Wanting, Getting, Being

For my entire childhood, I wanted a cat. I wrote it in letters to Santa, I begged for it at every opportunity, I cried real tears at the desperation with which I felt, for certain, a cat would change everything, would fill me up, would make me stop wanting anything else, ever.

My mother and brother were allergic, a cat was never meant to be for me, and then the thing I wanted with my whole heart was a boyfriend. One particular boyfriend, in fact, who was tall and red-haired and probably not actually even interested in having a girlfriend, but my best friend and I devised a set of elaborate plans and in the end, he was mine.

Or, well, not mine. But he was technically speaking my boyfriend and we did have up to five phone calls over the course of 18 months or so, and perhaps at least three in-person conversations that were watched by the entire population of the sixth grade.

Later, I wanted the lead role in every play. Especially the musical, and I got it once, then never again. As a freshman in high school I was cast as Oliver in Oliver! and I still can recall with delicate precision exactly how it felt to sprint from the cast list by the music room down the hall to my boyfriend’s arms over by the main lobby of the school. It was one of the purest moments of my life— shocking and thrilling and full.

I have a long history of wanting.

I do not want casually, I want consumingly. I am still sure that the things I want— this kind of book deal, that kind of film deal, a specific type of critical or commercial attention, an award, a name on a list, a glimpse of the exact type of success I have set my mind on that day— would fix everything. Or if not fix everything, at least give me that feeling of running down the hall to tell someone I loved that I had gotten the lead role in the high school musical at fourteen years old.

But. Here’s the other truth: when I got to the end of the hall and catapulted into my boyfriend’s arms, he laughed. Not cruelly (he was one of the nice ones. I really should have specified, back in my wanting a boyfriend days that I wanted a NICE boyfriend only, but alas), but bemusedly. Like he was a little bit embarrassed by my exuberance. Like it was a lot. Like I was a lot. Like I needed, maybe, to take things down a notch.

The rush of excitement, even in memory, is tempered so quickly by the shame of wanting it too badly, caring too much when I got it, having everyone know just how intense my desire can be.

Wanting is a vulnerable state to be in, and when you are in it all the time, you are also often in a state of disappointment, because wanting does not always lead to getting. And even if it does, sometimes there is someone there to tell you the wanting was a little much, actually.

I have tried to put a check on my wanting. It seems impossibly looped into my love of planning, a sort of twin-sister set that I can’t unwind or put aside. But it persists, and so does the heartbreak of not getting and the embarrassment of having too many big feelings about the things I want and the shame of not getting them all or getting some of them but not reacting correctly when I do.

Last night, I was talking to my kid about all my wanting and the disappointments that come with it. She likes stories of things not going the way I want them to, and knowing that I too sink with sadness when things don’t quite go my way. She has been trying to wrap her head around these feelings for a while— a year at least— and we go over and over the cycle of wanting and being let down in endless stories about broken toys and lost shoes and hikes gone awry. She has always simply listened with interest and asked me to tell her again. And again. And again.

Yesterday, though, I told her about the wanting and the let down of not getting and she gave me a hug. She told me, with a kiss on the cheek and a tone of voice that must be an imitation of how I sound when I am letting her know that it’s okay that she fell off her scooter, “You’re still the same.”

I don’t know where she got this phrase, or the knowledge of when to use it. Maybe I’ve said something similar to her, maybe her teachers say it when kids don’t win at bingo or manage to complete the hula hoop obstacle course with the same technical prowess as their friends.

Or maybe she saw something raw and tender on my face, through the nightlight’s glow, and knew I needed to hear the thing I have probably been trying to understand my entire life. That I am the same, whether or not I get the things I want. I want her to know this, too.

Also, though, the next time something wonderful happens (someday, right? it will again?) I want to run the hall of our home and burst with excitement and let it bubble up and overflow, resist the urge to tamp it down and make it the right size for the moment. I want to be fourteen, readying myself for my “Who Will Buy” solo once again, and I want her to see the unchecked joy of getting something you truly want.

Because she’s right. I am the same, whether I get the thing I want or not. But the person I am is the exuberant, big feeling-ed one.

And it’s looking like she is too.

Some Recommendations:

1. You’re all already watching it I’m sure, but it is exactly as good as they say: the LuLaRich documentary is everything I wanted it to be (and is helpful research into a project I’ve been toying with for years. Stay tuned!)

2. They are not cheap, but following vacation I decided I needed to upgrade my sheets to something legitimately comfortable and soft, and have landed on Parachute’s sateen sheets. I am filled with joy every night. Then I am woken between the hours of 3-5am and I am heartbroken to leave them.

3. I unsuccessfully tried to sell a book about fairies a few years ago, and I am still left with a longing for the whimsical thrill they bring my heart. This picture book that we nabbed from the library recently got at exactly why I love them so much, and I’m hoping Fia will develop a love of fairies, too.

   What was your running down the hall of high school to tell your boyfriend you got the role of Oliver moment?