Aplomb. It is one of my favorite words. I remember the exact moment I first encountered it. And was desperate to know its meaning. I was standing on the banks of the Connecticut River. Crew practice had yet to begin, and I had just come from the college post office. I was reading a letter. A letter from a friend at a college hours away. A boy friend. (But not a boyfriend.) A friend of the unrequited angsty, teenage crush variety. We had spent a few years in high school trying to figure out the nature of our relationship, I think. I think, also, that we loved each other. But. Never at the same time. And never in a way that could be spoken of. It was complicated, I now understand better. There were the cliques of school. The circles of our lives, some of which overlapped a bit. But the Venn diagram of our interests did not intersect comfortably. And our friendship was an emotional one, at least for me. I was never quite sure where we stood. Nor was I certain what I wanted from him. And when I read the letter I suspect there still was more want coming from me than from him. I read in that way of taking it all in at once and then going back, reading slowly, dissecting the words on the page. Even searching for the meanings between the words.
In that time before e-mail and when long-distance phone calls ran up a hefty bill, we wrote letters to each other, striving, perhaps still, to make more of ourselves than we were. And this letter, as I remember it, was an apology of sorts. A note addressing a situation—perhaps even our entire relationship to date—that neither of us had handled with much “aplomb.” It was not the last letter he wrote to me, but—I learned later and see very clearly now—it was the letter that defined our relationship from that point on. Reading that letter was one of those moments of change that started with a spark in the air and breath caught in the back of my throat yet slipped by without any certainty at all. It was one of those moments that—if I didn’t remember it so very clearly—I would question it every having happened at all.
Aplomb. I looked up the word when I got back to my dorm room later that day. (No Internet phones way back in the early 90s.) I had always thought this boy was smarter than me, at least when it came to book smarts. And I was probably intimidated by this quality as much as I was impressed by it. And in reading the definition of this vocabulary word that had never sat with me before, I knew that he had used exactly the correct word. More important, he was assuming equal responsibility for our (non)relationship. We were never quite on the same page at the same time. And neither of us, it seemed, was ever quite honest enough about our feelings, our insecurities, our questions.
So how could such a non-event so form me? I have come to admire people who handle complicated, uncomfortable, uncertain situations with grace and ease and confidence. It is, in fact, one of the qualities I most admire. As a person who tends to be overly conscientious of other people’s situations and feelings, I have always found it a challenge to present myself with complete self-assurance.
My life now is full of love and laughter and the challenges of motherhood. Challenges that necessitate poise and sound decision-making. And I look back, sometimes, at the relationships that came before. Before my relationship with Sweetie that is 12 years young and fun and secure and loving. And changing all the time in ways that aren’t threatening to me. Ours is a relationship formed where those circles—the ever-so important cliques of yesteryear—barely touch at all. I look back and I see that awkward time of late teenagehood or of my early 20s. And how it formed so much of who I am now. I look back with humility—another of my favorite words, and qualities. And I see how I’ve grown. Changed. I see so many influences. And the humility allows me to learn from a relationship that never really developed to its fullest. I can look past the embarrassment. Laugh. Even dig out that letter, which I know I still have, somewhere, and read it. Humility allows me to recognize that it took me years to truly understand the meaning of aplomb. And its importance as a quality in a caring, mature grown up—or, even, a teenager.
And as a sometime believer in the coincidences of life being prophetic, I know that the day on the riverbanks with that college-ruled paper in my hand was a turning point for me. And that’s precisely why I remember it so clearly. And why, finally, I can revisit it. Most important, thinking of that day—that single moment in that day—reminds me now that, as a mother, I need to remember how crucial the process of growing up is. How we do not choose the moments that we etch into our brains and our hearts. I need to remember that the childhoods that I am nurturing will produce letters (I hope) and broken hearts and growth. Challenges and achievement. Questions and pain. And I can only hope that along the way I will be able to provide my children with the vocabulary they need to handle the adventures—especially the struggles—that lay before them.
Read More in history aka before kids, Jen Writes, motherhood, relationship, three kids
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And you will. I know you will. Because it is with words that you truly flourish, dear sister. This piece is beautiful.
And maybe it is because I know the non-boyfriend of which you write, but “aplomb” makes grand sense to me here. And with it, “humility.” One of my most favorite words, and traits, also.
He did have a good vocab!
“[W]e do not choose the moments that we etch into our brains and our hearts.”
Yes! Every time I’m tempted to “create” an experience for my kids, I try to think of the random moments from my own childhood that still dance through my memory. None of them were born of intent; they were born of the spontaneity of life. And so I try not to let my intentions get in the way of my kids’ access to their own childhoods.
Spontaneity is so difficult for me (with the kiddos), and yet often the best days come of the unplanned activities. But, somehow, I need to remind myself of this over and over and over… I like the way you’ve put it: “access to their own childhoods.” Yes yes yes!
Jen you write with such grace and wisdome. I hope that you know that. That your words are beautiful and woven into a picture that fills me up. Also interesting that you should post this today, when Corinne is doing a similar kind of reflecting over at her place. Much to think about and consider from both of you.
“I have always found it a challenge to present myself with complete self-assurance. ” This I understand so completely, as it defines much of how I live my life as well. But I assure you, that the richness that you speak of here means that you should go forward as a completely self-assured mother. Your children are very lucky to have you.
Thanks, Christine. The self-assurance comes and goes, of course. And I’m quite sure it is entirely connected to how much sleep I have recently achieved! But, that’s another post altogether.
Beautiful, honest and lovely. Those moments in life that completely transform us, without us even knowing it are amazing aren’t they? I love reflecting back, and seeing how far I’ve come.
Isn’t it funny when the moments of reflection present themselves, though? I cannot understand why this one came now. Though I have a feeling it will become more obvious in the near future, as usually happens, it seems.
I write about this all the time, Jen (though less beautifully) – how we can’t even realize, necessarily, as we live which are the things that will become the really detailed, crystalline memories, enduring in unforseen ways.
A beautiful testament to the younger you and someone who was a part of your life then. And to vocabulary, and traits I too admire (humility is probably my #1, with empathy and generosity of spirit).
xox
Living in the moment yet realizing that the moment has so many influences from the past. Wooo boy, we could write about it forever, couldn’t we? Thanks for your kind words, Lindsey.
I’m sure I still have my letter, too. Different boy, different college. Same lesson, same memory. After reading this, I want to hug my children tighter and longer, knowing so very well the challenges that await them and the words they will need to be strong and stay strong.
Ah, but wouldn’t it be something if it wasn’t a different boy! (Sorry, I’ve been watching too many Hallmark movies lately.) Seriously though, Stacia, yes to the hugging and the letting our children live their own lives. Oh, it is SO.HARD.sometimes.
Wow, what a beautiful story told so perfectly. You are a wise woman, Jen.
My husband and I used to write letters to each other when we were dating. We both did shift work then, and didn’t see each other as often as we would have liked. We used to leave the letters on the other’s windshield (sometimes with a rose). Even now, when we have issues we usually write each other an email while we’re both at work. I think it’s because it’s so difficult to talk in private with two children at home. It’s easier to express ourselves and really “hear” what the other person is saying, too. It works well for us. But I miss the letters. They weren’t about “issues”, they were only about love. :-)
Now I think about my own children – especially my 12yo son, who is starting to have “girlfriends” – and I worry. I hope he can handle the struggles of life and the pain of heartbreak. I don’t look forward to those days.
I love letter writing. My Sweetie and I had a bit of an e-mail romance in the early months. And occasionally we indulge in this correspondence now. I resolved at the beginning of this year to write love letters to him more often, and I realize now that I’ve slacked off a bit in the last six weeks or so. But, there is something about the time spent and the practice of putting pen to paper. And having your words read. And being only about love, well, what a luxury!
You were so right – totally on the same wavelength today. It is strange… were you thinking of this post for the past few days as well? :)
This was so good to read, today especially. Thank you.
I’m not sure where this came from, Corinne, to be honest. Probably it’s been floating around in my brain for a LONG time. Maybe I overheard the someone use the word “aplomb.” I really couldn’t say. But, it hit, and I jotted the draft down in just a few minutes. And there you go. I do find it interesting that we seem both to be in similar places, though. What’s next, I wonder?
I, too, wrote a boy for couple years, but we eventually married. I don’t think either of us wrote with the eloquence it seems you two did.
Self-assurance is hard to find for me as well. Everyday I am confronted by things that remind me of how little I know. I am greeted by humility. I am learning big lessons in these little events because not knowing everything forces me to be creative in solving the little problems.
Oh, to marry the boy! Sweetie and I had our own correspondence, of course. And I TREASURE it. It is such a part of our history, and to be able to go back and read our words and our thoughts is magical. As for solving the problems, I hear ya. For me, patience and sleep are so integral in my ability to react with APLOMB. It’s a struggle. And sometimes I do not even come close to achieving a state I can be satisfied with. Fortunately, kids are resilient and there is a new day (or even moment) ahead.
Lovely post… and it made me want to look up “aplomb” where I was intrigued to learn that it comes from “perfect perpendicularity” as marked by the plummet (string for making walls straight). This made me think of the balance between those with whom we have romantic relationships and those we do not… but almost did, and how there is some “Through The Looking Glass” metaphysics balancing conscious intimacy with the more subtle inter-being that we all share. LIkewise there is a potential aplomb between parenting our kids and taking a parenting attitude toward all kids, and between the intellect and the simple power of the heart, be it our children’s or our own younger and uncertain love.
Ooh, I love the more in-depth derivative here. Thank you. And I think you’ve really hit on something with the “our kids” and “all kids.” I really struggle with that, especially as my kids are getting old enough to play around the neighborhood in less-closely adult-supervised ways. What do you do when they want to play with the aggressive kids? The rude kids? How much can I want to do to help form kids that are not mine? And yet, I know I won’t be able to guide my kids’ friendships for much longer, either. I think about this frequently, and yet to put it in the context of aplomb is new for me. I think I have some challenges ahead that I didn’t anticipate!
“How we do not choose the moments that we etch into our brains and our hearts.”…..For me this is scary. I am not a perfect mother. Will my children remember the cookies I baked or the countless stories read, or will they remember the mother who lost her cool in a moment and was unfairly harsh.
Perfect. Ugh. Hate that word. I rely on the fact that I don’t remember the times my mom lost it with me (she swears she did) but I remember other stuff, and lots of it. Good stuff. Like homemade caramel corn after school and special notes on our kitchen chalkboard. I have to hope that my kids will filter out the bad moments and days as I have to, hoping that they know just how much I love them and that I am NOT PERFECT and that I don’t expect them to be either.
To offer my children the vocabulary they need for their lives…this is what I want to do. This is a wonderful sentiment and ambitious. I will not give them their thoughts, but I can offer a bounty of words, a wide delicious feast, so that their thoughts and feelings and hearts, can range wide.
Thank you.
And please share your words with me, too. We need to work together to make this next generation wordwise!
I love that you had a little “relationship-of-sorts” with a boy who used “aplomb.” It’s a good word, no?
A good word from a good boy. There were other words. But, interestingly, not other boys. (Sweetie came striding down the hall one day, about seven years after the “aplomb” letter, and he was much more man than boy.) Hmm. Perhaps another post.
I too “admire people who handle complicated, uncomfortable, uncertain situations with grace and ease and confidence.” Your description is so thoughtful and beautifully written, that I find it hard to believe that you aren’t one of those people.
You are too kind. I have my moments of losing my mind, like the other night when I totally lost it with my girls because my son was throwing up. Um. Not fair. Everyone has recovered, of course. But I still remember my daughter’s retreat from me. So. Aplomb. There’s still plenty of room for improvement!
What a beautiful memory and how eloquently told.
Words have a power to convery emotions to me more than almost anything. Especially the written word. I think I fell in love with a guy once because of the beautiful things he used to write me and the emotions those words unleashed!
There truly is power in words. And those that are written–ah, so much more power. Thanks for reading, Peg!
I enjoyed this…thoroughly. Partly because I love swimming in your words and partly because I had one of those pre-hubby relationships too. Mine was heart-wrenching, confusing, and he and I often rambled through it with handwritten notes too. You piqued my interest to pull them out and celebrate the growth that happened because of him…and since him.
Yes! This is exactly what I hoped might come of my experience here. I think so often that there is pain associated with past relationships, no matter what their nature. But we are always growing and improving and we must be willing to learn. From everything. And we must move past the confusion and the pain and find reasons for happiness and celebrations! Yes!
“…we do not choose the moments that we etch into our brains and our hearts.” I love this. No matter how much I tell myself oh I’m going to remember this forever, it surprises me years down the road the memories I do keep and the ones that fade with time. I can recall a moment at a fast food joint with a college roommate far better than the day of my college graduation. I wonder why that is.
And oh how I miss the days of old-fashioned letters in the mail – the excitement of finding one in the mailbox, the anticipation of its content, the colors of stamps, the familiar handwriting on the envelope… I don’t remember the last time I received one. It’s a dying art, and I am saddened to know that my daughter won’t share this experience with me. I intend to write her a letter each birthday and save it in her memory box, but it’s still not the same thing.
I guess we can’t recreate our own memories for our children. We should accept that their lives will be different and so will their experience of it, and that the best we can do is to guide them when we can, and let them know we’re here when we can’t.
Well, you’ve said it in a nutshell in that last paragraph, Justine. It’s so so difficult to “accept that their lives will be different and so will their experience.” And yet. That’s exactly the kind of mom I want to be. So I guess I’ll dig up my own past while trying my best not to steer my kids’ futures too tightly.
Vocabulary was a turn on when I was in my teenage years. Not in the perverted sense. So I get this! Vocabulary was at the very core of who I was. A book nerd herder of sorts. So with aplomb, I smiled knowing what you wrote to be true. We raise our children to be adults. Not to be children.
And that boy. That boy, was my first love. We wrote letters, too (for he went to boarding school) and then the summer after my freshman year of college on a long winding gravel road, held my hand and implored me with his eyes told me then told me he was going to ask another girl to marry him. A girl that he fell in love with. What turmoil! I actually uttered “But what about us?” (Even though we weren’t together at the time.) And at the risk of putting my heart out there now, he said “We were too young to know really what love was.” He was right. I know this now since I’m married to the man of my dreams, but that boy… and those memories.
Thank you for stirring them up. They were very fond memories. I still love them, more than I ever loved that boy.
Oh, the pain! I remember when my boy called to tell me that another girl had accepted his “Will you go to the prom with me” inquiry. If only he had known how much he broke my heart at that very moment. I remember I was sitting on the edge of my parents’ bed, and I may just have slid to the floor when he told me the news.
And? Loving the memories more than the boy is exactly right, isn’t it!
Sometimes it’s those hard to define relationships that linger in our minds the longest, and really help us define what we want and don’t want in a partner.
There is something sweet about receiving a handwritten letter. I used to look forward to the mail coming, in hopes that there would be a letter from a friend who had gone away to college, a “non-defined” relationship that kept me out of sorts for a couple of years. But is helped me understand my own shortcomings and what I wanted from a partner.
And no, he never used the word aplomb…
So much of what I know about myself now has been determined from looking back to who I was or what I had or what I thought I wanted in years past. And I am so glad for this experience and this knowledge.
Jen, this is great. Simply fabulous. Isn’t it funny how certain words – and names – will always hold specific memories for us? For me, the name Claudia makes me remember reading my first Babysitter’s Club book, sitting on the stool in the kitchen, asking my mom why I had never hear that name before.
And this whole bit that our most salient, meaningful moments can’t be chosen – that is so true, and somewhat bittersweet. At the moment, we don’t realize how pivotal it is. And it isn’t until months or years later, as further pieces of the puzzle fall into place, that we see it for what it was. I wonder if any of those moments has happened to me lately…
I have always loved the word aplomb and I love what you did here. A thoughtful and well written post. Clearly you possess everything this word embodies.
What a beautiful post! I found it through your link at Boy Crazy’s site and I’m really glad I clicked through. I love your introspection and the way you’ve captured a seemingly insignificant, significant moment.
This is just stunning, Jen. I’ve read your posts before, but this is the first time I have really gotten a taste of the writer you are. I love this, so evocative and I relate to so much of it.
I have a memory-boy, a letter-writer, an unrequited lover of a boy. (And he was a poet. *sigh*)
It does shape us, you’re so right. I love this post so much. I love how you wrote it. The gulping of the letter and then going back to dissect. The spark in the air and the lump in the throat. That college ruled paper.
I want more of your writing. More of your stories. I’m really bad at making my way on the internet, so it looks like I”m going to have to make this link thing a monthly event. :)