Marveling at the Young Woman She Has Become

Couches and fireplace.  That is our criteria on this cold, unusually drizzly winter Saturday afternoon in Johannesburg as we decide which coffee shop to cozy up in for our delicious women time.    I am with my beloved heart friends, Zed and Tanya, and my 9 year-old daughter, Quince, in tow.     

Lucky Bean in Melville wins.  We order lattes and cappuccinos, extra hot.  Zed huddles by the fire, Quince and Tanya on the couch, me in the comfy chair.  We relax into ourselves and into each other’s company.  I start us off and ask for some input into the new title for my blog (I really am a one-trick pony these days.)  Tanya and Zed listen, ask questions.  Quince is occupied, writing in her book, working on her own blog.

Suddenly – I didn’t even know she was listening - she pops her head up and offers her idea for what my blog should be called.     We three grown-up women listen fully, letting her know by our attention that she is someone worth listening to, her ideas matter, consciously nurturing her 9 year-old girl confidence.  This is not new.   I have watched my friends before give my young girl this gift of adult respectful attention and I am grateful to them for that.

However, this time there is something new.  For me, anyway.  Quince is 9.  Her ideas don’t always make that much sense or aren’t necessarily all that well formulated.   But this time her idea is interesting, thoughtful and she explains it well.  So as she is talking and we are listening, I am moved.  Moved enough for my eyes to well up with tears.  I am moved because I get a little glimpse of a future with an older Quince.  A Quince who is no longer a girl, no longer just a daughter-in-tow, but a young woman, holding her own in these conversations. 

I watched this happen with my niece, now 25.  A slow, gradual, almost magical shift.   A shift from the days when we waited till she left the room to discuss the hard things, to today where she is invited in, her opinions sought, valued. 

I love my time with my girl now. But I am also really looking forward to this magical shift, to being with her amongst other women, listening to her, marveling at the young woman she has become.  

Growing Up With My Thirteen Year-Old Son

The conversation starts out innocuously enough.  Playful banter actually.  I am complaining, which I hardly ever do, about the puppies to Quince and Alexander.  I joke, “Don’t think when you grow up and leave this house, the dogs are staying with me.  Each of you will take one with you. And then we’ll work out a joint custody arrangement where you switch every week.”  Alexander jumps in, “Oh shame, they’ll have to go back and forth from a huge house to a shack.”  We joke about who will be living in the shack and who owns the huge house. 

Then Morals Mommy  can’t help herself, can’t stay with the lightness, can’t resist the opportunity to do a little values teaching.  “Now, guys, you know it isn’t money that really makes you happy.  It will be feeling like you are contributing to making the world better.”   And barely into teenhood Alexander can’t resist the pushback.  “Why do I have to help the world?  I just wanna make myself happy.  What has the world ever done for me?”   WHAT?!!  Are you kidding me??!!   Blam, he’s hooked me, like a fish on his line.    My blood pressure rockets.

 Fortunately, before I can retort with indignation at his ignorance and entitlement, Quince oblivious to the shift in mood, says, “I am going to be an artist.”  Alexander, smelling that he has drawn blood, smirks and says disdainfully, “And how does that contribute to making the world a better place?”  My cue.   I launch in. Only I don’t remember what I said, because I had barely begun my impassioned tirade about the all important role of art in a healthy civilization, when Alexander stops me in my tracks.  Looking straight at me he goes for the kill, “Mommy, when I look at art. . . it makes me want to vomit.”

I am absolutely speechless with fury. So I employ the most grown-up of strategies when you disagree with someone.  I turn and walk out of the room.  

Although in general I don’t want to teach my children to walk out when things get heated – in fact, I’m very invested in learning with them how to stay in the fire – in this case, it probably was the best thing.   Upstairs, as my blood pressure lowers and  I replay the conversation, I begin to understand it as the work of a 13 year-old boy needing to separate from his mommy, a boy on the path to develop his own identity.  Apparently, this process necessitates spitting big teenage lougies on all I hold near and dear. 

Eish.   I am not, AT ALL, a praying person.  But some things require unusual measures.  Universe, going forward, please give me the strength to not bite when my bright boy casts out that line, barbed hook on the end, begging me to chomp.   Let it drop down harmlessly while I maintain the smiling, peaceful air of the Buddha.  

Please Don't Tell My Kids

There is something oddly and wonderfully comforting for me about the final steps in my children's bedtime routine.   After the tooth brushing is done (that part I hate), and they are in bed, cozy in their pajamas and under 45 blankets, I close window shutters, shut closet doors (yes, every single night their closet doors are wide open), close the door to the bathroom (for Alexander - I don't know why but he doesn't like it when it is open to his room at night), switch off the lights, pull blankets up to chins, and give snugly hugs and warm kisses.   There is a feeling about it of putting the whole room to bed, putting things in order, battening the hatches, making it all safe.

However, the other night, as I was going down the stairs after final kisses, I had this revelation.    Let me warn you, this is going to sound incredibly ridiculous coming from a woman of almost 50 who has been a parent for 13 years. I thought, holy shit, somehow I am the grown-up in this scenario.  Tucked in, room in order, even as my footsteps fade away, my children feel safe. I have made them feel safe.  Just like when I was a child and believed unreservedly that my mother and father had the power to keep me safe.  

The big difference is that my parents really could because they, unlike me, actually were grown-ups.  Full fledged, responsible, in charge, powerful big people. People who tucked me in, walked down the stairs, and used their big people powers to keep the world safe for me while I slept.  Moreover, they drank cocktails, and used credit cards, and wore sunglasses, and had dinner parties.

Sure, sure, I wear sunglasses and use a credit card, and I love cocktails, but there is a part of me that still feels as if I am playing at this grown-up thing, like a little girl wearing her mother's high heels.   I keep waiting for some rite of passage where the secrets to being a grown-up are passed down.  I turn 50 in October - maybe it comes then.  Certainly 50 year-old people are grown-ups, right?  Until then, please don't tell my kids their mother has been faking it all these years.

How My Blog Made Me Rich and Famous - 6/7 June

6 June 2012

I’m skyping with one of my best friends, Kate, and we’re talking about my blog.   The blog that is going to get me rich and famous.  Kate, who has been a writer her entire career – master’s thesis, doctoral dissertation, radio documentaries and accompanying books and web pages – says, “Have you thought about taking a writing class?”   I wince as a pinprick hole opens in that thin membraned little reservoir that houses self-confidence (I believe it is located near the gallbladder).   Even as my nose stings, and my eyes ever so slightly tear up, I know I am over-reacting, so I say nothing.  Secretly and furiously I try to use grown-up rationality self-talk to repair the hole.  Like that ever works. 

So we continue along.  Then, very reasonably, not knowing I am fragile because I stupidly don’t tell her so,  she says, “Caroline, you need to find someone to edit your writing.”  Okay, yes, that makes sense.  Of course.   And then she adds, “Even real writers use editors.”  At this point, a full-on tear opens up in this delicate little self-confidence balloon.  The force of the release whooshes it completely out of my body.  I watch it go zigzag skittering across the floor and come to a stop in the corner, small, deflated, emptied.  

As I get ready for bed that evening, I am feeling really, really discouraged, and vow to do nothing but work on my CV the next day, leave this silly writing behind, buckle down and find real work.  However, as real as those feelings are, I notice that I also already am composing a blog in my head, trying to capture the essence of how I experienced the conversation.  I can’t seem to help it.

7 June 2012

Today I am trying to figure out why my reaction was so out of proportion to Kate’s very good and reasonable suggestions.  Did I really think that I came to writing so naturally that I was beyond a writing course?   Did I really think that I was a good enough writer that my work doesn’t need editing?   I’m ducking my head in shame and averting my eyes now because I’m going to admit something very embarrassing.  Please don’t look at me when I tell you this.  Yes, maybe, a little. 

So, the best I can come up with now is that it is all part of the growing process.  Up until this point, I have drunk in all the encouraging and supportive comments which have come my way and nurtured my belief in myself.   I am grateful for those because as a writer still in the baby stage anything else might well have snuffed out my nascent efforts. 

But now that I am putting out there that I really want to do this, not just as a fun little past-time, but as something I am going to pursue more seriously I think I’ve entered a whole other ballgame.   I think the ballgame is the one where I have to say, “Please tell me how my writing sucks.  And I’d be most grateful for any suggestions of how I can make it unsucky.”  

I also truly believe that in my journey there will be turning point moments, or leap forward moments, when someone says something that stings, that is hard to take in, but that is exactly what I need to hear.   I am 100% sure that this conversation with Kate is one of those moments.  Thanking you in advance, Kate, for the fruit that conversation will bear.

Good Guys Versus The Dream Team

Alexander designed the day. A family competition day – he and Quince versus Bill and me.   On his schedule:  badminton, ping pong, netball, Wii tennis.  With a very, very complicated scoring system.  So many points if you win;  even more if you win by 5; you even can get points if you lose by no more than 3, and so on.

First up, badminton. Games to eleven. Best out of three. Badminton is one of my all-time favorite sports – if I may call it a sport.  I played hours of badminton during the summer as a kid.  All out, competitive, no holds barred badminton. Whoo Hoo --  Bring it on!

Bill and I name ourselves “The Good Guys.”  After much back and forth, Quince and Alexander settle on “The Dream Team.” The Good Guys take game 1.  Cracks start to show in the Dream Team.  Quince whines, Alexander criticizes.  Finally, Quince, scowling, free arm behind her back, stands at the net with racket in the air, but makes no effort to hit the birdie anymore as it sails toward her.   Alexander has had it with her.

We stop play.  Major negotiations ensue.   At first we leave it to Alexander and Quince to see if they can sort it out.   Can they play together or do they want to rearrange the teams?  Now is a good time to tell you that there had been a major shift in their relationship over the 4-week school holiday.  For reasons which are mysterious to me, they crossed a bridge and began to like each other, began to enjoy playing together, and most significantly, saw themselves as aligned.   Against us, their parents.  Now I realize that might sound horrible and wrong, but in fact, for a whole set of complicated reasons I won’t go into here, that is a positive.

It was important to tell you this, because you might think the easy out was just to change the teams around.  But they didn’t want that. They wanted to stay a team.  That wanted to play against us.   Unfortunately, that desire wasn't enough to propel them through the tough work of conflict resolution.  So much easier, and dare I say, more familiar and comfortable, to blame and accuse than to listen and understand.  So, bringing all my conflict management skills into play, I intervened.   You know how it goes.  “So, Alexander, what is Quince saying she needs?  Do you think you could try that?”  “Quince, it sounds like Alexander would like it if you. .“

And we were back on the court.  Quince making a big effort, Alexander praising her.   Game 2 to the Dream Team.    Game 3, all on the line, Bill and I surge ahead.  The score is 9-5.   Now my kids are old enough to handle losing, and I really like winning, especially at badminton, but it suddenly occurs to me that their tender little bud of sibling friendship will not be well served by a loss.   I catch Bill’s eye as he begins to serve and give him a microscopic shake of my head.  After 13 years of co-parenting, he sees it and gets it.  He makes it look good as he flubs the serve.   As do I when it comes back to me.  Final score:   13-11 Dream Team.   

The kids are ecstatic. They high five, they hug, the smiles broad on their faces.  Alexander, well trained, ducks under the net to tell us, the losers, good game.  He comes up to me, hugs me tight around the neck, and whispers in my ear, so only I can hear, “Thank you so much, Mommy.”  I hug him back, astounded.  Okay, maybe also a wee bit dismayed that he saw through what I thought was our so very professional throwing of the game -- I fleetingly wonder if those days of using that valuable parenting tactic of benevolent deception are behind us.  But mostly I am oh so proud of my boy because he got it. Got why we threw the match their way.  Appreciated it.  Knew not to reveal it to his 9 year-old sister.   Wow.

 I don't know how this very mysterious process of emotional maturation happens, but I am so very glad to have the pleasure of watching it happen.   

How My Blog Made Me Rich and Famous - A Secret

Week of 11 June, 2012

This week I have been feeling lonely.   Really, really lonely.  That heart aching, tears just held back, tears streaming, wracking sobs in the shower lonely.*   So I decided to tell you a secret related to this.  A secret about one big reason why I began writing – which I have really only just teased out by writing this piece.   

Fact 1:  This is not a secret.   I am an extrovert – in the Myers Briggs sense of the word. I like being around people.  I like talking to people.   I get energy from being around people.  

Fact 2:   I spend a lot – I mean A LOT- of time on my own.   I don’t have an office to go into, nor at the moment even any colleagues.  I am friendly with many people here, but my circle of go-to friends is still very small.  This means I spend large swaths of time on my own. *

Fact 3:   Get ready for the secret.  In the absence of other people, I do a lot – and again, I mean A LOT - of talking to myself (not out loud, mind you, at least not yet).   Talking about what I am seeing, what I am feeling, thinking, planning.  And although I find myself endlessly fascinating (smile), it’s ultimately not very fulfilling for an extrovert like me.

So I write.  You might have noticed, I almost always write as if I’m talking to someone (always you).  It's like having half a conversation.  When I post a piece, I feel an enormous sense of release, like a big exhalation.  That sense of release lasts for about half an hour until the anticipation begins.  I hold my breath, waiting for responses, waiting for the second half of the conversation.   With each response, I exhale a bit and feel a happy little surge of pleasure.  It is the nothing-like-it pleasure of being connected.  My extrovert self likes that, needs that.  My human self likes that, needs that.

In an odd turn-about, being on my own made me start writing as a way to connect.  Now that I am writing, I am craving more and more time on my own so I can write more. Weird how life works.

*  Please, please, please do not interpret this as a plea for play date and coffee invites.  Most of the time, I estimate about 68% - and that percentage is going up, I am quite content to be on my own.  The other 32% of the time, when I am lonely, craving connection, it is okay.  Really.  I tell Quince all the time it is okay to be sad.  Humans are meant to have the full range.    After all, how boring would life be if you only experienced happy?

Where Everyone Knows Your Name

I'm at my favorite coffee shop in Jozi - my favorite one to work in - and it is reminding me of the discussions my friend Kate and I used to have about what makes a really great coffee shop.  As I recall, good music was top, top, top of Kate's list.   At the time, top of my list was that they made a good decaf latte - notoriously hard to come by.  But a very close second was that the staff was friendly and double points if they knew my name.

This second criteria was put in solely because of Diesel Cafe - a small, women-owned coffee shop, a mere 3 minute walk from where I worked.  Now I really wanted to support a woman-owned small business, so I went there every single morning before work and ordered the same damn thing.  Every day.   Skinny, decaf latte to go.   Every. Single. Damn.  Day.   And every single damn day, they acted as if they'd never seen me before.  No smile, no "nice to see you again," no "the usual, Caroline?"   And let me tell you, their decaf was not that great.   (and their music SUCKED - mostly heavy metal.  Okay, probably not heavy metal, but whatever it was, it was too heavy for me. Is there a kind of music called Diesel?)

So I stopped going.  I switched to Starbucks. Not a small business.  Not woman owned. But their decaf is good. And more importantly, after about 3 mornings, the manager greeted me by name.   She knew what I wanted.  After about 5 mornings, her counter staff knew my name.   Before I even ordered, the barista would catch my eye and ask if I was having the usual.   The music was inconsistent, the ambiance was mediocre, but that "Good morning, Caroline," made up for everything.  Chain coffee shop creating a neighborhood feel.  Got my business.  Every single damn day.

So, now as I sit here at Motherland Cafe in Johannesburg, South Africa, I realize my criteria have shifted a little.   Here's what I like about Motherland.

1)  Diverse clientele - not only in terms of race (and that one is big for me), but you get funky students, hip young professionals, staid old professionals, middle-aged newly in love folks who are using all their will power to keep their hands off each other (maybe not every day, but that is who landed at the table right in front of me today), and really talented, gorgeous writers (maybe not every day, but that is who landed at my table today.)

2) Their coffee is fair trade.

2)  They always play African music.

3)  The wifi is free - not all that common here in SA.

4)  Only half marks for ambiance.  Nice brick wall, great lighting, comfy bench.   But it can be cold.  They need to more severely punish customers who don't close the door after they come in - it is WINTER people!

And today, Motherland soared head and shoulders above every other coffee shop. As I ordered my coffee, the counter guy said, "Hey where have you been.  I haven't see you in a while."

What's top on your list?