I put the television back on a few hours later. It was over. He was dead. The hostages were released. Whether or not he had a family, I don’t know. For them, his death is a tragedy. For those who lived through the afternoon of terror, there will be a slow path to regaining a sense of normalcy, if ever.

Yesterday I read a friend’s writing about her pregnancy; she’s waiting on news. News that everything is alright. She’s scared. A new life hangs in the balance. She asked for prayers, and many of us added to that very private, very particular chorus of entreaties.

Last evening, my son gave me a paper to glance at. As a high school student, gone are the days when the subject matter is straightforward, or something I master from my own school days, or “just life.” But this was of interest – an extensive piece of research in the works, on Vietnam and the news media.

I couldn’t help but read with fascination, finding that I recall those years better than I imagined, a time when images of violence flooded into our living rooms, forming the wake-up call to the horrors of war. Yes, the news reshaped our consciousness. Yes, the media chose words that subtly and powerfully exerted influence. Perhaps one of the side effects of our social media age is a lessening of the political power that broadcast news wielded in those days. On the other hand, it was impossible to pretend that unspeakable acts were anything but real.

I am not here to debate the merits of war. Of so-called righteous wars and those which we – or the pundits – may deem otherwise.

I am not here to debate media coverage and influence.

I am reflecting on my own history, and yesterday, which is already history. I am reflecting on tragedy that hits on a massive scale and is too immense for us to fully comprehend. When loss occurs in small numbers, or affects those we love, it’s another matter.

This morning I read an email from a blogging friend. Her ex, who remained an honorable and good co-parent to their children, was struck by a vehicle while bicycling. He passed away.

I do not know him. I know her only through blogging. I cannot begin to fathom the complex road she will need to navigate in these next weeks, months, and years. This is tragedy. For her, for her family, for his family, for their friends and colleagues.

This morning, I can’t help but remember the suddenness of my father’s death, the fact of feeling the impact of the crash when it happened – a car accident – a hundred miles away. And then the phone call, some time afterward, that he was dead. He was there, and then he was gone. He was my “good” parent – the one who loved me unconditionally, the one I’d only gotten to know in the past few years, the one who had righted my world, briefly, in adulthood.

News. I am thinking about news. I am thinking about those good men and good women who are taken from us by natural disaster, by unexpected tragedy, by violence, by accident. I am thinking of those lives that have only begun to form, by the parents who want them with their whole hearts, who love them even before they have a name, or a tiny hand with fingers to wrap around our own.

I will drive with my son to school in a few minutes, grateful that he is there beside me. Then there are errands, there are phone calls, there are some tasks for a friend. And processing this news – all this news – and my own memories. Personal tragedies, near tragedies. The inexplicable loss and pain for some, and life as usual for others.

I find no sense in it. I only wish I could.

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

Any of these might serve as some assistance. You know – in those sticky situations when a friend needs to hear the truth. A hard truth. One that will hurt, and there’s nothing you can do about it. You’re backed into a corner and the only way out is to answer directly, hoping you find a way to do so without hurting your friend’s feelings. Or for that matter, burning bridges, or dramatically altering the shape of your relationship.

And to make matters worse, this isn’t about wearing the right dress, or acting in a certain manner in a social setting. It’s important. An issue of your friend’s long-term best interest.

Sound familiar? Run into this from time to time – not only in your personal life, but in your business life?

Sure, I have my own tips on dealing with situations like this one. But effective ways to tell hard truths may sound simple; executing on them doesn’t always go according to plan.

Here’s the deal.

The characters in my communication tale

There’s me. Writer. Marketer. Not altogether clueless when it comes to contemporary art.

There’s him. Painter. Former client. Good heart. Plenty of talent.

The plot unfolds

He asks me to help with a coffee table book proposal. There’s interest. His work is good. I’m reviewing a few things, tweaking here and there, floating ideas that will fly for his target audience.

So far, so good.

He wants to add sections of his own writing, sprinkled among essays, reviews, and quotes from art aficionados. His paintings are beautiful. But his writing? Not so much.

The challenge (when relationship matters)

He asks me again to type up his writing and include it in the document we’re compiling. I’ve been deflecting this issue for weeks. He’s somewhere between a client and a friend. I like him, I respect him, I want to help. So how do I tell him the truth in a way that will not hurt? And so our relationship remains intact?

If I leave the writing in, it’s a poor reflection on him, and a distraction to his beautiful artwork. I need to persuade him to eliminate it, or significantly edit it.

He keeps asking where his writing is. I’ve yet to include it in the pages I’ve typed and edited for him.

He calls. He asks. I take a deep breath. I need to speak up. Now.

The gist of the joust

“John,” I say slowly. (Name changed, obviously.) “We agreed that the images  need to take center stage, right?”

“Right.”

“I’m concerned that if we include these writings it will diffuse the power of your paintings.”

“But these are words from my heart,” he says. “This is a creative side of me as well. These are my words. I want them included. And all my friends have read these things and love them.”

Okay. That was Strike One. I take another deep breath.

“Do you trust my judgment? You know I love your work, right?”

“Yes,” he says. “So?”

“So including these writings takes away from the power of the art itself, and we already have essays and interviews included.”

What followed was 20 minutes of protestation, and John explaining his rationale as to why his writing – grammatical or not, Ivy-league or not – ouch! his words, not mine – should be included. And if the publisher eventually wants to take it all out (he continues), then the publisher would. He finishes with:

“I’m telling you, my friends love this writing. It’s from my heart.”

Strike Two. And I really don’t want a Strike Three.

My usual tips for telling a friend the truth

My usual tips for telling a hard truth? To a friend, my children, or even myself?

• Couch the bad in the good, and find the kindest words for the hard news
• Diplomacy, diplomacy, diplomacy
• Watch the eyes, the body language, or listen to the tone of voice
• Adjust accordingly. Repeat as needed.

But it wasn’t working.

What would you do?

Dammit, I think. Maybe I shouldn’t give a shit about any of this. Not my problem.

But it’s about someone I believe in. And it is my problem. If this proposal gets picked up – even by a local publisher, I get a (big) little byline (tra la) – somewhere – as a contributing editor. Whether that leads to paying work or not, it’s about my professional reputation.

Professional reputation, on both sides

“John,” I begin again. “I think it’s great that your friends say they love what you wrote. They care about you. They don’t want to hurt your feelings. So I’m going to say what your friends don’t have the balls to tell you. You’re an amazing painter, but you’re a terrible writer. Those words belong in your journal, not this book.”

Silence.

I continue: “Ultimately it’s your decision, but I’m advising you to leave them out, or edit them significantly. I’m telling you because I believe in you, and to protect your long-term best interest.”

More silence.

“Just think about it,” I say.

“Okay,” he replies, sounding dejected.

Netting it out

Here I am, days later, still worried that I hurt his feelings. We’ll speak again, and I’ll be reviewing again. I suspect this isn’t resolved, and I don’t know if I could have handled the situation better.

Any suggestions?


© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

It’s not that I don’t want new experiences, or to live intensely any longer. That’s not the case.

But I’m not walled in by the confines of my memories, or my once-upon-a-time ambitions. By an image of what life should be like. It’s as though I scaled those walls and I’m somewhere else, beyond myself. Much of the time, anyway. In a place where I’m concerned with tangible contribution. With legacy.

Do we all reach a stage where our experiences take a back seat to something bigger – or at the very least – share equal footing?

That contribution may be to family, or a specific community, or a cause.

• Is it tied to becoming a parent?
• To some event in which you confront your mortality?
• Is it a common side effect of moving into midlife?

Parenting beyond our children

For many mothers, as soon as we sense that we’re pregnant, we realize we’re part of something more complex than ourselves. We feel it before any home test or doctor confirms what our bodies already announce: we are responsible for another life.

Father or mother – in our parenting pandemonium, we come to understand that our former preoccupations are not as important as we thought – being on time, looking dapper, getting that promotion. Whether we like it or not, we’re forced beyond the singular. We become less selfish, aware of the dependence that others have on our decision making and our actions.

And we begin to worry about the sort of world we’ll leave to our children.

But I don’t think the need to contribute, to do more than make a buck or upgrade the dining room furniture only occurs when parenthood hits. Some of us are late to parenting and feel this need long before. Some of us never take the parental plunge at all. Yet we want more. We want to give, differently. Something flips that switch – an event, a birthday, a realization – or a slow process of lights coming on that we can’t quite pinpoint.

If I had three wishes. . .

We’ve all played that game, haven’t we? And its variations – “If I had a million dollars…” or “If I won the lottery…”

I never dreamed of being wealthy, though I hoped to make enough money to not worry about paying my bills. And write. Always, to write. I dreamed of writing and making art, of traveling and loving, and pouring that back into my writing.

I made art for a time as a child and teen, but writing was the stronger pull, so I guess it’s fitting that for a few years I made my living writing about art. And all my life, I’ve written – all sorts of things – following my passion to do so, incorporating it into every job I’ve ever had, whether it was the job or not.

Long before becoming a mother, I thought about what I would do if I had millions. And yes, there would be money in the bank, a few incredible paintings on my walls, a small flat in Paris, and that freedom to write and not worry about the bills. But I wanted to give away the rest. My friends would laugh. My husband shook his head. I had no interest in the big house, the flashy car, the fingers weighed down by diamonds. I need my fingers light – quick on the keyboard, free to hold a pencil, a pen, anything – so I may write.

History, volunteerism, philanthropy

My great grandparents were immigrants to this country like millions of others. They were merchants and musicians, passing through Ellis Island somewhere around 1905, part of the vast wave of families seeking a better life in America.

I still recall my great grandfather – a formidable man with a shock of white hair – who dispensed silver dollars to each of his great grandchildren at the holidays. He had come to this country with his wife, raised a family of eight children (to the best of my recollection), built himself a number of businesses, and considerable wealth. Part of his legacy was his family, and part of his legacy was philanthropy – a foundation bearing his name, and doing good work.

When my children were little I donated money to their public school, like many other parents. I gave for programs in the arts, specifically, as the budget was much too small, and both musical instruments and art supplies were insufficient. I also cleared it with my employer to have ample time to volunteer – generally running art projects. I did it for my sons, and I did it for me. My need to see those faces, excited and learning, and the pleasure they took in creating. It felt incredible. What the kids got out of it other than a few hours of fun, I’ll never know. What I got out of it was enormous satisfaction.

Real world changes

I am no longer in a position to give my time, or money. My world changed significantly some years back. The lights dimmed.

Yet I will not say that they have been switched off. And certainly not when it comes to leaving my mark. A legacy, however small and whatever that may mean. Raising two good men – and I’m not quite done yet – that’s a contribution, and one I take pride in. But I want more. I sense there’s more to do.

Perhaps writing will be involved. I don’t know. But that switch that was flipped on – whenever and however that happened – it seems to be on to stay. At least, for now.

Do you think about your legacy? Do you focus on contributions beyond your immediate family? Do you worry about the world we’ll leave to our children, and if so, what do you do about it?

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

Mad Men is the perfect example of this phenomenon, as the Emmy award winning drama (again, just last evening) continues to delight us with complex characters and sticky plot lines.

Feminist leanings, or simple ambition?

What’s not to love about Peggy Olson brazenly stripping to prove a point to a sexist art director? He insists on insulting her. He’s lazy. He’s rude. He sprawls on a bed in a hotel room where they’re supposed to be brainstorming, and he’s flipping through Playboy claiming that it relaxes him and that she is ashamed of her body.

In something bordering on a dare, she strips in front of him and continues to work, calmly seated behind a desk. He takes his clothes off, can’t hide his attraction (in humorous moments we adore as she remarks on his perky response to her nakedness), and ultimately, Peggy makes her point. Sexist Stan puts his clothes back on, and presumably they’ll get on with their tasks. At the very least, the aforementioned ass will know who he’s dealing with.

Don, falling into alcoholism

Don is our hero – classically handsome, the underdog in many ways, but so flawed that we cannot romanticize his behavior any longer. His hard drinking has been on the rise; in this episode it’s clear he’s having blackouts. He’s now confusing who he’s bedding (and wakes to a woman he has no memory of), is losing days, and he is so impaired in a client meeting that he steals an idea in a drunken haze without realizing he’s done so.

Low – even for Don – who has previously maintained professional integrity, even though he long ago adopted a very marred personal code of conduct.

Joan and Roger, a glimpse into the past

We have an ironic glimpse into Don and Roger’s meeting years before – Don is a very effective salesman in a luxury fur boutique, as Roger is picking out a mink stole for Joan, then his mistress.

Don’s youthful ambition and persistence ultimately lands him a job with Sterling Cooper, though Roger has no recollection of actually making the offer. He was drunk.

We also see Roger and Joan during their steamy affair at that time. Christina Hendricks is spectacular in these brief moments of flashback – impossibly beautiful, and wildly sexy. Oh, how can we help but feel sorry for her character chained to that twit of a husband, and what we sense to be a very lackluster marital bed!

Why we love flawed heroes

Is there any doubt that we see ourselves in fictional characters? Especially in our flawed heroes?

We see the glamor in these lives (and imagine that perhaps some day we could taste just a little). And we see their bad behavior – jealousy, deceit, hubris. If they can act and feel this way, are we so terrible when we exhibit these same emotions? Perhaps these aren’t bad behaviors so much as they are human ones?

And in their troubles – with husbands and wives, with sexist co-workers, with substance abuse – we know our own temptations and battles. We see what has changed in society in 45 years, and what hasn’t.

Don is the classic example – his infidelities, his duplicity, yet his love for his children. And there is also the integrity when it comes to the work itself. The quality of the work he produces, until alcoholism begins to encroach on that, as it pervades the other areas of his life.

Why we love Mad Men

It’s no surprise that Mad Men picked up a few more Emmys last night – specifically, outstanding drama and writing. Complicated characters on the rise – and fall. Juicy revelations, titillating tidbits, brilliant story lines.

Congrats to a spectacular team for a show that continues to enthrall us in ways that are intriguing, stylish, and substantive.

Images courtesy AMCTV.com.

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

I have been writing from an unguarded place, and I do not do so often. I am uncomfortable here; my survival depends on privacy, and my own ability to maintain a certain distance from approaching realities in order to persevere – the clarity of facts and figures, debt and expenses, and the clock ticking, all too loudly.

Some days I grip the spotlight tightly. I aim it, though it is heavy and I would rather not. Its light is glaring, and I don’t wish to see what is laid out before me. But I must, and so I step out from behind the wizard’s curtain where I’ve created “appropriate” versions of my life. I step out to be heard, to speak my mind not because it is easier, but it may be healthier.

To those who counsel me to “look for the light” I say this:

The light that shines from within has not disappeared. But there is another sort of light. Hard truth. You simply do not like the view. And frankly, nor do I.

Each morning I go about the business of parenting. I wake my son, I tend to his needs, I make sure he gets to school. And on the drive home, daily, I say thank you to my God – that both my sons are well, and that I am still here to parent them.  Then I come home and write, I search for projects, I turn from my worries to actions I can take by phone or keyboard, and to the many topics that intrigue me – a news item that catches my fancy, or something I wish to share about my children.

This is the writing I do for the pleasure of it, for the discipline, and for the discussion which follows. When I write of movies I’ve seen, or strolling through the mall, or falling into the deep blue of the morning sky – or better still, a lover’s arms – I do so for myself, and I do so for you. As part of this extraordinary community of strangers, a place to share laughter, to gather strength, to tender hope, to find repose.

We all need moments to step outside ourselves, our stresses, our hectic lives. Positivity helps. But so does raw honesty.

The Isle of Denial

I lived in denial throughout my marriage – something like marriage – right from the beginning. I lived in denial throughout my divorce, convincing myself that the man I loved would never hurt our children. I lived in denial for years afterward, following the rules set forth in the agreement between us, trying to reason with the man who would not.

Many of us have our variations of this story, of these experiences, these disappointments. And many of us lived in denial when we said “yes, yes, you’re right” to the friends who popped out their platitudes from their careful, comfortable lives – words like “just forget about him – you can do it on your own – living well is the best revenge.”

I accepted the lack of accountability from the father of my children, and consequently, my own double duty as a parent. There is nothing unusual in this scenario, sadly. And those of us who have been doing it for years are well aware that parenting is a profession that simply goes unrecognized as such.

But time wears on and it becomes clearer that my double duty was detrimental to my health, to my marketability (and thus capacity to earn a living), and to hopes for a sustained relationship. I also benefited, as did my children, in so far as it was I who raised them, though the background of undermining skirmishes was always present, and still is. But I have known great joy in parenting, and I believe my sons will become good men.

Make no mistake. I am fully aware that my current situation is the result of many factors, including my age in a horrendous economy, my lack of family, and dwindling options as is the case for anyone when health is compromised. But I say this with certainty: the situation I find myself in was set in motion and perpetuated by the man I married, facilitated by a broken family court system.

And I never saw it coming.

If just one woman in the process of divorcing reads what I’ve written and considers a different path away from denial - then these occasional writings from an unguarded place will have meaning.

I will also add that my children love their father. I would never take that from them. I see glimpses of him in them, bits I remember, and loved. I am glad there were some good moments that he shared with them, but I will not pretend that I don’t pay the price every day of my life for having trusted him, and trusted our legal system.

Seeking positivity

Some of what I have written in these past days has disturbed you. If it can happen to her, can it happen to me?

Some of what I have written has touched you. I thank you for your kind words.

Some of what I have written has elicited responses like seek the light, think positively, or we all have choices.

I understand. Sometimes there’s nothing much to say really, and we express concern or offer hope any way we can. Maybe you even believe that I am in this situation because I’ve done something, or not done something, which has resulted in my circumstances. Maybe you believe that were I a positive thinker, everything would be better.

I am a positive thinker, or everything would be worse.

One lovely and caring reader, a divorced mom, has written about the benefits of Positive Denial. She suggests that if you “tell a different story” you can change your reality. She mentions her own moments of trepidation when things looked bleak, and how positive attitude has helped. She also references another writer whose story about thinking herself outside the box – or in this case,  outside the explosive pain of a migraine – helps to change the conversation. It eases suffering.

I believe in the lessons of finding temporary relief in seeking positivity, in surviving difficult times with bits of fantasy or imagination, with a mental journey to a place where you are happier. But here’s the dilemma with “positive denial” in the face of serious issues. The problem is not in the positivity, it is in the denial.

Stacy Morrison, a book worth reading

When confronting formidable problems, denial changes nothing. In fact, it exacerbates everything.

I am the example of positive denial gone awry. Years of it. Convinced that I was in the process of making things better, and reinventing my life. Perhaps I was, but denial is a temporary fix, if a fix at all.

I am certainly not the only woman in this position, and nor is this solely a woman’s issue. But I will cite my own commentary, When Marriage Ends and You Don’t Know Why, and specifically, I will offer you the words of Stacy Morrison, former Editor of Redbook, and author of Falling Apart in One Piece: One Optimist’s Journey through the Hell of Divorce – a book, incidentally, which I couldn’t put down.

Ms. Morrison offers what is ultimately a very positive message, presented in a realistic, wrenching, at times brutally honest manner, including these words on the undue burdens that single mothers carry: 

… until we stand up and speak the truth of our lives to the people we work for and the governments we support, then we’ll continue to shoulder the impossible.

When positive denial is dangerous

To offer suggestions of looking on the bright side may be well-intentioned, and even helpful. If anything, I am for carefully assessing a situation – discerning hardship versus tragedy for example – a distinction which is also an act of positivity, a means to put events in perspective.

But “it can always be worse” or “you need a more positive attitude” is also dismissive, even if unintentionally. Worse – it is dangerous, when coupled with denial.

Is denial ever the right answer?

What if your marriage is dying and you look away? What if you’re ill? What if your child needs help? Or a neighbor, or a stranger, or an entire community without sufficient voice? Oh, there may be times when distracting ourselves from our troubles is just what the doctor ordered. The only way to make it through another grueling day. As with many things, it’s a matter of degree and context. But to practice denial as a way of life is dangerous. I know. I made a habit of it. And it equates to never addressing or resolving serious matters.

Denial was my path through a lonely marriage, and was not in my best interest, nor that of my sons. It was not in my best interest through a long and painful divorce, and in the years of its aftermath. So here I am. This is not a good place. But as Stacy Morrison said so eloquently, I will speak the truth of my life, and encourage others to speak the truth of theirs – however frightening – so  we will no longer be expected to shoulder the impossible.

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

It was an evening of more loads of wash than I can count, the heap of luggage in the living room finally emptied, in order to sort through and repack. There were more teens in and out. There was another party, but calmer than the last. There was an evening of my holding back tears, and holing up in my bedroom. Out of the way.

This morning, there were a few extras on the sofa and in the guest “suite” also known as our storage closet, home to foreign students at various points in time, and any other young man or woman in need of a mattress for the night.

I made coffee. Several pots. Strong. I kissed my son, we chatted a little, and I pushed back the tears again. He was relaxed and organized. Told me I didn’t need to whisper. Apparently his friend on the couch can sleep through anything.

It’s a travel day. I printed my son’s itinerary and handed it to him. He folded it, put it in his pocket, then changed light bulbs for me. He woke his friends. They piled his luggage into a car, and headed to the airport, just now. I will track his flight online, he’ll text me when he lands, and I will spend this next week readjusting to his absence.

When we enter the adventure of parenthood, we’re unaware of how profoundly we will love the squalling, famished, needy, boisterous, mysterious, complicated creatures who emerge on the scene, and spend the next two decades (or more) wearing us out, making us laugh, breaking our hearts, and shaping our lives into more meaningful, more expansive vessels than we ever imagined possible.

When we say our goodbyes in bits and pieces over the years, as our sons and daughters grow into their independence, we learn to trust their judgment. We watch them spread their newly forming wings. We’re doing our job.

I’ve been here before. I will be here again. Navigating these travel days which do not belong to me, but to my children. These are necessary goodbyes, and they remind me I’m raising young men who are strong, resourceful, curious, and capable. Yes, for me, what follows is a period of emptiness. And then routine returns, with its own particular rhythm.

But I’m tired of goodbyes. I’m ready for a hello.

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

We actually began the process days ago, but I couldn’t continue, and my son, seeing that, let it go.

Leading up to this, there have been arguments and charged silences. There were those long months on my part, paving the way with every financial document we needed, going back years. It has been painful. But necessary.

Still, I was impressed at my son’s determination, his calm in the face of this difficult task, one we had to get through. Together. So there we were, flipping through forms, running numbers on a small calculator, and transferring the results to the virtual page.

At one point, we came to what seemed like a simple question. It involved basic arithmetic: Figure A – Figure B = Figure C. My son blanched. Now he knows a certain truth. In the numbers. And numbers do not lie.

I saw the hurt on his face. I got up, went to the bathroom, closed the door, and cried. Then I washed my face and returned to the sofa. We continued.

Sure, data is always open to interpretation, including financial data. And legalese leaves loopholes-a-plenty in many divorce and support agreements. It’s easy to justify certain things, particularly if you’re a master at obfuscating. Particularly if you’re talking to a child who wants desperately to believe in both parents. To love both parents.

At a certain point, it’s all right there. In black and white. On an unenforceable piece of paper. On other documents that spell out the reality of a financial position. Its offshoots and repercussions. The weight of it.

But I don’t believe in airing one’s dirty laundry on the Internet, and this is a dirty business. A despicable business. The story of enforcing support agreements, or rather, being unable to. The reality of our family court system, and the shameful manner in which attorneys strip their clients of every dollar, leave them in debt, and when there is no more to plunder, the recipient of their services is brought to as swift an end as possible, and offered words like: “you can always go back to court in the future for a modification.”

Some attorneys are moral, responsible, compassionate. Some are not.

Some individuals are vindictive, not only during divorce, but for many years afterward. Some are not.

Some of us are innocents. Too many of us are innocents.

When you are battle weary, when you are in an adversarial position with someone you loved – and may still love at the time – you accept words like “modify in the future” and “this is the best possible solution” and “it will be alright.” You want to believe that the legal profession is indeed in place for advocacy. For us. For our children. After all, we’re paying them tens of thousands of dollars to operate in our best interest, are we not?

But “you can always go back and modify” – depending upon your state and your situation – will necessitate more attorneys, more warfare, more years of your life, particularly if you are up against a clever opponent. At some point, energy gives out. The need to parent is stronger. Survival requires that you earn money, not expend all your time preparing for court and depleting your credit. Life is the more vital pull, especially when you’re all but told it’s a losing battle, even if you’re legally (not to mention morally) in the right.

So you back off. You accept. You live with hatred and try to diffuse it or it will consume you. You live with rage and try to numb it or it will swallow you whole. You know yourself for a tiny voice in a crowd with stories more horrible than your own, so you withdraw from battle even if guerrilla warfare continues in the background. You hunker down. You try to protect your children. You give them bread crumbs; you tell them they are loved by both parents. You convince yourself it is not a lie.

My son and I continued completing the forms to the best of our ability. Some items remain; we hope to finish today. So he may get a better rate on his college loans. And I will need all these figures as I reach out to every source I can think of, as soon as possible, trying to find scholarships for my younger son who will begin his college applications in the next month or so. My beautiful 17-year old with all his talent and promise. My son who asked so naively the other night – couldn’t we do some college visits?

“I don’t have the money,” I said. “Or the stamina. But maybe we can figure something out, for one or two.”

How do I tell him I’m counting down the months until every liquidated asset and borrowed dollar runs out? I’ve tried, and pulled back. His brother knows. His brother sees. Numbers do not lie.

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

Would you know me if you saw me?

I am your neighbor, your colleague, your sister; I am the woman who yells at the cashier because I am breaking. I am the woman who apologizes afterward, and too often. I will nod and take my change and say thank you. You will not recognize me as the face of despair.

Behind a given face on a given street at a given hour, behind the woman’s face, the mother’s face, the lover’s face – behind the veiled expression and appropriate responses reside a dozen revolving realities, truths as we know them in our blood and marrow, lives reconfiguring as the day unfolds or the night plunges us again into darkness.

* * * * *

Our worlds are tiny, however many times we circle the globe, impress an audience of attentive listeners, make love to men and women who honor our bodies momentarily, then flit to the next conquest. Perhaps we are fortunate, and another soul curls around our quiet, for safekeeping.

We rally around our finest set of inner selves, our unarticulated flaws, our strengths and insecurities, our tenuous connections to loved ones. We adhere to the physicality of sons and daughters, tied to heart beats, to shunts and splints, to lucid dreaming.

Now, I will name my faces and you may guess if they flicker or solidify: I am the face of pride, of wonder, of gratitude; I am the face of rage, of exhaustion, of fear.

* * * * *

This is the terror that hijacks me in the night: impotence as I read my dwindling chapters, disappearance from my own horizons, withdrawal from a competitive sea where numbers dispossess me.

I ache for the register of a lover’s voice, for the caress of a last encounter, for a few hours respite from worry, my body folded into a stranger’s embrace.

We are all strangers. Didn’t you know?

I am not a seer, but I grant power to my predictions; one day, you may understand. I do not wish this on you, but I whisper for those who cower in the corner, paralyzed by our collective silence. Shall we gaze into the mirror together instead, before it is too late? Shall we gather in a circle, speak our minds, unravel our origins, chant our invocations, discover a path beyond the fist and tangle, beyond the woman’s face, the weary acceptance – this indecipherable waste?

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

Kids driving you crazy?

I adore my sons. I write about them often. They do me proud, they challenge me, they have good hearts. My elder has already been “launched,” and this past year with him away has tugged at my heartstrings. I was delighted when he came home from school, and again, after his two months working and traveling overseas.

But after yet one more night of partying during which my 18-year old did not adhere to the requisite decibel level for reveling (he and his friends woke me three times during the wee hours), you could say I was not happy with his behavior.

And trust me – the next morning? He knew it. As if that weren’t enough, the meager square footage I worked so hard to clear and organize this summer has been usurped by teen luggage, duffel bags, unnameable crap, and six (yes six) reeking heaps of dirty laundry – just in the den.

Can you spell E-N-O-U-G-H?

Welcome to my new mantra: Put your kids to work! It’s a simple principle, right? Not punishment, though my tipping point was certainly the noisy night and realization of my own over-accommodation. Chores are part of life, and reinforce the fact that kids are part of the household team. Expected to contribute in ways they can.

The organizing To Do list (and more to come)

Here’s what the list comprised:

• Paint the hall walls and ceiling
• Repair the ceiling fan in the den
• Install tiny wall shelves I’ve had for two years
• Help with the six loads of laundry on the den floor
• Do the dishes, take out the garbage, run errands
• Help move a bookcase from the basement up into the house
• Clean aforementioned bookcase and install it in his brother’s room.

Organizing kids rooms

This was hardly the workload exacted of a chain gang, but what my son accomplished in a matter of 6 or 7 hours (with an occasional  assist from his brother) would have been impossible for me.

There is also the dilemma of additional spiffing up and organizing for my younger son, who has been on a cleaning, sorting, reconfiguring streak of his own for the past two weeks. (I love it!)

He is designing the mural for his walls, has cleared shelves, found a perfect spot for the re-purposed skinny bookcase, rearranged his furniture, and is organizing his study area. It’s a very small space, requiring that he think through its usage and plan accordingly. Great exercise for a young man who wants to be an architect!

Chores – Too much or not enough?

When my boys were little, their dad would give them chores I found arbitrary, and at times, far too tough for little guys. He literally had them hauling logs up a wooded hill, and I would watch them struggle and cringe.

I’m a believer in responsibilities that kids can comprehend – where a punishment is clearly separate from a chore, and where each is reasonable. Yet I adhere to the premise that working hard teaches the value of what you earn, and contributing a hand is important, at every age.

• Do you put your kids to work on a regular basis?
• How much latitude do you provide when it comes to their rooms?
• Do you cut them too much slack when school schedules get tough?

My elder leaves this weekend, and I’ve got a list of remaining errands and small projects for him. He’s happy to help (and I think he enjoys the repair work). He also knows the result is a less frazzled mother, the car keys, and a good dinner.

Meanwhile, there’s more laundry. Those six piles? That was only the start of it.

© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy

These aren’t topics we like to think about, much less discuss. But they’re the stuff of a responsible adult life, especially when you’re a parent, and you don’t want to unduly burden your children.

Part of the fascination of the strange situation involving Huguette Clark, of course, is her colorful parentage, her remarkable 104 years, the enormous wealth – it is estimated that unoccupied homes alone are worth $200 million – not to mention the mystery that shrouds her whereabouts. The fact that the most recent known photo of her dates to 1930 adds to the exceptional nature of this story, as information coming to light about her attorney and accountant raise the level of intrigue – and concern.

The reporter who has covered this story for msnbc.com, Bill Dedman, has published an update. Apparently, a criminal investigation into the handling of Ms. Clark’s finances is underway.

This is an epic, eerie, and frightening story in its way. I will continue to follow it with interest, while reflecting on the reality that both my parents are now gone, and certainly, there were no issues over mind-boggling assets.

Nonetheless, there were considerable headaches, wrenching decisions, a tangle of paperwork and more. I can’t help but dwell on that from time to time, and I don’t wish any such dramas on my children, ever.

I’m curious -

• Regardless of your financial status, have you considered what might happen to you when you’re older and infirm?
• Are you putting off making a will or other arrangements until some (unspecified) time in the future?
• If you’re divorced, did you take care of estate planning in conjunction with the end of your marriage?
• If time has passed, have you updated your instructions as circumstances have evolved?
• Do you discount these issues if you are single, or if you have no children?
• Are you caring for an elder parent, and dealing with the ongoing cost, logistics, and emotional drain that is involved? At home, or elsewhere?

Thumbnail photo courtesy msnbc.com article referenced above.


© D A Wolf

Big Little Wolf’s Daily Plate of Crazy