It's all about the children

 

Grandkids on my bed and spellbound by Uncle Jamie's magic.

 

 The Fort Worth Stock Show is a grand occasion for my grandchildren, now a family tradition. They laughed and repeated stories last night about the bull riding, the monkey that rode a dog, and other wonders of the rodeo. Today was Stock Show day—wander the barns, the exhibits, and the Midway. I think I may have just taken one more step down the path to being elderly, but I had an epiphany in the middle of the night: I didn’t want to go; I wanted to stay home, in the quiet, get some work done, have a nap, and enjoy those two darling little dogs. There were immediate questions: Are you feeling alright? Yes, thank you, I’m feeling fine, but I’ve noticed of late that my idea of what I want to do has changed, and my main memories of the last two years “doing” the stock show are very sore feet and being parked various places to read while the kids went off to games and so on. I can read at home and my feet won’t hurt. And I suspect they’ll all have more fun without worrying if the “old lady” in the bunch is okay and having a good time.

They came home, again full of tales, in time for happy hour, for which Jordan joined us briefly, and then we were off to dinner at Joe T.’s (Texans know the huge, sprawling restaurant with its set menu, either, “the dinner” or fajitas, is the classic place to go). Some say you go for the atmosphere, because the food isn’t all that great. It’s certainly not the best Mexican haute cuisine but I’ve always liked it—had my first-ever taste of Mexican food there almost fifty years ago.

Tonight, all I could do was look around and enjoy that my family was around me. The crowds waiting in line were incredible, and inside it’s way too noisy. I couldn’t hear what anyone said. I tried reading lips, especially Megan’s because she is really expressive with her mouth and I’m reading a mystery about a deaf detective who reads lips—didn’t work for me but I guess I need practice. Yes, the food was good but I ate much less than usual (yay for me!) until we ordered sopapillas and then I almost ate the whole thing. So sticky, so sweet, all the things I don’t ordinarily want—but I loved them.

Generational change. I always used to be the first to go to bed. Now at ten, everyone’s asleep except Jacob and me (he won’t go to bed until I do). Jacob’s cousins were most jealous—“How late does he get to stay up?” I promised to go to bed soon, so off I go.

Tomorrow, a big family breakfast with a casserole and biscuits for the adults, waffles for the children if they want them. And then they’ll all be off in various directions, and Sophie and I will be left to our routine. I will be sad and lonely, but omigosh! Do I have a busy week ahead!





Thinking about mothers

I just finished reading Ruth Reichl's For You, Mom, Finally. I'm a big fan of Reichl's writing, but in earlier books she's always referred to her mom as eccentric, bizarre, hard to understand, sometimes an embarrassment--like the time she gave food poisoning to a crowd of guests at an engagement party for Reichl's older brother, because she prepared all the food way ahead or the time she was asked to step down as a Brownie leader after a particularly disastrous snack she served. You sensed, as you read, that Reichl was a tad embarrassed by her mom.
But then, after much hesitation and procrastination, she read through a stack of letters, notes, clippings, whatever that her mother had kept over the years, and she began to understand the woman behind the bizarre behavior. She was a woman who wanted a career, wanted to do something meaningful in her life, and yet the times and her situation kept her from it. She survived one brief, bad marriage and divorced, a shocking thing in the day; then she married Ruth's father, a man she truly loved and who adored but couldn't understand her. Through all the notes and letters is the wish that her daughter have the opportunities denied her. Even in her senior years, she kept trying to re-invent herself, and somehow she made me think of the people who can never answer the question, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" For Ruth Reichl, admiration for her mother and for the sacrifices her mother made for her sake came too late for acknowledgement, but that they came is a blessing.
My relationship with my own mom was very different. She was, for one thing, the great cook that Reichl's mom never was, and I credit her with my love of cooking. And in my adult years, she was one of my best friends--we shared a lot of laughter and good times, and she adored her grandchildren. But I suspect she, too, was a bit frustrated.Widowed early, with a young son, she was at first unable to cope but eventually had a career as the secretary (a word used in those days) to the chancellor of the University of Chicago, Robert Maynard Hutchins, the man who, among other things, started the Great Books program, of which Mom was a devotee. After she married my father, Mom never worked but she put her considerable talents to work as manager of the gift shop at the hospital where Dad was the administrator and as a charming and gracious hostess. Still, she knew it would have embarrassed my old-fashioned father for her to have an independent career, and so she never did. I never heard her complain, and all the years I was growing up I thought her the happy housewife in a way that I would never be--she showered and put on a fresh dress every night before Dad came home, she set the table with white linen every night (we had napkin rings), and she served his favorite meat and potatoes meals. I was never more proud of her than at the reception when she turned a sprightly eighty. But now I wonder if there was a corner of Mom that held a bit of disappointment, a bit of unhappiness. And I wish she'd left a trail of letters and notes.
By the time I achieved career success as director of a small academic press and modest success as an author (and was raising four children as a single parent), a series of TIAs had eroded Mom's mind to the point that I've never been sure she understood or was happy for me.
My kids are proud of my professional accomplishments, sometimes proud to bursting, and I am grateful for that, but Ruth Reichl made me think of my mother.