'Like a Last Rain' on Mother's Day

“And what about those who don’t have a mother?” — “The Unmothered,” by Ruth Margalit, The New Yorker, May 9, 2014

Last week an acquaintance of mine asked if I was celebrating Mother’s Day. I was caught off-guard. We were on the bus, and had been making small talk prior to this question; I hadn’t eaten any breakfast that morning; and I was not at all prepared to be reminded that one of my least favorite days of the year was on the horizon.

“No,” I said flatly. He looked away for a moment. I decided to be a normal human being and try again. I asked, brightly, “What about you? Does your mother live nearby?”

I knew it was safe to ask about his mother, because his upbeat and unassuming way of asking about the holiday made it clear he had a mother around to celebrate. I was right, of course. He told me about his lovely plans with his family and I continued to smile, wondering if it was at all obvious that inside, I was screaming.

The conversation moved on, as conversations do, and soon enough I got off the bus and walked toward my office, feeling more annoyed with myself than anything else. Sooner or later, I tell myself, I’ll handle these types of questions with grace. And maybe I almost did, this time. I’m not really sure. But what was my alternative? Drop the “No, my mom is dead” bomb in the middle of the 66 bus at 9 a.m.? No thank you. I guess I’ll just sound like a jerk.

With each passing Mother’s Day that Mother’s Day continues to, somehow, exist in this world without my mother alive, I convince myself that this year, I won’t have these moments. I won’t have the conversation I manage to have every year, where some perfectly nice, clueless person who still has a mother and doesn’t really know me asks about my Mother’s Day plans. (I wrote about this dilemma on this very blog four years ago, actually.)

All of this is to say that I’m fine. No, really, I’m fine.

---

“Trust me, I’m too aware of the fact that my mother is gone to wish her here in any serious way on Mother’s Day. But does the holiday have to be in May, when the lilacs are in full bloom? When a gentle breeze stirs—the kind of breeze that reminds me of days when she would recline on a deck chair on our Jerusalem porch, head tilted back, urging me to ‘sit a while’?”

---

Mother’s Day often has a way of making me feel very alone in this world. That, of course, is insane. Over the course of the day, I got thoughtful texts and messages from different women in my life who are the proof that I am far from alone: my aunt Deborah; my cousin Micaela; my sister-in-law Tina; my friends Lauren and Natalie. But to not have my mother here on this Earth is to feel a specific sort of aloneness, something that, in spite of all the messages in the world, can never be replaced. This reality used to—and sometimes, on low days, still will—fill me with despair.

That feeling began to threaten me yesterday, if only for a brief moment. I started to feel the sadness take over. I made coffee and didn’t drink any of it. Everything had been fine, but then it was not fine. I sat down at my computer and found this article that I keep quoting here. I thought it would make me feel better, and it would have had I let it, but after I read it I just felt vaguely sick, nauseous. I went outside to my back porch and sat directly in the sun, my bare legs prickling from the heat for the first time in a year. I looked up and squinted into the sun.

I knew what I needed to do. I went back inside to get my phone so I could call my dad. I saw that he had already beat me to the punch, with a short text that said nothing and everything: “hey al hope you’re having a good weekend.”

I went back to my piece of sunshine and called him. The feeling that had threatened to turn this day into a nightmare faded. He is still here. It’s okay. It really is.

The sun was hot on my face. I was not alone.

---

"What is the death of a loved one if not an oxymoron? My mother isn’t here, and yet I see her everywhere. I kept on looking for hints of her on the page, as though by retracing her beloved books and poems I would get to reclaim a part of her that was already slipping away."

---

Later in the afternoon the weather shifted from warm sunshine to a cool thunderstorm. When the weather turned, I curled up with my cat Layla next to the open window, the blinds flapping gently from the breeze. I found a movie that I knew Mom and I had watched together, more than once—Sense and Sensibility.

Mom was not there.

Or was she? Next to my television, the framed photo of the two of us at my high school graduation stared back at me. In it, our cheeks are pressed together; our smiles are big. We look just alike. I remember, that spring, counting down the days until I would graduate. If only she can stay healthy to see me graduate, I would think. We made it to graduation. She made it even through that long, hot summer, to come move me in my college dorm. But that would be it. There would be no more landmark moments after that. No more. We’re done.

These thoughts are exhausting. These are the thoughts that take over on Mother's Day. I stared at our photo, not even paying attention to the movie, and I remember posing for it. I remember the feeling of my mother’s warm cheek against mine. I tell myself I remember.

Emma Thompson and Kate Winslet were still talking about something or other on my television screen. I stopped thinking and staring altogether and fell asleep, my fat cat’s paw resting in my hand.

When I woke up from my nap, the feelings were gone. The rain had stopped. The day was once again, just another day.

And I will miss my mom again tomorrow. And then again the next day. And all the days after. But it doesn’t have to be a Day. It just is. We keep on living.

---

“There’s a word in Hebrew—malkosh—that means 'last rain.' It’s a word that only means something in places like Israel, where there’s a clear distinction between winter and the long, dry stretch of summer. It’s a word, too, that can only be applied in retrospect. When it’s raining, you have no way of knowing that the falling drops would be the last ones of the year. But then time goes by, the clouds clear, and you realize that that rain shower was the one. Having a mother—being mothered—is similar, in a way. It’s a term that I only fully grasp now, with the thirst of hindsight: who she was, who I was for her, what she has equipped me with.

Like a last rain, my mother left behind an earthy scent that lingered long after she was gone.

Like a last rain, for a fleeting moment, everything she touched seemed to glow.”

Tis the Season

I am really getting in the Christmas spirit this year. Maybe it’s my new Christmas tree. Maybe it’s because my annual reading of Holidays on Ice had me laughing my ass off on the train to myself even more than usual. Maybe it’s my “Let It Snow” Spotify playlist. Maybe it’s from watching Christmas Vacation on a twice-weekly basis and texting quotes to my cousins nonstop.

Whatever it is, I’m going with it.

Yesterday I read this article, “The sentimental, cynical, undying charm of A Christmas Story,” in which the writer makes a lot of wonderful points, not just about that movie, but about the holidays in general. She writes:

"But what happens after that perfect Christmas, when you get the ultimate shiny, exciting thing you asked for, then realize it can’t get better than this? A Christmas Story doesn’t say, but we adults know what happens: The wanting of mere things starts to lose its glittery seasonal appeal. The magic of childhood yuletide fades, and eventually morphs into something else.

There’s a moment in the season-two Christmas episode of The Wonder Years—a TV series that does a much more sentimental version of the narrated-flashback trick from A Christmas Story—when narrator Kevin Arnold describes that transformation as one where the holiday stops “being about tinsel and wrapping paper” and starts “being about memory.” If you believe that’s what happens to Christmas when we grow up, then it makes total sense that narrator Ralphie looks back on the Christmas Story December with such wry wistfulness. It’s because very soon after, possibly the following year, Christmas turned into a time for him to look back, instead of looking forward.

The warm, achingly bright glow of nostalgia is what makes Christmas such an emotional holiday, and it’s also what draws some people to A Christmas Story."

First off, anyone who references The Wonder Years in an article about anything knows exactly what she’s talking about, in my humble opinion. But it’s the part about “the warm, achingly bright glow of nostalgia” that I think is so on point.

My childhood was packed with special Christmas memories. Going to my grandparent’s house on Christmas Eve, with our “Christmas Classics” or “A Very Special Christmas” tapes blaring in the station wagon (later, the Taurus). My brother and I would sing along to Jim Nabors’ “Go Tell It On the Mountain” and Run DMC’s “Christmas Is,” laughing hysterically to ourselves. While at my grandparent’s, we’d all help decorate their tree, one with those absurdly enormous multicolor bulbs and silver tinsel that got everywhere. My grandma would always let me set up the nativity scene on the windowsill, something that filled my child heart with joy and pride. On the way home, we’d usually give my great-grandma, Nannie, a ride home, and Mom would sit in the backseat next to me, a blanket over us as I rested my head on her shoulder and we looked out the car window in awe at all the Christmas lights on the houses.

On Christmas morning, my brother would run to my room to wake me up at an ungodly early hour, where we’d immediately run to the living room and squeal over our newly-filled stockings and presents under the tree. Then we’d run to our parent’s room, where we’d immediately get shot down about them getting up at 5 a.m. to open presents.

So we’d put on the shortest Christmas movie imaginable—typically, How The Grinch Stole Christmas (what is that, like 35 minutes long?)—and then run back again to wake them up. By this point, they’d usually cave, and as they made their coffee, we’d start passing out the presents. Stockings came first, followed by the presents. I always got to start the rotation of unwrapping, because I was the youngest.

Usually after all the presents were unwrapped, you’d find me in the recliner, already reading one of my new books while surrounded by wrapping paper. Next would be a Christmas breakfast, also marking the moment when Dad would inevitably try to play his Three Tenors Christmas album or Mom would try for Gloria Estefan. Afterward, we’d spend the day with my dad’s side of the family, which included two of my favorite Christmas memories with my Grandma Hamm—the year she gave me sugar cookie dough as a gift, and then the infamous year when she gave my younger cousin Claire peanut butter, which Claire promptly started eating with her fingers in the middle of the room, much to the aggravation of my Aunt Linda and the delight of me.

The point is: I was one lucky kid. I don’t have any sad or bad memories of the holidays, just ones like these. The last year my mother was alive, I was 17, a senior in high school. She almost died of a blood infection just a week before Christmas, but by Christmas Day, she was back home, feeling better—or at least putting on a hell of a show for all of us. I actually got sick that year, coming down with a fever on Christmas Eve, and I unwrapped those final presents with my mom in the room with a cold washcloth on my forehead, burning up with fever. But it didn’t matter: she was there. We were all together. It was a gift.


The holidays were the hardest after she was gone. They’re still hard. But we’ve had a lot of time for new traditions, and new family members to celebrate with, like my dad’s girlfriend, Debbie, who insisted I needed a Christmas tree for my apartment and knew just how much I would love to have some of my mom’s old ornaments. We have my one-year-old niece Polly, who could make even the coldest Grinch smile when she winks one of her gorgeous brown eyes, one of her new tricks. (I can only assume she'll be reading Dickens by her 3rd Christmas.)

So yes, I get a little emotional at the holidays, like when I burst into tears when I found the snowman ornament, the last ornament I ever picked out with my mom. I miss her terribly at this time of year. But I also know that I will always have those memories with family, and more to create with family and friends. Nothing can take away the memory of leaning my head on my mother’s shoulder, and staring at the holiday lights with delight.

Happy holidays to you all, and I hope, if there’s anyone special you’re missing this season, you have great memories to cherish, knowing that no matter how much time passes, those will always remain.

Now let’s drink some eggnog and make merry! It's getting too real around here.

And don’t forget:

“And when Santa squeezes his fat white ass down that chimney tonight, he's gonna find the jolliest bunch of assholes this side of the nuthouse!”

A Long Overdue “To Do”

I write a lot of “to do” lists. They’re pretty much always the same—and I pretty much almost always still forget, or neglect, to do half of the things on it. But I still get a little thrill when I draw a line through one of them, marking it off: Yoga. Laundry.

One that I haven’t marked off in far too long is one that makes the top of the list nearly every time. That “to do” is “Write Grandma E”—that is, my Grandma Exckhardt, my mother’s mother. Aside from the fact that I’ve run out of stationary for the first time in a decade, I don’t have one good reason to not mark this off the list every time. Especially since every time I do mark that off the list, and drop that letter in the mail, I feel really happy.

This evening, while on the phone with my dad, he rather politely reminded me of this neglect, hinting that maybe I hadn’t been in touch with Grandma recently, and that maybe, just maybe, that might hurt her feelings. My heart lurched as soon as I realized he was right: When was the last time I had written Grandma?

It’s been months.

When we got off the phone I paced around my kitchen for a minute, feeling awful. Should I call now? But no, it’s too late—I’ll probably just wake her up. Then I thought, I’ll write her a letter right now. I’ll mail it tomorrow; she should get it by Saturday.

This plan didn’t seem good enough, either, so I vowed to myself that I’d call tomorrow, either on my lunch break or as soon as I got home from work.

Whether your line of thought right now is either “Wow, calm down” or “Geez, can’t you even take the time to call your own grandmother?”—I don’t really blame you for either. On the one hand: Calm down. I can rectify this. On the other: Can’t I take the time to call my own grandmother?

I’m bad at keeping in touch. If it weren’t for Facebook and email, I’m sure plenty of people would forget I even exist. I’m that bad.

But: my grandma doesn’t use the Internet. She also doesn’t live in Chicago. She lives in Muncie, Indiana, and she and my grandpa spend the winters in Florida with my aunt. Hence, the importance of the letters or phone calls. Neither of which I’ve been doing.

You should know something about my Grandma E: She is thoughtful.

And when I say thoughtful, I mean thoughtful. One year I told her how good the birthday cake she made for my party was, and she made the exact same cake the following year. Based on one offhand comment! Because she knows how much I love devilled eggs—and hers in particular—she makes some every single time she knows she’s going to see me. Every time. Even if she’s not hosting the get together. She does it because she knows I love them. She has done this for years.

There’s nothing that’ll really make you feel worse than acting less than thoughtful to a person who is always thoughtful to you. Know what I mean?

But it’s more than that. Because there’s another thing you should know about my Grandma E: my mother adored her.

Well, duh—that’s her mother. But, whenever my mom talked about her, whenever my mom was around her, even as a kid, I could feel not only the love between them, but also the respect that my mother had for her. They had a special bond, perhaps not unlike the bond I felt with my mom.

How Do You Know Who You Are?

“How do you know who you are?” asks artist and author Maira Kalman in her book, The Principles of Uncertainty. I’ve not read the book, but I’ve been a fan of Kalman’s work since I first saw her blog, “And the Pursuit of Happiness” for the NYT. So when I saw this post about her at Brain Pickings today, I was once again struck by her musings.

It’s something on my mind today, this question, “How do you know who you are?”

Ten years ago today, my mother died. I dread the approach of the 29th of October like nothing else. It’s coming up, I think. Is there any way to get out of it? It’s silly, really. Well, it is silly and not silly all at once. On the one hand, it is only a day. To be blunt: my mother is still dead, every other day of the year. It’s not really any better or worse on this particular date, now is it?

Nonetheless, it is still a day—the day—that, ten years ago, marked the worst day of my life. At one moment, she was here, and the next, she was not.

So every October 29th, at some point—sometimes at multiple moments throughout the day—I feel it all over again. I feel the exact feeling in my stomach that I felt 10 years ago, when I heard a nurse say, “Her heart did stop.” It is a swift kick in the stomach. When it happened this morning, I was rubbing my eyes, convincing myself to shake off my sleepy feeling. And then: BAM. I felt it.

Thanks, October 29th. I’m awake now.

After my mother died, I began thinking of my life in two parts: before Mom died, and after. Things were one way, and then they were another. I also began to think of myself in two ways: how I was before Mom died, and how I was after. It’s really no wonder one day can seem so monumental! I’m thinking of my entire life split in pieces from it.

How do you know who you are, when you are mapping so much of your identity from this loss? I hate it. I want to stop. I think of ways to stop. But it doesn’t really work that way—instead, the elaborate daydreams begin. It’s a little game I play in my brain, where I wonder what my life would be like, what I would be like, if my mother hadn’t died.

It’s a dangerous game, this game of what ifs and if onlys—and I’m tired of it, quite frankly. Of course, it might seem completely self-absorbed that, on the day of my mother’s death, I’m asking all these questions about myself, and not her. But while it’s about me, it’s still about her, all the same.

Of course I am not the same as I was when my mom died, and thank God for that! After all, I was a teenager—18, just starting freshman year of college. Now I am closer to 30 than 20. And so when I think of the question, “Who am I?” it ties into this day so perfectly because on this day, when I particularly miss my mother and feel the utter finality of her absence, I think, I never knew my mother as an adult. She never knew me. And who in the hell am I, anyway?

I don’t always have the answer to that, but I have an idea. Sometimes it changes. Sometimes I like the answer. Sometimes I don’t.

But if my mother taught me anything, it was this very important lesson:

You can be pleased with nothing when you are not pleased with yourself.

So what if I don’t have it all figured out. So what if I can’t always exactly pinpoint the answer to the question, “Who am I?”

Today I am a woman who misses her mother. Tomorrow, I will still be that woman, but it will no longer be this day, and maybe I can think of something else. All I can really try to do is be pleased with the honest answer to the question, “Who in the world am I?” and maybe, just maybe, if I’m pleased with it, it’s not unlikely that she would be too.

Like Kalman says:

What would happen?

It's My Baby's Birthday! The Rainbow Chronicles Turn 3

Holy crap, you guys. So, I've been sitting here, watching Young Frankenstein and painting my nails (don't even pretend you're not jealous of this wild Wednesday evening) and I remembered:

Today, the Rainbow Chronicles turn 3! If only I had some Funfetti! Quick, go get a cupcake to eat while you read this!

It seems that last year, I neglected to host a blogging birthday celebration—I was far too busy feeling a lot of feelings about my recent discovery of James Blake—but this year, I'm in more of a celebratory mood. I mean, Gene Wilder and Peter Boyle are dancing on the television right now, and if that doesn't put you in the partying mood, what will?

For the first birthday bash, in 2010, back when I was still a young girl of 25, I recapped my favorite moments of my first full year of blogging. There was a lot of talk about Swayze, Schwinn Breezes named Patricia, and waiting tables. And of course, some more serious posts about family and my seemingly never-ending job search.

Now, two years later, though Sunday Swayze Fest may not happen as often as we'd all like (and by "we" of course I mean "I"), I can still say with all honesty that my most recent viewing of Dirty Dancing was three days ago and I now own a t-shirt with Patrick Swayze on it (clutch Christmas gift from Jay and Jasmine). So never fear, faithful Rainbow groupies. Swayze Fest will always be here in my heart, if not every Sunday on this blog.

And while I still occasionally have elaborate daydreams about riding my Schwinn Breeze all over town, I think we all know in reality I'm far too clumsy and terrified of Chicago traffic for that to happen more than twice every three years.

Speaking of clumsy—today at the coffee shop, I may or may not have knocked a framed record off the wall. Glass shattered, people stared, and I turned beet red, slumped into my seat, and cursed my elbows.

Back to the birthday bash, and away from my awkwardness, if at all possible. One thing I love about looking back over the last three years of blogging is how, in many ways, it's a tidy chronicle of my life. Of course, it's not a complete chronicle, and it never should or will be one, but as I look back I remember a lot—good and bad. Sometimes I laugh. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I think, "What kind of a creep reads her own blog archive?" But basically, looking back over this blog on its "birthday" makes me happy, and it makes me a little sentimental. Kind of like an actual birthday.

Three years ago, I sat in my first Chicago apartment's kitchen, listened to some Fiona Apple, and braved my first blog post, "Small Town and Scared Shitless in the Big City." Looking back, I'm almost shocked by my fears of exploring new places, and I'm still a little embarrassed about sharing those fears with the Interwebs. I may no longer be the young woman who's "scared shitless in the big city," but I don't mind admitting that no matter how long I live in Chicago, I'll still be that same "small town" girl who listens to Fiona and enjoys hanging out with my cats in the comfort of my home.

I recently reread A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. Like many of my books, it was originally my mother's, and I vaguely remembered reading it when I was younger. When I found an index card tucked in the pages with my name and a sequence of numbers on it, I realized with glee that it was my 7th grade locker combination. I loved every minute re-reading the story of Francie and her family. Pretty much all of my reading happens in one of two places: on the train to and from work, or in bed. Sometimes, I get a little self-conscious after being completely absorbed in a book on a crowded train—I can only imagine the faces I must have been making as, teary eyed, I read the scene where Francie's mother shoots the man attempting to attack Francie in the stairwell. When I realized I was at my stop, I shoved the book in my bag and noticed some middle-aged guy was giving me a similar look to the ones I give the people shouting nonsensically in public. (Yes, that happens. I blogged about it.) But hey, if my funny faces keep a fellow commuter entertained on their commute, so be it.

As it happens, I was on the train when I finished the book. It was a beautiful ending to a beautiful book. I didn't care that the train was crowded, and I was sitting in a seat directly facing strangers. I smiled to myself, closed the book slowly, and then reopened it to the first page, where my mother had written her name 18 years earlier. I ran my index finger across her name and sighed.

It was a happy feeling. It was a little sentimental. It was something to be remembered.

Thanks for reading my little blog these last three years. Any time I find out someone's read any of these essays, rants, or even just a long, winding sentence I wrote, it makes me feel just like that.

kisses,
Alison(composes)

Sick Day

When I was little, staying home from school sick typically meant spending the day at Grandma Hamm’s. Mom would drop me off on her way to school, and then it’d be a day at Grandma’s until she’d be back around 4 to bring me home.

I both loved and hated this. Loved, because a sick day at Grandma’s meant I could lay in her bed and read old Nancy Drew novels cover to cover, interrupted only by Grandma checking on me every so often. I hated it for silly reasons that seemed incredibly not silly to my seven-, eight-, or nine-year-old self: Grandma always had Robitussin cough drops in awful flavors, unlike the Luden’s cherry cough drops I preferred, that basically just tasted like candy and did absolutely nothing. I was convinced she’d had the same bag of cough drops for decades, because of the way the paper would stick to the cough drop as if the two things were actually merging together. I’d force myself not to make a face as I unwrapped the cough drop and slowly place it in my mouth, because Grandma would be watching, and as soon as I’d make a face, she’d scoff, “Oh, it’s not that bad” and I’d immediately feel ridiculous and sulk into my book for the next half hour. Nothing, and I mean nothing, was worse than a rebuke from Grandma Hamm. Which was probably why I typically did everything possible to avoid a rebuke at all costs, even when sick. So I’d choke on the cough drop and mind my own business until Mom came to get me after school.

It was understood that if either my brother or me were out of school sick, it was the other one’s responsibility to collect the homework, which was particularly annoying if it required lugging one or more of my brother’s books, in addition to mine, home from school. Most days, we rode the bus, but if one of us had a sick day at Grandma’s, it was more likely that Mom would pick the other one up from school. When the tables were turned, and Jay had been sick at Grandma’s all day, I’d run into Grandma’s, feeling smug that I was the healthy one, knowing Grandma would be excited to see me, unlike Mom, who would often be cranky and “so stressed out” that she didn’t seem to be as delighted by me as I felt was necessary.

But although there was something special, and somewhat sacred, about those sick days at Grandma’s, there was one sick day from my childhood that I’ve always remembered quite vividly, at least in part.

It was my second day in a row having to stay home from school, and I had a fever. For whatever reason, my mom decided to stay home with me that day. I felt miserable, and my whole body, particularly my legs, ached and ached. I was probably whining about it. I mean, who am I kidding—I was most certainly whining about it.

But that day, I wasn't told to quit complaining, or to toughen up. Instead, Mom sat on the couch with me, my legs propped on her lap, and we watched The Sound of Music together.

That’s it: The part of the day I remember vividly. It’s not much, but it’s enough.

As an adult, it’s different. You can’t whine to your mom when your body aches from a fever. Your parents don’t ultimately make the decision about whether or not you go to school (work) when you’re sick, or when it’s the right time to go back. In college, when I first started having to deal with the reality of becoming an adult and taking care of myself, being sick also brought this strange sort of homesickness along with it. It wasn't just that I wanted to go home—I wanted to go back in time, when Mom or Grandma (or both) were still there to take care of me.

I think about mom, and Grandma Hamm, often when I’m sick. At 27, I’m a little too old to be whining and wishing I had a parent or grandparent to take care of me when I’m not feeling well. That’s for sure.

But I guess it’ll never change that every time I’m sick, there’s a little part of me that will always think of, if only for a moment, Nancy Drew and The Sound of Music.

A Nightly Ritual

When I was young, I used to love watching my mother perform her nightly ritual. I say 'ritual' because to merely say 'getting ready for bed' or 'washing her face' would not do the act justice. In the bathroom—the big bathroom, as I thought of it, having my own, private, 'small' bathroom off my bedroom—she would meticulously perform the task each night. Often, I would chatter to her as she did this, her hair pushed off her face by a thin cloth headband she kept in the sink drawer. Often, as I talked to, and watched my mother transform from the made up—but never overly made up—teacher to the paler, shinier, more vulnerable nighttime version of herself, I would play with all of her mysterious, grownup, womanly tools. She was a Clinique fanatic, and never missed a night of their famous 3-step facial system. Using a washcloth, she would take the small, unscented yellow bar and lather her face, followed by the pink astringent, rubbed across her face with a cotton ball. As she would sweep the cotton ball across her face, often she'd raise her eyebrows in a funny, completely unpretentious manner, and I'd wonder at how her skin shined in the bathroom light. Next came the moisturizer. Just as with her morning foundation, she would apply the yellow liquid to her face by patting it on her face in small, strategically placed dots, then slowly, surely, blend it all in.

Over the years, and based on what Clinique samples she'd get with her regular purchases of reddish brown lipstick, mascara, and her skincare products, she would work in other aspects to the nightly routine: an eye cream; an exfoliating scrub. Like with the rest of her seemingly magical, quintessentially "grownup" tools placed in her plastic container that she'd pull from the bathroom closet and place on the lefthand side of the sink, closest to the toilet, my perch, I'd study them when she wasn't using them, wondering. I'd pick them up, gingerly, and twist off the caps just as carefully.

I don't know what I was expecting, or just what I was thinking as I toyed with all the skincare products. I wish I could remember every conversation we had in those moments. Later, when I was a teenager, and she and I were both using self-tanning lotions (it was the new thing to do at the time) she'd call me in to help her rub the self-tanner on her back. It was another addition to the nightly ritual. In those days, her nighttime self was made more vulnerable by the addition of the oxygen cannule. The thin, plastic tubes wrapped around the backs of her ears, a very different sort of "grownup" wonder.

I never thought to question my mother's preference for, and loyalty to, Clinique products. It seemed natural, an obvious reality: She planned her "necessary" purchases around the Clinique "Bonus" times, which I loved as I got older, because it meant I would get whatever she didn't need or use. My first experiences with makeup were Clinique eye shadows, eye pencils, and my favorite, their "Almost Lipstick" in Black Honey. Imitating my mother, I'd lean forward slightly at the mirror and apply: a sweep across the right half of my upper lip, then left; a careful sweep across the bottom lip; press lips together; then take my pinky and wipe away any excess.

Not surprisingly, I, too, was using the Clinique 3-step system from a young age, diligently washing my face with that yellow bar each night and placing it back in the pale green case. I'd run my fingers across the words, "Clinique" inscribed on the case, and even though the pink astringent burned my face, wanting to be like my mom, I'd dab it on the cotton ball and sweep it across my face, cringing. But my favorite part was the moisturizer. Wide-eyed at my own reflection, I would pat the yellow liquid on my face in small, strategically placed dots, then slowly, surely, blend it all in.

As a teenager, I quit using the yellow soap and switched to a creamy face wash, but the yellow moisturizer and pink astringent always stayed in the bathroom cabinet. When I left for college, my mom made sure I was stocked with numerous sample bottles of the moisturizer, eye makeup remover, and Clinique eye shadows and lipsticks. But after she died, I couldn't bear to dab those yellow dots across my face. I switched to Ponds moisturizer, which I still use to this day. My college roommate used the Clinique moisturizer, though, and I'd often catch myself staring at in a daze. I'd go home for the weekends and open the bathroom closet. For years, the plastic container filled with all those products was still there. Waiting. I hated it and was comforted by it all at once. Why couldn't Dad bear to get rid of it? Why couldn't I bear to use the Clinique moisturizer, but I still used the eye shadows, eye makeup remover, and lipsticks?

I wasn't sure, but I had a feeling.

Over the years I've still stayed stocked with Clinique products and makeup bags, all thanks to my Aunt Kerry. She doesn't really wear makeup, and I've never actually asked, but she must also use the skincare products and take advantage of the "Bonus" time. Nearly every time I visit my grandma's house, she'll say, "I have some Clinique stuff for you that Kerry sent home with us." I act nonchalant about it, but I absolutely love opening the brightly colored makeup bags and peeking inside to see what I'll find. I haven't had to buy eye makeup remover in a decade. It's always in the bag—eye makeup remover, a lipstick, and sometimes eye shadow or mascara.

Every time I get those Clinique samples, I find myself grinning, once again the little girl watching her mother wash her face. I open the lipsticks, slowly, waiting to see what shade "Perfect Grape" or "Spiced Apple" really is. When I pull the Perfect Grape lipstick out of my Clinique makeup bag, in the car, I pull down the mirror, lean forward slightly and apply: a sweep across the right half of my upper lip, then left; a careful sweep across the bottom lip; press lips together; then take my pinky and wipe away any excess.

My mother would probably be horrified if she knew how many times I've fallen asleep, mascara still on an unwashed face. Lately, I've been rather horrified about it, too, and have been thinking more and more about my skin care regime. A few weeks ago I went to Target and bought a special astringent and night face cream. It wasn't Clinique, but it was still adding to the nightly ritual. At night, after I wash my face, I slowly twist off the cap of the bottle of the astringent, place the cotton ball to the top, and turn it over. As I sweep the cotton ball across my face, which looks shinier, younger, and fresher than in the daytime, I raise my eyebrows slightly and smile. Often, my cat Mufasa perches on the toilet and stares at me as I do this.

This week, I bought Clinique products for the first time. I considered going to Macy's, so I could buy them from the Clinique counter, a place I had visited so many times as a girl with my mother. I couldn't quite bear that idea. Instead, I ordered the products online: an eye cream, and two lipsticks. One of the lipsticks is new, a product my mother never got to see. But the other is still the same—Almost Lipstick in Black Honey.

The packaging is exactly as I remembered it.

One More Time, With Feeling (Hold On!)

I have this idea that Regina Spektor and me are kindred spirits. Really, we've got to be. So often, I listen to her music and just feel ... relief.  I love how she can be optimistic, melancholy, and sweet, all in one tune. It makes me feel like it's okay that I can go through a rollercoaster of emotion in one hour. And in one day? On a day like today, I'm like an entire amusement park of feelings and thoughts.

Today is my mother's birthday, which is pretty consistently an emotional day for me. Like I wrote about last year, it's not even just this one day, necessarily. It's what I call the Fourth of July syndrome. What I said last year really is right on the money:

Right around the 4th of July every year, it hits: I miss my mom more than ever. It sneaks up on me, too, even though by this point—my seventh year without her—you’d think I’d start mentally preparing myself. But every year it’s still a sudden feeling, knocking the wind out of me when I least expect it. It’s a combination of things, I suppose.

A combination of things, for sure. Just a different combination of things each year.

For instance: On Monday, I went with my Aunt Linda and my cousin Claire to watch "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo" at the Keystone Arts Cinema here in Indy. It's part of the Keystone mall, and as we were pulling in to the parking garage, I realized the last time I had been to this mall was with my mom, probably when I was 17. It's not often I go somewhere in Indianapolis and can say that. I almost didn't want to go in.

But that would have been nuts. So I went in the mall. 

The movie ended up being sold out, so we walked through the mall to check out the Anthropologie store. (We went back today and saw the movie: Fantastic. Great adaptation.) As we walked through the mall, I felt discombobulated. I felt like I'd turn to my right and my mom would be beside me, weaving in and out around the slow-walking mall pedestrians, rolling her eyes at me. I wanted to laugh. I wanted to cry. I wanted to punch someone in the face.

Once we were in the store, I lost Claire and Linda for a minute. I walked around a rack and spotted them: Mother and daughter, heads turned together like conspirators, just looking at a shirt or something. Damned if I didn't actually feel my heart fall into my gut at that sight. My mom should be here, with us! With me! I had to fight the urge to bury my face in a clothing rack and scream.

I took a deep breath and stepped away from the perfectly normal sight of my cousin and aunt talking. I could have screamed, I guess. I could have cried. But sometimes, all you can really do is take a deep breath, and go look at overpriced household and clothing items you can't afford.

In less than a minute, I was laughing about something with Claire.

That's the crazy part of the 4th of July/Missing Mom Syndrome. Yeah, it knocks the wind out of me, but then, just as quick, I'm elated. Kind of like how shopping with my mom used to make me feel—I'd be mortified by her racing around the mall like a madwoman, but then ten minutes later, I'd be laughing hysterically with her by a clothing rack. I guess it doesn't have to make sense.

Why I'm the Luckiest Lady on the Planet

Any idea?

You might already know this, but it's been awhile since I've mentioned it here at the Rainbow Chronicles. So I've said it before, and I'm saying it again now:

My pops is the shit.

I just talked to him on the phone for almost an hour. I feel better about, well, pretty much everything now.

That's all. I wish everyone had a great dad they could call on a Sunday afternoon. Just to talk. Just to be there for you.

It's easy for me to focus on all the bad things—like how I can't pay my rent, or how my car's a piece of crap that breaks down every month, or how I hate waiting tables—but then I think, who supports me through all that bad stuff? Who do I call to help me out?

My dad.

Not everyone is fortunate enough to have that. This is what I remind myself when times are tough. They might be tough, but it could be much, much worse.

I have my dad. And that's a lot.

Not only that, I've got these other two guys in my life. My pops, and two badass older brothers? I'm starting to feel a little greedy.

This is my family. They're awesome.

Happy Sunday, y'all.

And she signed each note, “Love, Rexanna”

My mother proofread everything, even her little notes to my father left on the kitchen counter before we’d go out somewhere—short notes, written on the backs of discarded “Page-a-Day” calendar pages. When I was little, I’d hover behind her, watching her mouth move as her pen swept from word to word, making sure everything had come out right. When I was a teenager, I’d stand in the doorway and groan for her to hurry up—“you don’t have to proofread everything, Mom”—but she didn’t care.

She’d never leave until she had reread the note, checking every detail. Was it so Dad would know exactly where we’d gone, what time we’d return? Or was it to make sure, just in case, God forbid, her last written words would have no errors? Maybe a little bit of both.

She signed each note, “Love, Rexanna.”

These notes were always part of the routine. Paper and pens sat, waiting, at the top of the fridge.

Now, desperate for something of my mother, I curse all those notes thrown out without a thought. But why would we save such things? I remember sitting in my dorm room at IU, only months after she was gone. Frantic, I searched through my email, hoping to find old emails from my mother.There were only a few. I read each line, desperate, praying for a clue. But they weren’t what I wanted. I wanted little notes written on the backs of Dad’s old Page-a-Day calendars signed “Love, Rexanna.” I wanted them piled, stacks of unimportant notes, all around me. Therein would be the answers to everything I had to know. I wanted to stand in our kitchen, hovering behind as she reread each word, mouth moving, pen sweeping across the paper.

Now, I can’t even remember my mother’s scarcely used email address. She would shudder at all the grammatical errors in our lives now. Twitter and text, she’d roll her eyes at such nonsense. Sometimes, I force myself not to capitalize my “i’s” in emails. It pains me in ways I can’t explain. An “i” in an email from me is not a careless gesture, not quick typing. It’s a meditated act—mouth moving, pen sweeping across the paper—but no one gets it but me. It’s my teenaged self, groaning at my mom in the kitchen: “You don’t have to proofread everything.”

“Yes, you do.”

Frantic, I try to picture her in the kitchen, proofreading her notes to my father.

Because my father still sometimes leaves me notes on the backs of his Page-a-Day calendars, I have a kitchen drawer overflowing. I can’t bear to throw such precious things away. He always signs them, “Love, Dad.” Every year my brother and I buy our dad two calendars: a Page-a-Day and a wall calendar for the kitchen. This year I forgot his wall calendar. I remembered Christmas Eve. Frantic, I feared I'd ruined our tradition forever. He opened his Page-a-Day calendar from Jay. It made me want to cry. I wasn't sure why.

On my refrigerator is a card my grandfather wrote me. I found it in a box two weeks after he died. Yesterday I looked at the line, “I have three robins in my yard, it makes me think of spring.” It made me want to cry. I wasn't sure why. In my father’s kitchen cabinet is a small jar labeled “Sage.” It’s my grandmother’s writing.

When I go home I check for it in the cabinet. It’s always still there.

A walk with my dad.

This weekend I took a walk with my dad. Normally, we take our walks at the cemetery where my mother is buried. That might sound a little weird, but it’s actually a great place to walk. It’s peaceful, somehow.

Every time we go to the cemetery for a walk, we have an unspoken ritual. Dad parks the car in the same spot, by the same tree. We walk over to the grave, sometimes with flowers from the yard to put next to it, more often, not. We stand there for a minute. Nothing is said. I look over at him. Then he says, “Ready?”

And we walk.

This past weekend, we didn’t walk in the cemetery—there’s a new trail along the old railroad lines that he wanted to show me, so we took our walk there—but it still felt like our old ritual.

When we take our walks, sometimes, it’s just a walk. But sometimes I get out all the things I want or need to tell my dad, but can’t seem to otherwise.

Thoughts on Father’s Day, a day late

I’m sure if you’re an Obama supporter like me, his reflections on fatherhood in PARADE won’t necessarily be anything new to you.

But read it anyway. Or at least this part:

“As fathers, we need to be involved in our children’s lives not just when it’s convenient or easy, and not just when they’re doing well—but when it’s difficult and thankless, and they’re struggling. That is when they need us most.

And it’s not enough to just be physically present. Too often, especially during tough economic times like these, we are emotionally absent: distracted, consumed by what’s happening in our own lives, worried about keeping our jobs and paying our bills, unsure if we’ll be able to give our kids the same opportunities we had.

Our children can tell. They know when we’re not fully there. And that disengagement sends a clear message—whether we mean it or not—about where among our priorities they fall.

So we need to step out of our own heads and tune in. We need to turn off the television and start talking with our kids, and listening to them, and understanding what’s going on in their lives.

We need to set limits and expectations. We need to replace that video game with a book and make sure that homework gets done. We need to say to our daughters, Don’t ever let images on TV tell you what you are worth, because I expect you to dream without limit and reach for your goals. We need to tell our sons, Those songs on the radio may glorify violence, but in our house, we find glory in achievement, self-respect, and hard work.

We need to realize that we are our children’s first and best teachers. When we are selfish or inconsiderate, when we mistreat our wives or girlfriends, when we cut corners or fail to control our tempers, our children learn from that—and it’s no surprise when we see those behaviors in our schools or on our streets.”

Amen to that. I especially love how he says, “I expect you to dream without limit and reach for your goals”—maybe because it reminds me of my own dad, who has always had that sentiment, as well as the bit about “in our house, we find glory in achievement, self-respect, and hard work.”

It’s obvious that Obama is a great father, but he’s got nothing on my pops. Each year I am increasingly aware of how lucky I am to have my dad. He’s always there for me, no matter what. He didn’t tell me I was an idiot when I announced I was quitting my job and moving to Chicago. He listens to me bitch about waiting tables, even when my stories make him uncomfortable. He shines up a bike for me then hauls it up to Chicago. Believe me, I can keep going. My dad is awesome. If you’ve met him, you know. If you haven’t met him, I’ve probably told you 15 million times. He’s awesome.

This was the first Father’s Day that I can remember that I didn’t see—or even talk—to my dad. It’s been our tradition in the last several years to go to the Indy Jazz Fest on Father’s Day weekend, and then spend time together that Sunday before I’d head back to Bloomington that evening.

This year things were a little different. The Jazz Fest will be in September this year, I’m up in Chicago working like a maniac, and my Dad and Debbie were on vacation (his first in about a million years). Since D and D were just getting home yesterday and I was working all day, I sent my dad a text message and left it at that, knowing I’d call him today.

But I woke up this morning with a big ball of guilt in my stomach. I didn’t get him a gift. I didn’t talk to him. I am the worst daughter ever. It’s official. This is what’s been going through my head all day, even though I know as soon as I talk to him, he’ll say it’s no big deal.

I’m hoping that, come September, I’ll be able to buy Papa Hamm a ticket to the Jazz Fest. It might be late, but it’ll still feel like Father’s Day to me.

Hamm Family Photos

Jay undertook the major project of scanning some old family photos and putting together a slideshow in memory of our grandparents--our grandpa passed away this February, our grandma 13 years ago as of tomorrow--and some of these photos are too badass not to show off.

Here, Grandpa milking a cow. To state the obvious. And here are two of Grandma Hamm:



Clearly, becoming a cat lady was inevitable. It's in the Hamm genes.

Introducing…the best bike in the whole world

You might be wondering: How many posts can Alison possibly talk about this EFFing bike? The answer: A LOT.





I’d like to introduce Patricia:


I can think of no better name for this beauty. She was my grandma’s, and my grandma’s name happens to be…Patricia! Now, my grandma goes by Pat, but that just won’t do for this bike. It’s Patricia. Remember that.

D and D (Dad and Debbie) delivered Patricia on Friday night, and of course my Dad shined her up for me beforehand. Check out how she gleams in the sunlight.

Saturday, after a lovely trip to the Chicago Botanic Gardens and to Goose Island for dinner and delicious beer, we got back to my apartment, and I think Debbie could tell I was antsy to take Patricia for a spin. (My dad was falling asleep into his beer at the time.)

The next thing I know, I am suddenly 12-years-old again. D and D walked around the block while I circled around them a few times. (I wasn’t ready to brave the traffic on Belmont without a helmet.)

The wind was in my hair. I was grinning like a maniac. I passed D and D and waved wildly. I almost ran into a car. My neighbors out on their porches looked increasingly confused at the sight of a grown woman on a bike riding around in circles on a Saturday evening. I kept grinning. Then I forgot how to brake.

The next day, we went to Target and picked out a helmet. Still looking for the suit of armor.

All in all, a great weekend!

And just a warning to all you possible bike thieves out there: Stay away from Patricia. We don't want this to happen. Yeah, it's another Pee Wee clip. Accept it.

"IT'S JUST ME! WITHOUT MY BIKE!"




"I bought this one hour before my bike was stolen! WHY? WHAT'S THE SIGNIFICANCE?!

I DON'T KNOW!"