Patrick


My heart
Your skin
This love
I'm in

I have a little brother -- Patrick. I have had a crush on Patrick since I was about 10. He is a national treasure of funny, an immediate slam-dunk in witty, and I am fairly certain that if I were ever to write a book, I would lift him exactly as he is from my technicolor life and install him in the story. He is a modern-day Dickens character: eccentric, pithy, and well defined in his assorted likes and dislikes. He is that rare breed of opinionated gentleman, in that he has strong ideas about most issues, but tempers them with an attentive ear and a thoughtful silence. Patrick is a wicked mimic and a gifted storyteller. Usually, his anecdotal version of an event is better than the original. Every holiday, seeing him is the highlight amidst an already delightful celebration.

He travels with a copy of Fear of a Black Hat and Office Space in his car. Just in case. He also has copies of whatever is the most recent South Park episode. Also, he has poker chips in his car. A full set. Just in case. He started smoking (Marlborough reds) at 14 and has not ever stopped...or looked back, as far as I can tell. My daughter (she has a serious crush on him, too) begs him, as only a wickedly charming 5-year-old can, to stop smoking. He listens, nods, thanks her. Then lights up as soon as she leaves. After a few hours of visiting with Patrick, I am usually a) up way past my bedtime; b)chagrined at what I do remember from the night before.



This Thanksgiving (absolutley magnificent, by the way), my sister (Let's call her Lucrezia)and I went over to another sister's house (Let's call her Ophelia) to help clean and cook in preparation for the evening's celebration. Ophelia has a large home on several acres, keeps horses, pigs, chickens...it's a very ecclectic lifestyle. Lucrezia and I, having been pretty much estranged for the last few years, are carefully piecing together a friendship. This Thanksgiving was significant in that immense strides were made. Maybe it took a little too much alcohol. OK, yeah -- that is what it means. But the headache was certainly worth it.

That's enough of that.


Checking in With The Hamstring

I sat in a pub with Zorro the other night and he plyed me with a huge, headless glass of the most delicious, cold Honey Amber Ale and charmingly (he's a pro at charming) tried to convince me to see a specialist and get an MRI for my leg, which, incidentally, still wakes me up singing in the night. I listened respectfully. Nodded agreeably. And refused. Here is my logic. Every other time I have been to see a doctor about this leg problem, I have taken the doctor's well intended advice and abided by his recommendations...for about 3 weeks. Then, because I am (stupid, stubborn, an egomaniac...pick one), I felt a little better and immediately went back to doing exactly what I wanted to do. Even if that meant run a 10K balls-out with a week of "training." Just to prove I could do it.

This time, I soothingly told my sincere and concerned husband, I am humble and chastened. I am actually giving the doctor's advice more than a lick and a promise. I run no more than 3 days a week. I run it slower than backwards. I stretch with a religious fervor. I take maddening yoga classes (a blog entry all its own...please...the people-watching alone is worth all the frustrating poses), I lift weights, I do all kinds of things I used to laugh at others for doing. If, after 6-8 months of this I am still in pain, I will see a specialist. It took a little bit of eyelash-batting on top of this logic, but I think his concern is quelled for now.

For now, though, NOT TRAINING for some race is a little frustrating and a lot intoxicating. The first thing I notice is that I never dread running. I used to dread the mid-range long runs. The 15 miles for its own sake.

Now I feel a little like I have found some sort of running Valhalla. The slower I run, the longer I can run, the less it hurts. I KNOW! Seems so simple! The upside is that I run more with my other other (yet another, let's call her Desdemona) sister, who is a slow-and-steady runner for many years. I feel like I can turn 7 into 14 no problem at Desdemona's pace. Forever! Inky-blue ocean on my right, sun on the back of my neck, shadow out front. Run forever, or at least until the conversation runs dry. The downside is that as I run along, I let my willful, heedless, headstrong mind roam free, and -- high on the ebullient run I am experiencing, I cast myself into improbability ..."I feel great! If I start to rack up the miles here, then in a month I can start to key up the speed again...Maybe that ultra this summer is not that far-fetched! Sure! I can do it. I am, after all, me."

As Neil Young says: In the field of opportunity, it's plowing time again.

I went looking for a cause
Or a strong cat without claws
Or any reason to resume
And I found myself a seat
In this crowded waiting room

I hold off on writing about the truly unpleasant things. I hold tightly to the idea that if you act calm, happy and accepting, then you will be that. It works to a certain degree, but the original issue never seems to be touched by my fierce, crazed attempts at positive thinking.

I have two children. Everyone says that a parent cannot help but love each child equally -- no more and no less that the others. It's just not true. Maybe the volume of love is the same, and the total commitment to literally step in front of oncoming traffic to save them -- all that is the same. It cannot help but be that way. But the WAY...the MANNER in which a parent loves each child is different. It is vastly different for me.

My son was my first. With him I really do understand the adage that Love Hurts. Because with him, it really does hurt. Bluntly put he sometimes seems like he is in pain, emotionally turbulent, complicated, deeper. I am beguiled and fierce and guilty. His teachers tell the same tale each year: "We love him. He's hard to understand. He wants so much love. It's hard to be with him. He marches to his own beat. We need to work on figuring him out."

I am so desperate for someone to tell me he will grow out of this, that every boy is like this, that he's just immature. I ask to hear this and I never do. If I articulated my fears for my child out loud, I am afraid I would be labled an hysteric or that I was expecting the worst. Is it wrong to just want your child to have an easy life? Or at the very least, a less-difficult one?

This is probably the most painful subject I can possibly explore, and lately this issue is more consuming of my time, energy, emotional currency than anything. Every mother will be able to relate to my most overwhelming feeling: Somehow I am responsible for his unhappiness.

That's about all I can do right now. I wish I knew more but my ignorance is part of the reason why this subject is so fraught.

You know it's really hard
To talk sense to you
Trouble child
Breaking like the waves at Malibu