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Boy, Oh Boy

7/22/2013

Well, the honeymoon is officially over.

The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge have produced The Heir.

I was kind of hoping for a girl, just to mix things up, to test how well-adapted the Commonwealth really is to the idea of a firstborn daughter being the official third-in-line, subsequent son or no. Twins would have been even more interesting. If Kate had had a C-section, would gender have been a factor in deciding which child to pluck forth first?

The kids kicked the can down the road on this one, and a boy it is. I can handle it.

If I sound jaded and ho-hum about this, I'm leaving the wrong impression. I just completed CNN's photo tour of House of Windsor babies, and I've spent a good chunk of time today clicking around various news sources to see what else I might learn about the new arrival. The official birth announcement posted on the Royal Easel outside of Buckingham Palace is a charming tradition, but c'mon already, it's a little dullsville for those of us hungry for the particulars.

I have a weakness for royal events. (FLASH: The fountains at Trafalgar Square are now flowing blue!) I stayed up all night to watch Charles and Diana's wedding. I was there (okay, not in person, or even in country, for that matter) for the birth of William. Of Harry. I remember precisely where I was when I heard of Diana's death. Another all-nighter to watch her funeral. Yet another to view William's marriage to Catherine. I spent the entire weekend in front of the TV for the Queen's kazillionth jubilee.

The Royals have been thoughtful this time around. A birth midday, Pacific Daylight Time, suits me just fine—I've not been getting my sleep of late. I think grandmama the Queen is glad the moment's come. She's been a little petulant, it seems, about the infant's arrival interfering with the holiday she'd been planning. (FLASH: It was a vaginal birth!) Grandpappy Charles has been droll, which could suggest glee or ennui, hard to tell. The parents-to-be, now the parents-that-are, have been remarkably chipper, considering the telephoto lenses trained on them for three years at the least. (FLASH: William is quoted as saying, "We could not be happier.") Their temperance has been notable; who wants their reproductive life bright-lit under the constant loupe? How many experts do we have by now, able to count back nine months on their fingers?

Forget med school. Forget the plumbers' union. Forget the art institute or call-center training. One thing The Cambridges won't be wondering is what the lad will be when he grows up. Who he will be is quite another matter. In this task, I wish them well. They'll do a good job. I know; I've been watching that family for years.

But gee whiz, couldn't they have had a girl?

(FLASH: Bookmakers are giving 6:1 odds that the baby will be named George.)

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A Day Aside

7/15/2013

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And so the morning has brought with it news of another suicide. Not someone I knew, but close enough—the husband of an acquaintance.

The ripples are ongoing. The phones ring. Messages are left. Calls back and forth among the circle to learn what's new, see what can be done (nothing, forever nothing), check-in on how one or another is faring. The data accumulates. Everyone has questions; no one has answers. The set-aside day.

We fill in the squares of the calendar, anticipating the days will play out as planned. Boxes for each hour—committed or not—are stacked neatly on the page, one above the next in orderly fashion. Success is a Sharpie mark through every last one; reward is a new list, beginning with tomorrow.

When we've really got things under control, we even plan for glitches—traffic at the interchange, the doctor running late, the file filled with paperwork left on the desk at home. There are workarounds and backup plans, alternate routes and errands that can be put off until another day. Yet, no matter how in-charge we think we are, it's often illusion. A thing happens, and we're stopped in our tracks. Control, that mythical creature. How hard we work to capture it, how clever it is in eluding us.

My day's been interrupted. No more, no less. My lists and schedules can ebb and flow.

But that set-aside life...

The set-aside lifetimes of the ones who go on...

If a man decides to end his life, is he dead even before his feet hit the river? If he's already jumped and no one knows, does he remain alive even as the search wears on? If your life has ended, and you're still alive, are you dead and not dead all at once?

Does this man exist because I now am aware he's no longer here?

Claim this day. Make of it what you can.

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Pants on Fire

7/8/2013

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I lied.

I thought I was back—here, at the blog—but apparently there's quite a disconnect between my intentions and my actions.

I shouldn't be surprised. And I'm not. But I am disappointed. It's humbling to fail a commitment—to others, to oneself. In this case, both.

The struggle against failure is a lifelong battle, isn't it? This weekend I was participating in a book event at a riverfront park. Mid-afternoon the wind reared, and a sudden gust made havoc of our book table. A friend lunged to shelter what she could against the assault, using her body as a shield and grabbing at flying papers and broadsides and some lightweight signs that had been propped on the table. I had been standing back and away—useless in the moment—and just as my friend stood up again, I called out to her from behind, scolding like an angry parent, Bad! Bad! Bad! as if she had been the cause of all the mayhem. She froze, and when she turned around, I saw in her widened eyes a child's primal fear.

I had brought it all back. Whatever darkness that this gentle, caring, altogether magnificent grown-up has carried inside her for a lifetime was instantly roused by my unfortunate attempt at easy humor.

Oh boy oh boy. It's tempting to spin off from here into guilt for my own social clumsiness, but the point is that we just go on from our failures, don't we? The moment passed as quickly as a rare whip of wind on a blameless afternoon, and afterward, my friend and I laughed and shared an interesting conversation about how well and how poorly we carry our traumas with us. How they're always there, so very very close to the surface, whether our consciousnesses are aware of them or not. Sometimes it takes only the slightest of breezes . . .

It's time for grown-up me to stop blithering about my failures, all the things I've done wrong. It's time to just get to the business of moving forward. I'll meet you back here next Monday or thereabouts, come hell or a helluva wind.

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Nancy Carol Moody

I'm a poet and a letter-writer. Yup, that kind. The kind who uses pens and paper and actual stamps. The kind who will leave the house with nothing on the agenda but to get to the mailbox before the scheduled pick-up time. The kind who understands that technology is a wondrous thing, but nothing quite beats finding a real letter with a real stamp on it amid the credit card solicitations, pizza coupons and seminar catalogs.

Boy, Oh Boy

A Day Aside

Pants on Fire

Nancy Carol Moody

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