Braiding my Grandaughter's Hair

While my grandaughter sits comfortably in my lap looking through the family pictures on my phone, I take a chance that she might be too distracted to complain about my hands weaving through her exquisite unruly hair. 

Why not?

I am trapped underneath the sweet smelling body of a toddler- a mix of naptime perspiration, metalic play structures and a smearing of sunscreen- her head perfectly positioned for me to indulge in a longing I've had for too many years- to play with a little girl's hair. 

When I was a child, I would sit in my parents' bathroom waiting for my mom to get her shower and dress. Then she would brush my wild and recalcitrant hair. This was one of my fondest memories of my mother. That and being the prep cook in the kitchen when I was old enough to stand on a stool and reach the counters. 

My three sons all had beautiful curly hair. (They still have beautiful hair by the way.) No brushing necessary. Just a smoosh and a fluff. No bows or scrunchies. No bobby pins or clips. I have often wondered if my desire to have a daughter was just so that I could do her hair. 

Maybe it's psychological. If I can do someone else's hair, I might be able to control my own. Or maybe it's about the biblical Samson and the power locked into his long locks. (pun intended) When Delilah lulled Samson to sleep in her lap and cut his hair, his strength slipped away from him. In Jungian Psychology, hair is often seen as an extension of the self, reflecting power and identity. Hair is deeply intwined with self esteem and the way we perceive ourselves. 

My hair is most often wild and out of control. It has a mind of its' own. Just yesterday someone asked me if I had my hair "done". No, I answered. It had woken up that morning and decided for itself what it wanted to do. 

Looking at my granddaughter's beautiful sunlit hair, thick with curves and attitude, strewn with gold intermittently placed, I imagined that her life might be similar to mine as she grows up. She will fight with her hair. She will straighten it. She will try to control it with any number of products that will eventually be abandoned under her bathroom sink. She will envy girls with straight blond hair that catches the sunlight just so. 

Regardless, she lets me braid her hair while I process all the inner messages ruminating from the "ladies in the attic". I am stilled in a moment of permission to play. With her hair. With my memories. Filled with my love for her and the woman she will become.

“We do not see things as they are, 

we see them as we are.”

I was born and raised in a Catholic bubble.  My life was informed by weekly Mass, Confession, praying the rosary, fasting and abstinence.  I wrote JMJ (Jesus Mary and Joseph) on the top of all my papers at St. Philip Neri School and proudly wore my uniform with the matching beanie bobbypinned to my head. (You Catholic girls know exactly what I'm talking about!) 

My parents were joyful.  My dad was an usher at Mass and my mom sang in the choir.  They were quite affectionate with each other and produced six healthy offspring in eleven years due to the Church's stance on birth control.  I felt loved and protected and vowed to raise my own family in the pattern of their footsteps- even though their marriage ended after 24 years due to unplanned extenuating circumstances.  

I married at 22 and raised three sons in the Catholic bubble with all the accoutrements of a good Catholic home. .. weekly Mass, Catechism, Catholic school, Jesus Mary and Joseph and the whole shebang.  After 24 years my marriage fell apart.  No extenuating circumstances.  Just a basic failure to survive together through relocations, deaths in the family and a felt lack of love and protection. 

Wash, rinse and repeat.  But now I'm on a mission to rethink everything.  

In the last 10 years I have sold my big house and bought a townhome.  I quit my 21 year career as a counselor at a Catholic High School.  And I have developed a serious yoga addiction.  

Unhinged and free, I am searching for a way to open the aperture of my camera.  (The definition of aperture- a space through which light passes in an optical or photographic instrument, especially the variable opening by which light enters a camera.) 

My eyes are conditioned to see what I see through the lense of my past experiences.  Perhaps I need to expand and let in more light.

We do not see things as they are.  We see them as we are.

When Michelangelo created the David, he chipped away at a large block of marble until the masterpiece was revealed within.  He removed everything that did not belong to The David.  

Hmmm....

Perhaps that is my journey.  The traditions and the self imposed parameters that I have been carrying around for 60 plus years need to be judiciously shaved off, removed, and chipped away in order for me to become the authentic person I was meant to be.  The Rosemarie.

I was raised Catholic and what else?

I am a mother and a grandmother and what else?

I vote Democrat and what else?

I work as a psychotherapist and what else?

As I chip away at what has defined me I open my aperture to see other points of view.  I see opportunities that might otherwise be passed over.  I see new friendships that could enhance my life.  I see decent people whom I respect with different political views than I have and I keep the channels open and the discussion moving forward.  I can allow my sons to create their own paths and not worry that all that money spent on Catholic school was for not.

I'm the kind of person who decides to clean out their garage and I take absolutely everything out, sweep the floor and then rethink whether I still need it and how I might store it differently.  How wonderful if we could do that with our lives!  

I don't need this anymore.  

That can go in a different spot.  

Now I have space for something else.  

We cling so desperately to what we know.  What else is out there?  I am on a mission to find out.

Would you join me?  I'd love to hear your comments!

Things I've learned in 2023...

Friends, I know I’m looking backwards. But Mel Robbins has told us all in her recent podcasts that in order to move forward in 2024 we need to look back at where we’ve been. So this is what I’ve come up with in my own life.  I do hope you will share some of your own lessons learned in the comments. 

• I can’t be perfect.  Oh, shucks.  I’m learning that there is room for chaos in my life.  Instead of making my bed I can take a morning walk. Instead of cleaning my kitchen I can marvel at the speck of tabouli still stuck to the backsplash since last summer.  As my wonderful “first” husband once told me.. “Rosemarie, the house looks so good and organized.  But the drawers are a mess!” Such a metaphor for me.  My insides are chaotic but the towel hanging on the oven is perfectly folded and squared.

Pretty in Pink- Sweet Layla Rose

When I brought my third son Peter home from the hospital, my mom so generously came to help me as she had done in years prior when I brought home my #1 and #2 sons, Robert and Patrick. I watched as she lovingly changed Peter’s diaper and searched for something soft and cozy to dress him in.  She reached for a pink kimono that I had received as a gift for my first born in the days when you didn’t know whether you were having a girl or a boy.  As she pulled his little arms through the sleeves and swaddled him close to her she said to me “Let’s pretend”.

I am the last born of six children and I have five brothers. I, in turn, married a man who was one of three sons- and in quick step produced three sons of my own.  I have been blessed with two wonderfully rambunctious grandsons, Boe and Bear.  The numbers don’t lie.  My mother and I have always been surrounded by male energy on the daily.

Love Is Love 😻

Always in need of tech support, this baby boomer has never lacked for love and affection from my sweet cat, Ethel. When the pandemic hit and I began to work from home, I swear Ethel would follow me around the house and wait longingly for me to sit down somewhere so that she could grace my cozy lap.

It’s a rainy day today in California and I just lit some incense, poured myself some hot tea, and grabbed my latest read: The Seekers Guide- Making Your Life a Spiritual Adventure by Elizabeth Lesser. A perfect rainy day scenario. Except for my little lap blanket.

Being a long distance Sitti and Mom...

I recently returned from a quick and dirty fun-filled trip to Nashville to see Peter, Brianna and my two precious grandsons- Bear and Boe. It had been a while, so this Sitti (Arabic for Grandmother) was itching to get as many hugs and kisses in as possible during the visit.

I am filled with thoughtful reflection about my five days on the floor, climbing in and out of playground tunnels and zooming down slides, sorting through legos and trucks, jumping on pillows, bending down to help little hands drive little vehicles, playing Uno and Candyland, practicing reading and making silly words out of vowels and consonants and loving every head bang and diaper change while simultaneously singing “I’m being swallowed by a boa constrictor” over and over again.

I won’t lie..

This 65 year old body was ready for a quiet four and a half hour flight home in an aisle seat with my glass of water and bag of pretzels.

It’s challenging being a long distance Sitti. You have to pile all the love, presents, angst and intention into a multi-day window of concentrated and intense togetherness that is probably better budgeted out into smaller and more absorbable portions. But it’s the best we can do with the 2000 plus mile distance between us. I find myself yearning to hear things like “Mom, can you pick Boe up from school today” or “Hey mom, can you babysit this Saturday night?”

Love Is Stronger Than Death- Song of Solomon 8:6

This is a portion of my extended family gathered at Holy Sepulchre Cemetery to celebrate my step mother Adele Pearl Shaheen’s 100 years of life and love. My siblings, their spouses, their children and their children’s children.  We are a force to be reckoned with. Adele inherited us when she married my dad half a century ago. She took it in good stride considering that she didn’t have her own children. Fully bathed and baptized into instant family, she never complained.

My siblings and I were raised Catholic but we were quick to decide that no priest could give Adele a better send off than we could on our own. Lord have mercy! Since most of us had not been to this cemetery in years- not since our brother, our mother and our father were buried- we decided to make this a pilgrimage of sorts.

My mother in law, Louise Healy 🙏

I am writing this on the cusp of the first anniversary of my mother in law’s passing. This picture was taken in our back yard in Whittier, California on Mother’s Day. I’m going to guess that I was 35ish and she was 68ish. My own mother had died five years prior so the two of us were the guests of honor on this day. She came over looking glamorous and rested and I wrestled three little boys all week, grocery shopped, cleaned the house and made an exquisite brunch for all of us. I’m not quite sure I liked her in this picture but this well bred obedient Catholic school girl respected her and honored her on this special day.

The definition of mother-in-law in the Merriam-Webster dictionary is as follows: The mother of someone’s husband or wife. (No mystery here…) But when I scrolled down on the page there was a question! “What made you want to look up mother-in-law?”

Be careful what you wish for...

I’ve had this bumper sticker posted on my electrical box for a couple years now. New stainless steel refrigerators are no longer magnetized, sadly. It’s been a motto for me in my personal life and in my work life as well. I have one on the door of my office for students to see when they come for appointments. But no one has seen this message this year.

This year has been different. Is this what I was longing for? Not exactly..

I’m planning a small get together for my son’s 40th birthday and I’m totally out of my wheel house! I don’t know how to entertain more than three people at a time anymore and the thought of it overwhelms me. Life has become so simple and slow with the onset of Covid19 and a world pandemic.

Craving God🔥

Dale and I were on a hike yesterday and as usual, when I am in motion, I get loose lips. “I feel guilty. I’m working from home. No makeup. No dress up. No gas expenditures. And I’m pulling in a good salary. So are you. This shelter in place has been sort of nice for us. But not for others. I feel guilty.”

Dale’s response? “It’s the Catholic in you.”

I was grateful for his comment. He noticed. Even though my Sunday Mass attendance has been abysmal and at times I can cuss like a sailor. You can take the girl out of the Catholic but you can’t take the Catholic out of the girl. Maybe I’m still going to heaven. Who knows.

On the downhill, Dale wants to run. I say go ahead. I’d rather walk. And walk in silence with this beautiful sky. It’s Holy Thursday and I am craving God.

Love one another, but make not a bond of love. Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls. ~ Kahlil Gibran, On Marriage

Of all the hundreds of wedding pictures taken at Patrick and Nazaneen’s glorious wedding, this one intrigues me the most. Two very intuitive young lovers dancing their first dance as husband and wife. What is Patrick saying to his beautiful bride? I wonder…

My father gave me the book “The Prophet” by Kahlil Gibran when I was a teenager. I’ve referred to its’ wisdom time and again

when I fell in love

when I got married

when I had children.

Mandatory Pre-Wedding Mother/Son Lunch #2

Patrick Francis Healy, my “middle child”, my #2 son, is getting married next weekend.

Named after St. Francis of Assisi and my father Edmund Francis Shaheen. classic Irish name with a bow to his grandfather, William Healy. A lover of nature, an artist, a true renaissance man outstanding in his field.

After almost two days of laboring, Patrick was born with his brown eyes wide open to check out the world. I think he was impressed. We had a quick snuggle before the nurses whisked him away to the nursery to observe him. “He’s too quiet”, they said.

In my hospital bed looking out the window at the stars, I couldn’t roll over and get comfortable. He was still with me. Safely tucked just under my heart.

Magical ...

You know my heart and its ways

You who formed me before I was born

In the secret of darkness before I saw the sun

In my mother’s womb

~Psalm 139

Welcome to the world little Bear. One more sleep and I will hold you in my arms. Your Sitti

What are we busy about?

“Your right ovary is enlarged. That’s unusual after menopause.”

This is not something you want to hear from your gynecologist when your mother died from ovarian cancer at 61 years of age. I stare at the ceiling and try to stay calm.

“Let’s schedule an ultrasound.”

I go mute. I don’t ask any questions. So unlike me. I accept my sentence and graciously take my referral paperwork from the nurse and half listen to her instructions. I need to get to work for a meeting at 9am.  I’ll process this later. It’s Wednesday and life is busy.

And the seasons they go round and round and the painted ponies go up and down. ~Joni Mitchelle

I’ve always love the song “Circle Game” by Joni Mitchell. As an adolescent when this song first came out, I never truly appreciated the significance of the lyrics. But at this time in my life, they pulse with meaning.

I’ve noticed an interesting pattern through the years and I wonder if other women my age are seeing it as well. Our children leave home and go to college. They acquire degrees and find careers that make them happy. And life feels somewhat stagnant as a parent with an empty nest. We take a back seat to many of their adventures and accomplishments. We brag about them with our closest friends or a stranger in the market, showing pictures on our phones to whomever appears interested and feel blissful when they call home to say hi or I love you. After a life full of raising sons and taking a back seat to their health, education and well being, I am often at a loss for how to proceed.

Comfort and Joy 🌲

It’s 12:30pm on Christmas day and I’m upstairs bathing my grandson, Boe, enjoying his little boy antics and squeals of glee. I check my watch and call down to whomever will hear “Hey! Don’t forget to put the roast in the oven at 1!” My sons and daughter in law are scurrying about preparing for our 20 plus guests- straightening out the toys, figuring out the logistics of the oven and deciding whether or not to do the veggies on the grill outside. “I need a bigger kitchen!” – my mantra since my first apartment as a new bride. I inherited the tendency to cook for a crowd from my mother who taught me that food is love.  I’m afraid my kitchen lust will only get me in trouble. If you build it they will come!

Oh Lordy.

Mothering Sons

I’ve come out from my writing hiatus in order to respond to an instagram post by @monbon6985-  a picture of her handsome husband, @el_nater, and their precious new baby boy, sound asleep. The caption reads “If only it was always this easy!”

To which I responded “Oh boy… so much fun to come!”

I wanted to write more but instead I’ve taken it to my blog in order to write to all mothers of sons who get their information from the internet. Here is what GOOGLE will not tell you about raising boys.

Put your mani/pedi, tea party fantasies aside and role up your sleeves. Fasten your seat belt and make sure you have easy access to oxygen and know how to put your mask on. Raising boys is not for sissies.

Choose your adventure...

On our way to the Nashville International Airport, Boe and I reviewed all the lessons learned during my week long visit. First a little Arabic…

Di´ddy Di´ddy is what you say when you hit your head or your arm or some other extremity on something that hurts! Repeat over and over while hitting the guilty object until the hurt is gone. Fa´dush! That’s what you say when someone sneezes. I think it means God Bless You. If a person is coughing or choking on something, place your hand on their back and tap lightly while repeating Sa´ha! And lastly, when dinner is ready get yourself to the table in a hurry! Ya´la!

Being Sitti

I have been reflecting on the awesome responsibility of being a grandmother. It has been a transition to say the least. And with all transitions there is an adjustment period and an awkward sense of the unknown as well as the anticipation of what is to come and how it will all look once everyone finds their sea legs.

My gracious son and daughter in law let me choose the name I would like to be called by little Boe and it was a quick decision. Like my Sittis before me, I felt that the Arabic name for grandmother was more than appropriate because it speaks of a long history of Lebanese women who wanted nothing more than to cook, feed, and make a cozy home for their families. And even though I had the means and awareness to get a college degree and beyond and have a thriving and rewarding career, I have to admit my first goal when I stepped onto a college campus at 17 years old was to get my MRS degree, have a family, and create a loving home for them.

My Easter Confession

 

Bless me Father for I have sinned. It has been so long that I can’t even remember when I last went to confession and these are my sins.

Or at least the latest ones.

Or the ones I can remember. BTW are we responsible for the ones we can’t remember?

Oh Lordy. Well here goes.

I did not attend any Easter services this season. Not Holy Thursday. Not Good Friday. Not Easter Vigil.

Zero, zip, nada.

I did this intentionally so now you know why I’m here today.