13 Ways of Looking at 16

In advance of their daughter's sixteenth birthday, friends of ours asked family members and friends to write her letters including memories, advice, and inspiration.  Here's my contribution (and my favorite is #VII):

Dear Tess,

Wallace Stevens wrote his poem, “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird” and it occurs to me that it’s like a little Instagram account (whereas William Carlos Williams’ poem “Red Wheelbarrow” is like one Insta post, and “This is Just to Say,” also by Williams, is more like an apologetic message on a friend’s FB wall—oh hey, we could compare poems to social media moments! But I digress). So here’s a moment in time, your sixteenth birthday, for which we are creating snapshots, reflections, messages on your “wall,” so to speak. I am offering you “Thirteen Ways of Looking at Sixteen.”

So much love,

Fer

Thirteen Ways of Looking at Sixteen

I
Among the people at dinner that night,
The most memorable ideas, references, and insights
Issued from the sixteen-year-old.

II
I was of three minds,
Like a sixteen-year-old
In which resides child, teen, adult.

III
She, sixteen, danced in the sand, arms thrown wildly to wind and sky.
It was one movement in the choreography of her life.

IV
A man and a woman
had one.
A man and a woman and a sixteen-year-old
Are one.

V
They are all evidence of her,
Words, actions, body
And her slept-in bed, clothing, and acquisitions:
The sixteen-year-old’s being
As well as her props.

VI
Music from the turntable filled the room
With sounds like.
The limbs of the sixteen-year-old
Crossed and curled and extended along the couch.
Her mood
Represented in her postures:
Shifting landscape.

VII
O old folks of society,
Why do you imagine hoodlums?
Do you not see how the sixteen-year-old
Walks the world in feet
That become yours?

VIII
I know great minds
And inventions, accomplishments, triumphs, and talents realized over lifetimes;
But I feel, too,
That sixteen-year-olds influence
What I know and believe and love.

IX
When the sixteen-year-old drove out of sight,
It marked one edge
Of the polygon of independence.

X
At the sight of sixteen-year-olds
Delighting in their own company,
Even the most cynical observers
Gaze with longing and approval.

XI
I dreamed I was late to class
And dashing without progress.
Many times, fear grips my slumber,
When I am convinced
I’ve forgotten my chemistry homework
At sixteen.

XII
Time is flowing.
The sixteen-year-old is thriving.

XIII
She was young and she was old.
She was child and she was adult.
The sixteen-year-old was
Nevertheless always Tess.

Too Blessed to Be Stressed

I can conjure up a healthy dose of anxiety when change is on the horizon, and I tend to stress out a little in anticipation of transitions.  I forget, for example, at the end of each summer, how I handle the logistics of work and family life during the school year, and imagine that it will be harder than ever this time.  And then the year starts, and what do you know?  I'm coping.  We're okay.  I'm busy, we're bustling, but we make time for family dinners and there are moments of hilarity amidst the homework and driving to and from lessons and practices.  Over the years I've learned I do this, cyclically:  stress out and then figure it out.

But an undertow is tugging at me again.  Call it what you will: the Baby Blues or mild Post-Partum Depression.   I just know it knocks me on my knees most unhelpfully.  I felt it with Big Sis--the joy and in-love-ness, coupled with an inexplicable weepiness and recognition of my own vulnerability.  Why did I feel this way?  Many kind friends would ask me, "Isn't this the most joyous time of your life?" Yes, absolutely!  And...no?  My father, no stranger to the hormonal flux of postpartum emotions, explained that my feelings were helping create the bond that would have me throw myself in front of a train in defense of my newborn.  I found that oddly comforting.   And I eventually emerged unscathed and determined to interact with mothers of newborns differently from then on:  "No, how are you, really?"  Just in case someone else felt similarly.

Ten years later here I am with the baby I yearned for.

In the hospital, in the NICU, in Boston, my emotions had objects:  stressful circumstances, sick baby, unfamiliar and unexpected setting.  Separation from my girls and husband and dog.

But now I'm home, reunited and back in my nest.  And still I find myself wide-eyed wondering why I'm not deeply at peace.

Beyond the clarity of purpose in holding, feeding, staring, talking and smiling at my baby and hugging my girls and husband, my mind zig zags, loops the loop:  making to-do lists, questioning itself, worrying.

There's a new job waiting for me, a Big Job, which I haven't even done yet, but know I can do.  It's the Life + Job that I wonder about, that uncharted territory that I think about each morning when I wake, planning how I'll drop off and pick up and breastfeed and pump and raise my baby and help with homework and cook and do laundry and attend evening meetings and athletic events and dances...and sleep.

And then Guilt, the hair shirt that accompanies bad feelings, bristles my sensitive skin.  I'm "too blessed to be stressed," after all; let me count the ways:  my baby is healthy.  I am raising a thriving, happy family and am married to an incredibly supportive partner.  I have a wonderful new house and job.  I have tons of love and assistance--TONS.  And let me tell you, I know some people who should be crying!  I know some folks going through tough life-and-death stuff, so what is my problem? I ask myself.  There's Syria, and poverty, and depravity, and it's even the anniversary of 9/11, and I'm at home on maternity leave holding a sweet, milky-smelling baby.  Maybe my body needs to plow a field; my mind needs something really serious to focus on.  Could Post-Partum Blues be a first-world problem?

"You're not in charge," the nurse practitioner tells me at my six-week postpartum appointment.  "You can't control this, just as if you had a broken leg or sore throat."  She offers an elixir, with its side effects and promises of relief.  And I hear her, but I want to be the body surfer to this wave, plunging through the whitewash, wave and I both winning and losing, but I, emerging and whipping hair from my face with a triumphant grin.

I'm certain I can get there, and I know the lifeguards are watching.

Fond Farewell

Dear Friends,

Today was my first day in sunlight!  Because I woke up this morning, and check out my Goal for the Day:

Guess what, I met my goal (sorta--I'm going to hang out in Boston for a while until I head to my Main Crib). But first, I had to accomplish a few things.

Like meet my Mammom, who flew out here from San Diego to get acquainted with me and help bring me home.  I am her tenth grandchild!  She's a complete pro at being a grandmother, and pretty much a celebrity in my family.  

And I had to pass a Car Seat Test.  It turns out that the angle of car seats can make it hard for some small people like me to breathe, so we have to show that we are safe sitting in our seats for an extended period of time before we leave the NICU.  I took a nice long nap in my seat yesterday.  No big deal.  Oh, and check out my glow foot--is that awesome or what?  Definitely the coolest of my monitor probes.  

 

My nurse gave me a warm bath this morning.  After wondering initially what the heck was going on, and then thinking, hey, this kind of reminds me of a warm dark time inside...I relaxed and enjoyed the rubdown.  Of course, right after that I made a blowout diaper and my mom had to change my outfit, haha.  

Meanwhile Mom had to pack up all our stuff, watch a video on infant CPR, learn how to make my fortified bottles, and sign some paperwork.

The hardest part was I had so many loving people to say goodbye to.  I enjoyed some final snuggles with my nurses.  So many nurses came by yesterday and had long conversations with my mom.  She is going to miss all the friends she made here.  

After Mom fed me one more time, nurse Ellen came in to take off my leads to the monitor.  No more lines, no more beeping.  I was tucked into my carseat and snapped into the stroller, and we rolled out of room 1080.  We had a final goodbye at our neighbor's room--she's a preemie too, and her mom and mine made friends upstairs while they were waiting.  I'm sending all my strength and growth her way, because she's just begun her journey in the NICU, but she's going to do great.  My mom and hers cried and hugged and made the nurses cry too.  They gave each other a ton of support.  Who doesn't need that in this life?

And then we were leaving Blake 10 and the hospital and moving on.  My mom looked a little wide eyed, but I mostly just slept through the journey out and the car ride to my aunt and uncle's apartment at Harvard.  I'm ready for the next thing.  The Big Wide World and I have lots to do, and I've been working all month long to get started. 

Friends, thank you for sticking with us on this adventure, and cheering us on with your notes and gifts and kindnesses.  We'll need your love and understanding when we get home too.  I can't wait to meet all of you, but I have to hang out in Boston for a bit and then bond with my dad and sisters first.  Mom might be a little distracted from the blog because first, she's going to watch me breathe All The Time, and this week we have to check in with doctors to make sure I'm doing okay without my friends at Mass General Hospital, and then ride on the airplane, and get used to being home...  She's happy and relieved but a little tired, too.  She says six weeks feels a little like it was only a few days, but then, it's almost September and the last time you saw her it was July.  

Needless to say, we will see you SOON, buddies!  

XOXO, 

Tootsie

Nelson Mandela

I developed an avid interest in Africa and in South Africa and apartheid, specifically, during high school in the 80s.  My high school hosted the International Baccalaureate Program, and one of the perks for those of us who pursued the IB Diploma was an exchange trip to the Armand Hammer World College in New Mexico, where we had the opportunity to meet students from across the globe and then host international peers in our own homes.  It was through this opportunity that I befriended two South African young men whose stories fascinated and horrified me--one of them had witnessed his activist father's shooting death at a checkpoint near Durban.  I wrote one of my college essays on the inspiration provided by my relationship with these fellow students, and my plans to continue learning about Africa.  I devoured such books as Cry, the Beloved Country and The Power of One.

The summer between my junior and senior years of high school, I attended a pre-college program at Barnard in New York City.  There I discovered gay artist Keith Haring, whose simple graphics depicted powerful political images.  I frequented his Pop Shop and came home with a nearly wall-sized anti-apartheid poster. 

As I applied to college and planned to enroll at Yale, I knew there had been a student movement to demand Yale's divestment from South Africa.  Apartheid, to us in America, was at once unthinkable and arcane, and yet South Africa continued its tradition of oppression and Mandela remained imprisoned.  I look back now and recognize that my college years marked the fall of the Berlin Wall, the end of apartheid, and the rise of awareness of AIDS.  Mandela distinguishes himself as a hero of my generation. 

Today Nelson Mandela is in hospital in critical condition.  Last week the United States Supreme Court declared the Defense of Marriage Act unconstitutional, paving the way for gay marriage across our country.  It seems possible that the arcane and unthinkable, as represented in law, grows increasingly rare. 

There's hope.  The kind of hope embodied in a man who spent 27 years of his life in prison for the cause of his people, and people everywhere.

Thank you, Mr. Mandela. 

Tide Tables

Today when I picked the girls up from school I paused to watch the Safety Patrol's outgoing 5th graders train the new 4th graders, carrying out their street corner duties with enthusiasm.  I listened to Big Sis bemoan the impending retirement of two of her beloved teachers, with only days left in her school year.  Summer means awesome renewal but also transitions in family routines.  I'm feeling the bittersweetness of the changing of guards and trying not to be fearful of and resistant to change.

I have deep sadness that my "Work Husband," our principal, is moving on to a new professional challenge.  We took our jobs together seven years ago, both fresh in our positions, and built an enduring trust in each other and culture we believe in at our school.  I've learned so much about leadership and ethics and personhood from him.  It's hard to imagine making decisions without his wise counsel.  

It was inevitable that he, or I, would move on to another professional challenge someday.  Sometimes big change rolls around when changes were already afoot and on the horizon, when the fog of overwhelm is visible just over the peninsula. Sometimes we have options; sometimes waves are bound to wash overhead and it's left to dive under or be knocked down. 

I've got some thinking to do.