I for the life of me do not get how my mind works. Am I suppose to?
I know I have to have a trigger. By trigger I mean something that prompts a thought or an idea... and then the story in my mind.
With all my mental gymnastics lately (my personal turmoil), my mother was prompted to send me her documented mental gymnastics from years ago. The parallels - on so many levels - were daunting.
From this trigger moment a lighter connection theme struck me. This, as I looked into my 7 year old daughters twinkling eyes.
Every day I make sure I ask each of my children "What was good about your day, and what was bad? Did you learn anything new to teach me?" They have learned to ask me the same.
Here we sat, my daughter and I, pondering our day. We talked about what was good... and what was not so good. About the nice people... and the not so nice.
She stroked the skin on my hands, tracing the protruding veins. Our conversation shifted. ‘How come I can see all your veins and see none on me?’ She turned her hands over and over looking for some sign of blue vessels. Neither age nor gravity has taken its toll. Her skin is still the porcelain we all strive - through creams, pills, even knives - to get back to. She is also blessed with Daddy’s skin. Olive, perfectly tan year round. Not me. I am WHITE.... actually not totally. Mostly I am freckled. Everywhere! ‘Mommy?!’ She was now holding my face and looking me square in the eyes. ‘I really like ALL of your freckles.’
This is a good thing... especially since there are a lot and I can’t do anything about them.
As a child I hated my freckles. I remember crying when a stranger held my face to inspect, much like my daughter was doing right now. He thought I had a cut on my nose. "Honey, you tell your mother to put a band-aid on that thing! Look at you... you cute little Irish girl..." He was concerned that I was not being properly cared for... albeit a bit gruff in approach, but concerned. I ran home and told my Mom. "Mom, this man called me Irish?!! ...and said I needed a band-aid on my nose?!" I didn’t know what ‘Irish’ meant. All I knew is I was just called a name. My mom just laughed. "Your not Irish, your German. And you don’t need a band-aid on a freckle, he just didn’t realize what it was." I can look back now and laugh. Today I embrace my freckles. But then was a different story.
It wasn’t till I went to a Care Facility to sing Christmas Carols with my youth group, that I made peace with my freckles. There was a young girl living amongst the elderly. She was sorely out of place. Her age screamed that she did not belong, although her body betrayed. She had a disorder that rapidly aged her. Though she was probably only 19, she looked like 90. Her skin sagged without mercy. She lived in the Care Facility not by choice. I watched her try to fit in. How to simply ‘be’ when outsiders stare is unthinkable. I was guilty as well. I could not take my eyes off of her. I wish I could go back in time, knowing what I know now, and talk to her... be a friend. But we don’t get those options in life. There are no do-overs. What we do get is the opportunity to make the days going forward, and our choices, better. On this day I decided I could live in peace with my freckles.
Today I cherish them. They are merely one of the many blessed oddities of me. Both my parents have freckles. Mine are proof I am of them. And now I get to look at my children and their increasingly freckling noses.
My daughter warmed my face with her hands, and my heart with her words. I am glad she likes my freckles.
She removed her hands to fix her shirt. It was twisted due to our snuggling entanglement. As she adjusted it, she stopped to look at her belly button.
She has an innie... in my opinion, a very cute perfect innie. Her little fingers poked and pinched the skin.
As she inspected she spoke.... ‘Mommy, this kid squeezed his belly button out soooo hard. He had an outie and it was super out! It was really gross...’ ‘Who was this?’ I asked. She was momentarily distracted from her belly button and looked at me quizzically. ‘I don’t know?! Am I going to have to remember EVERY BODIES name throughout my entire life???!’ I laughed acknowledging that the kids’ name really had no relevance... my funny daughter made her point and refocused on her belly button. ‘Is my belly button weird? Or is everybody else’s weird?’ I laughed again, explaining that ‘No ones belly button is ‘weird’ it just is...’ ‘Belly Buttons are really cool. Your belly button is where you were connected to me. It’s how you got your food.’
‘How?’
‘Through a big vessel... kinda like the veins in my hands and your wrists...’
‘So, I don’t get it? When I come out of your belly, am I still connected? Do I have this big vein from me to you?’
We went thru an anatomy lesson about umbilical cords. She listened as I unveiled for her one of life’s mystical moments. I love the human body! It is truly amazing. The more I learn, the more I want to learn. It is monumentally important to me that my children know how they operate and how amazing they themselves are.
Being that we were on the topic of belly buttons, I told a little story from her early, early years.
The year is 2001. The month July. Alex, my darling 5 year old son, just got his wish.... or so he thought. He wanted a sibling something bad. Now that he had one, he changed his mind. Okay... maybe not totally.
There he sat on the living room floor, trying to watch a cartoon. It was 3 o’clock... How do I remember? Because everyday at 3 o’clock my cute little daughter, Alex’s new baby sister, turned into a relentless sound machine. She screamed and carried on for hours! Alex was sure I picked the wrong baby from the hospital. Time after time he would tell me ‘This one can’t be ours, it is much too noisy.... take it back and get a quieter baby!’ He never accepted my ‘It doesn’t work like that.’ reply....
Everyday at 3, like clockwork, my cute little daughter up heaved our peaceful home. We walked, and rocked, and bounced, and fed, and sang to, and entertained... It was all in vain, the screaming continued. After a while you have no choice but to learn to live with it. Poor Alex.....
One day, as I was changing her diaper, her big brother had a revelation. This thing coming out of her belly is not normal! What the heck is that?... and why doesn’t my mother see it as the problem it surely is?.... all this screaming is surely due to ‘it.’ Hmmmm.....
Alex stood by my side watching his new baby sister get cleaned up. There she wriggled - and duly screamed - in all her glory. I held her thigh as I looked for a clean baby wipe to my right.
In that moment it happened. Alex took it upon himself to ‘fix’ the problem. He grabbed hold of her umbilical cord and pulled. It ripped half off... As all you parents know, ‘things’ happen so quick! My senses jolted. 'ALEX! What are you doing?!!!’ I startled him from his task. ‘Mommy, I am getting the worm out of her belly so she’ll stop crying all the time....’
Off to the doctors office we went... they had to cauterize her belly button from the assault. I had visions of her insides making their un-welcomed appearance on the outside... but that would never really happen. It was just my overactive, overworked mind playing tricks.
We all survived that day. Now it’s just a belly button story to add to my archives. Charlee laughed and continued to inspect... now looking for evidence of this event.
My finger now joined hers as she explored. ‘This is proof that you were connect to me.... and mine to Grandma.... and hers to GG..... and GG......’ She finished my sentence ‘and GG’s to her mommy, and on, and on.....’ ‘You got it!’ We giggled at the belly button chain.
In my head I see a pearl necklace. A beautiful necklace, only the pearls are belly buttons and the strand is that of a time line.
This moment with my daughter, contemplating our belly buttons, reminded me of our connections. The parallels of being human... and being descendants.... Are any of us totally unique? Bits of us are passed thru the generations.
Now that I have contemplated my belly button... and Charlee’s... I can start my day.
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