Friday, February 18, 2011

In Defense of Hand Holding by Julie Dolcemaschio

Julie Dolcemaschio is a writer and a poet. She has written several books of poetry, including Jewels in the Dim Light, The Phoenix Elegies, Map of Me, Musings, life, untitled, Surface Cuts, and An Angel Walked In, dedicated to her mother.

Testarossa is her first novel. She is currently slogging through rewrites of the sequel while mothering and wifing.

She lives in Los Angeles with her husband and two children. She is not Italian.




























In Defense of Hand Holding
by Julie Dolcemaschio

“Mom, if I ever get hurt, will you help me, even when I’m old?”

“Yes,” I answered him. “Of course.”

“Even when I’m old.” This was a statement, not a question.

“Yes. Even when you’re old.”

That was my six year old, back when he was six. We were in the car, going to, or coming from—I don’t remember which. He and I had conversations like this a lot.

“Kids get lost, you know,” he’d stated, as if this were late-breaking news.

“Yes,” I’d answered.

“If more kids held their mother’s hands, they wouldn’t get lost, right?”

Right. How could I tell him it wasn’t that simple? That once in a while we had to let go, for their sake as well as ours.

“I have a feeling something bad is going to happen,” he said. He had been saying that a lot. I settled on my pat answer.

“You stick close to me for a while, then, alright?”

The first time I said this, a week or a month prior, in answer to his statement, I never elaborated on what I meant. But he knew. He held my hand tight that day, whenever we were out of the house and not in the car.

“I’m sticking by you,” he reminded. “Just like you said.”

He was looking out the window at the passing cars, deep in thought. “Mom,” he said. “If I ever get lost, will you find me?” The pain in my stomach was so rich that I stopped breathing. You read, you hear on the news all the time about kids getting lost and never found, no matter how much their parents love them. I couldn’t help but think about how many children go missing each year. To me, a mother, the numbers are staggering.
In reality, stereotypical kidnappings, where the kidnapper intends bodily harm upon the victim, is quite low—around 100.

Small comfort if you’re that kid’s mother. The question threw me, stunned me. I knew without a doubt that I would die trying. Would he wait, patiently unafraid, because he knew I’d be there? Or would he worry that I wouldn’t show up, that I’d forget? This discussion, framed differently, was like all the others. They all held a central theme. The same idea remained; the same question hovered in the air, but never asked directly.

Do you love me?

The sun was out, I remember that. John Legend was on the CD player, I remember that, too. He was sitting in the back, in a booster seat he wished he didn’t have to use. His brother, who was 13 at the time, didn’t have to use one, so why did he? He’d had a haircut recently, and it was shorter than it had ever been—almost shaved. He wanted to look like his brother. He had a foot up on the seat, while the other one hung down.  Between the haircut and the way he was sitting, he looked much older than his six years. I knew what my answer would be, but I questioned the success of it.

He had good reason not to trust. I’d let him down before. I write. I never expected it to take up so much of my time, both physically and emotionally. I have a book out—a crime novel, oddly enough. Marketing and promoting Testarossa, while putting the finishing touches on the sequel, takes up a lot of my time, and it’s time I take when I’m not mothering—or wifing. I am not as present as I should be. I’m always thinking of the next scene, the next red herring. I forgot to read to him last night. We ran out of time. But really, I didn’t make sure we took the time. When I first began writing, late in life after children were had and finances were secure, I felt guilty, devoting myself to something other than them. I was distracted from them, preoccupied with something else—and enjoying the hell out of it. I wasn’t spending enough time. I was forgetting. I didn’t care enough. I wanted to be good at something, because I certainly wasn’t good at motherhood. And now we have all settled into a familiar pattern, where I disappoint and they are disappointed. Perhaps I am a better writer than I am a mother. The sooner they accept this, the better off they will be. No disappointments when you understand the way things are. No expectations then. No expectations, no disappointment.

His question hung in the air like a wet fog. I imagined him sitting back there, waiting for me to answer, and knowing what my answer would be. Would I disappoint?

He is nine now, and he still takes my hand, still sits on my lap, still stops me on my way to something else, grabs on to me, holds on until I return the love. The day is gray and still in anticipation of the coming storm. The TV is on. I am folding clothes. He is making an AK-47 out of sticks and camouflage duct tape. If he weren’t such a gifted baseball player and linguist, he’d be a ballistics expert in some big city police department. For now, I’m content that he’s a sweet, funny fourth-grader who’d like to play for the Yankees someday—or announce games for them.

The newscaster, a blond woman too perky and wide-eyed to be anything but, informs us that a mother waited thirty-one days to report her child missing. As the evidence mounts against her, she flirts in court with her attorney. Evidence of death and chloroform were found inside the trunk of her car.

“She didn’t hold her daughter’s hand,” he says, not looking up from the perfect replica of the killing machine he has almost finished building. His hair sticks up on one side, his refusal to comb it evident to all but him. His oversized shorts, his red t-shirt with some pithy baseball slogan plastered across the front, still serves as his uniform, even on a cold, almost-wet day. The fire is on, we are warm inside our house, and we don’t know about suffering—we only hear about it from others. By his comment, I see that he doesn’t understand, wasn’t paying attention to the story, and for that I am beyond grateful. He does not realize that this woman is being accused of killing her own child, then partying for thirty-one days before reporting her missing. I cannot fathom this, and frankly, I’d like for him not to fathom it either, at least right now.

“If she had,” he said, “I bet she wouldn’t have killed her. Can’t kill something you’re holding. Impossible.”

“If you ever got lost,” I answered my six year old, “I would absolutely find you. If it took me forever, I would find you, and I would bring you home.”

He smiled and looked out the window. “I knew it,” he said. “I just knew it.”

And in the quiet loaming, under a moon full and a love ripe, I shed a child, and became blessed.

33 comments:

Pat Browning said...

Wonderful post, Julie. Makes my complaints about distractions seem like so much belly button lint.
Wishing you much success, both as a writer and a mother.

Pat Browning

Bill Bushman said...

Wow. That was great, Julie.

Anonymous said...

I could picture it all. Beautifully written by a wonderful mother and gifted writer. Love Vicki B.

jenny milchman said...

What a wonderful, thought-provoking, tear-provoking post. I honestly think this might be the single best blog post I've ever read (and I do not say that lightly). How you brought not just your son to life, but that stage of motherhood, when we are accustomed enough to it that we can have a meta-examination of the job we are doing...Wow. I'm going to look up your debut now. Congrats on both it, and on your two clearly wonderful sons.

Kaye--I love the new pic of you! You are positively glowing!

Kaye Barley said...

Julie - Welcome!

I love this, and of course, shed a tear or two.

I wish you all the luck in the world with your new book.

Kaye Barley said...

Thanks, Jen! my friend Jill took that picture - all the glow is due to her talented self.

mimja said...

Powerful heartwrenching uplifting post. Sometimes the losing of our sons is not physical. They go away and come back someone else.

Alexis Rhone Fancher said...

You are one terrific writer, Julie. Just terrific.

Marilyn Meredith a.k.a. F. M. Meredith said...

Wow! That was truly thought provoking. Kids can sure get right to the truth at times.

Marilyn

Anonymous said...

I loved "In Defense of Hand Holding," Julie. Nice work! Janna

rozthepoet@aol.com said...

Julie, what a fitting tribute to a beloved child by an adoring mother. So well written and moving. We're in the moment with you and we don't want to let go of the words written by your hand.
Roz Levine

Anonymous said...

Lovely. Eloquent. Priceless. - Susan S.

Kay Bess said...

Nicely done, Julie. So many fabulous nuances captured about the experience of motherhood. It is also a nice addition to read your words in print. I could hear your voice... Lovely.

XOXO - K

Pamela DuMond, D.C. said...

Beautiful post, Julie.

Peg Brantley said...

When a person can feel so deeply, question themselves so fiercely—and still move forward, well . . . my bet is on you. On your family. On your writing.

Julie D said...

Thank you all for your kind words, and Kaye, I thank you from the bottom of my heart for giving me the opportunity to contribute to your wonderful blog. I hope you will give me an opportunity to do it again.

Love to all,
Julie

Barbara said...

Ahhhh, Julie, You are a genius writer of the heart. Between my tears and my smiles, I was applauding you.
Gosh o golly girl, I love you. Brilliant, brilliant brilliant!!!
And don't stop holding hands and writing. Adesh

Jaden Terrell said...

Beautiful post, Julie. You made me love you and your son. And dang it all, you made me cry.

lil Gluckstern said...

Wow, you bring tears to the eyes, and what a wonderful son(s) you have. There is so much trust in him, so maybe you've done it right all along, even if you wrote a book or many. What love you have. Will check out your book

Julie D said...

@Jaden, thank you! I love making people cry! LOL! Even better, I love when a writer makes ME cry. THanks so much for your kind words.

@Adesh, thank you love. xoxoxo

Holli said...

Julie, very touching post. As the mother of two girls, 9 and 11, who balances working from home with writing and volunteering at school, I can honestly say if your son is happy and knows he's safe and that you're always there for him and always will be, you've done a damn fine job as a mom.

Holli Castillo

keizerfire said...

How wonderful! And heartwrenching, as I live with my 9 yr old grandson, and this could be us. It's hard to let go, literally and figuratively, isn't it?

Danner said...

Moving post and also very disturbing. Why is this child so in need of assurance? He must be so painfully insecure! Just imagine what his dreams must be like! I would be really worried if one of my kids feared abandonment to this extent. Also would be concerned at a young kid trying to make an accurate replica of an AK-47which is not just your ordinary weapon but one of extreme violence.

Sylvia said...

Such a wonderful post, Julie. Thank you for sharing your heart. Don't have a son, but my grandson also devised make-believe guns. Now 22, a father himself, he will never harm anyone or anything purposely, but he is self-reliant and will defend himself.
Sylvia

Kaye Barley said...

Practically every study ever written about children will say that their biggest fear is abandonment. Julie - I can't imagine anyone doing a better job of easing that fear for their child than you. Well done, I say and give yourself a hug.

Toni McGee Causey said...

Beautiful.

JD Rhoades said...

Wow. As a father, let me just say that one punched me right in the heart.

Julie D said...

Being a mother is the most demanding, heart rending and exquisitely beautiful job in the world, and I am blessed with bright, funny, articulate and yes, challenging children. Isn't it wonderful to take this journey--the good, the bad, the sad, the boring, the trite, the mundane, the brilliant? And like Keizerfire said, this could be her, and it is. It is all of us. I will hold their hands for as long as they allow it, and I will let go with grace when it is time.

Thank you all again for your wonderful feedback.

Much love,
Julie

Anonymous said...

Heartfelt. Love and paradox encrypted in the phrase.
I love to read you!

Thanks, Marcus

shelly said...

Jul, knowing you and your kids...your fierce love for them and them for you made this post even more meaningful. Eloquently expressed. Thank you for sharing.

Donna Fletcher Crow said...

Wonderful story, Julie! I always tried to remember that God made me a wife and mother before he made me a writer. Still, as you say, it's all-consuming. One tiny trick that helped me focus was to put on an apron when I left my desk as the children came in the door after school. Then I put on the tea kettle and we sat down together. Now my children do that with my grandchildren. Drinking tea together can be a form of hand-holding.

Julie D said...

I love tea, Donna, and so do my kids! It is a wonderful ritual, and one I grew up with. It's another way in which we hold on to them just a bit longer, isn't it?

Much love,
Julie

Matthew Hetznecker said...

Julie,
There is a timeless beauty about all of your work. The image moments, yes. But more importantly your wisdom.
I can still have lovely haunting reminders of the first piece I heard you red.