Having My Cake and Eating It, Too

We have been walking for hours along the lanes, boulevards and public squares of Toulouse, France, and as usual, I have to pee.  It is a cycle of sorts: in order to avoid the horrific public bathrooms, we must find a cafe, sit down and order something to drink.  Then, after an enjoyable hour of conversation and people-watching, we pay our bill and continue our walk, only to be slammed again an hour or so later by the imperative of a full bladder.  And so the search begins for another cafe and a clean bathroom.

My husband, my son and I trail after my daughter, who strides through the crowded maze of narrow, rose-colored streets in her high-heeled boots, and we dodge and side-step around the couples walking arm-in-arm, the dogs on and off leash, the trash cans and crowded cafe tables and miniature cars parked fully on the narrow sidewalks, all of which seem to weave and bob in my daughter’s wake.

After living here for nearly two semesters, Nina knows much of the city, and she navigates through unfamiliar parts with a combination of luck and intuition.  Toulouse is a university town and isn’t a usual destination for foreign tourists, although it seems chock full of French visitors this week.  The sights my daughter takes us to see would not make it into any guidebook.  They are only of interest to us: the Catholic University where she takes classes in philosophy, the art gallery where she had an internship, the fully automated metro that she is so proud of.

And her favorite restaurants.  We are on our way to find one now: the Lebanese sandwich place that she has been talking about all day.  After a week of rich, butter-laden French food, a freshly made pita stuffed with cucumbers and chickpeas sounds like heaven.

When we arrive, the metal grille is rolled up (all shops have one that can be rolled down and locked into place when the shop is closed for the night—  or the day—  or days—  regular business hours being more flexible than we are used to), but the tiny shop is dark inside, and there are no tables set out on the sidewalk, a sure sign that it is closed.  Still, we walk over to make sure, and it turns out that the owner is standing just inside, talking and cooking.

He lives upstairs, Nina tells us, and uses the shop kitchen to cook for his family.  The man, older, with a very un-French-like pot belly, sees Nina and greets her enthusiastically.  Clearly she is a regular.  They have a short, lively conversation in rapid French, and then he looks at me and asks Nina a question in which I can pick out the word “mama.”  She nods, and he disappears into the dark recess of the shop.

“He is going to give you some cake, Mom,” says Nina, grinning.

“Me?  Why?” I ask as he reappears a moment later with a piece of almond cake wrapped in a yellow paper napkin.  He holds it out to me and waves and disappears while I am stumbling through my “merci beau coup.”

“When the Lebanese want to show respect or esteem for someone, they give gifts to the mother,” Nina replies.

I bite into the cake.  It is simple and not overly sweet.  I will remember this cake long after I have forgotten the tarts and croissants and macaroons.

Words for Mothers

When I rise
Let me rise with joy
Like a bird.

When I fall
Let me fall without regret
Like a leaf.

— Wendell Berry

Guest Blog: Rules Are For Breaking

Guest Blog by Nina Kuntz

Day 4 of accompanying my family around France:

We sally forth in our spiffy rental car (hastily reversing when we realized we were going the wrong way down the one-way, then re-sallying) in the direction of the hidden Mediterranean beach town of Cassis. After lunch, ice cream and a few hours of basking next to the azure waters of paradise, Mom needed to pee. Unable to find the public bathroom, we headed for a café that bordered the beach. I accompanied Mom in order to translate “coca cola” and “toilets,” not bothering to throw a shirt on over my bikini top and wrap skirt. “Hey miss, you gotta wear clothes if you want to come into the restaurant.  Swimwear is forbidden in the town of Cassis. You risk to get yelled at by the police.” Turns out that Cassis is so tiny that the sand and water and the establishments next to it are defined as separate.

Now, this phenomenon did not actually take me by surprise. Using a sophisticated cultural detective technique correctly named “walking around with your eyes open,” I was able deduce that everyone else was wearing clothes. Functioning on the responsive acculturation mantra “I don’t care,” I strode into the joint anyways to exchange some banter with the guys behind the counter.

Later, as I perfected my Mediterranean skin color–angry red– with my brother (who can not only eat all the ice cream he wants but tans infuriatingly well) and told him about the café incident, he mentioned how baffling he found French peoples’ relationship with rules. Both he and my parents had noticed earlier how the crazy French drivers took road rules more as suggestions rather than laws to be obeyed absolutely, as we usually would in the US. And yet, a bikini top at a beach bar three steps away from the water made waves. (Pun not originally intended, but now it’s there, so laugh).

I experienced the same confusion as my brother when I first came to Europe. Since then, observation has suggested to me that in general, following rules is a Germanic thing and breaking them is a Latin thing. In countries like France, Spain, and Italy, I’ve noticed that people tend to view constraints laid down for them by the government or the police to be prohibitive to them living their lives the way they see fit. Road rules are flagrantly disobeyed, trash is thrown on the ground and the police are untrustworthy thugs– the last people you’d cooperate with or call for help. Likewise, purchasing train tickets and even sometimes paying for your drinks are superfluous gestures. Queues are only there to show you where to cut.

On the other hand, a girlfriend studying in Copenhagen told me a story about how, when crossing the street, Danish people would always wait for the green walk sign to come on, even if it was two in the morning and there was no traffic in sight. She even said a Danish person told her off for crossing the street in such a situation when the walk sign was red, saying that she was degrading Danish society and setting a bad example for impressionable children.

And for anyone who has departed from the hermetic cleanliness and order of the Munich airport and landed in Naples among the mounds of trash and lack of passport control, the contrast couldn’t be more striking. The US seems to be in between the two extremes, and understandably, as the population has significant origins in both cultural groups.

But I’m here to inform you, whether you be German, Spanish, neither, or both, that you should steamroll meaningless rules. Common sense should tell you whether something is meaningful or not. Take this common sense rule: Young men who can eat lots of ice cream and remain healthy should be imprisoned.

Oh, wait, that one’s debatable.

The reality is that obeying guidelines made by other people will do nothing but contain you to where those other people have gone, what they’ve accomplished, and they way they’ve thought. Or, you could leave conventionality and propriety for those who like to be comfortable.  Instead, you could dare to imagine what you could do, what could be or what could happen.

Gay people can’t get married in France? Oh right, they can now– because some people decided to break that rule. Your university usually allows a year of off-campus study? Why not ask for two years and three locations? Even though no one had done it before, I did ask, (and write numerous persuasive essays) and voila, I’m posting this during the third of what will be my four semesters off-campus. That restaurant isn’t hiring? Maybe they have a job for someone fantastic like you after all. There are way too many limits in life that are practically indomitable to let your imagination be one of them.  The walk sign is red? Noticing that there were no cars, I walked, as did five or so other individuals. I don’t know about them, but I am still very much alive.

A Simple Cut: The Stories We Tell Ourselves

One of the people I most regret leaving behind in Montana is the woman who cut my hair.  I went in for a haircut every year or two, whether I needed it or not.  Sonya understood this about me and didn’t tut tut about my unspeakable aversion to hair products or make casual suggestions about covering my grey.  She had learned over the years, she explained, that every woman wants someone else’s hair.  And— she continued— she believed that once women accepted the reality of their own hair and what it could and could not do, they would finally be happy with it.  Sonya was also one of the very few people who understood, without any explanation, why we had to leave Montana, even though there was so much that we loved about living there.

When we moved, I vowed that I would finally do more for myself and attend to my appearance: expand my wardrobe beyond the two pairs of jeans that I alternate between, get some sleep and find someone who could give me a decent haircut.  Since our arrival in New Hampshire, I have tried to turn over a new leaf.  I’ve had three haircuts in 18 months, but each one has been more expensive and horrific than the last.  It has been a challenge.

Today, I am hoping that the fourth time will be the charm:

As I open the door to the hair salon, I rehearse the lines that my daughter had given me earlier:  “Make sure to tell them to give it some SHAPE, Mom.”  I step over the threshold and immediately am transformed into a frumpy, slightly-more-than-middle-aged woman.   The disparaging words of my sharp-tongued sister cut into my thoughts as usual, uninvited.   Sitting in the chair in front of the mirror, I see my face in full relief, the lines and bags illuminated by the lights above.   I realize that what I thought was a rosy glow on my cheeks is actually a rash of some kind, and a horrible doubt snakes its way across my crumbled defenses… I wonder if my daughter is ashamed of me.

The young stylist, bless her heart, sees a shapeless older woman and gives me a haircut to match.  When she is done with the cutting and drying and pulls off the smock with a flourish, I put on my glasses to see the results: a helmet haircut.  She tried her best, but how do you describe to someone how to make it look like it did before the bad haircuts?  You can’t.  You can’t recreate what is past, what is gone.  Learn to appreciate what you have, says the wise Sonya, and you will be happier.

It’s OK, I think.  It’ll grow out.  It always does.

Luckily, the house is empty when I arrive home, so I strip off my scratchy clothes and hop in the shower.  When I get out, I pull on my (one other) pair of jeans.  I don’t brush my hair but let it dry in its usual haphazard way.  Now it is a tumbled helmet.  That is an improvement.

When my son returns home, he gives me a thumbs-up, and my husband kisses me and tells me that he likes the new haircut (which he would say no matter what).

If I want a better haircut, I think I will first have to start telling myself a different story.

Car Conversations

There is nothing quite like the car for conversation.  My son and I have talked about girls and sex as we roll up Route 106 to the gym.  We have talked about being cool and being true to oneself while I make a herculean effort to set a good example by going the speed limit on the narrow road through the woods to the high school.  That fifteen minute trip to Target is enough for us to touch on questions about finding one’s path vs. finding a career.  And sometimes we just ride comfortably along in companionable silence.

I will miss that when he is driving himself around.

The other day, we drove up to the high school for his driver’s education class and arrived about ten minutes early.  The parking lot was empty and the school was dark, so after parking the car, Thomas turned on the radio while we waited.  It was tuned to NPR, and they were in the middle of an interview with Anna Quindlen, the writer, and she was telling a story about her worries that she had been a bad mother.

“What do you remember?” she had asked her grown children.  They answered that she HAD gone a little crazy around college-application time, but otherwise, they remembered having fun.

I expected Thomas to change the station to ESPN for some sports talk, but he left it where it was.  The interview  was quite long, and I wondered if he was even listening as he settled back in the driver’s seat.

The discussion then shifted to Ms. Quindlen’s writing career, and she described how, in the early days when she wrote a column for mothers, she often felt that she was in her own little “cul-de-sac,” as she put it, writing about her world when she wasn’t sure if any of it mattered, if anyone was listening.  But she kept on writing, and eventually, she found that she had readers— readers who said “Ah, you are writing about me.  How did you know so much about me?”  But it took a long time, she added.

And then Thomas reached over and patted me on the shoulder and said, “See, Mom, you’ll be OK.”

I guess he WAS listening, and not just to Anna Quindlen.  He was listening when I talked about the joy of finding the right words, finally.  He was listening when I said, unconvincingly, that I was OK after the latest rejection.  He was listening when I sorted through the reasons to keep trying, looking for one more.  He was listening to what I didn’t say, what I haven’t said, what I am afraid to say: “I want to be a writer.”

And then another student arrived, and Thomas grabbed his bag and hopped out of the car with a cheerful and distracted, “See ya!”   And I drove back home alone, but with his words still very present.  I will have to get used to that.

Stop the Presses

…or maybe— start them.

I recently discovered that I can be impulsive.   If you asked me to make a list of fifty adjectives that describe me, I would never in my wildest dreams have chosen that one.  In my day-to-day life, you would never see a hint of it.  I am reliable, predictable, some would say boring.  But every once in a while…. look out.

If I were to line up all of my impulsive moments, it would be clear that they all involve the same thing: giving something away.

“That sweater is just your color.   Take it!”

“You really like that slice of cinnamon raisin bread?  Here– bring the loaf home with you.”

“Your grandkids come to visit a lot?  Why don’t you keep our jog-stroller in your barn— we don’t need it anymore.”

I love puzzles, and I love giving things away.  Finding the perfect fit is very satisfying.  It makes me happy.   But every once in a while, I give too much away.

Several readers have, in the last few days, brought to my attention the dangers of just posting my book online.   It is too valuable, they say, to open the door to possible plagiarism.   Get it published, they say.

And after sitting with that thought for a bit, I have come to realize that they are right.   So, I am going to go back on a promise, I think for the first time in my life.  I am going to leave you, for now, with the Introduction and Chapter One.  I will continue to post weekly about topics concerning parenting and family life, while I put my efforts into publishing my book myself.  I hope to have it ready very soon.

I worry a bit that you will think that I have pulled a “bait and switch” on you.  If only I were that clever!!  I hope you will forgive me for giving you a smaller gift than I had originally planned.  I hope that the first two chapters have given you some things to think about and that they have been a little wave that has given you a small lift as you paddle along.   I hope that, for now, they are enough.

1.7 Where to Start

Where to Start

When you are feeling overwhelmed, you can help yourself focus on the immediate moment by asking, “What does my child need from me right now?”

Greet your emotions as they arrive, “Oh, hello, Frustration. You are here because this is the gazillionth time I have had to pull these two squabbling children apart, and frankly, I have had it.  Hello, feelings of Failure and Guilt, you are here because, if I were to admit it, I blame myself for my kids’ continual fights. But if you will excuse me for a moment, I have a job to do.”

When faced with a difficulty, ask, “What am I fearing? What is the worst that I can imagine?” You might as well get to the heart of it. Don’t dismiss the fear—it always has merit—but draw it alongside, so you can get to a “first name” basis with it.

Often, you will have to do this retroactively, when you are thinking about something that already happened: “What was I fearing?” Keep practicing this step. Look at the fear. The more you notice it and the longer you can look at it with a steady gaze, the less you will feel driven by it.

If you have regularly occurring events that set you off, plan for them in advance by imagining how you will feel. Notice who shows up: do you expect Loneliness, Inadequacy and Fear? Be aware of them now. Listen to what they say, and then remember what they mean: This is important. Focus.  Focus on RIGHT NOW.

AND THEN, do the best that you can do with what you know and have at that moment. That is all any of us can ever do, and that is enough.