Never Underestimate the Power of Gilmore Girls

I'm not sure how it happened, but "Gilmore Girls" has become my life.

The kiddles and I have embarked on a complete re-viewing of the entire series – from the first episode to the last – in anticipation of a day-after-Thanksgiving marathon of the much-anticipated new installment.

Oh how I have missed thee, Gilmore Girls!

For too many years than I like to admit, I have been lost. Off-track. Adrift. Battered by the harsh realities of teenagers, mistakes, the dreaded empty nest, and the devastating loss of the only thing that has ever truly been my purpose: being a mother to my loinfruits.

I know I'm still a mother, and I still do motherly things, but it's not the same when you don't come home every day to homework, "what's for dinner?" and a reassuring mess that leaves no doubt as to the necessity of your continued presence.

But – after they're all grown up – it's just not the same.

Don't get me wrong, I prepared for this reality for years. Bracing myself against the inevitable collision of independence and adulthood that was just waiting to plow me down. And – despite my best efforts – I learned that in this, as with any other crash, bracing yourself for impact only causes more damage.

And then the Gilmores brought me back.

I know it sounds ridiculous at the same time that it makes total sense.

Over the past several years (yes! I literally mean years) I have blamed my discombobulation on everyone and everything, but after just a couple episodes I realized that my major malfunction is really the loss of the one thing I always used to define myself.

I have been a mom for 55% of my life - 57% if you count gestation. It's always going to be the thing in my life (other than breathing) that I've done the longest. And I love it. I wouldn't want it any other way. But my sweet petites are now 24 and 21, and no one lives at home (although we all know it could happen again), and no one needs me after school or after work or for a ride.

It's true that I have looked forward to this very circumstance for a long time. Now that it's here, though – despite the fact that I do love the freedom and cherish so much my relationships with these amazing creatures I had the honor to help cook (even though they'll never be done) – I've lost my True North.

I feel it in my  teeth, my fingertips, my follicles, my spleen, my toenails, and the deep, deep depths of my foundering soul. Before I fully realized the root cause of my discontent; however, Lorelai and Rory showed me the light. Going back to Stars Hollow restored my spirit. Recognizing myself – my faults, foibles, good intentions, and fierce love – in all the lovely ladies on this show made me remember who I was and the things that made me happy.

In typical Rebecca form I had been facing the loss of my deep-rooted parental imperative by stubbornly acting as if nothing were wrong. Then Lorelai, Rory, Sookie, Paris – and even Emily – gave me permission to feel all the feels.

Instead of going to therapy I have gone to Stars Hollow and Friday Night Dinners and Yale. And I must admit that (so far) the results are marvelous.

Thank you, Gilmore Girls – and I can't wait to catch up with you in November.

Loinfruit

Over the years I have referred to my children as many things: offspring, spawn, fru-its of the dev-il...but the most recent, and current favorite, was suggested by one of the little darlings themselves while we were on vacation.

We were playing a game--dominoes, I think--and I made a move that was disadvantageous to Savannah. She exclaimed with dismay, "How could you do that to the fruit of your loins?!" With mock-shame, I answered, "Awwww...I don't know how I could do that to my little loinfruit." The whole group erupted into laughter, with the episode culminating in Savannah deeming me her lointree.

Needless to say, talk of loins is not the most desirable conversation to have with your parents, grandparents and other assorted extended family around. However, such situations tend to lend themselves to those precious things that come out of the mouths of babes. My girlfriend, Terri, shared a story that one of her loinfruit starred in over the weekend. They always have a family dinner on Sunday nite with her husband's large family in attendance. Last Sunday nite the brothers got into a discussion about hair--it started with hairy chests and evolved (or should I say de-volved?) to hairy asses.

As the brothers compared their relative states of hairiness, one in particular was insisting that he did not have a hairy ass. It was late and Terri's soon-to-be 7-year-old son looked up at his scruffy uncle, and in all seriousness said, "You do have a hairy ass...on your face."

The wonderfully awful statements and beautifully innocent observations that are spoken by our loinfruit paint the world for us in colors we never would have chosen, from a perspective we may never see without them. I have saved scraps of phrases and comments from my children over the years, and I hope that I never lose the irrepresible smile and little tug on my heart that I feel when I read and remember them.

Poetry Stop

here are a few poems...nothing really new, but some favorites

Bedtime

toothfairies
and
pixie dust
sweet voices
and
prayers
smiles that dance in the moonlight

baseballs and guitars
violas and perfume
bright eyes that watch every move

lips ask for more kisses
arms tease for more hugs
and a giggle is almost hypnotic




She lives her life
day in day out
solitary and abundant
joyful and despairing
And the struggle of her spirit
is this woman’s life

In one arm she embraces love
and with the other she pushes it away
knocking it down
before it can knock her down
And protecting her from hurt and happiness
is this woman’s life

She lies awake at night
staring at the shadows flickering on the walls
imagining tomorrow
replaying today
avoiding right this moment
And exhaustion
is this woman’s life




My heart explodes
with joy—
lying in this tangle
of arms and legs
and soft, downy skin.
I tremble at the love in
“mommy”
and the trust in four blue eyes.

And I ache with the brevity
of this moment
and the promise of life, and
love, and
tears, and
pain—
and the inevitability
of empty arms
and tear-stained
photographs
freezing the miracle
of today
forever.




I am sorry that you miss me
but I’ve missed you for years.
And I don’t want you to ache
or weep or burn
because it makes my freedom
so much harder.
And because I wish you only peace.
Something I could never give you
and you could not receive.
So where are we now?
As distant as ever—
with you swimming in sorrow—
after I’ve already toweled off,
and I find myself
with
no more desire for that water.




Once upon a Time
I pledged myself to you
and I created a future
that never came to be

And then I had to change the channel
when the program got too graphic
and now I speak Italian
and I hear you speaking Spanish
and it’s like we never
knew each other
as something
other than painful





“I’m sick of the emotion”
well so am I
Except you’re only sick
of emotions
that you don’t control
And I’m sick
of being wrong
because you got up
on the wrong side of the bed
and don’t want
to hear the truth
today.
And the only reason
my voice sounds alone
is because
no one else
is brave enough
to speak their
mind
and
frustrations.
So go ahead,
make it all about me
and
all my fault
if that helps
you believe
your dick
is
bigger.

...and it's only going to get worse

If only I had known. I would have looked at her longer that last time. I would have drunk in every detail of her blue eyes and peachy skin. I would have paid attention to how she smelled. I would have felt her downy cheek one more time, or held her hand in mine. But I didn’t know. And now she is gone. Lost. Disappeared. And I will never lay eyes on my baby girl again. As this realization hits me I run into the other room, desperately seeking photos, a note, anything to keep her present and with me. I sink to the kitchen floor and the most unfamiliar scream is ripped from me and the sobs overtake my soul.

Suddenly, I wake up. Sweaty and panting. In the fog between dreaming and wakefulness, I crawl out of my bed and stumble across the hall to the room where my 15-year old daughter, Savannah, lay sleeping. I love to watch her sleeping—now almost as much as I did when she was a baby. Sleep is where the child part of her still reigns supreme. Flailed out across her bed, eyes closed, mouth hanging open or pursed in a pout, she is still a little girl. All the adult mannerisms and attitudes, all the knowledge she is gaining that looks out from her eyes—these don’t exist in sleep. In sleep she could still be a chubby toddler, tow-headed, tired from the day’s adventures, not a worry in her world.

Yesterday, as I drank a glass of wine and watched my best friend Terri paint baseboards for her newly-remodeled kitchen, we discussed the changes entering my life via my growing daughter. She just started her first job, working in the gift shop at the zoo. She loves it. She has always wanted to be part of the working world. As a little girl, she would play that she was a career woman. She asked for clothes that were small imitations of the professional costume I wore to work everyday. She once got a box of office supplies for Christmas and it was her favorite gift that year. Because she is at the bottom of the totem pole at her new job, Savannah is required to work pretty much every weekend and every holiday. That means that this coming Easter Sunday she will be at the zoo’s gift shop from 11am until closing, instead of celebrating the day with family and friends. We were going to go to Idaho for the weekend to visit grandparents, but I didn’t want to go without her or leave her alone on a holiday to toil away while we enjoy ham and candy and Easter egg hunts without her. And Easter is just the beginning.

The summers have typically been a time of bountiful travel for Savannah and her younger sister, Gabi. They usually spend the summer visiting dads, grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins while I work. This arrangement has offered them the chance to make great memories with their extended family and has saved me who knows how much money in childcare. However, this summer, we don’t even know if Savannah will be able to make it to our family vacation on the Oregon Coast. Not to mention the visit to my dad’s in northern Idaho. I don’t like this new reality where Savannah may or may not be present where she has always been present before.

“That’s just life,” Terri offers, “and it’s only going to get worse.”

Terri is the queen of saying just the thing to really make you freak out. I shared my dream with her and it was easy for both of us to make the connection to our previous conversation. I am surprised at the reaction of raw, naked grief I felt in my dream. And as Terri and I continue to talk, it occurs to me that Savannah has been the one consistent thing in my entire adult life. Terri says that she has thought about how it will be when her two young boys are grown up and out of the house. What it will be like to be alone with her husband again—able to go to the movies or have sex on the spur of the moment without worrying about the kids. But she had Jeff before she had her kids, and she will have him after. I had Savannah when I was 20, and she has been my constant since then. When she is gone, it will be me and Gabi for three years, and then it will just be me. I have always joked about how I will live my 20’s in my 40’s because I was being a parent in those years, but as I stand on the precipice of that reality, my chest tightens and I feel like I may suffocate.

Today I find myself looking at my daughter a little more closely, lingering over her features, her facial expressions, the way she fixed her hair. I notice the color and texture of her skin and the sound of her voice. I reach out and touch her cheek, her hand. And then she breaks the spell, crashing me back into the reality of life with a teenager, “Mom, you don’t have to touch me. Stop staring at me. You’re creepy.”