Happy 75th, Mom!

This morning, my brother, Chet, reminded me it was Mom's birthday with a post online and he mentioned how Mom used to rearrange furniture. I wrote this essay a while back, but thought I'd share it in honor of her birthday today. Miss you, Mom!

Moving Furniture

For as long as I can remember, my mom rearranged the furniture. As a kid, I’d come home from school and find the couches and end tables on opposite sides of the room; the tv pulled out from the corner and pushed up against the wall, picture frames rehung where there had been white space before.

Weeks later, I’d find another formation, or maybe things would be moved back into their original spots. Sometimes Mom would flip flop the living room and dining room and, if I didn’t get used to them, I’d find myself running into a coffee table as I made my way to the kitchen for a glass of water. Eventually, I would get used to the new arrangement just in time for Mom to change it once again. 

Summer of 1992: photo credit Elayne or Robert Logan-Currie

As an adult, nearly every time I visited my parents’ home, Mom would have moved things around. Maybe Mom bought a new side table or lamp and this new piece would inspire a new version of the living room, dining room, or sitting room. I’d notice, and offer a compliment: “It looks so much bigger now,” or “I love how I can see the plum tree when I sit here,” or “I like the new chair.” But I never got too attached. Even if I liked a room’s set up, I knew this too would pass.

Mom’s furniture moving always kept me on my toes, but I didn’t inherit this trait. In every space where I’ve lived, the furniture has found its place and stayed there for the duration. If something didn’t fit, I got rid of it. If a space needed something new, it was purchased and put in it’s new home. Even as a mother, my kids’ room has had two arrangements: one when there was just one, and another when the second came along. Maybe this trait skipped a generation. My siblings don’t seem to have it, but my sister says my niece rearranges her bedroom every few months. Maybe my little ones will rearrange when they get older.

I never asked Mom why she moved furniture all of the time. I don’t know if there was a pattern or a cause. Did she rearrange things on days when she was unhappy, or feeling restless, or bored? Mom was rarely satisfied with the status quo. She craved constant change and was always searching for ways to make her life different and better. Shifting the furniture could make a room open up, or feel more spacious, or cozy. This could become a perfect spot to watch tv, read the paper, nap, or have a conversation. Maybe if the furniture was just right, she would be satisfied. Moving furniture might have given Mom a feeling of control over her world. She moved it to remind herself that even if she couldn’t make the church, or her husband, or her children do exactly what she wanted, she could make us sit where she wanted.

I wonder how many times Mom would have shifted the furniture in the two years since she’s been gone. I never thought it would be something I’d miss, but when I visit Dad now, the house looks pretty much the same as it did the visit before; stuck in Mom’s final arrangement. I’m sure, wherever she is, she’s ready for change, and I imagine she’s watching us and thinking about just how she would like to move things around.

12 Days of Blog Posts: A Conversation with Mom

Mom has been gone for a year and a half now, and I wish I could pick up the phone and talk to her about my daily challenges and then listen to her advice, her praise, and her take on current events. I knew her well, though, so I can almost imagine what she would say to me. She would most definitely tell me I'm working too much, that I'm a wonderful mother, and that she just can't believe these Republican candidates.

I remember when I was very young, Mom told me she was so happy when I finally started walking. She used to fear something catastrophic happening and she would have to leave me behind because she just couldn't carry me. I never knew how to respond to this, but this year, as the refugee crisis made its way across the ocean and onto our screens, I understood what she meant.

When I held Baby Gabe in my arms, or loaded him into a carrier, I couldn't get the image out of my mind, of a toddler boy's body washed onto the shore. The images of families torn apart as they flee violence and oppression haunt me. I can't imagine what I would do if we had to run away from our lives, what we would take, and then comes the guilt of the privilege I have in this peaceful, stable life. I begin to understand Mom's worry and now, I can't wait for Gabe to start walking.

I recently started rereading Toni Morrison's Beloved. It's one of the books I took from Mom's shelves. I turn the pages she once turned and we continue conversations through the books we both love. I remember us talking about Beloved when we were both college students. She told me I'd have to re-read it once I was a mom. "Then," she told me, "You'll understand." I'm starting to understand.

And if I take the time to listen, I can hear Mom tell me to keep things at work in perspective and to consider saying no a little more often. I can hear her tell me that Gabe is just teething and will get back to sleeping through the night; that Kiara will figure out how to get our attention without whining and feigning injury. I hear her complain about Trump and ask if I'm voting for Hillary or Bernie; to remind me that she has been fighting against war and guns and misogyny and we just have to keep fighting. Then she tells me she loves me and can't wait to see all of us for Christmas.

I hope she's listening too, so she can hear me say I love her too, and that she will most definitely be with us for the holidays. And maybe by Christmas, Gabe will be walking.

On the Eve of My 41st Birthday

This will be my first birthday without my mom.

Mom and me :)

41 years ago she cleaned the house. I imagine her folding the laundry, picking up after her three and five-year-old, putting away dishes. She thinks maybe all that activity helped things along, made her water break.

A neighbor came over to watch my siblings while Dad drove Mom to the hospital. April is still cold in Bend and that's what Mom remembers about the drive: that her feet were cold and Dad refused to run a red light.

It wasn't the easy birth the third baby is supposed to be. There was back labor and my shoulders were too wide for the birth canal. But I arrived all the same, on a cold April morning.

Mom was with me for forty birthdays after that. I remember my little kid birthday parties: at the pool or a parade around the yard. And Mom always baked a homemade cake. I used to be embarrassed by these cakes. I thought she was being cheap and often wished for a store-bought cake with thick, white frosting. But now I wish for one of those cakes, or for the cherry crunch my sister and I often requested.

As an adult, on my birthday, Mom always called. She always sent a card in the mail, and sometimes a little gift, something she saw that made her think of me. But this year, and I'm sure for every birthday to come, I will remember Mom. I will remember all of the wonderful ways she taught me to celebrate. I will remember all of the ways she made me feel special. And that will forever be my gift from her.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom!

A poem for you, Mom, on Mother’s Day 2014

after Sandra Cisneros’ “Abuelito Who”

Mom who is far away

and wants me to call everyday

who is pain and worry and naps at noon

whose hair has gone gray

who tells me visit soon

who moves furniture around the room

who is hungry

is chocolate cake

is hamburger and fries

is full of sighs

who tells me never lie

who says question what you believe

who will never, ever leave. 

Thanks, Village.

I never read Hillary Rodham Clinton's It Take a Village, but after this first year of parenthood I am so appreciative of the village David and I have around us. We have our families and friends and the virtual community who has supported every moment of Kiara's well-documented first year. So, thank you.

Thanks for helping us prepare for our baby-girl before she came. Thank you for welcoming her when she arrived, and for providing parenting guidance in those early, frightening days, weeks, and months. Thanks for celebrating every little milestone along with us and for putting up with the over-exposure of KHarp on social media. We love our little girl and know she feels the love of this village. Thank you.

Good Hours

A gift of words for Mom, a favorite winter poem along with a few images from one of Mom's favorite artists, Rie Munoz... 

Good Hours
by Robert Frost

I had for my winter evening walk—
No one at all with whom to talk,

But I had the cottages in a row

Up to their shining eyes in snow.

And I thought I had the folk within:

I had the sound of a violin;

I had a glimpse through curtain laces

Of youthful forms and youthful faces.

I had such company outward bound.

I went till there were no cottages found.

I turned and repented, but coming back

I saw no window but that was black.

Over the snow my creaking feet

Disturbed the slumbering village street

Like profanation, by your leave,

At ten o'clock of a winter eve.