Category Archives: Legacy

Sep11

Pretty in Pink- Sweet Layla Rose

Posted on by
Pretty in Pink- Sweet Layla Rose

IMG_6615

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.

I assumed the “pretending” was her way of saying that she wished I had had a girl. It stung for a moment. But I understand more now. And I can appreciate how excited she must have been when after five sons she finally got to dress baby #6 in sugar and spice and everything pink.

I understand that this gender heavy blog may be offensive to some people.  But in my 65 years, I have experienced the yin and yang of life, the masculine and feminine energies that are exquisitely different.  And I would like to bear witness to them.

Last Friday night I had the opportunity to babysit my new granddaughter, Layla Rose. My son Patrick and his wife Nazaneen were celebrating their third wedding anniversary- finally getting out from under new baby chaos to have some valuable couple time.

The intoxicating scents of baby spit up and breast milk poop took me back to those early years of mothering. (The only thing missing was the acrid smell of desitin- thank goodness.) Layla loves lying on her changing table so I took advantage of the moment to sing to her and tell her a story about a Boa Constrictor. She listened intently.

I opened the dresser drawer to find something soft and cozy to dress her in. I instinctively reached for a pink kimono. As I pulled her little arms through the sleeves and swaddled her close to me I felt my mother’s nurturing arms around me and her hands softly on top of mine.  Both of us gazed into little Layla’s eyes, welcoming her into the world of feminine energy and quietly baptizing her with love from all the mothers, grandmothers and great grandmothers in her family tree, as well as all women through time who have nurtured and loved and provided a safe landing place for others.

The three of us had a moment.

My mother died at 61 years of age- a month after I turned 30.  In the drawer of my dining room sideboard I have two precious cards from women who were my mother’s contemporaries.

The note from “Anne” reads- “Rosemarie, you will grieve and pray for your beloved mother and eventually you will realize she is immortalized and always near in your memories of love.”

Such a timely message.

When my mother died I missed her feminine energy so very much. I felt adrift in a world of men. (I know.. that sounds dramatic.) I have since then forgiven her for leaving me so early in life. And I have also forgiven her for wanting to “pretend” with my sweet #3 son.

Can I be so bold as to say that I know a lot about men? My experience with being outnumbered most of my life has been more than valuable and I wouldn’t trade any of it for all the sisters and daughters in the world!  My five brothers have always been my combined fortress and protection; as well as my antagonists, making me a strong and robust woman!  (I was told once that I am a force to be reckoned with! 😮) My three sons, Robert, Patrick and Peter, have taught me significant lessons about being a woman and a boy mom. (You should see me play three flies up!) My grandsons, Boe and Bear, keep me literally on my toes, allowing me lots of aerobic activity and little boy sweet kisses! (There’s nothing like a sticky kiss from a little man!)

And now my granddaughter Layla…  Sugar and spice and everything nice.

Thank you for bringing it all full circle.

You are truly a special messenger of love and delight-

and a gift of feminine energy for all of us.

🌹

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

May13

Being Sitti

Posted on by
Being Sitti

FullSizeRender-17

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.

I was named after my maternal Sitti, Rosa Maloof, and of course like all good Catholic girls, the Blessed Virgin Mary.  (My parents must have had high aspirations for me!)  I had to do some fact checking with my brothers and as my memory serves me, I only saw my maternal grandmother three times in my entire life.  She and my grandfather lived in Atlanta and were not fond of flying.  We were a family of eight in California and traveling across the country to see our grandparents was a bit out of the budget.  I was able to spend time with them once as a little girl, once as a teenager, and much later when I was 30.  When my mother passed away at 61 years old, they did not come out for her funeral.  It is still incredulous to me today.  I would move heaven and earth to see my children in any state (or state).

My father’s mother, Louise, died in childbirth along with her fifth child.  My dad was the oldest and we think (our collective memories) he was about 6 years old when she died.  The baby’s name was John and I remember my dad telling me the story- never with a straight face- always with tears running down his cheeks.  My brother John was named after my dad’s little brother.

My grandfather sent for a wife from Lebanon (cousins.. can you do some fact checking for me?  This is part urban legend passed down through oral history).  Her name was Madeleine and she had to quickly adjust to a new country, a new husband, and to my grandfather Thomas’ four children.  They went on to have four more children of their own whom my grandmother favored.  And she favored their children as well.

With that said, I must confess that I don’t remember having a Sitti who wanted to kiss me and hold me, babysit me and get on the floor and play with me and/or agonize over the next time she might be able to spend time with me.

I write all this not so that you will feel sorry for me.  I write it for my own understanding and for my children’s understanding.  I write it to rub a salve on a wound that has just recently been exposed as I reflect on my own experience as a grandmother.  I write it to help me understand this longing in my heart to be near my new grandson and be a part of his life.  I write it because I know I am not alone in this reflection and confession and to open a conversation about the role of a grandmother in a child’s life.

In the song Both Sides Now Joni Mitchell sings “Something’s lost and something’s gained in living every day.”  Life is not always easy.  Family is not always as Norman Rockwell would illustrate but I believe people try.  In the absence of holding me and reading stories to me, my Sittis cooked and cleaned and fed me and I suppose they thought that was enough.  But this Sitti wants something different with her grandchildren.

I would love to hear your thoughts on being a grandparent.

 

 

 

 

Nov24

A life torn asunder…

Posted on by
A life torn asunder…

I found this engagement announcement years ago after my mother passed away. I had inherited the “trunk” with all of the family heirlooms and photos.  When I first saw the fragile news clipping, I thought nothing of it really.  I assumed it had gotten torn somehow and my mom had saved it nonetheless.

Years later, while going through the trunk, I saw a different fragile news clipping.  It was a reflection of a broken heart, a broken woman, and the life she had imagined torn asunder.  She most likely carefully and deliberately tore the piece right down the middle and replaced it in a box of photos.

No accident here.  It was a message.  A statement.  Perhaps a legacy.

My mother told me once in a private conversation weeks before my own wedding,  “I never planned on being divorced”.  It was during an argument between us when I foolishly told her that what happened to her would never happen to me.  If only I could take those words back.

Not only because I am now a divorced woman.  But because my words had a certain arrogance and a sting that hurt her deeply.

No matter how you slice it, divorce wreaks havoc on a family.  It creates “teams” that don’t play well together.  It rents the fabric of family life, rearranges every holiday plan and every summer vacation.  The repercussions rear their ugly heads in the least expected moments.

Growing up is something we all have to do.  Becoming wise and learning difficult lessons is optional.  Knowing what I went through with my parents divorce, I have a difficult time digesting the fact that I had a hand in repeating this  history.  Perhaps it was my legacy.  Or an unconscious attempt at solidarity with my mother.

Maybe it was an “I told you so”.

Nonetheless, I am the woman I am today because I had to grow through the pain and struggle of my decisions.  If only I could have been this woman without having had to wreak so much damage and heartache.

We project a part of ourselves into what we see and observe.  What we interpret has everything to do with our own experience.  As a young married woman with three small children, I saw a fragile news clipping that had accidentally gotten torn. Years later I see with different eyes.  It is a statement of grief.  A message and a warning.

And sadly, a legacy.