What Is It About Blood, That You Can't Just Let It Go?

I think my earliest memory of him, I was probably around eight or so. I was spending time at his actual house, which was rare. Generally, we would have visits at my grandparents' house, with my grandparents filling in the gaps where conversation should go. He never was an every-other weekend kind of parent; but, of course, that could have been because he lived so far away.

On this occasion, he was working on some sort of deck, and I "helped." Mostly, I played with the pretend family of beavers that were living under the pile of wood. I don't remember doing any of the cutting, measuring, hammering... But maybe bitterness erased it all from my mind. I do remember trying to think of things to say to him; what could I do to make him like me?

We went to a Bluegrass Festival, and I was, understandably, bored out of my mind. I know he was just trying to think of things to do with me, but I really would have preferred putt-putt golf, which was a new thing then, or even just playing a game of go-fish. He didn't know me, though, or what I liked to do. I didn't know him either, and I remember trying very hard just to seem like a good kid.

And so it went, for many years, this strange, awkward "relationship," where we didn't know one another, but felt obligated to spend time together. I now wonder, if my grandmother hadn't been alive, would there be any memories at all? As I got older, there were a few good ones: riding shotgun in my grandparents' RV as he drove (lightning exploded a tree in front of us and I thought Grams would have a stroke, but we were cracking up about Hubba Bubba soda), making a puppet out of a crutch, him teaching me to drive a stick shift. Mostly, we were two strangers, going along, making the best of it, both clinging to the one thing that tied us together: our love for Grams.

When I was 17, he remarried, and that really did change things for us. Suddenly he could give me what my parents couldn't: siblings. So for several years, I tried to shove myself into their family, photo bombing their memories, driving to their home on vacations and in the summer.

One time, though, I admitted this to my step-sister. We were walking past a store, and I said, "That's what I dress like in real life." It was the funky, not-quite-goth, steel-toed shoes with a broomstick skirt look that I patterned after Molly Ringwald's Pretty In Pink character.

She looked at my jeans and sweatshirt. "Really?"

I only presented the faux me to them, too. The straight As (that part was true), never talk back, would never dream of sneaking out of the house girl. The "I'll do your laundry and sort your Tupperware cupboard and drive your cat to the vet" kid. It wasn't their fault, really. I had been doing it my whole life, why quit now? How to quit now?

So, as an adult, I just kept going. Followed the rules, tried to be a people pleaser, tried to make him like me. After Emma, it got harder, because I began to care more about how he treated HER than me. I didn't want her to feel like she had to be good to be loved; I didn't want her to feel like less of a grandchild. I really began to see the distance between us then, but what to do?

Eric always said, "You have a dad, a great dad, who loves you and loves the kids. Why can't you just let this go?" And I wondered, why couldn't I? If he called me, why didn't I just let the machine get it? Why did I make efforts that seemed ignored, if not thrwarted? Actions speak louder than words, and there were so many actions that would have added up, if I had been willing to look. But he was my only tie to my grandmother, and that was reason enough to try to make an effort.

Then she was gone. Suddenly, the tone of his voice changed, or maybe it was always that way and now my ears could hear it. New memories popped up, or maybe they'd always been there and now my mind could see them. Lies were told and words were twisted, but maybe that's how it had always been. I had to let it go, but maybe I always should have.

So, what do I tell Emma about her birth family? That their love or attention shouldn't matter; that we are her REAL family? How do I tell her let the "blood" go, when I couldn't for forty years? What is it about blood, that you just can't let it go?

It's Important to Keep the Chocolate Sauce on the Side

I do not want to be Sally Allbright. Remember Sally, from When Harry Met Sally? It took her forever to order a piece of pie, and if you didn't have the right kind of ice cream (on the side), she didn't even want the pie. Seriously, I don't want to turn into her. I don't want to say words like "on the side" and "special order." I don't want to hold up the rest of the line when I make an order at Wendy's. I don't want to go to a restaurant and ask to see the ingredients list of your refried beans. But, alas, here I go.

A few years back, I had a friend from a big city visit us. We were making Mexican, and she opened my fridge and said, "Where's your cilantro?" I was confused. Why would a person keep a "spice" in the fridge? I opened our spice cupboard and said, "Yeah, I don't think we have any. Will parsley do?" I pulled out the little glass container of dried parsley.

I was met with an eye roll, and asked if we had fresh cilantro at our market. Now, I live in a town with two stop lights. And, let's be honest, the one is really just perfunctory. So, my response was, "You mean Ken's Village Market?" (picture a small town grocery store)

What then transpired was a trip to Ken's (no cilantro-shocker!) where my friend harassed no fewer than four Ken's employees while attempting to scrounge up fresh cilantro. She finished with the manager, and I knew I could never step back inside our local grocery store again. That, my friends, is a Sally Allbright.

But, me? No. I refuse. If I ask for no pickles and you give me extra, I'll just pick 'em off. Or maybe I'll even eat them. Who knows, maybe I'll like it. I don't want to be a pain. I don't want to Big City my waitstaff. Sally said, "I want it how I want it." Me? Not really that big of a deal. When it comes to the choice between be kind or be picky, I choose kind every time. Well, I used to.

Now, I am lactose and gluten intolerant. I can have cheddar cheese (Thank you, Lord!), and I can eat our local Dairy Mart junior avalanche if I take FIVE Lactaids (no, you cannot just take one and go on your merry way like those insipid commercials you see on television). But, for the most part, I am screwed. The gluten intolerance is quite bad and even the tiniest bit of wheat in something will send me into agony. Basically, I can have lettuce. If it's washed. With organic water from viriginal unicorn horns.

For example, I went to a reading conference in Lansing last week and just about starved to death. Breakfast: bagels and cream cheese. Lunch: Chicken with creamy sauce, bow tie pasta, and cookies. Oh, and some rice. I did have a lot of rice. Then, as I sat in the afternoon sessions and dealt with stomach pain, I thought, "Oh, I bet that was a rice 'mix' where gluten loves to hide." I finally dredged up the nerve (and hunger) to ask for a piece of chicken without the creamy sauce. The poor waitstaff looked perplexed and said, "Um, it all comes in a big tray. You want me to scrape the sauce off for ya?" I was so mortified. No, absolutely not. If the sauce could be scraped off to my gut's satisfaction, I could do that myself. What's horrible is that the waitress most likely thought I was too finicky to do so.

This morning, Eric and I dropped our kids off at day care (oh, summer day care, you are the love of my life!) and went to the coffee shop in Cheboygan that actually has soy milk or almond milk that you have can added to your drink. This place is Eric's "Cheers." When he walks in, the barista of the day says, "Hey, Eric! Usual?" It is something he loves about teaching in a small town. Today, I Sally Allbrighted all over it.

When we walked in, the barista did say, "Hi, Eric! Bow tie?" and he nodded. As she began his drink, she asked me what I wanted. I said, in as unfussy a voice as I could muster, that I wanted a mocha with almond milk. Not too bad so far. But, then, it happened. She asked me if I wanted 2% like Eric. And, I am sorry to say, I got a little freaky. In my defense, she was pregnant, and I know all about how pregnancy brain can turn you into a goldfish (Hi, have we met? Oh, three seconds ago? Right. Hi! Have we met?). Also, in my defense, 2% milk would reallllllly hurt me, and mocha with almond milk is one of my few joys in life. I began to watch her like a hawk, trying to look like I was scanning various items on the counter. I read the contents of the caramel sauce (a definite no-no for me), of vanilla flavoring (good news--I could have that!), of the bag of gluten free scone mix (gross-seriously-gross).

The poor nice lady disappeared into the cooler and came back out with a carton of Half and Half. I went into frenzy mode. Yes, 2% milk would make me ill, but Half and Half... I'm not sure I'd make it out alive. I nudged Eric, but he didn't get the gesture. My eyes never leaving the barista's hands, I half mumbled to him, "Uh, you're having 2%, right?"

"Yes," he snapped in a hushing tone, trying to quiet his near-tantrum toddler.

"It's, um, the Half and..."

"Oh, I put 2% in his," the barista said, and I''m pretty sure she turned to spit into mine. I wouldn't blame her.

I just nodded, but I never stopped watching, praying that Half and Half never once even got within a drip distance of my cup.

As we left, my sweet Norm Peters and his picky wife (no wonder we never actually saw her in an episode), I knew I'd never be able to go back. Probably Eric can't go back. I've ruined his coffee oasis. I offered to go back in and apologize but, really, that would just make it worse. "You see, I'm lactose intolerant, and.." the words have become so overused, so trite, it just further pushes you into an "on the side" person. But, you know, sometimes it really is important to have the sauce on the side.

They Were Mine

I've always known them--Philip and Patrick and Kristi. And that was how they cemented into my mind--Philip and Patrick and Kristi--like they were one entity. And to me, I suppose they were one, these three children that had been made to move on, move away from us, and grow up someplace else.

But, I've always known them. There were photos of them in my baby albums. One of Patrick and me lying on our bellies, looking into each other's eyes, both sucking our thumbs. One of Philip leaning against Mom's shoulder as she held me and looked awkwardly into the camera. The four of us, just hanging around, being a family.

There was always the one photo, an 8X10 of Philip and Patrick and Kristi, which stayed in a "gold" frame in the extra blue bedroom of our house before Mom remarried. I would sneak into the room, close the door silently behind me, find the frame, and stare into their shining eyes. Now where are you? I would ask. Do you know that Mom still misses you, still tells me about you?

Philip wondered if they would have to move away once the new baby (me) came. I'll never get over that. I didn't want him to leave; I would have given anything for them to stay.

Patrick asked if he could drink milk from Mommy, when he turned back into a baby. He wasn't wild about sharing his blanket with me.

Kristi liked to hold me and rock me. I was like her baby doll.

Sometimes I would play outside by myself, in the chain-linked safety of our backyard, and in my mind we'd all play together. Kristi and I would hide from the boys. We'd play soccer, Philip joining my team because Patrick and Kristi were like the twins. They always wanted to be together. At least, in my dream family world they did. We'd climb the magnolia tree in the backyard and carve our initials into its bark. Well, Philip would carve mine. But I never knew, Philip Raymond, Patrick Ryan, Mary Kristine... what were their last names now?

For a while I had bunk beds, and that really lent itself well to pretending that my older sister was there. We'd whisper to each other and hope Mom wouldn't hear. We were supposed to be sleeping; but sisters shared secrets, sisters had a lot to talk about.

I've always known them. I've always missed them. Mom never had any more kids, and I never got to grow up with the siblings I'd been given. I had to imagine them, wonder about them, pray for them. Having a sibling was what I grew up wanting more than anything. Mom's many miscarriages made the desire become more of an obsession, until I got old enough that siblings were no longer what I craved, but a baby of my own.

I've always known them. In my memories, there is a picture. Their faces are looking at me, and I am in a stroller. The yellow canopy is above my head, and they have bent in to smile and sing to me. Sun flickers back forth between their bobbing heads and through their wispy hair. They love me. I am smiling and trying to grab at them. We're happy. I'm sure it's some fantasy memory I've created. Who has memories from infancy? But I've always held it fast, convinced myself that yes, I do have a piece of them which I could carry with me these forty years. It did happen. We were a family. They were mine. I've always known them.

Mommy, I Wuv You

"But, Mommy, I wannna be your baby 'gan. I wan' be in yo' belly." These words from my youngest as she winds her spindly arm around my leg, squeezing tight, shoving her head against my back. She says the words, but I am the one who remembers.

I am the two-year-old, or maybe three, and I love my mommy. I wound my arm around her leg, I shoved my head into her hip, I tried to crawl back into her womb. I know you all loved your mothers, but I really, really loved my mommy. She was my whole world.

My parents divorced when I was an infant, and it was just the two of us for those first few years. Mom went to graduate school, got a master's degree in counseling, and started work, all while repairing a broken heart--missing her married life, the foster children she lost, the white picket fence she thought she had been building. But I knew none of this. I knew that Mommy wore pretties (blush and lipstick), and I wanted them, too. I knew Mommy cooked with recipe cards, and I tried to cook with them, too. I knew Mommy read the newspaper, so I spread it out and "read" the pages. I knew that the skin between Mommy's neck and shoulder was the best place to rub your face. I knew that Mommy's hand fit perfectly around mine. I knew that Mommy was the best, the very best person, the very best thing in the whole wide world. And she was all mine.

When I was about 3 or 4, Mom taught Sunday School to preschoolers at our church. I remember trying to sit on BOTH sides of her, because no one should be sitting next to MY mommy! Poor Mom would try to work on the lesson (probably about loving one another!), and pull me off of her.

I loved the smell of her make-up. Long after her kiss, I could still smell the make-up, surrounding me like a Mommy-cloud, holding me together. As an adult, I found out it was Covergirl (makes sense; it was pretty inexpensive), and just opening the cap would take me back to my mom giving me a kiss good-bye at day care. I'd watch out the window, seeing her car pull away, and feel the pull in my stomach. Bye, Mommy... bye... bye. Even though I loved day care, and then school, I always just wanted one more minute with my mom.

My mom would read me stories, not just one or two, but really as many as I would be willing to sit for. She'd read and I snuggle into her skin, feel her breath coming in and out, try to climb inside her, as Becca does to me. I can still hear her voice in my head, when I read "Goodnight Moon," or Richard Scarry's "Cars and Trucks and Things That Move." She would sing me songs and rock me, "Here's a Wee Baby," or some strange song that I never really did figure out all the words to, "Don't you ask me to come over to your house today..." My mom's singing could be like Valium for me, long after I was too old to be rocked and sung to. I'd get upset--that kind of crazy, flinging, screaming, blind with fury, the world whirring past you out of control--and she'd stroke my hair, sing me a song, and pull me out of the tornado.

As a teenager, I once had a dream that my mother was murdered. My dad and I were, of course, devastated. But, when I awoke, I still couldn't shake it. I couldn't imagine a world without my mother. Sure, I sassed her and rolled my eyes at her and argued with every single word she said. But my mother was still my whole world. I still loved her with every ounce of my being. I still wished that she could pick me up and I could snuggle my face into the crook of her neck. I still wanted to wrap my arm around her leg and push my head into her hip. When my teenage world went crazy, I still wished she would sing her songs and stroke my hair. If my mother weren't in the world, who would love me like she did? Who would fill that space in my heart? Every once in a while, when I'm worried about my mother, that dream will hit me like a speeding semi, and I'll feel it: What would I do without Mommy?

Now, I am the mommy. My husband has taken the role of the person who loves me the most. Mom and I have a wonderful relationship, but it has changed its course to more of a a friendship than the one-sided "I take all" we had as I was growing up. I still know that I can count on her to love me, no matter what. I can call her to talk me off the edge when I feel like jumping instead. I hope that now, she knows she can count on me for the same. That love has transformed into the best kind of friendship. Still, now, always, I cannot imagine my life without my mother.

Now, my children are the ones who need the comforting. I rock them, I sing to them, I stroke their hair when they are upset. But, as I do, I still feel her here--my mommy--showing me how to love.