Perfectly Imperfect: A Life in Progress

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I wore that swordfish pin the very first time I met my future in- laws. It was at a wedding in Michigan, and I was flying in to stay with Bob at his boyhood home. My roommate Nora and I had agonized over what I should wear to meet his parents. I was the "girl from New York," and I didn't want to arrive in the Midwest looking too slick.

Nothing too fussy, too city, or too young. In the end I had selected a red dress in a kind of muted silk, with the giant linebacker shoulder pads that were so popular in the s. In a burst of individuality, something that would define me as a person with her own sense of self and style, I had impulsively chosen the swordfish pin from my jewelry box at the last minute. I'd pinned it jauntily at an angle on my lapel.

Since then, that pin had always been a connection for me to that long- ago night, a reminder of how Bob and I had slow- danced to the band at the reception, how he had proudly introduced me to his parents, his three brothers, and his high school friends, and we'd snuck out under the club's awning to steal a kiss in the cooler air. I had always pictured my daughter Cathryn fingering the swordfish pin, then picking up a pair of light blue aquamarine studs. And I'd remember that those earrings, from Macy's jewelry department when I turned sweet sixteen, had been the first pair of earrings my father had ever given me.

Getting my ears pierced was one of those fulcrum passages in life. It seemed, at the time, to be the single most important thing I could do to look older, more sophisticated, maybe even pretty.

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While most of my friends had already gotten their ears pierced, my mother had decided that her daughters needed to wait until we were sixteen. And on this point, my mother could not be budged. It was the s and hippies were changing the face of fashion, jewelry, and hair in a way that she found fundamentally jarring.

With the world shifting and revolution in the air, with rock 'n' roll, war protesters, civil rights, and busing, even in my traditional household we could sense that there was a sea change taking place out there. Respect was no longer a given, whether for elders, authority figures, or right and wrong; the old rules no longer applied. The carefully ordered white, middle- class world of the s and early '60s was about to undergo a tectonic shift.

In my mother's eyes, real women were obviously expected to wear clip- ons. But all of the other girls in school were "putting holes in their bodies," as she referred to it. There were dangly earrings and hoops, peace signs, even the ubiquitous yellow smiley faces—plus a hundred other designs I couldn't wait to hang from my ears. On the Saturday following my sixteenth birthday, two of my girlfriends accompanied me to the department store in my Albany suburb of Delmar, where I would join the official ranks of body piercers.

Some girls used ice cubes to numb their lobes at home, then pierced them with a needle and a cork, but I was enough of my mother's daughter to be wary of this. I went to the middle- aged woman in the officiallooking white lab coat standing stiffly behind the jewelry counter. I don't remember being nervous. I was only excited. It was like some kind of ritual preceding becoming a woman, and I was willing to suffer any measure of pain for my beauty. She had drawn two small black dots with felt pen on my earlobes and kept turning my head, using my chin as a handle, to inspect her handiwork.

The pain was fleeting. What I remember was the look of the two small gold balls gleaming off my ears. I was certain every person I encountered could see them. Years later, after Bob slipped an engagement ring on my finger, I had the same feeling. I felt the shiny newness of the engagement band, the tiny weight of the diamonds, and I was sure that everyone noticed my hands and my ring, gleaming like a beacon.

To me, my two tiny specks of gold earrings glimmered on my body like the treasure uncovered at King Tut's tomb. They carried with them the promise that this small act would change my life. It was at home, in the fluorescent light of the bathroom mirror, that I realized with chagrin that my studs hung woefully unequally. On close inspection, one was much lower than the other.

My attached earlobes—a recessive genetic trait, as I'd learned in tenth- grade biology—made the inequity even more obvious. To this day, it is the first thing I see when I put on earrings in the mirror.

It's the imperfection I spot first, the lopsided inequality that no one else would ever notice unless I pointed it out. I'd had those studs for all those years in my jewelry box. I probably hadn't worn them much after high school, but they were there. A reminder of the day that had inched me ever closer to being the young woman who would leave the nest, go on to college, and begin the next phase of the process of becoming herself. That is why, when thieves broke into our house in Phoenix one warm, cloudless day, while we were in church, of all places, and the oleander blossoms on the back hedge were in full bloom, I lost not just my jewelry but a part of my living history.

Whoever they were, vagrants or professionals, they knew what they were doing. They entered through the kitchen window and hopped over the sink without disturbing the salt and pepper shakers on the sill. I picture them hurriedly, expertly searching the rooms for small, valuable items they could carry: Because they had no time, I imagine, they simply took the box in its entirety, along with one pillowcase stripped from our bed, an act of utter violation that angered and repelled me for weeks.

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It was a transgression that was hard to articulate, because although I had not been touched, it made me feel dirty, angry, and victimized. When I first discovered that the jewelry box was missing, my heart lurched. It wasn't so much that there were valuable pieces or one item I loved above all the others. It was the collective grouping of all of these bits of my life: I let out a little cry when I realized that the blue box was gone. There was a rectangular space of clean wood around which the dust had collected, an outline of where the box had been. I felt naked, foolish, and momentarily angry for not having had some secret hiding place in which to stash my most beloved items, some special canister fashioned to look like a can of shaving cream or a fire extinguisher.

But the truth was that all of my jewelry was valuable, even though collectively the pieces wouldn't have fetched enough at a pawnshop for a good steak dinner. Worse, they were probably lying, at that moment, in a back- alley trash can. The swordfish pin, my little blue studs, and some of Nana's other pieces that had ended up in my jewelry box after she died were all gone. I searched desperately through the backstreets of our Phoenix neighborhood that day, hoping the thieves had picked and chosen, abandoned the bulky box in their retreat.

But it was a halfhearted quest; I knew those kinds of discoveries happened only in the movies. So the thieves had severed that connection, the one intended to pass, like a bloodline, from my grandmother to me and then to my daughter. The things Nana had passed on were now lost. The stories I had wanted to tell about my own girlish history—the pearls from my wedding, the opal necklace from a college boyfriend, the tiger's- eye ring set in silver I had made at summer camp—these had vanished.

I had wanted to lay them all out on a rug with her, to watch her finger ropes of necklaces or slip bangle bracelets on her own slim wrists and choose a favorite, as I had done. But I had lost the props. Something even more precious was stolen in Phoenix that same year. Something far more valuable than my jewelry, more priceless than the collection of all of the possessions that made up my girlhood. My ability to bear children, which had tied me to the cycles of the moon and to the sisterhood of women, would prove, in its absence, far more meaningful to me than one thousand rare gemstones or a mountain of gleaming gold coins.

After the hysterectomy at age thirty- five, which resulted from losing my third child, a son, I was instantly robbed not only of that little boy's future but my own chance to carry another child and to be a mother one more time. All at once I felt cronelike, barren, and neutered. This part of womanhood was a connection to my daughter and the other women in my life I had imagined I would have until my body wound down later in life.

Like the jewelry box, I had given it little day- to- day thought until it was gone. My fertility was simply one more treasure that I took for granted until I no longer had it. What once had seemed like a monthly inconvenience now hung in my waking mind like the brightest star in the solar system. As I had hoped to do with my jewelry, I wanted to share womanhood with Cathryn, to travel the road through cramps and buying Tampax together. How would I now one day claim that tangible communal connection to my daughter?

When the nurses had first brought Cathryn to me in the hospital, I'd held her little beanlike body and touched her shock of dark hair as we fell asleep together. Gazing at her face and her satisfied eyes searching mine I put my lips to her ear. I thought of generations of mothers passing down the holiest parts of woman wisdom almost wordlessly.

I thought about the connection between mother and daughter, the infinite love and the skeins of dreams. Motherhood had given me magic powers, as if I could mystically see the pain that lay ahead for her, along with her moments of triumph, anticipation, and desire. That day in the hospital, infused with the thrill of creation, I felt sure that I would coach her to navigate her way in the world and to demand from it all that she deserved. I did go on to be a mother again, and our twin girls were born by a surrogate after a long and interrupted journey that often circled back on itself before we got that phone call with the great news.

And one day I also got a new jewelry box—nothing fancy, or too big. Over time, I replaced the stolen items with new and different ones, buying pieces gradually and sometimes in bunches. One summer I bought a dozen earrings just to make up for my loss, but I never again found the trapezoid- shaped turquoise chunks that had stood out from my ears or the silver serpentine earrings that had hung halfway to my shoulders.

And I should have known it was inevitable. By the time my own daughter reached the age of ten, she desperately wanted pierced ears, just like most of her friends. My initial pronouncement that she must be sixteen was weakening. My expectations, I was told, were out of sync with the times. Why was I so reluctant to see my daughter pierce her ears when it was all I had wanted at that age? How could I not have taken my own desires as a child and woven them into my perspective as a mother? On some visceral maternal level, the world of piercings and tattoos, the rebellious artistic expressions of today's youth, terrified me.

How had that little infant daughter with the milk- white skin transformed into this young, leggy beauty? I wanted to preserve her, wrap her in a protective cloak to keep her unmarred and pristine for as long as possible. When I finally took Cathryn to the women's holistic clinic with the physician's assistant to pierce her ears, part of me felt as if I were righting a wrong. There would be no beauty- school dropout, no lopsided holes. I would make sure they were even, that she wasn't worried or afraid of the sting.

Getting her ears pierced was such a small thing, such a minor step forward on the road to independence, but perhaps I was nervous because it was the first move. Cathryn was anxious; when she saw the piercing gun, she asked how much it would hurt. For a split second a look of fear flashed over her face, and I thought she might change her mind.

Then she squinted and asked if she could hold my hand. When the first hole was punched, Cathryn looked as surprised and indignant as if I had pinched her unexpectedly. Before the pain could really sink in, the woman with the gun quickly and efficiently pierced the other ear, and then it was done. There was one gleaming gold stud in each ear. But I l Library copy. But I love the way she communicates and draws the reader in to participate in her life, and in many ways I can identify, being a fellow baby boomer from the Northeast, a mother, and one who has suffered loss in life who hasn't?

Not sure I want to recommend it. Not sure I'm the better for having read it. So hard to read and enjoy what is not based on faith in God. So obviously left out. I do recommend reading her book In An Instant before reading this though, the story of her husband's traumatic injury. Jun 03, Marisa rated it it was ok. This collection of short personal essays is engaging at times, irritatingly long-winded at others.

Woodruff's tales of dealing with the woes of parenting teenagers are quite funny, and some of her commentary on life's struggles her husband's injury, finding out that a child is deaf is very poignant, honest, and too the point. The trouble is, Woodruff is not actually that good of a writer, or at least, this format isn't the one for her. It sort of felt like reading a bunch of college admissions This collection of short personal essays is engaging at times, irritatingly long-winded at others.

It sort of felt like reading a bunch of college admissions essays. Additionally, the final chapter on how to approach other people dealing with a loss or illness in the family is unnecessary and not at all in keeping with the spirit of the collection as a whole. This book is a decent read if you just want to take the essays one by one, but when you try to read it start to finish as you would with a novel, you sort of get tired of hearing about the mundane activities in one family's day-to-day life.

Perfectly Imperfect: A Life in Progress - Lee Woodruff

Nov 17, Adele Stratton rated it really liked it Shelves: Unabridged audioversion, read by the author. Lee came to national attention a few years ago when she and her husband, Bob Woodruff, a television newsman critically injured in the early days of the Iraq war, wrote a book about their experience including his near- miraculous recovery. While this was neither a groundbreaking nor riveti Unabridged audioversion, read by the author.

While this was neither a groundbreaking nor riveting missive, I came away having very much enjoyed my time with Lee Woodruff. It felt a little like getting to know a new friend, a definite keeper, a wise and thoughtful lady quietly, honestly sharing her story. Aug 24, Meg rated it really liked it. Sep 28, Sherrie Howey rated it really liked it.

Some of them are so funny while others are heart wrenching, especially when dealing with the recovery of her husband. This book reminded me of Ali Wentworth's book "Ali in Wonderland" which I also enjoyed so much and the truthfulness of both authors is amazing.

Lee's essays about pets and gift giving are laugh out loud funny and I am sure most readers have similar stories. Her strength during her husband's recovery is so admirable and her last chapter 'What I know now" is so helpful in terms of dealing with friends who are undergoing a crisis. Great lessons from someone who has been through a terrible ordeal and come out better than ever! Jul 26, Melissa rated it it was ok.

I was at the library, so I decided to check out the "New Books" section. The title of this book grabbed me, so I picked it up. I remember the story of Bob Woodruff getting injured in Iraq, and I thought that it would be interesting to read about his wife dealing with that.

So this book was really about being a mom. Totally my fault for having the wrong perception, but even so, I wasn't crazy about h I was at the library, so I decided to check out the "New Books" section. Totally my fault for having the wrong perception, but even so, I wasn't crazy about how separated it was. There was no chronological flow from chapter to chapter and they were rarely interrelated. I did enjoy the first chapter about amusement parks, and I can definitely respect Lee's struggles and the way she dealt with them. Jan 24, Nancy rated it liked it. After attending an author event at my local library with Lee Woodruff I was eager to read her books.

This collection of essays was insightful, entertaining and thought provoking. Woodruff covers topics from her sagging knees to her daughter's hearing issues, her teen son's driving license to the strength of friendships, her father's aging to her husband's brain damage. While the particulars are unique to Woodruff I believe most women can relate to some of the themes, thoughts and conclusions. Sh After attending an author event at my local library with Lee Woodruff I was eager to read her books.

She shares personal details that lets the reader feel a connection, someone you would like for a next door neighbor. Oct 06, Heather Hunter rated it liked it. If you're looking for a light-hearted read filled with essays of love, commitment, death, grief, anger and exhilaration all tied up with a deep-rooted sense of humor, you'll dig this quick yet very personal encounter with Lee Woodruff.

I had the privilege of attending a luncheon where she spoke and her off-the-cuff, honest approach won me over. The book did not disappoint as every story is relevant to your life in some way. A truly enjoyable and personal account of life and what that means--the g If you're looking for a light-hearted read filled with essays of love, commitment, death, grief, anger and exhilaration all tied up with a deep-rooted sense of humor, you'll dig this quick yet very personal encounter with Lee Woodruff. A truly enjoyable and personal account of life and what that means--the good, bad and the ugly.

May 04, Candy rated it really liked it. Enjoyed Lee Woodruff's "MOMoir" of life with her family told here in essays modern moms can easily recognize. Yes, her anchorman husband, Bob, suffered a terrible injury covering the Iraqi war which she touches on, but the book is not limited to that difficult journey. It's otherwise filled with lessons about being caregiver, mother, wife, healer, friend, motivator and grateful recipient of love, goodwill and p Enjoyed Lee Woodruff's "MOMoir" of life with her family told here in essays modern moms can easily recognize.

It's otherwise filled with lessons about being caregiver, mother, wife, healer, friend, motivator and grateful recipient of love, goodwill and prayers. May 20, Catherine rated it liked it. Woodruff reflects on her life as a wife, mother, daughter, caregiver. In a nutshell, it's a perfectly innocuous book of essays. Woodruff does a lot of magazine writing and it's obvious. The essays are probably more appropriate as a series for a women's magazine.

Although I've been through some similar life experiences to hers, I never really felt a connection. I do believe other readers, moms in particular, may possibly find more stories that they identify with.

May 16, Heather rated it it was amazing. Jan 20, Rebekah rated it liked it. I probably would have enjoyed this book more if I was better able to relate to Woodruff's place in life. However, being young and without children, it was just pointless to me. I guess I expect a spectacular story if I'm going to read a biography; it seems odd to me to read a story about a person living a typical life.

Aug 20, Ellin rated it it was ok. I stumbled across this in the new books section of the library yesterday. I was thinking it was about Bob Woodruff's accident in Iraq and subsequent recovery. I was half way through the book, still wondering when she was going to write about getting the phone call, when it dawned on me that this was a different book. This book consisted of assorted stories about her and her family. It wasn't bad; just not what I was expecting. I took this on vacation for a light read.

The first part of the book was an entertaining, witty description of famiy life, and I could relate to the author. The book got more interesting as it went along - Lee Woodruff has been dealt some bad cards and handled them as best she could. Particularly insightful was one of the last chapters talking about what REALLY helps a friend going through difficult times without intruding on her family's space.

It fit the bill perfectly for me. May 15, Carly rated it really liked it. Lee was a good friend of Molly's when I lived in Richmond and I knew them a bit. It was a treat to read her essays, and it brought back many memories for me of life in Richmond, as well as learning about her life, philosophy, and experiences. Her husband Bob is the news anchor who was bombed in Iraq a few years ago and this is a collection of essays that followed up their book about that experience, In An Instant.

Dec 04, Laura Heintschel rated it it was ok. These were amusing and sometimes serious essays about family life from a Mom's perspective. In an essay about a close friend's husband's death: I knew that I would have my children, my family, and the power of friendship They would all help to pull me back out into the light, eventually. And that was a mighty powerful feeling.

It was much more than a consolation prize. Jun 09, Pat rated it it was ok. Woodruff is the author of In an Instant and the wife of journalist Bob Woodruff. This breezy attempt at relating episodes of her life leaves this reader wishing for more sincerity and less comic efforts as Woodruff does provide in the chapter about one of her daughters.

Most of the other chapters read like auditions for SNL with irreverence and exaggerations that get old fast. Jul 12, Twila Bennett rated it it was amazing.

Excerpt: 'Perfectly Imperfect: A Life in Progress'

Such a wonderful writer! Lee's book was a breathe of fresh air. Her essay on jewelry made me cry. Descriptions of her life with Bob Woodruff are real and aren't padded by fluff.

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