universal beauty, unconditional love

If my nonverbal, incontinent, legally blind, unconditionally-loving son Calvin has (unwittingly) taught me anything, it is to be grateful. That might seem counterintuitive considering our sorry situation, but I've come to understand that mindfulness and gratitude are two practices that help get me through the bruising parenting of a cognitively and physically disabled child who has a chronic condition as relentless and unforgiving as epilepsy. Gratitude and mindfulness help keep me grounded while at the same time distract me from getting stuck on the troubling aspects of life concerning my son.

Last Saturday night was a rough one for us. After a day of snotty-nosed sneezing, Calvin developed a cough and a fever of 102.6 degrees. Several hours later, I was amazed that the stubborn fever hadn't managed to break his twenty-seven-day seizure-free streak. However, despite alternate doses of acetaminophen and ibuprofen, at 1:30 in the morning a grand mal finally broke through, and a second one regrettably followed a few hours later. The kid is still sick.

Nevertheless, on Sunday, as on most days, I found things to be grateful for: Calvin didn't have a third seizure; he felt well enough to be interested in a car ride; though he didn't eat, he took in fluids; I still managed to get outside by myself to run a few miles. Practicing gratitude, however, doesn't mean I don't also lament Calvin's and our impossibly difficult and relentless situation.

Throughout the weekend, I thought about a social media post I'd seen in which its author expressed her belief in a heaven for the followers of Jesus. The specificity of her remark made me bristle a bit, understanding well that many if not most Christians are convinced that nonbelievers—no matter how virtuous—will be tormented in Hell for eternity; I've had friends and acquaintances tell me that's where I'm headed simply because I'm not Christian. Mostly, I laugh off what I regard as an absurd, fantastical, primitive invention. I went on to consider Calvin's innocent obliviousness to Jesus. I thought, too, about my many salt-of-the-earth Atheist, Jewish and Muslim friends who, though they know who Jesus was, do not claim him as their lord and savior. If there is a god, is "He" so conceited and merciless as to banish decent people to eternal damnation for their so-called indiscretion? Are we/they not God's beloved children, too? Shouldn't virtue be valued over appeasement?

I went on to recall an interview I did with a student of journalism who produced an audio profile of me during the height of the pandemic. She made a gorgeous, seven-minute piece about my life with Calvin. Her depiction is rich, though doesn't include my recorded musings on religion, Christianity, specifically. I surprised even myself when I told her that many aspects of Christianity offend me. I had never thought of it in those stark of terms before, but as I described sweet Calvin's miseries and struggles—his malformed brain, inability to adequately express his wants and needs, his helplessness and vulnerability, his seizures, the heinous transient and permanent side effects of epilepsy drugs and their withdrawal—my position crystallized. I lamented to her the "everything happens for a reason" and "God doesn't give you more than you can handle" platitudes that come my way all too often from well-meaning Christians when they learn about Calvin. To the former, I usually respond by saying I don't believe it for a second; to the latter, I counter by asking why, then, do people kill themselves?

Though raised Catholic, and despite the fact I'm fond of the presumed teachings of Jesus, I lost my religion ages ago, having first begun to doubt it with the tragic swimming pool accident of a best friend's two-year-old sister when I was fourteen. As the years have passed, I've become more awake to Christianity's patriarchy, sanctimony, power-lust, enrichment, racist and bigoted history, and the hypocrisy of some of its most ardent leaders and disciples, which doesn't negate the fact that, like all people, most Christians are good.

But, there is something else that troubles me: religion's depiction of the creator (assuming there is one) of our mind-blowingly vast and expanding universe as anthropomorphized, obstinate, immutable, callous, conceited, judgemental and unforgiving—a being, I'd argue, that seems made in man's image rather than the other way around. What exactly would be the motive for an allegedly omnipotent, merciful god to let "His" children suffer, to test them so harshly, setting up some of them—like Calvin and others who through no fault of their own are isolated and ignorant of Jesus—for certain failure? And if we puny humans are capable of forgiving each other's mistakes, shortcomings and most heinous offenses, why isn't God? What is the point of a fealty experiment, anyway? Shouldn't virtue be enough?

Knowing with the utmost conviction the answers to my own questions, I return to musing on gratitude—for the green canopy of trees, for a healthy body able to run free for miles by myself, for an adorable, affectionate child, a husband, friends and family who love me, for kind strangers and shearling slippers and smoked-chicken enchiladas and black-eyed susans and Nan's dahlias and lemon bars and Smellie dogs and cozy homes and blue ocean vistas and moody skies and screen porches and chilly mornings and warm breezes in the afternoon. Finally, I land again on imagining that wherever, whatever or whomever these gifts come from must unquestionably be free of judgement, an expansive and evolving universal beauty. And if perhaps it's a celestial energy or being, I imagine it to be no less than my pure son Calvin—a force of genuine and infinite acceptance and unconditional love.

saturday gratitude

a rare, decent night's sleep. stovetop espresso with warm milk, as always, ready and waiting. a well-seasoned cast iron pan. jammy eggs with sea salt fried in olive oil (my rendition.) gifted loaf of ta's homemade bread for buttered toast.

early-morning backyard stroll across freshly-cut grass, mug in hand. fothergilla and other flowering shrubs going absolutely nuts. the mesmerizing scent of double-white russian hybrid lilacs. amazing azaleas in at least five blush and blazing colors. stalks of purple alliums exploding like fireworks in the perennial gardens.

walking wooded trails with smellie. running some of it, even in jeans. shedding winter layers. feeling lighter these days. bits of grey hair coming in wavy.

driving on quiet, winding back roads. picking up speed up and down hills. spectacular vistas over my shoulders. snowy owl perched on a chimney. smiles and waves from friendly strangers. blasting david byrne's talking heads over calvin's shrieking one. curious cows and calves grazing silently in a roadside pasture. (some) maskless people frolicking at a nearby farm. exchanging enormous smiles with a gal riding her fatbike down a dirt road.

covid-vaccine freedom-windows. calvin's school, bus driver, aides and teacher. getting to know newish neighbors. apple blossoms. dandelion fields. flowering chestnut trees. compelling books and films. forgiving son and husband. gatherings again! seeing friends' lovely faces close-up. loving buddies who understand me. bear hugs from some of my besties.

laughs. tears. dirty jokes. expletives—all among friends.

red wine and blonde redhead. finger-licking seared lamb chops and baby asparagus. michael's creamy garlic mashers. gingersnap ice cream in a waxed paper cup. my little wild turkey in jeans and a t-shirt, even though he sends me reeling.

breathe deep

i tell myself often: breathe deep. forgive. forget. release regret, resentments big and small. abandon fear and angst if possible. practice compassion, kindness, respect, inclusiveness, gratitude, humility. expect successes but allow yourself to fail. imagine. wonder. create. explore. find a perch or cave from which to ponder the world. reflect. muse. hold onto hope. lose yourself. take risks, as long as you don't hurt others. founder, but move forward with as much grace as you can muster. embrace others. listen and live awhile in their shoes.

aches and pains

Of late, I wake with achy joints—middle fingers, ball of my foot, small of my back. In dreams and while padding around the house, I clench my teeth. Is this a sign of fifty-six, or of resentments settling in my bones? If the latter, can I let them go and, if so, how?

I must be able to free deep-seated bitterness from a long history of hurt rendered by some who've claimed to love me. Can I shed my displeasure of what seems like game-playing and deceit? Can I forgive the pain of betrayal, abandonment, the strangeness of envy, the lack of respect, the failure to utter the simple words, I'm sorry that what I said hurt you. And what hand do I have in it? Michael, my best champion, claim's I've little. I'm less sure of that.

How does one go about forgetting wrongdoings, hurt feelings, odd and uncomfortable efforts to cloud the truth, malign, manipulate and fix me? I don't know. How do I go forward when trust has been broken repeatedly?

And when it comes to my son, how do I reconcile moments of adoration with those of such contempt? I wonder if releasing my other grievances—the gnawing, vexing discontent—I'll have more room to love him, less time and energy to magnify his defects. And what of mine?

Perhaps I should scrawl my complaints on paper—the ridicule, manipulation, dismissal, bullying, belittlement, one-upmanship—then wad it up and put a match to it. Maybe if I make the feelings tangible—graphite on a sheet of wood pulp—I can set it aflame and watch my indignations burn then float away as embers. Maybe then I'll be able to forgive myself, my son, the others, and from that forgiveness, melt away my aches.

not easy

Life's not easy, especially of recent. The coronavirus pandemic is wreaking havoc with our world. We're all facing hardship and uncertainty of one kind or another. Will we or our loved ones get sick? Will we have enough food? How will we pay our bills? When will physical distancing ease up? Will life go back to normal? When will we be able to have dinner parties?

Meanwhile, in India, millions of migrant workers are trekking outrageous distances—some 500 miles or more while wearing flip flops—to return to their villages after losing their jobs in the cities. Some have died along the way from starvation and exhaustion. In this nation as in others, refugees crammed in camps have no protection from the coronavirus. Some Americans are still not heeding physical distancing. Too many so-called leaders have been, and continue to be, slow to react to the crisis. Domestic violence is on the rise. Some nations are still in the thralls of civil war.

Because of these worries and stresses, at times I find myself more on edge taking care of Calvin while he is out of school and without his nurses here to help me. Thankfully, Michael is doing all of the grocery shopping and cooking, and taking care of Calvin so I can walk Smellie or do a little writing. Life for us, though historically protracted because our disabled child expands time in ways which are sometimes vexing and at others a blessing, has slowed even further now that we are on lockdown. Days feel longer and more monotonous, especially if we're trapped inside because of the weather. But I'm quickly getting back into the groove of taking care of him for hours and days on end, and I can see its benefits in the gift of having to practice mindfulness and the bringing into sharper focus what is both trivial and important. And, it helps that it has been nineteen days since Calvin's last grand mal, thanks, at least in part, to THCA.

This change in routine has prompted me to reflect on my own parents. I long for them—Dad who died twenty-four years ago, and Mom back in 2015. I wonder how my mother survived being at home alone all day when resources were thin, friends were scarce, and my father was away at work—one stint for months—leaving her with a six-year-old, a four-year-old, a three-year-old, a two-year-old and a newborn. How did she shop and clean and cook and wash and feed them and deal with poopy diapers all by herself? Then, four years later, I was born. Raising so many children must have been hell for her, and yet rarely did I ever see her lose her shit.

The gravity of this pandemic and the strict measures to contain it will no doubt heighten passions. Those emotions, like any, are real and valid, though perhaps now more fragile. I try hard to be patient and understanding with Calvin when he begins to chap my nerves. When he is screeching, my selfish instinct is to tell him to hush up, to say that he doesn't need to behave in the manic way he does. But what do I know about the way he feels? Not much. How could I? I can't get inside his head or his body to know how he is feeling physically or emotionally. What do I know? And so, now that I'm with him all day long, I've been trying to slow down, to meet his eruptions with love and affection, with as much understanding and sensitivity as I can muster. But when I fail, which I do often, I'll ask him for forgiveness and, in his own way, he'll give it to me willingly. He always does. We should do that for ourselves and for each other.

when grace goes out the window

Partway through reading my friend Chris Gabbard's recent memoir, A Life Beyond Reason, I came across the word grace, and was emotionally stunned. Chris uses it to describe a commitment he made to raise his son August with as much poise and kindness as he could muster. August, like Calvin, had cerebral palsy and was legally blind, non-verbal and incontinent. Unlike Calvin, his condition was the result of injuries he suffered during a medically negligent and reckless childbirth. Reading the word grace, I felt a deep sense of shame and regret, since too often when caring for Calvin, any semblance of grace I might be able to muster, inevitably goes out the window. And though I can blame any number of reasons for my graceless behavior—sleep deprivation, agitation, resentment, monotony, grief, impatience, anger, frustration—I still feel remorseful of my inability to be wholly graceful when caring for such a pure, affectionate, faultless little kid. 

In the heat and humidity of early evening while strolling alone in the garden yesterday, Michael having gone to Boston for the night, I heard, via the baby monitor slung around my head, Calvin banging the wall behind his bed. I made my way up to his room and was greeted by the stinky news that he had pooped. After unfastening the safety netting and side panel of his bed, I first sniffed his fingers. Yep. He had put his hand down his diaper and into the shit ... again. Exasperated, I grit my teeth. I wiped him up, gave him a new diaper, and spread copious amounts of sanitizer on his hands. All the while, I bitterly and openly lamented the fact that, despite how often this happens and no matter how many ways I try to explain to him why he shouldn't do it, it never seems to sink in. I rubbed his palms and fingers down, cleaning underneath each fingernail with half a dozen baby wipes. I changed his pants and shirt, which were both wet, then put him back into bed. When laying him down, I noticed a brown splotch on his clean sheet and another on the wall above his head. I tried hard to contain my vexation, tried to emulate my friend Chris, and to act with grace. But in my state of cumulative and acute sleep deprivation, plus a certain kind of traumatic stress disorder from fifteen years of rearing a boy with chronic epilepsy who it still a lot like an infant, I lost my head.

"GODDAMMIT!" 

I screamed at the sheet, at the walls, at the bed, at myself, at my son. Luckily, Calvin remained visibly unfazed. No doubt, however, with all the windows open, any passersby or neighbors could have heard my ugly distress. The grace I tried to hold in my body's vessel, in my brain and spirit, went right out the window instead.

I apologized to Calvin and to Nellie. I should apologize to the neighbors just in case. I forgave myself for the eruption which came on the heels of a buildup of worry, frustration, pressure and tension. But when I woke up this morning, I was uniquely aware that I hadn't spent the night clenching my teeth.

primal scream

Last night at around eleven-thirty I let out a primal scream. I couldn't help myself, having gotten up every half hour or less since nine o'clock—each time within minutes of falling back to sleep—to resettle my son in his bed and cover him back up. My shriek began as a question: What is wrong (with you, Calvin)?! It ended in an animalistic howl so loud I felt it must have woken the neighbors and shaken the house. Thankfully, both Nellie our wackadoodle and my child seemed totally unfazed. I crawled back into bed with a slightly hoarse and irritated throat, and deep feelings of remorse for my behavior.

Chronic sleep deprivation is torture. It can make me impatient and ugly. My son's all-too frequent awakenings (which, by the way, are far fewer since starting him on a newish CBD oil) sometimes lead to insomnia. Despite being exhausted, I can lie awake for hours worrying about silly things like unfinished chores and calls that need to be made. Often, I fret over the miserable state of things—my son's medicines and seizures, our earth's man-made ills, this administration's vile and pathetic behavior, the ongoing and oppressive patriarchy, the greed of oligarchs, the contempt for the poor, the apparent surge of racism, misogyny and bigotry in the world. Eventually, I get my mind to calm down by imagining forests and oceans, and by counting backwards from one hundred.

This morning, while hugging Calvin in my lap, I apologized to him. I'm fairly certain he doesn't know the meaning of forgiveness, and yet I've no doubt he is forgiving. I recognize my various stresses and limitations in taking care of my infant-toddler-teen these past fifteen years, especially during Michael's absences, and so I try to forgive myself. Thankfully, my husband is coming home tonight after a two-week stint in Europe having taken photographs for a future book of Paris parks, and been on press for his second publication, LA River.

While on a walk with Nellie this morning, I recounted last night's primal scream, and last year's documentary, RBG, which I had watched before I'd gone to bed. In it, badass Chief Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg quotes Sarah Grimke (1792 - 1893) the American abolitionist, writer, attorney, judge and suffragette:

I ask no favors for my sex. All I ask of our brethren is, that they will take their feet from off our necks.

Recounting the quote made me wonder if my primal scream was more than mere sleep deprivation exacerbated by personal frustration over my son, but rather somehow collective. I imagined other mothers, wives, sisters and daughters shouting various objections about their burdens, their neglect, their abuse, their oppression. Perhaps, as Mary Oliver says in her exquisite poem, Wild Geese, they are out there wildly announcing their "place in the family of things." I don't know the answer, but I feel it when I talk with my beloved soul sisters.

Tonight, I'll be celebrating Michael's return. Tomorrow, he'll be back to cooking us fabulous dinners. As soon as the snow melts we'll be back to grilling outdoors and Calvin will again get to traipse circles around the yard touching his favorite mugo pine, rhododendrons and Alberta spruce. When the ground thaws, I'll be back to digging in the garden. With twilight coming later and later, I'll be staying up a bit longer, but I'll try to catch up on sleep when I can. I'll likely continue having meltdowns every now and then, but my husband, dog and child will, as always, listen without judgment, offer me love, support and forgiveness, and perhaps even understand my need to let out personal and collective primal screams into the world.

St. Cloud, Paris by Michael Kolster

on forgiving

I was awakened six times by my restless child until the grand mal finally took hold. From three-thirty on I got no sleep at all, next to me my boy waking every several minutes pressing his eyes, his heart pounding. It seems the Palmetto Harmony CBD oil I gave him after the fit may have thwarted subsequent ones. If nothing else, at least the cannabis appears forgiving, its side effects mild if not often positive compared with other antiepileptic drugs known for their mind-numbing, body-clobbering impact.

Resting next to him, I mused on the word, forgive, and its derivatives. To ask for forgiveness requires courage and humility in admitting our transgressions. To be forgiving is to offer understanding, while allowing space for mistakes made, and perhaps recognizing and admitting our own. Forgiveness might just save us from ourselves and others, assuming it is asked sincerely and given with grace and mercy, rather than with spite and reproach.

Calvin is no doubt the most forgiving soul I know. I take lessons from him, try to emulate the stamina of his kindness, his eternal forgiveness in the face of my anger and frustration. Unconditionally, he forgives my every flaw with or without my asking. He is inspirational. My muse. My hero. He allows me to forgive even myself.

Photo by Michael Kolster

more forgiveness

On a recent rainy day I watched a film about forgiveness. Exiting the theater into blinding sunlight, I saw things anew. I saw how the clear skies forgave more than a days' worth of rain, how the wilting rhododendron flowers laced with rotting brown forgave the rain, too. Evergreen bows hung low forgiving the coat of droplets burdening them, then they forgave my sheers for cutting into their flesh hoping to spawn new growth.

A carpet of soft green forgave the heels of my boots, which sunk into its moistness. I forgave myself for lopping down the slightly sickly crabapple in exchange for a long view of the garden and the deep sigh of relief that spaciousness can offer.

The Cannabis Man came by and I forgave his long absence with a hug and a visit to the garden where the mosquitoes lunched on our flesh. But we forgave them because it was worth risking their bite to breathe the sweet vanilla scent of white azalea blossoms splotched with yellow, to see the delicate tips of iris and swelling peony bobbles.

Later, I forgave Calvin for pulling the hair at the nape of my neck, and he I, for the string of bitter words I pitched his way. I forgave him for his poor balance and for his intermittent lunacy, and he I, for my neglect.

I forgave the psychotic chipmunk chirping ad nauseam from one corner of the garden, and the crow for fouling the birdbath with the mushy white bread it gets from an unknown neighbor.

In hindsight, I forgave the bits of soggy movie popcorn because it was drizzled in real butter and tasted delicious. I forgave the drivers—all of them—the slow, the erratic, the ones who don't signal or allow me to merge. I forgave the man in line in front of me at the grocer who wrote a check in the EXPRESS lane.

And the earth forgave the darkened skies, its tender green spears thrust upwards like the necks of chicks to their mother. I forgave the bottle of bourbon holding barely a drop in its base. I forgave myself the cheese quesadilla for its burnt underside and the avocado for its brown spots.

I learned recently that Calvin's exome sequence came back absent of any genetic mutation that might explain his condition, which leads a mother like me to wonder what happened—what I might have done—to contribute to his demise. It could have been one of any number of things—those sips of wine or morsels of goat cheese, those swim workouts, the chlorine, the wall paint, the respirator. I can't know, and Michael insists it was nothing I did. But I must find a way to forgive myself, even if there is nothing to forgive.

forgiveness

With a Chapstick in my hand I scrawled the words YOU SUCK on the upstairs bathroom mirror, then stepped back to admire my work. In its reflection I flossed and brushed, chuckling about my response to what had just happened.

It’d been a silly incident, a prank that had been played on me one-too-many times and which had lost any humor it might’ve once held partly because I was too goddamn tired to endure it. In front of our friend Charlie, who is no stranger to our marital banter, I rebuked my husband, asked him to please keep the music down, once and for all, then excused myself and went up to sleep in the room right above the stereo.

Lying in bed I could still hear their voices, though thankfully not the music, which had, as I had hoped, been kept at a reasonable level for my benefit. Chronically sleep-deprived from year upon year of multiple nightly wakings to check on Calvin who is rustling or crying or uncovered or having a seizure, I had no problem falling right to sleep.

A couple of hours later Michael crawled into bed and scooted up next to me. “You suck, too,” he told me in a low voice not quite a whisper. “I know,” I replied, and I heard his breathing slow then deepen, felt his warm legs next to mine, heard the hum of the baby monitor by my head then drifted—again—off to sleep, with the satisfying knowledge that, as quick, relatively painless and easy as usual, all had been forgiven.

down on paper

I soothe my conscience now with the thought that it is better for hard words to be on paper than that Mummy should carry them in her heart.

 —Anne Frank

These words come to me when I write about feeling down, hopeless, lonely, frustrated and grief-stricken. And though I sometimes wonder if what I write in this blog is too hard for people to bear or to understand, I realize that writing it down and sharing it is something that I must do for myself and perhaps, too, for others.

I often wonder if the blood and marrow cancer that began consuming my father when he was just sixty-five, then took his life five years later after a hard fought battle, might have had something to do with having held stuff inside for so many years—his fears, his regrets, his failures, his frustrations, his emotions. At times I have little doubt, as if the mix of those feelings and thoughts festered and boiled inside the body that contained them and eventually became his demise.

So when I find myself, like this morning, caving under the weight of a wordless, irritable child who is headachy or nauseous or frustrated, who has terrible balance and thus requires me to catch him at a moment's notice when he trips and careens and collapses while waiting impatiently for a bus that is late, then I snap at his aide and condescend to the driver and slam the door and break down into tears and gripe at my husband and scold Rudy the dog and scowl at passing drivers and hiss at gnats and stomp around an empty house then, in silence, I realize that I am getting some nasty stuff out. And so I take a deep breath and get it down on "paper" so that I might not get cancer, so I can clearly see my tasks, which are sometimes heavy, so I can forgive myself, so I can apologize to the aide and the bus driver, so I can greet my husband with kindness and my son with patience and the world, perhaps, with a smile.

enough

There aren’t enough beautiful days, enough songbirds, enough sunlight, enough raging rivers with their froth and toss nor indigo seas to carry it all away.

There is not enough rain to drown these sorrows, melt the dread, distinguish the embers that burn hot and spike inside then spill out in icy stares and words.

There aren’t enough stars to wish away eons of bitterness and loss and despair, while moonlight brightens shadows scantly enough to see a path as lonely as the pines.

It’s impossible to eke out enough sleep, drink enough coffee or bourbon to sufficiently deliver a cool place of meditative calm where skies are so vast and white I go sublimely blind.

There aren’t enough pillows to beat or walls to kick or doors to slam or words to curse what seems at times infinite frustration, sorrow and regret.

There aren’t enough hours to pass—to sufficiently forget—from one niggling day until the next, and not enough words exist to keep asking for forgiveness.

There aren’t enough flowers to pluck and quench only to see them wither and drop petal by silken petal into an exquisite death as beautiful as their dawning.

There aren’t enough moments of peace and calm and hope where bright droplets cling like opals or tears or mercury—or the child I never had—to quivering limbs, but which gravity lures into dark reflecting pools.

There aren’t enough winds to whisk away the worries, to peel back bark as coarse as these thoughts, to strip aside layer upon layer of this callused soul until I am lying naked in a silent bed of moss, which is where I’d like to sometimes be.

But there are enough tears, enough smiles, enough grasps, enough pain from enough love, because it hurts, you know, it hurts.

friday faves - good husband

Michael cooks, he cleans, he shops for groceries. He brings home the bacon and pays the bills. He finds the music and plays it. He pours me wine. He's an amazing dad to an impossible kid (though impossibly adorable.) He gives me loving smiles. He says “I’m sorry.” He does the laundry. He changes the oil. He looks good in an apron. He makes me very, very happy.

He plays vinyl records—loud. He takes me to dinner. He's my best friend. He has a great sense of humor. He gives me compliments. He's very forgiving. He laughs at my jokes and gets me to laugh when the world looks black to me. He takes incredible photographs. He's compassionate and generous to those less fortunate. He's a progressive thinker. He views the world in ever changing ways.

He works harder than anyone I know. He gives Calvin tons of hugs and tickles and kisses. Although he has an amazing vocabulary he likes to drop the F-bomb about as much as I do. He teaches me plenty and willingly learns from me. He recognizes his limitations, which in my estimation are few. He loves his parents. He loses at cribbage. He rides a vintage motorcycle in a cool brown distressed leather jacket. He fixes anything and everything. He is humble, yet confident.

He digs Frank Zappa. He's one of his students’ very favorite professors. He makes strong coffee. Kids and animals love him. He paints things. He reads interesting books. He has super friends. He enjoys simple pleasures. He wrote the music and lyrics for a song on his guitar and he plays it over and over. He loves me unconditionally. 

I couldn't imagine raising Calvin with anyone else but Michael.

Version originally published 4.27.11. 

photo by Tim Diehl

good husband

Michael cooks, he cleans, he shops for groceries. He brings home the bacon and pays the bills. He finds the music and plays it. He pours me wine. He's an amazing dad to an impossible kid (though impossibly adorable.) He gives me loving smiles. He says “I’m sorry.” He does the laundry. He changes the oil. He looks good in an apron. He makes me very, very happy.

He plays vinyl records—loud. He takes me to dinner. He's my best friend. He has a great sense of humor. He gives me compliments. He's very forgiving. He laughs at my jokes and gets me to laugh when the world looks black to me. He takes incredible photographs. He's compassionate and generous to those less fortunate. He's a progressive thinker. He views the world in ever changing ways.

He works harder than anyone I know. He gives Calvin tons of hugs and tickles and kisses. Although he has an amazing vocabulary he likes to drop the F-bomb about as much as I do. He teaches me plenty and willingly learns from me. He recognizes his limitations, which in my estimation are few. He loves his parents. He loses at cribbage. He rides a vintage motorcycle in a cool brown distressed leather jacket. He fixes anything and everything. He is humble, yet confident.

He digs Frank Zappa. He's one of his students’ very favorite professors. He makes strong coffee. Kids and animals love him. He paints things. He reads interesting books. He has super friends. He enjoys simple pleasures. He wrote the music and lyrics for a song on his guitar and he plays it over and over. He loves me unconditionally.

I couldn't imagine raising Calvin with anyone else but Michael.

Version originally published 4.27.11.

photo by Tim Diehl

ain't no saint

My husband Michael is no saint. Thank goodness, because neither am I. Somehow I wonder if saints are really all that much fun. I’m pretty sure I’ve never met one, I guess because I just don’t run in saints’ circles. 

Unlike my images of a saintly day—perhaps sitting erect on a carved wooden pew or perched on the edge of a cloud or a stone cherub fountain, contemplating—Michael and I mostly putter around the house in our grubbies happily tending to chores, minding Calvin, cooking meals, watching movies, warming ourselves by the fire, or glued to our laptops. We do all this as if performing some sort of silly dance, spinning and looping around each other, sometimes in a kind of do-si-so, and occasionally stepping on Rudy the dog since he is always under foot. Our relationship is copacetic and loving, even in the most stressful or irritating circumstances—that is—except when we get the grumpies.

We both get the grumpies. I've mentioned them before. I get them in the mornings because of my perpetual state of sleep deprivation and my want for coffee, like an addict who needs her fix. Michael gets them at the end of the day when his blood sugar drops below acceptable levels, especially if he misses his daily bagel and whatever else he eats for lunch—or doesn’t. We seem to manage most of the time, however, to bite our tongues or steer clear of the other when the grumpies rear their ugly heads—though that's not guaranteed.

Perchance, in the grip of the grumpies, we should stumble and let out a cantankerous shriek or stream thereof—or more likely an ill-tempered F-bomb—it usually only takes about five minutes with our nose in a circle on the chalkboard for one or both of us to apologize, or grovel. Yes, forgiveness is one of Michael’s greatest virtues, and he’s not bad at apologizing, either. I suppose I can say the same for myself. It's comforting to know that when we need to let off steam—and inevitably one or more of George Carlin's seven words you can't say on television—we don't judge each other. It's just how we survive this crazy circus we call life.

So, we ain't no saints, we're just a couple of loving, cussing, do-si-doing fools.

Halloween 2010 photo by Michael Kolster