The Meat and Potatoes of Life

by Molinari, Lisa Smith;

  “Oh, yeah, Pete, that’s what I’m talking about!”

  Pete showed us three more models, each time hovering over us, asking intimate questions. “Do you move around a lot? Do you get sweaty? Do you like to have your legs raised? Do you prefer soft or firm?”

  I felt cheap and violated, but I noticed other couples testing mattresses too—bouncing around, spooning, and flopping from side to side. I decided I was being silly, and finally surrendered to the process.

  Mind over mattress, I told myself.

  “I like this one,” I announced, “so how much does it cost?”

  Pete gestured to a felt flap over the end of the bed. Like Vanna revealing the Wheel of Fortune Bonus Puzzle, he flipped the cover to reveal the price.

  I nearly choked on my uvula.

  Pete tried to snap us out of our sticker shock by offering sixty-month no-interest financing. This weekend only, of course. When this didn’t work, he led us directly to the economy section, where we spooned and flopped until we found a decent mattress in our price range.

  In other words, we slept our way to the bottom.

  SEASON 5 EPISODE 13

  THE TRUTH ABOUT OUR SON

  “It’s a boy,” Doc Walker had said as calmly as if he’d said, “Please pass the salt.” It was April 4, 1995, at the hospital in Monterey, California. After twelve hours of labor turned the whites of my eyes blood red, I eagerly grasped the waxy, bluish, nine-pound baby boy we named Hayden.

  Two weeks later, when Hayden wouldn’t stop crying and refused to feed, I called the pediatrician. Hayden had just smiled at us for the first time that morning. But my instincts told me something was wrong.

  The pediatrician met us at his office, even though it was after hours—no messing around when newborns are concerned. As soon as he saw the mottled color of Hayden’s skin, he ordered us to go directly to the emergency room. After a hurried spinal tap, his suspicions were confirmed. Hayden had meningitis and was in critical condition.

  We spent the next two weeks in neonatal intensive care, with our newborn splayed on a platform, attached to wires and an IV. The thought that our baby could die was so unfathomable, we couldn’t accept it, so we carried on as if he was just fine. Nothing antibiotics couldn’t handle.

  It wasn’t until Hayden was no longer septic that we shed tears. The knowledge that he had survived allowed us to finally face the truth of what had just happened. The pediatrician ordered tests for Hayden’s hearing in case there was residual neurological damage, but none of that mattered.

  Our baby boy was alive.

  When Hayden turned three, we could no longer deny the significant delays in his speech, motor skills, and cognitive skills.

  “Your son has atypical autism,” a developmental pediatrician at Lakenheath Royal Air Force Base in England told us. The doctor’s matter-of-fact manner came across as arrogant and insensitive. I seem to remember he had his feet up on his desk, but my disdain for him may have tainted my memories.

  How could he say such a thing about our tow-headed little boy, the one wearing those cute OshKosh B’gosh overalls? As the doctor dropped this bomb on our otherwise happy lives, he sat at his desk surrounded by photographs of his three apparently healthy sons playing baseball, blowing out birthday candles, and accepting citizenship awards.

  What did the future hold for our son now that he was diagnosed with autism?

  Francis and I were devastated. But, just like the crisis with Hayden when he was a newborn, we couldn’t fathom that he would not lead a normal life. It was unthinkable; so we did every kind of therapy we could, always believing Hayden would make progress.

  We found a doctor who gave us the positive outlook we were looking for and embarked on a full-time home therapy program called “floor time,” along with a special diet, sensory integration therapy, speech therapy, occupational therapy, and physical therapy. It was like running a marathon—seemingly endless, exhausting work without breaks—but it was worth it because we believed there was a finish line.

  Hayden progressed, sometimes painfully slowly, sometimes in exhilarating spurts. After three years of therapies, Hayden’s autism diagnosis—“pervasive developmental disorder not otherwise specified”—was downgraded to a sensory regulatory disorder. He no longer fit the criteria for an autism spectrum disorder, but we kept going with therapy. And Hayden kept progressing, testing out of all therapies by sixth grade.

  In high school, Hayden made Eagle Scout, played varsity football, was an accomplished classical pianist, starred in two theater productions, and took advanced classes. However, his lingering social delays, food and clothing sensitivities, and other idiosyncrasies made me wonder if I had been kidding myself all these years. Would Hayden really lead a normal life or am I denying reality again?

  On a rainy day in May 2018, Hayden walked across the stage at Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute to accept his college diploma. The following Monday, he packed a lunchbox with the food he liked, put on a shirt made of fabric he found tolerable, and drove off to start his new job as a software engineer at Raytheon Company.

  That was real. That was the truth. And I was happy to realize there was no denying it.

  SEASON 5 EPISODE 14

  THE LAST TIME

  While dropping Lilly off to start her freshman year of college, I realized a certain phase of my life as a mother was coming to an end. For more than two decades, I had become accustomed to putting the needs of our three children before all else. I nurtured them as babies, guided them through their school years and multiple military moves, and saw each one of them off to college.

  As I helped Lilly hang a poster in her dorm room, it occurred to me it would be the last time. The last time for all the things that have characterized an era of raising children. In an instant, my mind was flooded with an overwhelming rush of melancholy as I comprehended the end of this purpose-driven period of my existence.

  This is it, I thought, the last time …

  The last time I would hang a poster in a freshman dorm room, or fill a shower caddy with soaps and shampoos, or meet my daughter’s fresh-faced resident advisor. The last time I would forget to bring a set of tools to put together the shelf unit we bought at Walmart, drop the bedrail on my foot while assembling the bed, or watch Francis standing, arms crossed, in the dorm’s coed hallway shielding his baby girl from the prying eyes of her male neighbors.

  The last time I would argue with my daughter over whether or not a smoothie maker is a dorm room necessity, lecture her about boys’ intentions after midnight, or explain why she needs to separate the darks from the lights when doing her laundry.

  The last time I would attend a first-year parent orientation session, otherwise known as the “Free Pen Grab,” embarrass my daughter by asking the campus tour guide if students are required to wear helmets when riding bikes, or wonder at the gluten-free, halal, allergy-friendly, non-genetically-modified food choices at the newfangled college dining hall.

  The last time I would be duped into using a freshman orientation coupon to get a measly five percent off at the college bookstore for a fortune’s worth of sweatshirts, refrigerator magnets, fleece vests, car stickers, water bottles, hats, lanyards and mousepads. The last time I would be surprised when the college staff informs me, despite the fact we are expected to pay all the bills for our child’s tuition, room, board, books, WiFi, parking, health services, printing, laundry, and other undefined fees, we would never have access to her college grades, health status, or disciplinary history.

  It probably wouldn’t be the last time I would struggle with the thought of my innocent child being lured into one of many fraternities that line the campus, scoff at the notion she might enthusiastically engage in a game of beer pong on the red-Solo-cup-strewn fraternity house lawn, or hope and pray she wouldn’t have to shower in a stall beside a football linebacker brushing his teeth in her dorm’s gender-neutral bathrooms. It likely wouldn’t be the last time I’d notice all the potential make-out spots al
ong the sylvan campus paths and sigh with reluctant acceptance at the bowls of complimentary condoms scattered about the dorm common areas, health center, and student union.

  But this would be the last time I’d meet my daughter in the dorm parking lot beside our minivan after freshman orientation to say farewell. The last time I would make her promise to call home every Sunday. The last time she would admit she’s a little scared. The last time I would assure her the next four years would be some of the best years of her life.

  And I hope, I thought as we both fought back tears, this would be the first time my daughter is the last one to let go when we hug goodbye.

  SEASON 5 EPISODE 15

  THE REALITIES OF NOW

  Back then, I danced. I mean I really danced.

  During my twenties and thirties, I’d hear a song that would make me spring to my feet. Channeling the beat of the music through gyrating torso and limbs, I swung my hair in loop-de-loops just for laughs. Rivulets of sweat trickled down my back, and when my evening was done, I slept like a rock.

  I danced often. At cousins’ weddings. On Friday nights with good friends who came over for dinner and didn’t end up leaving until one in the morning. At bars or nightclubs when I was still young enough to patronize them without looking pathetic.

  Now dancing just isn’t the same.

  For the most part, I sit and watch. But every once in a while, like an old dog who’s feeling frisky, I give it a go. A really good eighties song fools me into believing I’ve still got it, so I shuffle to the dance floor doing a sort of pre-dance—biting my bottom lip with one fist pumping in the air—that signals everyone else to pay attention.

  Once positioned I begin, but soon I realize my body doesn’t dance spontaneously like it used to. I must deliberately recall the moves that used to come so freely, as I awkwardly recreate The Roger Rabbit, The Van Halen jump, and the hair swing from faded memory. Eventually, thirst and a twinge of humiliation prompt me to go back to my seat.

  Later, in the wee hours, I bolt awake when my calf seizes up with cramps. And in the morning, I discover I have a kink in my neck and won’t be able to turn my head to the side for four or five more days.

  Back in our twenties and thirties, Francis and I were still discovering ourselves and setting standards for our life.

  Perhaps we’re the kind of people who brew craft beers in our garage, using interesting ingredients like apricots and toasted malts? Maybe we surf, play the harmonica in a coworker’s band, bake gourmet biscotti, ride Harleys, or run marathons?

  When we buy or rent a home, we will absolutely insist on stainless steel appliances. We’ll use the china from our wedding registry every Thanksgiving. Romance will not be diminished when we have kids. Our children will be born using the Bradley Method, they will only eat homemade organic baby food, and will strictly adhere to a system of marble jar behavior rewards as set forth in the June issue of Parenting magazine.

  Now, after decades of adulthood, our days of self-discovery are behind us. Life happened, and we were too busy working, paying taxes, raising kids, and keeping our marriage intact to bother with building our identity. In the process, we simply became who we are, naturally.

  Our house has mismatched furniture and tumbleweeds of dog hair. I drive a minivan and take fiber supplements. Francis is bald and falls asleep in his recliner. I haven’t seen our wedding china since we boxed it for storage before an overseas move more than ten years ago. The money we dreamed we might spend on exotic travel and trendy décor ended up being used on braces for our three kids, mortgages, fan belts, plumbers’ bills, and college tuition. Our idea of a great Friday night is fire-pitting with the neighbors and still being in bed by 11:00 p.m.

  Life isn’t as we imagined it back then, but believe it or not, we’re happier than we could have dreamed.

  After more than two and a half decades of marriage, parenting, and military life, I may not dance all that much anymore. But I’ve gained the wisdom to know that, to me, it’s the love of family, the companionship of friends, the honor of military life, and the richness of experience that really matter.

  EPILOGUE: IT WON’T HURT YOU, MOMMY

  Somewhere in my mother’s attic is a dusty blue metal canister containing an aging reel of 8mm film. I have watched it many times on our family’s old projector, seeing the moving images of my childhood flashing across the screen, silent but for the rapid clicking of the ancient machine’s motor. One vacation scene from this reel, taken when I was three years old, is strangely meaningful to me now that I have raised children of my own.

  Bathed in the milky pastels of aging film, the shot opens on a sunny beach in North Carolina. The sky is a particular shade of blue that only seemed to exist in the 1960s, reminiscent of Melmac dishes and women’s eyeshadow. The sand reflects strobing white flashes of bright sunlight. The camera pans along the shoreline, left to right, stopping when my brother comes into the picture, fifteen feet or so in the distance, splashing fearlessly in the ocean waves. Tray’s flaxen crew-cut head turns—someone has instructed him to wave at the camera. His thin arm flails only for a moment, before his attention is drawn back to the bubbling surf.

  Suddenly, my father’s face is close in the frame, young and devoid of life’s eventual complications. He is more fit than I remember, only five years outside of his college football days. My mother is the twenty-something camerawoman, capturing glimpses of her little family’s day at the beach. Durwood (or “Woody” as my mother called him back then) speaks to his young wife, Diane, behind the camera, smiling and pointing to the ocean. With a jerk, the lens drops, and refocuses on my three-year-old self, clutching my father’s leg.

  My sandy blonde pigtails are partially covered with a blue handkerchief tied at the back of my neck, and I’m wearing a purple calico bathing suit with cotton ruffles on the top and bottom.

  I hold my father’s hand and smile with tiny white teeth like perfect rows of shoe-peg corn, then turn my head to gaze out at the surf. My dimpled finger points toward the water and my bright face squints up at the camera, shaking my head and clearly mouthing, “It won’t hurt you, Mommy!”

  I search for reassurance in my mother’s eyes, and the camera bobs in affirmation. My father leads me by the hand toward the waves. As I am tugged along, I look back over my shoulder two more times to echo, “It won’t hurt you, Mommy!”

  We step into the surf, and I squeal and jump over foamy ripples, tightly gripping my father’s hand. But suddenly, a wave rises up and takes us by surprise. My father’s knees bear the brunt of its force, but I am instantly knocked into the roiling water. My father reacts quickly, plucking me, drenched and rigid, out of the surf, my mouth sucking air and my tiny hands clawing for support. Smiling, he carries me quickly toward my mother.

  Just before she drops the camera to hold me, the frame captures my face, contorted in a panicked cry, reaching for the safety of my mother’s arms.

  The film goes on to depict shaky scenes at a petting zoo, Tray feeding a goat with a bottle, and me getting a surprise nip in the nose from a puppy. More scenes are from an afternoon barbecue outside the blue and white trailer my parents lived in while my mother was finishing her teaching degree. My father, wearing dress pants and a white shirt, turns hamburgers on a grill, while Tray throws a football, and my grandmother Omah Jane and I spin in circles to make the skirts of our flouncy dresses take flight.

  Of all these vignettes, the beach scene from our home movies was always a favorite of my brother, mother, father and me years later. As we watched together, we would all add the missing line to the silent film at the appropriate time: “It won’t hurt you, Mommy!” And then we would laugh heartily at the irony of the wave knocking me down.

  When my own kids were young, and I was trying to keep it all together in a world swirling with seemingly endless demands, details, and duties, I was overwhelmed. I collapsed under the weight of my perceived responsibilities as a wife and mother and felt I might be swept away.


  How did I get so bogged down? What was the big deal about family rules, marble jars, and chore charts? Why did seeing another wife’s gourmet cheese platter on Bunco night make me think worse of myself? What made me believe my long-standing argument with Francis about which way the toilet paper should roll could indicate we were headed for divorce? Why was I convinced that the quantity of lunchmeat I put on my kids’ sandwiches directly correlated to their ability to avoid lives of crime and delinquency?

  What is wrong with me? I wondered countless times.

  Now I know: I was simply afraid.

  Afraid of not living up to expectations. Afraid of not being smart enough, cool enough. Afraid of letting people down. Afraid of being revealed as a fraud. Afraid of not being loved. Afraid of failure.

  Afraid of not being Supermom.

  Fear was the underlying emotion behind every moment in which I found myself overwhelmed as a child, adolescent, young adult, wife, and mother. My over-connected, over-informed, over-competitive modern life threatened to hold me under and made me feel like I was drowning, unable to catch my breath.

  I could no longer reach for the safety of my mother’s arms. I had to find my own lifeline. I had to make my way through the confusing chaos of daily life, taking hold of what I valued most and wanted for myself and my family: responsibility, character, kindness, and love. The things that would lead me to solid ground.

  Thanks to the yellow legal pad I carried with me to my kids’ swim lessons, writing helped me find my own answers and the reassurance that everything was okay. With my focus on what was truly important, I could look back and laugh at myself and the meaningless minutiae I tried so desperately and unsuccessfully to manage. What became a weekly exercise for me as a columnist also gave me the mental clarity to carry on, day after day, month after month, year after year through the stages of family life.