The Meaning of Life (Awwwww)

There’s been so much going on and I haven’t had time to write, blah, blah, blah…

Last weekend was Maddie’s graduation. The youngest of the Foster four seems to carry a bit of the best of each of them – her father’s graciousness, her eldest sister’s sense of style, her second sister’s wit, her mother’s sparkling eyes, and her brother’s humility – and yet she is also completely her own person. She delivered an eloquent valedictorian speech amid the majestic palms and graceful arches of the courtyard at Ursulines Academy, the oldest Catholic girls’ school in the country. The weather smiled on New Orleans that night, and all of us – including the Aunt Sues who flew down from NYC – were grateful for clear skies and a soft breeze.

The next day was Mother’s Day. We treated Mom to brunch at Café Atchafalaya, then stopped in to visit with the Fosters. Matthew gave me two distinctive oil paintings of jazz musicians that he bought from an artist in Jackson Square – I was thrilled.

I am proud to be a mother. I know it’s a cliché, but even before Henry was born, he was inspiring me to be better person – not just to be more patient with others, for example, but to be more patient with myself, in a number of ways. I didn’t know if my baby would be a boy or a girl, but in case it was a girl, I decided I needed to start accepting myself, and my body in particular. I realized that being a role model in terms of body image would not come easily, and certainly would not come overnight. But I did start trying to love myself, to see in the mirror the woman Matthew sees. Having a son certainly relieves some of the pressure, but I still make an effort to appreciate my strengths every day, because I want him to grow up with a mother who enjoys herself, believes in her beauty, and doesn’t squander her energy on self-immolation. I don’t claim to have mastered any of these skills – not even close – but the sincere attempt is one of the things I am proudest of in my life since I became a mother.

It is sometimes hard to see the point of all this, especially for someone who doesn’t believe in fate or in an afterlife. What is life for, if all we do is spend it griping about bills and taxes, dreading Mondays, and changing dirty diapers? It is so difficult to see the through-line when we are in the midst of the story. This is why I cling to those moments that are extraordinary in their ordinariness: the clasp of Henry’s hands around my neck as he says, “I wuv you, Mommy”; the tang of boiled crawfish dipped in horseradish sauce eaten in the milky dusk on Mom’s back porch; the satisfied exhaustion on Matthew’s face as he returns home from a great wedding shoot. And the loveliness of young girls in white, beaming with accomplishment under a Southern sky, studded with stars. At the risk of sounding like a credit card commercial, these moments are the meaning of my life.

I Live Here

There has been so much going on that I really haven’t had the mental space or actual time to sit down and post. A lot of what’s been going is good, but it is also stressful, and unfortunately it’s not something I feel ready to talk about on this blog.

No, I'm not pregnant.

But there are other thing to talk about. Henry is completely a little boy now. Somehow over the past couple of months, the baby disappeared. I get sad about this, but whenever I tell him proudly what a big boy he’s getting to be, he answers indignantly, “I’m not big yet.” It’s odd – he’s always insisted he was not big, he’s always insisted that he’s little. In other words, it’s not a recent occurrence tied to potty training or something else that might trigger regressive behavior. Ever since he could talk, he’s maintained that he is still little. And I find myself grateful that he is not intent on growing up too soon.

Actually, he doesn’t often use the word “little.” He still likes to use one of his babyisms, “dee-dee.” The only other babyism he clings to, even though he is perfectly capable of saying it correctly, is the word “funny.” He likes to pronounce it “fun-see.” As in, “Dinah ate a bubble. That was so fun-see.”

We’ve managed to eliminate “Damnit” from his vocabulary (after making great efforts to eliminate it from our own). But the other day when Matthew was on the phone with me he remembered something he had forgotten to do and spontaneously emitted a loud, “Damnit!” Henry made a face and said, “It makes me sad when you say that word.” How’s that for making a parent feel guilty?

Speaking of children making adults feel badly, Henry’s stutter has reemerged, which inspired MawMaw to tell Matthew a story of his own stuttering during his toddler years (this genetic history is the only reason I am not more freaked out by Henry’s experience). Matthew was Henry’s age and he was struggling to say something. “Wa-wa-wa-wa-wa-wa…” It went on and on. Finally: “Wa-wa-why can’t I talk?” Ugh, the heartstrings.

In other news, we did make a foray into the Jazzfest last weekend. I had hoped to go again this weekend, but we have so much going on and Matthew is frankly not as a big a fan of the heat and crowds and lines as I am. Really, what’s not to like? Actually, we did have a fabulous time last Sunday. Just the two of us, a cloudless day, a slight breeze, taking in Clarence Frogman Henry singing, “Ain't Got No Home (I’m A Lonely Frog)”, rejuvenating ourselves in the Gospel Tent, meeting up with some friends, eating crawfish sacks and chocolate covered strawberries, shaking our thangs to the Hot Eight Band Band, one of our favorites. My favorite Jazzfest moment, however, happened in the Jazz Tent, listening to Irvin Mayfield and his orchestra. I felt a sense of calm and relaxation come over me, a sense that I could trust the universe and the gentle unfolding of life. Maybe it was the music, maybe it was the SoCo hurricane, I don’t know or care. It just felt good.

This morning Mom and Henry and I went to the French Market. I couldn’t believe Mom had never been…like, ever. When my friends and I used to drive down to New Orleans for the say when we were in high school, we would always stroll through the French Market. I was there today on a mission to buy some French Quarter Candles, and I also bought Henry an alligator head he took a fancy to (boys, I tell ya) and his first ever snowball (grape). Then we had lunch at this terrific little Mexican restaurant called La Gato Negro. Hand squeezed margaritas, spicy pork burritos, yum. One of those mornings that reminds me of why I live in New Orleans. I love seeing the tourists and thinking, they just get to visit, but I live here.