an article I’ll enjoy reading after a few years. To see if the origins of my first sons personality stay put as he grows from a toddler to a young boy and beyond. I Heart Mom – September 2017

My Real Self

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I have vacation brain and it is great. I took one week off, for the first time in four years, and I have been pleasantly surprised to get reacquainted with my real self. My real self looks something like this:

My real self feels balanced often. Not most of the time but at least a few times a day.

My real self breathes in and out during the day, at a regular pace. I can feel myself breathing on vacation, and it feels good.

My real self has creative thoughts about the future and a million writing ideas.

My real self looks at my hectic, regular self with wonder. How do I get like that and why don’t I stop?

My real self is waaaaay sweeter to my husband, and more energetic with my son.

My real self is awesome. How can I get her to show up more often?

Mixed Tapes

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Music is my memory holder. Hearing certain songs brings me back to a moment in time in vivid detail. An ACDC song takes me back to 1986 when I drove a 1978 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme. The car, purchased used by my dad, had an 8 track music player. The seller graciously donated a shoe box full of Barbara Streisand tracks. While I like Streisand and her music, at 16 it wasn’t really my thing. While I saved diligently to buy a real car stereo, I used a boom box to play cassette tapes while driving. ACDC was on a favorite mixed tape along with Poison and Van Halen, I was big into rock.

Boston reminds me of my brother and his room in our house growing up. The Carpenters and Elton John remind me of the times my older sisters and I would listen to the radio in the St. Boniface parking lot. Styx makes me think of green shag carpet because that’s what was on the floor of my parents bedroom. I would sit on that carpet in front of the record player and read the album cover, singing along with the lyrics. Air Supply still reminds me of the nights I would lie on my bedroom floor rewinding the cassette over and over to see if I could hold the final note of “All Out of Love” as long as the lead singer did.

I never could hold the note of that Air Supply singer, and I don’t listen to mixed tapes anymore. I hate how everything is digital and I can’t drop a record onto a player. But I will always love the old stuff, and the places it takes me.

Caregivers

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For the February issue of the GGMG Magazine, I volunteered to write a piece about my mom and caregiving. The issue was covering caregivers from various perspectives and I offered to write about how my mom, the ultimate ‘mom’s mom’, has become someone who my sisters and I now care for in many ways.

The only way I know how to write is to throw the words onto the page when the inspiration strikes. Or when I’m not thinking much about writing. In my highly overanalyzed and over processed world, the only writing I can tolerate from myself is the raw, tell it like it is, style.

The caregiver piece made me nervous. I wondered if I could throw words onto a page when it came to a topic that was so charged, so highly emotional. And how would the editing process work? Would I be able to let go enough to make adjustments?

I threw words out, they landed, and were edited by people who offered insightful comments. Once again I find myself uncomfortable. I am beginning to understand that this feeling may mean progress.

February Article

The car

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The car was purchased in December of 1998.  She’d looked at dozens of cars. This was her way, to research every possible option and then narrow down and make a selection. She hated buying cars. Loathed it. So while she started her search with a Ford Mustang in mind she ultimately ended with a dark green Honda Accord EX.

She remembers driving off the lot, with something like 20 miles on the odometer, relishing the absence of shifting, of the new automatic transmission.  The car was nothing exciting, but she felt certain she’d be able to avoid the car buying process again for years with this reliable steed.

She had many adventures in the car.  Her high school reunion, first dates, a move from her parents house to her first post college apartment. The years of driving back and forth in Southern California to work.  Perhaps most important the trek to San Francisco on January 1, 2000 where she would start her new life. The life she’d dreamed about for over 20 years.

San Francisco was an adjustment from master planned suburbia.  The car and she made it together.  With all of her driving in Southern California she had never logged as much time as she did in the first year in San Francisco, searching for a parking space in the Mission. The car became more than just a mode of transportation during that time. It became a comfort, a reminder of the easy days when she’d drive somewhere and park, without even thinking about it. It became a reliable battering ram, for those spaces that she found after 30 minutes of searching that were just a little too small and required a little finessing to fit.  The car became a friend, when she’d feel overwhelmed after long days of travel and high-strung new bosses, she’d cry out loud in the car. Sometimes shouting. And the car would continue on.

After 14 years the car was a part of her. She’d journeyed far and wide over emotional and physical terrain with the trusty Honda never showing a moment of strain. She grew up in that car.  She new every inch of it and how it worked.  Could park it with her eyes closed.  It was a key player in the most stimulating and important decade of her life to date.