y'all come on go with us

You know that moment, when you're packing up your last things, standing in your empty not-your-house-anymore, and your friends come over to bid you goodbye? And you busily put the last things on the truck, chatting and trying not to say what you're all thinking, that although we say "Write us when you get there" and "Come see us sometime", what we're not saying is, "I'm aching inside because I know I'll never see you again?

I hate that moment.

Luckily for you and me, this is not that moment! I am moving. But only from this blog to a bigger, better one. And you can all come with me. Please come with me.

I'll write you when I get there.

http://motherbird.squarespace.com/

foresight

I approach parenting in a funny way, I think. Or, to be more exact, it approaches me, hits me over the head, and drags me away to make me cook it dinner. Part of the problem, I assume, is my idea of the way other mothers do things. I imagine that other mothers, as they get their daughters ready for their first ballet recitals, think about what they're doing. They think, "Oh, this is such a momentous occasion" as they spray tons of hairspray on her bun, they feel a twinge of sadness as they put makeup on her baby face for the first time, and they remember all the recitals they danced in as little girls. And these feelings come, a little at a time, over the several days and several events that precede a ballet recital.

But as I said, I approach it in a funny way. Did I consider "my baby" as I dressed her? Did I remember myself as I wrote her name on the waistband of her tutu? Nah. I was too busy running to Target at the last minute to get a card of bobby pins and the cheapest red lipstick I could find. Did I glance wistfully in the rearview mirror at my princess as I drove her to her first performance? No, I was lost and trying not to kill all of us on unfamiliar roads or turn up terribly late.

And, to be quite honest, I just wasn't paying attention. So that when I fell, breathless, into my seat in the theater, I hadn't thought a thing about what was going to happen. Everybody was on time and dressed (even if we did have to turn her tights around backward so nobody would see the milkshake stains on them) and my duty was done.

The lights went down, the curtains opened, and the music started. And all of it, all those little things that I should have felt and thought over the last few days, or over the months since I knew a recital was coming, hit me right between the eyes. I remembered, suddenly, the smell of ballet-shoe leather, the glitter of new costumes, the heart-in-the-throat feeling just before going onstage. I remembered the fear, the exhilaration, the waver and then the determination of standing in the blinding lights before hundreds of upturned faces. I thought about my baby, waiting in the wings, feeling all this, wearing her first makeup, her heart fluttering in her sequin-clad chest. And I thought, as I saw the little girls in their rainbow of tutus, arms held high, dancing like so many gossamer butterflies, about the difficult world that we will someday send these beautiful creatures into.

I did the only thing I could do. I burst into tears.

Thomas, sitting beside me, was distressed at my seemingly incongruent reaction to the performance. Try to explain these things to an eight-year-old boy. So I stuffed it all back in, rummaged through my purse to find something to wipe my eyes and nose on, found nothing but a diaper, and tried to connect my face to the diaper in a way that would fool the people next to me into thinking it was a handkerchief. Then I spent the next three hours battling the rising headache that I get when I ought to cry but don't.


That would be my daughter there in the front. Apparently tap is a serious business.

Then the whole thing was over, and I went to collect my little dancer. I heard her demand, through my now-splitting headache, where the other little girls got their flowers. She is, after all, still Katie. A bouquet of roses, some drugs, and a rotisserie chicken later, we were all happily on our way home.

This time I did glance in the mirror. The roses were dangling off her lap, her head lolled on her shoulder. And I smiled, mostly because the drugs had kicked in, but also because I was paying attention now.

must be a guy thing...

I came home the other day to find that Dad had put the little boys to sleep-


There they were, just bouncing around the pasture, dead asleep like that. Looks to me like a perfectly comfortable place to take a snooze. You?

peachtree street

I think I know how they choose the names for streets in cities. I figure the street-naming council gets together and writes down all the names that they think would sound nice and puts them on a list. Then they get a map, and a list, and blindfold the new guy, and go at it, just naming up all the streets. Which works fine, most of the time, unless, as seems to have happened in Atlanta, there was only one name on the list.

Today is the day before the tenth anniversary of my wedding. Which means today is the tenth anniversary of the Day Before the Wedding. Since that anniversary is so much more fun to remember, (than all the love and flowers and birdseed and blue drool of the actual wedding day) I will graciously relate that story here.

Jess and I were at my parents’ house, which is in a rural area two hours from Atlanta. We were going to be married in Atlanta. Simple enough? Since we didn’t want to drive the four hours over and over, we figured we’d hop on down to the Atl courthouse the day before the wedding and pick us up a wedding license, and be good to go. Oh, and since the blood tests that the local health department took weren’t going to be ready in time for the wedding, we’d also need to get a doc in the Atlanta area to do those.

Oh. And. By the way I had a cousin at the airport who would need to be picked up, by us, somewhere in the middle of all that. Still, not too hard: blood tests, marriage license, cousin, and then we’d meet our families at the Embassy Suites and cool our heels for the evening before tying the knot in the morning.

Due to a massive argument about whether we were actually going to GET married, en route to Atlanta, involving the stopping of the car and refusal to go onward until a resolution was reached, we were late reaching the doctor’s office. Late enough that he’d gone home to lunch. The receptionist said we could wait two hours and he’d be right back. Or we could go out to the Gwinnett County Health Center and get our blood tests done right away. Fine, we said, let’s do that. How do we get there?

Half an hour later we came screeching in to the Health Center parking lot and piled out. Now, pause a second here to consider. A couple of dewy-eyed, completely naïve kids from BYU walk into the Gwinnett County Health Center to be tested for a whole raft of nasty STDs before they can be married. Sounds like the beginning of a joke. Just saying.

So now, cotton balls taped to the inside of our elbows, running almost two hours late, we stand before the woman who gives you the all-clear and takes your money. She looked at our papers, shot one sidelong glance at me, another at him, and said, “You from North Carolina?” I nodded. “…and you from California?” Jess nodded. She knit her forehead. “And you getting married in Gawgia?” We both nodded.

“It’s the place to be,” Jess said, shrugging.

She was satisfied. “Well…” she said, in that tone that says, you’d better believe it is.

“How do we get to the Fulton County Courthouse?” Jess asked next. It was on this question that our quickly deteriorating day hung. And on its answer.

In my memory, I can see the woman, almost in slow motion, raise a finger and point west. “On Peach….tree….Street…..” she says, and in slow motion we nod, and turn toward the door.

Those of you know Atlanta are chuckling and shaking your heads. Did she actually say “Peachtree Street”? Or was it “Peachtree Industrial”? “Or “Peachtree Northwest?” All we heard was “Peachtree”, because we were both from places where each street got its own name.

The hours between the time we left the Health Center and five o’clock, when the courthouse was due to close for the weekend, are a horrible, streaky, tear-filled blur in my mind. We stopped at a gas station to get a map as soon as we realized we didn’t know our way around Atlanta. I sat in the passenger seat of my father’s car, trying to read the map as we lurched around corners and up narrow alleys, shouting instructions to my beloved who was disobeying them in an increasingly frantic fashion, and realizing with every lurch and U-turn that we hadn’t had lunch. And it was almost dinnertime.

Now, I don’t get hungry. Instead I get morose, sullen, spiteful, catty. If I were a murdering type, that’s when I’d do it, when there’s been no lunch and it’s almost dinnertime. It was 4:30. The trip that should have taken us half an hour had taken us nearly three.

This next turn should take us straight there, I said. THIS is Peachtree Street. It’s a one way street, he said. Which way? The wrong way. Down this street for ten minutes in the wrong direction. Why didn’t you follow my instructions? Why can’t you read a map? I can read it, why can’t you follow instructions? Because it’s a one way road, the map doesn’t say it’s a one way road….Besides, this isn’t Peachtree Street, it’s Peachtree Boulevard…and all the while he was beginning to shrink away from me toward the car door as he realized that in less than 24 hours, this was how it was going to be for the two of us…forever.

Infuriatingly enough, the last 15 minutes before 5 o’clock were spent actually in view of the courthouse, but going around and around on one way Peachtree Streets trying just to find a place to park and abandon the car and get in there before they locked us out and left us to explain to all our guests that due to our combined ineptitude the wedding would not be happening that day.

At long last we found ourselves (miraculously) on the street in front of the courthouse staring at one empty parking space. With a parking meter. I frantically scrabbled in the ashtrays of the car to find every dusty quarter I could salvage while he threw the car into park and sprinted for the door of the courthouse. I was standing at the parking meter, shoving quarters in as fast as I could go, when I looked up to see an old man chuckling at me. He was so completely like every caricature of a bum that I’d ever seen in my small-town life that I almost gaped to see him in reality-he had the baggy pants, gray stubbly beard, red eyes, and brown paper bag clutched in his hand. And he was laughing at me.

“Honey,” he said, “It’s the weekend! You don’t have to feed that thing on the weekend!” I stared at him in disbelief for exactly one-eighth of a second before tearing up the courthouse steps after Jess.

Inside the courthouse, everything was quiet air-conditioning and cool marble. I eschewed the elevator as being unbearably slow and took the stairs, two at a time. At the counter where marriage licenses are obtained, a large woman sat and regarded me imperturbably. Jess was nowhere to be seen.

“I…” I gasped to her, “I’m here to get a marriage license,” here I glanced uncertainly around, “but I don’t know where my fiancé is…”

She turned slowly to the man in the window next to hers. “You see a boy in here to get a marriage license?” she asked him. “Mmmhmmm? White boy?”

The white boy came around the corner just then, having gone down the elevator looking for me, and together we begged the woman to allow us to get married. She (and fortune) smiled on us, and we made what I believe must have been a speed record in marriage-license filling out.

We turned it in, the woman gave us the license, and we stood, grinning at each other and panting, in the foyer of the courthouse. Thank goodness, was all I could think. But the relief drained from my face when Jess said, “What about your cousin?”

Good grief. We were hours late picking up my cousin from the airport, it was rush hour in Atlanta, and we had no clue how to get to the airport. I considered, for a brief moment, walking away among the people on the sidewalk and disappearing forever from everyone I knew. Instead we threw ourselves on the mercy of the people working at the courthouse and told them about the uselessness of our map.

They pointed us toward the airport, and we were off again. By now I didn’t care about the wedding, or the cousin, or Jess, or anything but getting myself some food before I died. We pulled up at the curb at the airport and I leaped out, headed straight for the food court. The fastest thing I could get was an orange juice and a Danish, and I tore them both open and went striding into the terminal where my cousin was calling her mother in tears, chowing down like I was having a party and why wasn’t she having fun?

Somehow we made it back to the Embassy Suites where our families were waiting. Somehow I made it through dinner with all of them and managed to smile. Somehow, incredibly, the next day we still married each other. And now, ten years after the fact we look back, if not exactly with laughter, at least with a chuckle for a good story.

I believe, deep in my soul, that there's a special corner of hell for those who botch up this marriage thing really badly. A place where there is no lunch, no hope of dinner, a map drawn by a madman, and you're locked forever in a car with the person you're supposed to cherish as both of you come completely, repulsively unraveled. And every street is called "Peachtree."

“I swear I will NEVER live in Atlanta,” Jess growled under his breath as the airplane took off when it was all over. And we don’t. Not quite. I guess we haven't done anything bad enough yet.