I was born in fall. I am borne of fall.

Lumbering yellow school buses are the grand marshals of the fall parade.  A parade I look forward to every year.  Even though my child is not yet in school the idea of shopping for bright yellow number two pencils, sweaters, glue sticks and hand sanitizer is intensely appealing to me.  There is nothing more satisfying than the smell of a fresh notebook or pencil case.  I remember the plasticy scent completely.  And how proud I was of my sharpened soldiers and blue inked pens.  School is just one band playing in the fall parade.  The yearly apple picking excursion follows close behind.  Wandering through orchards lugging overflowed totes of crisp sweet sin and topping the day off with a hay ride.  Followed by horns heralding a good troll through a pumpkin patch for a perfect orange specimen.  The cool air and warm sun gleaming through a colorful kaleidoscope are dizzying.  The confetti of leaves ranging from burnt umber to canary yellow litter at my feet as I sip cider and eat spiced apple donuts.  The yard work is tedious but ultimately the smell of burning leaves wafting through the air brings the days reward.  The drum of rain bringing up the rear ending the tropical storm season warning us to prepare for colder days to come.  I was born in fall.  I am borne of fall.  There is no place more perfect than New England in the autumn.  

I'll never know.

My daughter has successfully invaded my space.  She’s worn me down.  Lapping waves of her repeated creeping into my room in the middle of the night has eroded my will to turn her away.  It started at dawn.  Then it was around four a.m.  A few days later it turned into three a.m. then two.  Saturday night she was in my room by midnight.  Last night she burst through the door dragging her blanket and whining at about eleven p.m.  Me putting her in her own bed is all a sham.  I’m a sham…kissing her goodnight in her room and telling her I will see her in the morning.  What a joke…the morning.  She doesn't even fight me anymore when I put her to bed because she knows she can just slip on into bed with me at any time.  She’s an evil genius.  She is a mastermind and I’m her ‘yes man’ sidekick.  At this very moment she is laying here nudging me.  She just clapped in her sleep.  Now she is telling me to move because three-quarters of the bed is obviously not enough for her two and half foot, thirty-three pound frame.  It must be nice having someone wrapped so tightly around your little finger.  I’ll never know.

There's no hope for me...none.

Whenever I fall it’s hard…figuratively and literally.  There isn’t much difference really.  Recovering from falling in love and busting your ass in public is practically the same thing…in my experience anyway.  I would get back up a little haggard and hurt…my pride wounded.  Always a bit more wary of my footfalls.  Clutching to things as a crutch to steady me.   Making quick glances to see if anyone saw me…then a hearty laugh.  Well, eventually a hearty laugh…usually instigated by friends.

It’s that floating descent right before you hit the pavement that’s the best.  You are walking along minding your own business.  you have no idea what’s about to happen then…  Suddenly your in mid-air.  You throw up your arms and reach for something that’s not there.  Then resigned to your fate you let yourself go.  Knowing that you’re falling the whole time…wondering how you will land.  Prostrate?  Supine?  Or just square on your ass?  Don’t try and change your position or land in a way that you think will cause the least damage.  It only makes it worse.  Just let yourself go and enjoy the fall.

The free-fall is the best part.  You are lighter than air.  Your cheeks are rosy.  Your eyes are glazed.  I would spend my nights snuggling with Chaka Khan and making love to my pillow.  I would imagine serenading to the song Sweet Thing.  ’You are my heat.  You are my fire.  You make me weak with strong desire.’  Goddammit if I can’t have you right now I’ll burst into hot white flame.  I was never so forthcoming with actual prospects.  But in the privacy of my room I would fall apart.  Dreaming of the moment that would bring us together.  I was a combination of sensuality, passion and a Disney fairy-tail…a dangerous cocktail.  Dangerous to myself.

But when all was done and the candles had been snuffed out.  There I was.  Awkwardly sprawled with my bruised ego and broken heart.  I would not let my heart be troubled for long.  The lesson was learned.  And maybe next time I will stay afloat…hanging in mid-air.  Gliding on a current of love and trust my feet won’t touch the ground.   I will drift there and never crash…never worry how I will land.   There’s that fairy-tail again…rearing it’s love-song filled head.  Making the same mistakes in love is my favorite past-time.  There is really no hope for me…none.  But for now I will pretend there is.  And pretending isn’t pretending if you really believe

"That not two boobies." -My 2yo nephew

My two year old nephew is very interested in boobies.  He always has been.  He did not want to stop breast feeding.  He’s a breast man for life.  But yesterday when we were having a nosh at the amusement park he started playing the touch the booby game.  A game I am all too familiar with but usually with an older contestant.   And we would both win in the end if you know what I mean.  Anyway, in between nibbles of french fries he would reach up…pat my breast…giggle and say…”Boobies!”  So I touched his chest in response and said…”Boobies!”  To which he replied…”That’s my nipple.  Don’t touch my nipple.”  Not being able to resist I responded with a quick…”Well don’t touch my nipple.”  It was all very innocent of course unless a stranger heard us then it may have seemed a little incestuous.  

Today as if it were a follow up to yesterday’s game my nephew started pointing out that people had two boobies.  He’s learning to count.  On his Leap Pad he counts apples and ducks.  Why not boobies?  So my sister agreed and said…yes we all have two boobies.  He points to me and says…”That not two boobies.”  Implying of course that my breasts are so big there could not possibly be only two boobies stuffed in that shirt.  Oh, the laughs we had.  Perhaps it’s time for reduction surgery

Bora Bora will have to wait.

Tired.  So tired.  I rest my head on my pillow, close my eyes and drift gently on clear water.  Floating beneath the sun.  The water feels soothing and perfect.  My head gently bumps the floating dock that leads to the boardwalk.  I pull myself up onto the drift wood.  My skin is salty and glistening. The sun envelopes me.  It’s arms hold me close to it’s hearth.  I tug the rope and pull the dock closer to the boardwalk…hoist myself up and slowly glide to my hut on warm air beneath my feet.  I enter.  I am home.  The glass floor of my sitting room imparts a view of the colorful sea life below.  I sink into my…cough…cough…whine…Muuummmmaaaaa!  Fuck.  What?  There is already drool on my pillow.  Why aren’t you in bed?  The soft squeak of my door gives way to a small figure holding a pillow.  She says nothing.  Get in, I tell her.  She runs over to my bed and clumsily climbs over me jabbing knees and elbows into parts of me where knees and elbows ought not jab.  By the light of my laptop I read the victorious smile on her lips.  A few minutes of pillow and blanket adjustments and she is out…counting aloud in her sleep.  She gets to ten and tiredly yells in a tiny, crackly voice…yay!  Now, where was I?  Right…Bora Bora.  Goodnight

A bit of my high school genius.

     Today I was thinking of when I was fifteen and I auditioned for a play being put on by the drama club.   I’m not sure why this popped into my head but lucky for you it did.  So, for the audition I decided not only to sing a song…I rewrote one.  I created a parody of the Barry Manilow tune I Write  the Songs.  Not only was he a smooth crooner with great hair he was also a well known jingle writer in the 70’s and 80’s.  This became my muse to create a masterpiece of sophomoric proportion.  I will give you just a sample of my high school genius which helped spawn my now ever abundant adult genius.

I write the songs that kids with boo-boos sing

I write the songs for Coke and Burger King

I write the songs that keep your under arms dry

I write the songs, I write the songs

I write the songs for all the food in your house

I write the songs the songs for Bell and Maxwell House

I write the songs that keep you cavity free

I write the songs, I write the songs

You get the idea.  I did not get the part.

You shameful pricks.

    Yesterday the Huffington Post reported the 10 Cities Where Workers Swear The Most.  My beloved Boston came in at a disappointing number FOUR!  Apparently only 56% of the employees polled say they swear at work.  This is a lie.  People why did you lie to the Huffington?  They are not your Momma.  This blatant attempt to place us Massholes, a term I am never so fond of, in a glowing light has tied us with Los Angeles!  Are you kidding me?  I want nothing in common with LA.  What’s wrong with you people.  You know as well as I that when you are in your cubicle, flipping burgers, driving your delivery truck or even filling a cannoli you let the expletives fly free.  Tied with Los Angeles.  We ought be ashamed of ourselves.  LA is such a hack town.  They have nothing to complain about…tasty waves…balmy breezy weather year round…the best fish tacos (so I’ve heard)…and lots of big fake tits on the beach.  I don’t even know where to get a fish taco in Boston.  Our weather is fucking ridiculously extreme.  We body surf for lack of waves higher than four feet and our beaches our filled with the bodies of real women…women who gave birth…have hips and scars.  And I am one of those big hipped scarred up women.  Not that there aren’t fakies out here.  Our beaches tend more toward family lifestyles than Hollywood.   

    A surprising entry was the number nine ranked New York .  I thought they would be much higher in the list.  And even more flabbergasting was that Minneapolis placed at all coming in at number seven.  When I read that Mrs. Poole popped into my head.  That little fucker Ferris won’t outsmart you this time Ed.  Also surprising was Denver.  I didn’t know they had it in them.  Beating out the Windy City for the number two spot.  Chicago I can totally understand being on that list.  Lots of good food means lots of bad eating habits which leads to lots of pissed off fatties.  Please, it takes one to know one.  Combined with the well below zero wind chills and the ever constant lake-effect snow in the winter you got yourself one cheesed off city.  I get that.

    So where do I stand on swearing in the workplace?  Dead center my friend.  I am known curser and most, if not all of my friends swear as well.  So why the low numbers Boston?  I know where we would hands down rank number one in swearing…in our cars.  Boston is beloved for it’s beans and aggressive drivers.  I am the biggest offender at shouting swears to nearby motorists.  My mother and I used to attend a Weight Watchers meeting in Mattapan on Thursday evenings.  She lives on the South Shore and at the time I lived in Dorchester.  She would pick me up from work and I would drive from my job to the meeting place.  She did not like driving in the city.  A twenty minute drive that was so blue my Mom dubbed it Douche-bag Thursday.  This was three or four years ago.

    Now?  I’ve graduated to Motherfucker Monday.  Just today I was leaving the Brigham traveling down Tremont street talking on the phone with my mother.  I know what your thinking…I don’t like talking on the phone and driving but I just got good news at the hospital.  So with Mom on the phone I break as two kids enter the crosswalk.  The car behind me swerves around as if it would have hit me if it hadn’t and the driver yelled…what are you doing? while he passed me on the right causing the two kids that he did not see to stop dead in their tracks.  I’m stopping to let the fucking kids cross you dumb motherfucker!  A reply I yelled and later apologized to my Mom for because it was in her ear.  She said…I totally understand.  My mom gets it.  

    Here in New England we are known swearers with horrendous accents.  So why Boston failed to at least make it into the top three if not beating out DC for the number one spot is totally beyond me.  Next time Boston…pull up your fucking bootstraps and tell the goddamn truth you bunch of lying motherfuckers.  You shameful pricks.

Just another mindfuck of motherhood...

     I fell asleep last night watching The IT Crowd.  My laptop was on the passenger side of the bed.  Yes…my bed has a passenger side.  I sleep on the driver’s side.  I am the driver.  Not lately.  No one really drives the bed any more.  I suppose I would gladly relinquish the driver’s side to an experienced motorist.   But that’s not going to happen any time soon.   Nope.   Where was I?  Oh…yes…asleep.  My arm outstretched toward my laptop.  Gently I snore.  When I wake I try to move and can’t.  My arm is pinned underneath something…someone.  My little passenger that sneaks in during the night.   Also the reason there is no new driver.  I have no time.  I have to test them out and vet them.  It’s a whole process.   No…no…my mini passenger is fine for now.  

    I must free my arm.  It is asleep….whirring in a sensation of prickles and numbness.  I tug…tug…tug….it’s free.  She stirs and places her head on my pillow.  I move her over to the passenger pillow.  No Mumma!  That’s my pillow!  Shouting at four a.m. is hardly necessary.  She shoves her head onto the small patch of available pillow that’s underneath my head.  Her thick, curly hair filling my nose.   Eva…this is mumma’s pillow.  That’s Eva’s pillow.   She disagrees…No!   I address her a bit more sternly.  Look sister…this is my bed.  It’s four a.m.  If you don’t like it you can go back to Eva’s bed.  Okay…she says, defeated.  She gets up and starts crawling over me to leave.   Where are you going?  To Eva’s bed…she replied.  Wait…come back and stay with Mumma.  

    Little shit called my bluff.  Most nights I can’t wait to get rid of her.  Her bed time is my time to shine…well as much shining as one can do reading and writing in front of a laptop.  I spend hours fighting with her to go to bed in her own room and every day she ends up in my bed in the wee hours of the morning.  I can’t refuse her then…usually because I’m asleep.  But those rare occasions that I am awake…I welcome her anyway.  And that is just another mindfuck of motherhood.

The slight of hand and heart.

    I write with my heart.  I write with my hands.  My heart and my hands.  My heart in my hands.  A heart in the hand is worth two in the bush.  That’s not it.  My hands have a heart of their own.  My heart on the other hand is handless.  I digress.

    I use my heart and hands to make something.  To make everything.  Everything is everything.  I read it.  Chew it.  Write it.  Spew it.  All over everything.  I watch it.  Sip it.  Spit it.  Write here.  Right here.  This is mine for you.  I mined for you.  Yes I mind.  Words that mean something…everything and nothing.

    I use my heart and hands to break something.  To break everything.  Rules and windows shattered.  Shattered and alone.  My heart is broken.  It always has been.  It was born that way.  Split in two.  One for me…none for you.  Sometimes I hand it over…my heart.  It always comes back…still in pieces.  Never mended.  Never sewn together like patchwork.  Never darned like socks.  Darn my heart.  Just handed or thrown or left still shattered.   Splattered.  Scattered and tattered.

   I shove it back down my throat.  Sometimes it sits there.  My heart.  My words.  Stuck in my throat.  I choke on them.  Heave and cough.  They will come up eventually.  I will keep trying.  I will keep lying…to myself.  It’s the only way to survive sometimes.  Survived by lies.  Saved by mendacity.   Drowning in a sea of real I cling to a dream to live.  Gasping for air I wrap my arms around it to keep me afloat.  

    Ain’t that some shit?  I cling to lies in order to write the truth.   What lies?  The lies around me.  What lies around me.   Surround me.  I will seethe.  Then I will soothe.  I will smooth out everything.   Everything will be revealed and nothing will be revealed.  The truth is here and then it’s not.  The lie is shown and then it’s forgotten.  That’s the slight of hand…and heart.

Oh, the things I will do.

    When leaving the kite park on Sunday I began to tense up in anticipation of my daughter’s impending tantrum.  Here we go.  We are leaving.  She is going to freak out in front of God and everybody while I wrestle her little butt into her car-seat.  But she did not care.  She walked hand in hand with her cousin.  She was harnessed and kissed goodbye without a smidge of disdain.  Whatever.  I will take it.  She only behaved that way because it was not me doing the heavy lifting.  It was her adoring cousin.  So I begin to load the trunk with the multitudinous overflow of crap one must laden themselves with wherever they go when they have a child.  

     I notice the tantrumous screams of a child that does not want to leave.  Only…it’s not my child.  The couple next to me was carrying their wriggling toddler (together) to their car.  Their faces full of shame and hurt and embarrassment and exhaustion.  This two and half foot terror needed two…not one…but two wranglers to get him in to the seat.   Once contained his mother walked around to the passenger side of the car to get in.  It was a walk I noticed.  The long slow stride soaking in the fifteen seconds of freedom that you have before getting into your six cylinder torture chamber.   A ride filled with demands and requests always starting with…Mumma.  Mumma I want some water.  Mumma roll down the window.  Mumma my back hurts.  Mumma!  This is how my ride goes anyway.  My child does not enjoy car rides.  Yet she is always anxious to go ‘Bye-Bye’ when I offer it at home.  

    I wanted to comfort the other mother in the car next to me.  I wanted to offer her a sip of rum punch from the bottle in the cooler.  Yes…alcohol is one of the many things one must carry with them when they have a child…on all day picnics anyway.   I have been in that moment.  The moment that she was in then.  I am in it more often than I care to admit.  And when I am there a simple gesture of ‘it’s okay…kids suck’ would probably throw me into tears…’Yes they do suck.  Why doesn’t anyone tell you they suck?’  It wouldn’t matter.  We would still have our children anyway.  We would scoff at the warnings…’My kid’s not going to suck.’  Maybe he won’t.  But chances are he will.  

    When I was younger, childless and unfettered I would have thought…Oh my God, what is that couple doing to that poor child?  Did they beat him?  Is he okay?  Now my thoughts tend toward…Oh my God that poor woman.  Look at that miserable kid driving that exhausted woman crazy…Here have a swig from my flask.  No…no…I insist.  It will make you feel better.  

   I fully intend to embarrass my child in her teens.  I will throw tantrums when she does not want to do things I ask of her.  I will tell cute boys at the mall she thinks they’re cute and if they ask for her number I will say…I will tell them she’s on her way to becoming a nun.  I will be going on her first date…unbeknownst to her.  If she goes to a movie I will be a few rows behind.  If any shenanigans ensue I will have the usher go in and get her then I will drag her butt home.  I will answer the door in my underwear when her friends come over.  I will escort her to the bus stop and try to kiss her goodbye when it arrives.  I could go on.  I have a detailed list but I will spare you.  Oh, the things I will do.

My heart was born and broke...

    I want to describe you to people.  I want to paint a picture of you so that when I talk about you others know exactly who you are.   To say you were beautiful inside and out does not seem like enough.  I don’t want to claim that you look like an actor who had a popular television sitcom in the eighties.  Even though I would watch his movies to feel close to you when we lived far apart.  It would not do you justice.  And it would only spark his image when I speak of you.  No.  That’s not you.  You are so much more.

    Today I listened to Debussy’s Clare de Lune.  It was a piano arrangement…no strings…no orchestra.  I stopped what I was doing to sit down and listen.  It starts out so simply…so sweetly.  It was like a kiss.  And as the complexity of the piece grew so did my interest.  I wanted to hear every bit of this story.  My heart opened up and I wanted everyone to hear what I heard and to feel what I felt.  There were amorous notes and tragic chords.  It lifted me and transcended me out into the open air.  And I floated there dreaming of things I had no real knowledge of…like a child.  My world had been illuminated.  And as the music wound down I drifted slowly back to earth…landing as if I was a feather.  Gliding gently to the left then the right until my soft touchdown.  The final notes whispered goodnight and I almost felt your nose touch my neck.

    Tears flowed quietly at the end because I was so touched by its beauty…and because I miss you.  I wanted to tell everyone you were here.  I wanted everyone to experience what I just knew…their hearts to be born and break all at once.  That is how I want people to see you.  That is what I want people to think of when you are mentioned.

to be sure.

    The air has changed.  It’s much more open…breezy…cool.  The tension created by last week’s heatwave and the soul-sucking media was about to make me get all Do The Right Thing up in here.  Y’all gonna make me lose my mind.  Don’t worry I instigated no riots or destruction of property.  Just had to cry/write some shit out.  I've been thinking about dancing it out too.  Wouldn't that be fun and hilarious?  Videos of me dancing out my feelings at the end of the day….in the vein of Bill T. Jones or Twyla Tharp would be an internet success.  It would all be very interpretive and set to media sound bites of news and ridiculous interview questions or audio loops of my daughters tantrums.  It is all so fucking ridiculous…

She's pretty fucking amazing...that's all that needs to be said.

We don’t need to know about her estranged parents…millions of teens have estranged parents.

We don’t need to comment on her hair…she’s an athlete not a Kardashian.

We don’t need to make up ridiculous nicknames for her like “The Flying Squirrel”.

All we need to do is call her the greatest all-around gymnast in the world. Period.

Doomed.

    On an unrelated note…while I was writing the last post my daughter drew all over her face with my mascara.  She even knows when I am not writing about her.  I’m doomed.

My shame now...

    Just to make one thing clear.  I was not always the victim of ignorance.  I was also the perpetrator.  When you’re a little kid on the playground it’s like Lord of the Flies out there.  Kill or be killed.  And when I was in the second or third grade I had an Indian classmate named Mary Lou Blackburn.  She did not like me.  She did not play with me.  I did not understand in the least why not.  I will not go so far as to say she did not want to associate with the little black girl.  I can not presume.  All I know was that she was browner than me with straight black hair and whenever I tried to play with her she walked away.  This upset me because back then I thought we were supposed to stick together.  When my parents saw another black person in public they always acknowledged them.  I still do the same.  I know…right.  I nod or hello as I wheel my cart down the cookie and snacks aisle.  I did not grow up around a lot of black people so out in the sticks the culture is different.  No one is nodding and greeting in the Shaw’s in Dorchester.  

    So when this girl snubbed me for the umpteenth time on the playground I snapped.  Who is she?  She is just like me only her hair is straight and I had these big pom-pom puffs on my head resembling Mickey Mouse.  (I was called Nikki Mouse by some older kids in my neighborhood)  So why would she not talk to me.  So I called her out in the only way a second grader can call some one out…by insulting her by making fun of her name.  I said…Mary Lou is black and she’s burnt.  I am not proud of that moment.  She yelled…I am not black! And then cried and ran away.  This had not been the olive branch I had intended.  I’m not sure what I thought would happen.  She would high-five me and say…What’s up my nigga?  Sorry for dissing you at the monkey bars.  I had hurt her by insulting her name and calling her black which she wasn’t. But I didn’t know what the hell she was at that age.  But she probably had ignorant people calling her different things too.  Her family had probably been labeled something they weren’t many times.

    My point is that I made an assumption based on nothing.  She may not have liked me because I was loud…or because I was cute…Ha!  I assumed.  And you all know what happens when you assume.  My parents were great at teaching all of us tolerance of others and to treat people how we would want to be treated.  That was my first and last ignorant incident that I can recall.  But I will never forget how I made Mary Lou feel.  The pain that I passed on to her then is my shame now.

The seventh circle of hell...

    My daughter has unwillingly dragged me into the seventh circle of hell.  If that was somewhere I wanted to go I would have gone…by myself…years ago.  I guess this circle is reserved for mothers with toddlers.  Why did no one tell me?  She has entered this new phase that I like to call her:  Fuck that! We are not leaving here under any circumstances and if you try to make me go I will fall out and scream right here on the floor stage.

   This week we’ve visited this unhealthy (for me) world several times.  We tried to leave CVS.  A damn pharmacy…she did not want to leave the pharmacy even after I got her some paints so we could do some art when we got home.  ’I don’t wanna paint!’

   The doctor’s office was way more appealing than chicken nuggets, french fries and chocolate milk at McDonald’s. ‘I don’t want chocolate milk!’

    Auntie Clarissa’s house was far too jam packed with fun to ever leave there even with the promise of visiting Grandma at work.  ’I don’t wanna visit Grandma!’

  The library…Fuggeddaboutit.  The playground…can you hear my scoff? 

    Anywhere is simply less fun then where we are right now.  Each time it happens I scoop her up off the floor and take her out to the car.  Then she fights me while I put on her harness and yells in my face.  And each time it happens I feel a piece of my soul die just a little bit.  That’s accompanied by an ever growing stress knot at the base of my neck.  I can feel it now…pulsing with frustration. 

    Whatever I say she’s the absolute contrary.  I’ve even tried to do the old switcheroo and tell her I didn’t want her to do something but this kid is too fucking smart.  I fear that I will soon lose it publicly.  You will hear one day that I bludgeoned myself to death in Stop&Shop with a sixteen ounce can of Annie’s Organic Cheese Ravioli.  Why Annie’s ravioli?  Because she needs the publicity and Chef Boyardee sucks ass.  It smells like dog food when you open the can.  

    If what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger why am I not a pillar of emotional and physical fucking strength?  I should be the Charles Atlas of fucking motherhood

She sneezed in my ear...

   I was reading a Dr. Seuss book to my daughter when she sneezed in my ear.  I thought…You’re child is the only person who can sneeze in your ear that you wouldn’t punch in the face.  The incident inspired this poem.

My daughter just sneezed, sneezed dead in my ear.

She sneezed without warning no time to prepare.

While reading a book she leaned close to look

and filled up my ear with her snotty-nose gook.

She sprayed my whole cheek, my ear and my neck.

I simply turned to her and said, ‘what the heck’?

‘Cover your nose with your hand or your sleeve’.

‘You should cover your nose whenever you sneeze’.

She giggled and laughed and then with her hand,

She covered her nose then mock sneezing began.

I tried not to laugh it was really quite rough,

And after a minute I said, ‘That’s enough’

‘I’m just trying to protect you from enemies and foes,’

‘Cus if you sneeze on a stranger you’ll get punched in the nose.’

A lady must have goals...

    My legs ache.  My head aches.  My heart aches.  Sometimes I get so tired of running down this dream…chasing it.  I’m ready to lasso this motherfucker…bring it out back…kill it…cook it…and eat it.   When does wild-eyed enthusiasm turn into a squinty, skeptical glare?  It is hard work being optimistic these days.  There are no jobs out there for fantasizers or idealists.  My visionary capacities are otherwise redirected to daydreaming of my own resplendent future world.  

    A world in which I live in a four bedroom colonial with at least two full baths one of which on the master suite….with a large fenced in back yard with a gate to access my private beach.  My great room has a large hearth fireplace made of river stones and it has beamed ceilings.  In a corner there is a small, black baby grand piano.  Don’t you love my great room?  Oh! And french doors opening to an outside living room.  Who am I?  

    I will tell you.  I am someone who as perfected the art of daydreaming so much that I get listings for houses that match my description.  I’ve shopped online and filled carts full of wall art and furniture that I not only have no place to put but no money to by it with.  I have an app on my phone to build my own Cadillac.  I can choose all the features, order it and pick it up when it’s ready with fist-fulls of Monopoly money.  The Cadillac is my family car.  I also will own a Challenger with a black-matte finish in which no child will ever ride.  No Cheerios in the Challenger!  That’s a rule.  Because even made up worlds have rules.  

    In my land of make believe I am a lady of utmost regard.  In the land of the real I am a clown in ladies shoes pretending in hopes to portend my land of the future.  When the lights go out I slip my shiny rubber nose into my pant pocket and sip tea with an erect pinky.  When the lights come on I reapply my rubber nose and face a wet-nosed crowd armed with balloon animals.  A dream realized would be that these two worlds meet and I can sip my tea rubber nosed and surrounded by balloon animals…in my great room…with my Cadillac and Challenger parked outside.  A lady must have goals… 

I was a novice at sex and pancakes...

    The first time I had sex I was eighteen years old…after I graduated high school.  I remember this feeling of ‘I am a woman’ on the ride of shame the next morning.  A ride that I shared with a younger and more experienced friend than I.  We had the Wednesday night post club roommate special.  Two guys…two girls.  Nothing so kinky ensued.  As a matter of fact I had no idea what to expect or do or say.  I just wanted to do it and get it over with.  Everyone else was… weren't they?  

    It was a nightmare…a true horror show from start to finish.  Nothing gruesome or disturbing took place other than a man in his mid twenties taking my virginity and me giving it to him with the pliability of a wooden plank.  And to think that I actually thought that after this horrible encounter I was a woman.  I don’t even remember his name.  I do remember his roommate was much sweeter and had a friendlier disposition.  He smiled and talked more freely.  My date was a few inches over six feet and brawny.  Not overtly friendly but amicable.  

    When we got to their apartment we quickly adjourned to our separate rooms.  It was dark.  He turned on some music…some slow soulful love making music…to set the mood.  Only there would be no slow, soulful love making.  We made out.  His hands went under my shirt.  My hands did not go any where.  They remained reticent around his neck.   He told me I had nice, firm breasts which was a compliment that I had received during make out sessions a couple of times prior to this.  And I always replied with a thank you.  Because what else was I going to say?  They must have been some nice breasts back in the day…wish I still had my eighteen year old breasts.  Now firm is a memory my breasts recall like an old dear friend.  

Breast one: Remember Firm?  Why doesn’t she come around any more?

Breast two: She’s dead.

Breast one: Whaaaat?

Breast two: (yelling so that Breast one can hear) I SAID SHE’S DEAD!

   My next make out partner will refer to my breasts as nice and jumbly.  To which I will reply…thank you.

   Before the real artless, tasteless humping began I informed my deflowerer that he was about to do some deflowering.  To which he replied he would be ever so gentle.  More bogus words have not been spoken.  His weight was on top of me.  He was heavy…solid.  And without an ounce of finesse he began.  Not that I knew at the time what finessing would be.  In hindsight it definitely would have helped.  It was like jamming the fall issue of Vogue through a one inch mail slot.  Ramming 500 hundred  fashion filled pages over and over until it squeezed through…certainly not in one piece and not in any readable condition.   My heart was racing and I was panting like a small dog.  Then I would hold my breath and think…why am I panting? Why is my heart racing?  I don’t remember how long this lasted.  The sweet, soulful love making that the music foretold of was perhaps just a notion or guideline to which he need not adhere.  I don’t think I slept when it was over.  He snored without hesitation.  It was done.  I did it.  Finally.  That’s it?  

    The next day I made pancakes for the four of us.  My gentle lover complained that they were not fully cooked in the center.  They weren’t.  They were dark on the outside and raw on the inside.  I was a novice at sex and pancakes.   

    When I got home I remember this feeling of accomplishment.  I wore an ‘I know something you don’t know’ grin.  I felt like Eve must have sitting under the tree of knowledge post apple…So, that’s what all the fuss is about?  There was no date number two.  As a matter of fact I don’t think I had sex again for at least a year.  It was with someone I was in a relationship with and did so for a while.   It wasn’t much better than this incident the first few times we were together but I remember being far more relaxed and happy.  And eventually it got better…and so did my pancakes.  My pancakes are flawless now.   And if I were having sex now it would be flawed but better than pancakes.

Goodnight...

    I write to fight.  I fight to write.  Sometimes I fight myself to write.  I fight for right.  Two wrongs don’t make a right.  I fight the good fight…whether it’s wrong or right.  I don’t know any more.  Now you know…and knowing is half the battle.

     I’ve lost many battles.  Will I win the war?   There’s a war on.  What am I fighting for?  Fight! Fight! Fight or flight.  

     It’s getting late.  I am tired.  My head is light.  It will soon be light.  I’ll be blinded by the light.  I was friends with the night.  We drank wine and wrote love letters.  It’s alright.

    The kids are all right.  Tucked in tight.  Read to and sang to.  Lit their nightlights.  Dreaming dreams of fears and delights.

     I will join them soon…when morning greets night.  The sun opens it eyes.  The night scurries from the light.   It will leave no trace behind.  It’s very discreet…the night.  

    But look close you’ll see.  The night has left it’s mark on me.  My eyes will tell.  They always tell on the night.  It’s only right.  Goodnight. 

Anything less than the truth is shit...

    There is a twelve inch scar down my midsection.  The surface has healed but beneath layers of tissue are still coming together.  Certain movements cause me to wince and it’s definitely a sensitive area to touch.  My life has been changed by this massive cut.  This part of my body will never be the same inside or out.

    When I was a child someone told me I was stupid and useless.  An adult I knew and love told me I was stupid and useless.  It caused me great pains throughout my life.  That cut never healed.  I don’t know that it ever will.  The anger and confusion that I felt then is part of who I am now and always will be…good or bad.

    When I was a teenager my grandmother told me I was beautiful and intelligent and that I could be anything I wanted to be.  Different words…empowering and true but still caused anger and confusion.  I did not know who I was supposed to be.  I did not know if her words were the truth.  I was already told something different.

    When I was thirty-five the same person that told me I was stupid and useless as a child told me I was talented.  I was stunned and moved and annoyed.  Here I am a grown woman and the words I was looking for as a child you give to me now.  A true compliment…not backhanded or accompanied by snide comments or remarks.  The little girl that waited to hear those words was annoyed.  Her thirty-five year old counterpart was amazed and astonished.  What use are these words to me now?

   The laceration that was once covered is now exposed and inflamed.  There is no difference between the wound on my body and the one on my soul.  I wince…I ache…I will never be the person I was before I endured it.  My damages only make me more interesting…my flaws more beautiful.  That’s what I keep telling myself anyway.  This truth is mine and it’s colored me and stripped me and rebuilt me.   Anything less than the truth is shit.

The day was finally over...or was it?

   I was induced a second time four days after I was sent home from the first failed induction.  Four day lying in a hospital bad having contractions four to seven minutes apart with absolutely no dilation.  I had been induced two weeks early after I apparently failed my non-stress test.  A test which had been explained to me several times but I still did not understand fully.  

    My pregnancy was considered high-risk because I was over thirty-five years old.  My growing fetus was accompanied by a growing rage for the absent bed spring exerciser that fertilized this egg. (my goal is to come up with new and creative ways to avoid the word father)  The combination of age, angst, rising blood-pressure and glucose levels resulted in the most miserable pregnancy ever.  What should have been bliss was an awful…angry…tiresome…worrisome event.  So why would such a debacle end any other way than this.

   I enter the hospital for the second time.  I am pushed laboriously to the maternity ward by an eight-month pregnant nurse.  Walking was out of the question so my guilt grew with every ramp and turn.  My identification and medical information is confirmed in a tiny office outside of the locked ward.  At this point the panting, perspiring nurse that brought me this far bids me good luck as the elevator doors close.  Behind which I can only imagine she collapsed with exhaustion thus spurring on labor.

    After the check-in process is completed a new nurse, not pregnant, arrives to escort me to my room.  It’s spacious with one bed with a tower of electronic equipment and monitors next to it, a couch, a chair and a wall mounted television.   Once I am settled into the bed a couple of nurses busily start attaching leads to different parts of my chest and belly.  The monitors are switched on and the beeps and lights begin their report.  The next wave of activity is the administration of the drugs that induce the labor.  Shortly after they leave the room the contractions begin.  Here we go again.

    The first two days were the same as the last time I was admitted.  No movement.  My mom and best friend waiting patiently for the big moment asking…Do you want to play cards? No.  Do you want to watch television? No.  Can we watch television? No.  As I labored they giggled and talked while my mom crocheted my daughters receiving blanket.  By day three I put the kibosh on their sewing circle.  For which I was immediately dubbed as ‘No Fun’.  

    On the night of the third day I had dilated enough to break my water and accelerate labor.  A procedure that requires the doctor to insert a long knitting needle like device into me until it snags the bag of waters and bursts.  Does it sound uncomfortable?  It is.  But pregnancy is one of those things where discomfort is the norm from start to finish…sickness…gas…indigestion…probing medical visits.  It’s nine months that absolutely nothing is sacred.  Your doctor checks you out from asshole to elbow all while making small talk.  My waters release and the truly active labor starts.  The nurse asks if I need anything for pain.  Until this point I had not.  Whenever they would come in and ask me to rate my pain I would say three or four. So my reply was…No.  Five minutes later I was ringing that call button.  I told her…I lied…I need something.  What’s my pain?  High…seven.  I’m given something to help.  It doesn’t.  The wild ride is about to begin at 11pm on Thursday night.  My mother is asleep on the couch and my best friend has gone home to her own brood.  This was going to be a long night.  

     Imagine you are an orange with human feelings and attributes.  You can feel when someone peels away your skin and sinks your teeth into your pulpy, juicy flesh sucking the life out of you.  Okay…now imagine you are an orange that has just been cut in half.  Still reeling from the pain of the knife severing you in two you are picked up and placed on this device that is designed to pierce your insides to squeeze the liquid out of you.  The torturous hand presses down on your back wrenching and twisting and grinding you around this spear.  Your flesh being mangled as your drained of your life force.  Enduring the pain seems like a lot longer than the minute or two it actually is.  And you’re discarded…tossed aside…a spent shell.  That’s what a contraction feels like.  Only it happens over and over again.  Your whole body is gripped with pain and you suddenly realize that those stupid movies with the husband or best friend yelling breathe into a laboring woman’s face is to keep her from passing out because you actually hold your breath and wrap your arms around the bed rail for dear life until the contraction passes.

    My mom woke up around 6am to a sobbing daughter.  This sucks is all I could say. She rubbed my back and comforted me.  I was periodically checked for dilation.  No epidural would be administered until I had dilated beyond five centimeters because the drug slows the labor.  Seventeen hours total I spent weeping, moaning and almost tearing my mom’s arm off before I finally got the relief of the spinal.  Then…bliss.  My mother and I napped while labor continued unfelt.  I could not even move my legs.  I did not care.  I did care however that I had stopped dilating.  They checked and checked and checked again.  By 2am the checking stopped and I was prepped for a C-section.

    With our paper shower caps my mom and I were whisked into the operating room.  An intensely cold room.  You can see your breath.  The room quickly filled with doctors and nurses on a mission.  Each having or delegating tasks.  I was draped.  A curtain wall went up at my chest.  My mother was instructed to stay away from the business side of the curtain until given the all clear.  She had no problem with that.  I could feel pressure and movement but no pain.  Then some one said…she’s out!  And I waited to hear her cry.  She did not.  I worried.  The nurse cleared her nose and mouth and there was a duck like squawk that came from her.  Did I give birth to a goose?  They raised her over the curtain to show me she was ok.  She was covered in goop.  It was only a couple of minutes before I was stapled up and they told my mom she could come take a look at the baby.  She snapped a picture of her on the scale.   The baby didn’t make a sound.  My mother said she just kept sticking her tongue out as if to taste the air.  A few more minutes later she was swaddled in a warm blanket and brought over to me.  I was still strapped to the table so my mom held her near my face so that I could kiss her.  She is beautiful was all she could say.  

    We were taken to recovery and all three swaddled in heated blankets.  My arms were free to hold the baby.  So I did.  My mom went back to my room to sleep.  Eva and I stayed cuddled in recovery until I was able to feel my legs again.  They wheeled us to my room and laid us both in our separate beds.  The day was finally over…or was it?

Ahhhh, Sunday afternoon with Eva...

    I stand at the kitchen sink elbow deep in hot water and soap as my daughter sits eating strawberries at the kitchen table.  She get’s up and leaves the room.  Are you finished? I asked.  Yes!  I was sure she went to go get her coloring books and crayons that were on the living room floor because we had just been discussing them a few moments prior.  A begin to daydream as I scrub.  Lost in suds and the warmth of the water a couple of minutes pass before a I realize she has not returned.

   I call her name.  She answers with a distant…yes?  Where are you? I ask.  I few seconds go by before I hear her footfalls coming up the steps.  Before she enters the room I ask…what are you doing?  She responds…I makin a mess.  I’m afraid…very afraid.  I turn to see her hands, legs and feet covered with a dark shiny liquid.  My mouth drops as I stare at her working hard to figure out what the hell she’s covered in.  Then the smell hits me…nail polish!  I screamed.  That was my only reaction.  I actually froze with fear for a moment.  Then I scooped her up and ran down the hall to the bathroom.  I put her in the tub with her nightgown and flip-flops on before I even turned on the water.  This is bad…this is very bad.  My scolding causes her lip to poke out and her head sunk until her chin touched her chest.   I start the water and undress her taking the flip-flops off but leaving them in the tub as they too are covered in a deep, dark burgundy nail polish.  I add liquid soap to the water and I begin to scrub her face.  She starts to cry as I scrub but I am determined to at least get this crap off of her face.  When I’m done the nail polish is gone and replaced by a big pink irritated blotch.  

    I go to work feverishly on the rest of her.  Scrubbing her legs and feet vigorously.  She complains with whiny…ooowwwww Mumma.  Don’t ow Mumma me…I snapped realizing at that moment I sounded like my own mother.  This shit isn’t coming off …maybe I should Google this.  I leave her sitting in the tub to wash herself.  I sit in the living room across the hall and call my sister.

She answers…Hello

You’re niece just covered herself with nail polish.

Oh my God.  

I don’t know what to do.  It’s not coming off.

It will come of with a couple of baths over the next couple of days.  Nail polish doesn’t stay on your skin too long.

You’re right.  I’m afraid Mum’s gonna freak.

What color is it?

I nice dark burgundy color…It looked black when I first saw it.

Oh my god.  Where did she do it?

Downstairs in my room I’m guessing.  Had to take care of her first.  Don’t even want to tackle what’s next.

You better go look.  I’m scared for you.

Thanks.

Go look to see where she did it.  

I will…call you later

K…bye.

    I hear Eva singing away to herself in the tub.  She’s having too much fun for a person in big trouble.  I storm into the bathroom.  No singing…I say.  She stops and looks at me, smiles and says…Hi Mumma.  No ‘Hi mumma’s’ either.  Mumma is mad you touched her stuff.  Her head sinks again and she begins to sob…tearlessly.  

    As I dry her off I explain to her that she is being punished today for touching my nail polish and making a mess.  She pokes out her bottom lip again.  There will be no movies today…no Madagascar…no Finding Nemo.  She begins to sob.  She cannot watch any television…no Caillou or Pingu.  She sobs louder.  I explain that she is going to play in her room.  She manages to squeeze out an okay and sulking she trudges off to her room.  Once there I here her start to play…arguing with herself about taking turns.  It’s my turn! No, It’s my turn!  Give it to me!  I imagine she’s pretending to play with her cousin.  They both have to play with the same thing at the same time whenever they are together.  It usually results with Isaiah in tears and Eva being called a bully.  One time she yelled out his name in her sleep… Isaiah!  The first thing that went through my head was that he must have snatched something from her in a dream.  I went in to check on her not too long ago and she had removed the mattress from her bed and placed it on the floor.  I don’t know how…or why.  We straightened up together then I left her to play.  I really don’t know what to do with this child.

The Top Ten Reasons You Should Not Live With Your Aging Parents...

   When I was diagnosed with a sarcoma on my large intestine and told I would need to have a major surgery my daughter and I moved in with my parents.  I would need the help during my recovery which is now tapering off.  I was both relieved and wary of moving back into my parent’s home.  I rented my own little house when I was eight moths pregnant and lived there til that point.  My own bathroom…kitchen…mess.  It was mine.  So when we arrived back where I started I felt both safe and hesitant that this would work.  I am here now…scratching the twelve inch scar down my belly and sipping a rum and coke from a straw.  My daughter snug in her bed and my parents gone having an evening on the town with old friends.  The quiet in the house has made me realize how crazy and chaotic two old people can be.  They are really not that old but I like to tease.  This sparked the creation of:

The Top Ten Reasons You Should Not Live With Your Aging Parents

10.  They may or may not close the bathroom door.

(I didn’t when I lived on my own only because my daughter would break into the fridge and crush all my eggs or eat an entire package of cheese if I didn’t keep the door open.  There is really no word that describes the feeling you get from being initiated into the world of your parent’s bathroom habits)

9.   You are forced to repeat yourself because their initial response to anything is…Huh? or What?

( I get it.  Their hearing is going but my Mom says Huh? In the most loud, drawn out, grating inflection that I repeat what I said extra loudly and slowly just to piss her off)

8.   They don’t remember shit.

(You become an active log for the placement of wallets, pens, glasses…etc)

7.   The television volume is always on the highest possible setting.

(Again, They are losing their hearing.  But when you go to turn on the tv and the decibel level is that which could frighten away children and small animals it’s unnerving)

6.   They do not like to leave the house.

(You will become a bit of an errand boy for things like milk, bread and waiting prescriptions)

5.   The devotion to there television line-up is unwavering.

(You inevitably become a fan of golf, tennis matches and Bones)

4.   Grandpa becomes less tolerant of your toddler’s ‘Terrible Two’ phase.

(Believe me I become less tolerant of the phase myself.  It’s just funnier when a grumpy old man reacts to it with:  I don’t want hear all that noise!)

3.   Yard Work!

(Though I have not yet had to do any because of my surgery the sands in the hour glass are slipping fast.  In the next week or two I will be the head mower, weeder and raker on this acre. I’m a poet)

2.   Technology is a language that is not spoken here.

(You become their ever-knowledgeable guide to the world wide web.  My mother is amazed every time I can answer a question about an actor or athlete in under thirty seconds by accessing the information on my laptop. Google and IMDb are mysterious, magical tools)

1.   No sex life for me.

(I need say no more)

    That’s my list.  I may have exaggerated a point or two (may have).  But you get the picture.  In all seriousness my parents have been more than gracious and helpful during this weird and difficult time in my life.  They make me laugh gobs more than they make me cry and Eva and I are blessed to have them.  That said….let’s keep this list on the down low so as to not jeopardize my residency.  Preesh!