Month: March 2016

I’m almost positive that I published this poem before. I’m doing it partly for myself and for Michael.

The stories that emerged during Michael’s 11 years of what he calls “humanitarian aid” could, and this is a cliche, fill volumes. There were smiles, tears, laughter, pride to the extent of bursting, fear to the point of hysteria, quiet waiting for the phone to ring–giving (please God) relief or the worst news a parent could ever receive…the three of us grew and survived it in different ways. Peter speaks for himself; even I don’t fully know what went on in his mind while Michael was in a horrible place. But I’ll speak for myself. Through all of it–earthquakes, floods, hurricanes–there was this quiet, calm place located in the center of my being. The image that comes to mind is a pool of water in a quiet mountain scene, full of greenery. The water in this pool is quiet and deep. Nothing disturbs it.

This poem refers to what I think was the worst summer of all. Michael was assigned by the United Nations to spend time in Russia. I won’t even try to explain in detail what happened there. But I will say that my son was listed by the UN as “missing” and nobody knew where he was. Peter and I were holding ourselves together, each in his/her own way. People asked us how we could stand it and I would say: What choice do I have? If I let myself fly into a fit of hysterics, what would that change?

This was the time when I began to know about the quiet pool at the center of things. Four months elapsed when Michael was in Russia and I went to work and back, did everything I was supposed to do and yes, I was scared, but there was this faith that held me together. It wasn’t spoken and I didn’t pray for it. After some pondering I realized: a bond existed between me and my son that nothing could break.  Michael sensed this–he told me that of all the parents of the people in his team, I was the only mother who didn’t scream, yell, cry, and threaten to throw themselves across the doorway when their children were called upon to uphold peace and order.

Am I bragging? Sort of. Did I do anything to earn these spiritual gifts? No. They were gifts from God. And I thank God that those days are firmly in the past now.

Finally, the part in the poem about “glory coming through the mail” refers to the day the mail lady brought a small box addressed to Michael from his UN supervisor. It was the blue and white ribbon of honor given to those people who gave good service; the pin, palm-shaped, is a sign of the highest achievement. Michael, having opened this package, sank down on the stairs and cried like a little boy. I just sat there with him, didn’t ask questions or try to make him stop crying. One of my better moments as a mother except that my strength came from God.

After Michael’s having spent a month in Haiti after an earthquake, I received an e-mail from a Dr. Aronson who worked alongside Michael as a volunteer. He said: Not only do you have a brilliant son but he also has a heart of gold.

I apologize to anybody who has heard these stories already. Sometimes I need to tell them again.

I’ve Walked a Road

1

With eyes and bare feet on the blistered ground

A mound of scrap, dug down,

To meet my demons

I’ve walked a road.

This is a way few women have passed

The worst and the best

Combine all the rest

A mother’s fears put to the test

I’ve walked a road.

Thousands of ways people void each other

Lose the sun

A knife and a gun

The lucky one gets out in time.

Save our skins

Nobody wins

I’ve walked a road.

2

Glory and honor come in the mail

A blue and white ribbon

Adorned with a pin

That resembles a palm

But delivers no balm

To one who feels broken

His soul seared with horror

At what he has seen

What does it mean?

A son weeps

A mother keeps

A vigil of prayer

That her son will be saved

He has braved

The worst that mankind serves out.

I’ve walked this road.

3

Healing comes in round-about ways

All the clichés

A perch on a tree

Across from a park

Mark well

The Brooklyn Museum

And the beautiful flowers

Their powers

Invite his soul

To kick up its heels

And roll on the grass

With a red-haired lass

Lilies on the pond

Float meditating

Concentrating

On what life can hold

Fan out your colors

Quietly and with grace

My son’s won his race.

I’ve walked this road.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Michael Turns 9 and the Whole World Shifted

When I was a college student and also a graduate student I learned a lot about child psychology. One fact that lodged itself in my memory was the following: there is an age span, between the ages of 9 – 14, when boys begin to emerge from childhood and begin to take on adolescent characteristics. I was forcefully reminded of this when my own son turned nine in July, 1992.

It was a year of change for the three of us. I became ill with Lyme’s Disease and I had a long tussle with this awful illness that sapped the life out of me, for a while. I went to every doctor and none knew anything that could help me. I turned to alternative medicine, in my case it was guided imagery. Every day I listened to this “healing tape” which provided healthy and healing mental images. I began to get well within days.

During my illness, when I could barely walk, Michael became nine years old and–I swear this is true–he had been quietly waiting to grow up and move on. The days of his quiet activities were gone. At home, he took over a lot of duties that had been mine. He set the table. made his bed, helped serve food, but most importantly he helped me get better. He sat with me and we did crossword puzzles and word find puzzles. It was as if he had been shot out of a cannon. Where was this energy coming from? It was after I learned about his IQ that I realized: he had been bored in the child world and wanted entry into the sphere of the adults.

Bill Clinton ran for president that fall and Peter and Michael worked as volunteers at our Democratic headquarters. Michael was everywhere at once–handing out leaflets, running errands, answering the phones. There is a (mild) bad side to this. He became a little too proud of himself and his ego swelled up like a balloon. All the adults were in awe of this little boy, rushing around with a clipboard. But things could have been a lot worse, as we all know. We were intensely proud of him and he had a part in my gaining my health back.

A few years ago Michael told me something that made me cry. He confided that when I was well again and not having to stay on my bed or on the couch all day, he missed my being ill because we had these fun times doing word finds together. He didn’t want to hurt my feelings, he said, but he wanted me to know that he enjoyed the time I was sick. The whole truth is that I didn’t want my time with Lyme’s Disease to traumatize my son, so I got the idea of working on puzzles together–something where I didn’t have to move around. I’m proud to say that I got full marks for being a good mother from my husband and others who knew what was going on.

 

The Coming of Rosie the Fox

2

This friend name Mike was playing with one of those “Skill Master” machines where a giant clamp comes down and, if you’re lucky, you grab hold of a toy. Mike got hold of a stuffed toy, a young fox, and gave the stuffed baby fox to Michael when Michael was about 6. Michael called the little thing “Rosie.”

In a strange and weird way this fox became part of our family. I’m not sure if there are words to describe this. Because Michael was grave and quiet at this time and took things seriously–his behavior wasn’t ever childish–we were drawn into this world with Michael and we (sort of) accepted Rosie. Michael always talked about Rosie in a perfectly plain way as if Rosie was another child in our family. As I said–it was weird. But we knew by then that we had a “tiger by the tail” and nothing was ever going to be “normal” in the accepted way.

Eventually Michael was given a larger fox; I can’t remember who gave her to him. But Michael said that Rosie had a mother now and he was happy for Rosie. Michael told me in his serious way that Rosie’s mother’s name was “Regina.” I was told by Michael that “Regina” means “queen.”

According to my six year old son the pair lived in a space under the house. Safe, snug, and happy. For me, I loved hearing these stories. I couldn’t help but see that Rosie was some kind of reflection of Michael, especially when Regina came and mother and child lived with us, separated but with us at the same time.

Then there were funny incidents that Peter and I still talk about. Michael told me that Regina was teaching Rosie how to hunt. They only went out at night. I asked Michael to tell me how foxes hunt and what are they hunting for? I was told that foxes hunt for geese and that they simply “grabbed them by the leg.” We–Peter and I–still laugh at this, not in a cruel way of course. It was the way Michael told us these things, again, seriously, with a kind of reality, not baby-like.

I made a turtle neck sweater for Rosie out of an old red sock. Regina, to signify her status as a queen, wore a yellow scarf around her neck.

The Coming of Rosie the Fox

1

Peter had a friend, named Mike, from his past days as a rough and tumble young man, drinking and having hours-long conversations with other artists. Eventually I met all of these men and Wow what a group–no  problems with mixed races, genders, individual opinions on art. They all drank heavily. So when I entered the picture the group could immediately see that I was “different” from the few women with whom they hung out. I’m not a drinker–this isn’t coming from any feelings of morality–my system doesn’t handle alcohol well. I was more shy then and I didn’t talk much. But on Saturday afternoons we’d go down into central Philadelphia to their bar/art gallery and I liked just standing around and watching and listening. Mesmerized by the freedom, the loud R & B music they had playing all afternoon, and everyone dancing, not always with a partner… You just stood up and danced.

Then I got pregnant with Michael and as my belly swelled these men centered on me. I was a goddess to them. They sat me up on a high stool and wanted to touch my belly. Now a lot of women would hate this, I am sure. But I’m not like those women. I loved how reverential they were to me; they made me feel like a queen of fertility. These men were not like tamed animals, following all of society’s rules; they had a raw quality about them that I truly loved to see and feel. Also they looked at Peter with more respect than ever. Here is “Pete” who had been so wild, drinking everybody else under the table, having actually found a “good woman,” bought a house, and was going to have a child of his own Very cool indeed. What does this have to do with “Rosie?”

 

 

 

So many people said to me: how can you stand working with your husband all day? My answer was: It helps to have your back against the wall. I would have done anything to be at home when Michael got off the school bus. This was the path that opened for me. It actually turned out that I liked the work.

Michael played quietly in his own world. In the basement he built a small city with buildings, streets. a railroad, tiny people. This was called Stewartville because we had nice neighbors up the street who loved Michael and their last name was Stewart. I believed in encouraging Michael’ creative interests so I didn’t make him sit at the dinner table with us if he was deeply involved in creating Stewartville. I brought him a plate of cheese and crackers.

Then we had a long day of stormy rain and water gushed in, soaking Stewartville. I cried and cried. Why didn’t we live in a better house where there was more room and no water coming in?

Michael’s comment: “Don’t cry Mom. I will rebuild.”

And he did re-build this tiny town complete with a town square, with a monument to those who lost their lives in the flood.

 

 

 

 

Things changed dramatically with Michael almost the minute he turned 9.

However–I can’t leave this story out. One Saturday Peter had to go to New York City for the day. So Michael and I had a fun day planned. I can’t remember what our plans were; but we were standing at the checkout line in the supermarket and we saw that the movie “Jurassic Park” was available (on VHS.) I’m not an impulse buyer but the two of us saw it for sale and we bought it.

When we left my car broke down. This happened on a rarely-traveled road fortunately. No cells phones then. So I went up to a house nearby and the people there let me use their phone to call the service station. Our service station guys were my knights in shining armor. They always could be counted on to help us when we got stuck. So along comes one of them driving his monster truck. Quickly and deftly he hooked my car onto the back of the truck and Michael and I squeezed into the cab. It was fortunate that our home and service station were not too far apart. We got left off at home–with no vehicle to drive.

I felt sad. This was supposed to be a special day. Our pizza place delivered so I said to Michael: “I’m sorry Michael. I guess we’re stuck with Jurassic Park and pizza.”

Michael’s answer, never to be forgotten: “That sounds great to me, Mom!!!”

And guess what? It was great.

 

 

Once several issues were settled in 1988–my exit from the world of business, Michael’s entry into the larger world, and enjoying a rise in our income due to the big commission we got via “the birds,” our family enjoyed peace. However, this was a peace of a certain kind. The three of us endured some painful situations and now it was time to enjoy everyday life; also, we became what we called a “functional” family. We had family meetings if something troubling came up; the three of us loved to be together. Michael and I enjoyed certain activities; Peter and Michael had their own kind of fun, and finally Peter and I hired a babysitter to come every Sunday evening so we could go out on “date night.” It was all lovely and I know that those six years are a part of me. I’ll never lose them.

We lived in an odd little corner of Media, PA, right over the boundary line of Upper Providence Township. Glen Providence Park sat with its entrance only yards from our home. You could enter the park, walk through it, then end up in the town of Media proper. When we first moved to this place the park was an atrocious dumping ground of all kinds of garbage–I remember seeing old refrigerators down there in the deepest part. However, somehow money was appropriated and the park was made beautiful. It really was a lovely walk–I still miss it–but I miss it mostly because Michael and I took walks there.

To enter this park you would walk down on wooden stairs into a huge ravine and reach the floor of the divide. In the middle a pond sat, shimmering. Surrounded by trees, wildflowers, and shrubs, listening to birdsong, you would feel removed from suburban-town life. You could feel the quiet. Michael and I enjoyed this many times. We crossed the bottom of the park, then climbed the big hill, after which we found ourselves at the end of State Street, the street where all the stores were. There was a little candy store on State Street where we would go for something nice to eat. State Street is a circus now, more stores and restaurants crowded in together, continual traffic. In those days it was quieter. As we crossed the streets, Michael and I, we would hold hands. He didn’t mind holding my hand when crossing streets until he reached the age of 9 when he went through a sudden, awesome growth spurt that knocked Peter and myself back on our heels.

Those times retain a dreamy quality. It was simple–it was beautiful–it was full of love and joy.  These are the times I hold in my heart.

I have to make sure I don’t get carried away. There are so many stories here, I’m sure I could keep writing about Michael forever.

Before I move on I need to tell this story.

Those three awful years with Michael in day care weren’t 100% awful. I had been working for Wyeth Laboratories and less said about that, the better. I had to leave–I was physically ill from the stress–and fortunately I have several “skill sets.” I’m a good, fast typist and I know medical terminology. So I got hired at Bryn Mawr Rehabilitation Hospital on Philadelphia’s Main Line. Wonderful! All I had to do all day was listen to tapes made by doctors and transcribe them. It was the perfect job for me; I can think my own thoughts and still type accurately. The problem, as I saw it, was the group of women there. Having been bullied and back-stabbed at Wyeth, I had been burned; so I was traumatized. I was constantly on the alert for more signs of bullying, gossiping, etc.

There were four other medical transcribers there and I was sure they were talking about me. But God bless them–one of them approached me and asked me something. I can’t remember what it was but it basically addressed my being so standoffish. As it turned out these women were warm, funny (really funny !) and rebels besides. The small hospital was run with total efficiency. One half hour for lunch–and they meant A HALF HOUR–and a 15-minute break in the morning. The ladies who transcribed all day were always plotting to get away with something. Our boss was a young woman–about 25 years old–who had just graduated from some school for medical records. Her style of management? She watched us like a hawk.

So my new friends were always trying to get away with something naughty. After all the bullying, fear, and back-stabbing I’d known for a year at Wyeth I could not help but join in these escapades. Childish? Of course! But I wasn’t there for a career; I just had to work to make money. It was like putting a bandage on a wound. My lady friends had a radio and they kept it on all day, tuned to Philly’s oldies station. They soon found out that yes, I loved rock music but I hated the Rolling Stone’s song Under My Thumb. So I’d be at my desk, furiously typing away and one of them would say: “Psst! Hey Leslie! We need some help with spelling a medical term right!” So into their office I went and guess what song was playing on the radio??!!

After this happened twice it became a ritual. When I heard “Psst!” I knew old Mick Jagger was hissing and snarling about having some dumb stupid girl under his thumb.

Back to the anchor in my life. Michael wasn’t injured in any way during those three years. He had a good time in day care. The pediatrician Berry Brazelton wrote books about raising kids and other than Mr. Rogers–who wrote a wonderful book about being a parent–he was my guru. He wrote that probably young children, as a rule, were not particularly injured in full time day care. But how about the mothers and fathers? They were the ones who felt pain on being separated from their babies and toddlers for all that time. He turned his discontent towards our government that doesn’t support the needs of families with children.

I remember when I was home all day with Michael, the day came when he refused to be fed with a spoon. If you offered him a spoonful of food he’d push it away–at only three months old. Of course I got upset about this and I talked to our pediatrician. Included in the “God Bless” category was this young doctor, Raymond Fabius. He said: “Mrs. Mastroianni. Michael has reached the age when he wants to feed himself. So just take whatever foods he might like, cut them up into tiny little pieces, and put these pieces on the tray of his high chair. Remember, he won’t starve to death.” So for a pretty long time Michael lived on dry Cheerios, little chunks of bagels and cream cheese, and those snack crackers that come in cellophane wrapping, broken up into tiny pieces.  But Dr. Fabius–who we called “Dr. Fabulous”–said something else that came to be the central truth about Michael. Peter and I still talk about this.

Raymond Fabius must have sensed, even at that young age, Michael’s incredibly high IQ and what comes along with it. His advice–YOU’VE GOT A TIGER BY THE TAIL. ALL YOU CAN DO IS FEED HIM, CLOTHE HIM, AND DON’T LET GO OF THE TAIL. When Michael grew to young manhood and wanted to save the world (and almost got killed, over and over, in the process) Peter and I reminded each other of that. It was the truth about Michael.

 

 

After going through the awful time–it lasted three years–of being employed full time with Michael in day care, the year 1988 brought peace and and comfort. Michael was going to kindergarten in the mornings; also, I found this wonderful place in the Unitarian Church, just around the corner from where we lived. It was an afternoon program for kindergarten children, something new, run by a young woman named Jennifer. I interviewed her before I placed Michael in there. It turned out that Jennifer loved drama and putting on plays plus she had a lot of good ideas for crafts. It didn’t seem like the “warehouses” where Michael had been in for three years. Finally, there was a special bus that took the children from school to the church. What mother would want more? What a great year that was!

At the same time I broke free from the business world and went to work with Peter. At the same exact time he had been given a commission to create rubber molds for a sculptor who carved birds from wood. It was the biggest job he’d had and he needed help so he taught me how to pour liquid resin–a form of plastic–into his molds and eventually this would produce a beautiful bird sculpture.

This is what my day was. Get up and get Michael ready for school, sat with him until the school bus came, then drove over to the industrial park where our shop was. Made birds until 3 PM, after which I drove home. Jumped into the shower to get all the dirt and muck off me, threw my dirty work clothes into the basement, then drove over to the church. Michael was happy and not restless anymore. Jennifer, although young, had a very nice way of getting the children interested in things and they were always active–just right for my restless son who constantly wanted to experience life, even at that age.

At the end of the school year Jennifer, using heavy black trash bags to make graduation robes for the kids, also prepared a special presentation and all the parents came.

Michael was made valedictorian and gave a speech. Even then I was “kvelling” and there were a lot more of those times to come.

Finally I must add this part of the story. When I knew that Michael would be entering kindergarten, I was told that only morning kindergarten children could be in the afternoon program at the church. I called our Board of Education and demanded that Michael be placed in morning kindergarten. I was told that yes, I could have that for him but they didn’t start a list for these children until after January 1st. So it’s not a big jump to imagine what I did at 9 AM on the first working day of the new year!!!

Peter called me a “tiger mother,” that I would fight hard for what was right for our son. He said it in a comedic way but it was true. I could write a complete blog just about all the times I went up against various authority figures in schools to demand fair treatment for Michael. Once, when Michael was in middle school, he was told he did something bad and would have to be placed in detention after school. Michael told me he did not do anything bad, and he was being blamed for something that another student did. I went “toe to toe” up against the Vice Principal and I did not back down. I remember clearly, looking at this man right in the eyes and I did not look away. In the end, since he couldn’t humiliate me or my son, Michael did not have to go to detention.

 

I looked up quotes about mothers and sons and found this lovely one, from Sophocles.

You’re not supposed to feel this way, are you? Your son shouldn’t be your anchor. You have friends, a career, an educational goal, you want to paint or sculpt…so says our society and our culture. It sounds fine but it isn’t true.

I think it must be a different kind of thing, between mothers and daughters. I don’t know why, it’s just an instinct. I grew up in the middle of a tight, warm, matriarchal clan and knew nothing of little or big brothers. But what’s the point of having a blog if you’re not honest? Michael is the anchor of my life. Even Peter tells me this. He’s not jealous of the link between Michael and me; he was a boy and had a mother of his own. It’s nice to be married to somebody as smart and selfless as he is.

In the delivery room, when I heard those words–It’s a boy–my life became complete. I had no idea what lay before me but now I had a son. Now I could relax and put the long labor I’d experienced behind me. Something clicked into place–the last piece of the puzzle of my life fit in perfectly.

When I looked at him I had the oddest thoughts and reactions. The first thought I had was “Oh, there you are!” We looked into each other’s eyes. Peter was crying as he watched this first bonding take place. Also, a thought came that Michael and I shared; and I have spent 30 years trying to put this into words. I didn’t feel all mushy and tearful; I felt like a football coach. There was this game called life and it was my job to teach him the rules, say something encouraging to him, then send him out onto the field.

From Michael’s birth until he turned five our family–the three of us–went through a few crises, mostly economical. Peter was self-employed; after almost two years of being a stay-at-home mom I had to get a job; Michael was put into full time day care at two years old; I hated all of this, everything, and I became ill. Fortunately, we didn’t drag on like this forever. Michael went into kindergarten–he had a full day–and I left the business world, thank heavens, and went to work with Peter in his mold shop.

Those times of being home all day with an infant, then a toddler, were not always pleasant. Often I cried from frustration because Michael was so restless. He was incapable of sitting and playing with toys for more than a few minutes. Of course I imagined the worst–that he had some kind of mental problem–but as some time passed we learned that he was blessed with what is called “an off-the-charts” IQ. He became bored quickly, “baby things” didn’t hold his interest. He wanted to be going places all the time. On rainy days, if I couldn’t take him out in a stroller, I’d put him in his baby seat, fold up the stroller and stick it in the back, then drive around. There was a shopping mall in the town of Exton, PA that had a huge space put aside for children to play. I was usually one of the first moms there on a rainy day. No wonder I could eat whatever I wanted and not gain weight!!! I was constantly moving. But although I cried because of the demands on me I wasn’t angry and resentful. I was a football coach and he was my anchor.