My eyes were leaking. In a recording studio, at the mic, headphones hugging my ears immersed in my favorite sound in the world. A masterfully delicious well seasoned emotionally intelligent jazz piano slow dances with my voice anticipating my every move, madly in love, transcending technique. A lifetime of the ten thousand hours it takes to master the craft, broken dreams that never went away, my shattered heart split wide open still mending, and out poured joy like an old best friend.
Right before my daughter turned eighteen, she told me she wanted to get a tattoo on her birthday. I was surprised, to say the least. We've talked about tattoos, and I'm a no tattoo kind of person. I don't judge people who have them. I just never felt the need to get one. I think the human body is a work of art in itself. But, I've seen and appreciated the beauty of the art of tattoos. It dawned on me that when we had these conversations, she was always doing the listening to my opinion on the matter, but not expressing her view.
"I couldn’t wrap my head around the news. The day I left for Atlantic City was an Ohio State University football game. Someone had pulled some surprising strings to give me the best send-off ever. I get chills thinking about it because as a huge fan of “The Best Damn Band in the Land” I was going to get the gift of a lifetime.
The other morning while everyone here at Chez Wyatt was in the kitchen getting ready for their day, my husband said, "Honey, was the grocery store out of bananas?" My daughter was walking through the kitchen for another cup of coffee and said, "Wow Dad, way to be passive-aggressive." I laughed and simply said, "Sorry babe. You mean the bananas that magically appear even when they aren't on the grocery list?" (joining in the passive-aggressive fun.) We all got a big laugh, but let's take a deeper dive.
After a challenging week of midterms my daughter, Elizabeth(16) and I celebrated with lunch at our favorite restaurant, Din Tai Fung. As we were being seated, we noticed a mother and daughter sitting near us. The daughter looked to be eight years old. Both the mother and daughter were looking down at their smartphones. Elizabeth was disturbed by this as she was facing in the direction of that view. After I poured our cups of Oolong tea, she said, "Mom, say something, anything to distract me from noticing them." I was happy to break the delicious silence of the spell the steamy tea had cast.
Out of the blue, my daughter said she wanted to buy some seeds, plant them and nurture them in her bedroom window. Actually, she first spouted research about certain houseplants and how they make the air quality better. How I love my Geek, who spends her spare time exploring random stuff that interests her. It is a constant source of fascinating information and always entertaining.
My first response was that we could buy some plants. But Elizabeth insisted on having the experience of growing them from seeds.
Of the many times in my life I have been bullied by mean girls, the mean mom from my daughter’s elementary school is a stand out. She was happy to say to my face one day, “We all have a nickname for you. We call you Heather.” I was clueless about the reference until I googled it and found the movie The Heathers, the cult classic featuring the hated trio of blonde girls of the same name.
Whenever my daughter or I have a bad day or feel frustrated, sad or mad we call for a “Pile of Cats”! It’s a girl party on my bed where our cat spends most of her days and evenings. We plop ourselves down and wait for our masterfully aloof feline to succumb to being our therapy cat. She can’t help surrendering to the worship that ensues.