Please be blunt yet gentle.
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Apr 122010
Her first excuse for kicking up a stick was because her legs hurt, but as so often happens when emotions run high a whole host of other complaints piggybacked on until my eldest was left a weeping ball of emo. Numerous failures at getting her to ratchet down the angst left me little choice but to cancel her plans for the evening and banish her to bed.
This did not make her terribly happy. So far from happy did it make her that the entire house shook as she stomped her way upstairs, flinging behind her the most caustic commentary about my parenting ability and ranking amongst all the other mommies.
“My throat hurts,” she whispered hours later, having been cured at least temporarily by soup, snuggles and the most important medicine, time.
“Why do you suppose that is,” I asked. I’d invited her to curl in bed with me and read before sleep but we were doing more talking than reading.
“Because I was screaming so much?”
You think? I said to myself. Out loud I told her, “Now that you’re entering puberty, you’ll probably notice that your emotions are getting much stronger. Hormones…”
She cut me off. “Mom, look at my chest.” She pulled her shirt tight and thrust the flatness in my direction. “There’s nothing there. Nothing!”
She had a point. “Nevertheless, your body is starting to make more hormones. You feel things very, very intensely when you’re a teenager.” And for long after that if you’re anything like your mom, I thought.
“Mom. I am not a teenager. I am a tween!” she said, which was all very true despite behavior to the contrary including a dramatic over-head arms fling she executed in tandem with her final words.
When we first climbed into bed I’d noticed the whiff of an odor I was sure emanated from beneath my own arms, but a subtle turn-n-sniff yielded evidence that my deodorant was still doing its job. Had another creature smeared some unspeakable bodily fluid over my bed, I wondered vaguely, but when my tween-aged darling threw up her hands I had my answer. I grabbed her arm with the intention of doing a confirmatory test but six inches away the odor knocked me back. “Child,” I exclaimed, “You stink!”
“I do not!” she jerked her arm away and looked shocked.
“You do,” I told her, and encouraged her in the strongest of terms to being using (and not just admiring) the stick of deodorant I’d bought for her some months back. What an unenviable place to find oneself, I thought. Young enough to fall victim to the most gawdawful fits and old enough for stinky pits.
It’s going to be a long adolescence.
Apr 102010
I’m working on my new site and would love some feedback on this logo. I have no (er, almost no) ego about these things so please be blunt.
Thank you!
Apr 092010
“If I found a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow I would…”
Thus read the writing prompt given by my daughter’s writing teacher at some point before St. Patrick’s day. She handed the graded paper to me today; given her usual verbal exuberance I was surprised to see it held only a brief paragraph. I have to imagine that many of her classmates filled the front of the worksheet and half of the back as well.
And what would my little darling do with the Leprechaun’s bounty?
If I found a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow I would save it. Because if I used all of it on unnecessary things, then have an emergency, I would be broke. It would be a better idea to save it. I would not use it. That is what I would do if I found a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
God I love that kid.
Apr 082010
It would have been better, I’ve now decided, not to have become friends with the quite lovely couple who are adopting my children’s brand-new baby sister.
It would have been better because watching them, even from a distance, is increasingly uncomfortable in a way that makes me feel like a very very bad example of a human being. A smarter person would turn away from those emotions or not expose herself to the possibility of experiencing them in the first place, but as has been demonstrated more times than I can count over four and a half years of blogging, I am not a smart person.
That’s why I keep searching for some inexplicable thing in the masses of group emails and Facebook messages that stream past me and on to the new parents. In all the offers of congratulations, proclamations of how “very lucky” this baby is and talk of “blessings” and “meant to be” I would so love to see some acknowledgment of the birth mother’s role in bringing forth this very lucky blessing who was meant to be. But in every message she is absent, just as absent as I found her in the photos I took directly after the birth where her face in every shot was eclipsed by a cheese-covered child or a beaming new parent. She no longer exists. Her role is over and no mention is made other than the suggestion that this baby is “very lucky” because she is away from her less than ideal first family.
In a traditional pregnancy, the woman carrying the child is coddled. She is fretted and fussed over because she is growing someone else’s brain. She is making bones by the power of her own body and whatever fairy-dust the universe contributes to the equation (as well as, you know, sperm), and in a wanted pregnancy this is a big fucking deal. In a pregnancy which ends with the mother raising her child the attention passes from belly to infant and the mother is left to bask in the reflected glow. I remember that transition. I remember quite painfully clearly how odd it felt to go from the focus of all happy attention to a second thought. But I had an infant to take care of and a modicum of maturity. Any feelings of loss were quickly put aside.
But in a young woman who possesses neither child nor maturity but instead owns ten lifetime’s worth of repeated, brutal loss, how hard must this loss hit? How must it feel to be the center of the fretting, fussing and coddling one week and the next, dispossessed of her burden, to be nothing more than the one the meant-to-be-blessing is “very lucky” to be away from?
Is it any wonder that she keeps falling pregnant?
Apr 072010
Apr 072010
He’s four, and because he falls into a dead sleep at 7:30pm each night he is able to spring from his bed fully awake and with the uncontainable energy of the most unholy alliance between Taz and pronking Springbok which can only be mitigated by the immediate sharing of information with his mother, who wakes (or would, if she could) in a much less enthusiastic manner.
“Mommy!” he screamed, “J is number ten!”
I glanced at the clock and found the time to be 6:02am. “Marumph?” I muttered.
He is of the school of thought that believes repetition at increasing volume aids understanding. “J, Mommy! J is ten!”
J was a person, I surmised. “Who’s J, baby?”
“No, J!” There’s no scorn like that of a pre-schooler toward his half-asleep mother. “J, J for jump!”
The possibilities of how the letter J could be ten ran through my sleep-fuzzed mind. “J is ten years old?”
He was done waiting for an intelligent response from me. “J is ten, E is five, M is thirteen,” he shrieked, demonstrating the action of the letter J just millimeters from my stomach. “And B is two!”
Finally I was almost awake and able to share his wonder — not at the fact that J was ten but that he’d even thought to match each letter to its corresponding number. “What’s W, honey?” He thought for a moment, computing silently as I ticked off the count on my fingers.
“Twenty-three!” He snuggled down into my arms. “I’m cold! Warm me up,” he demanded, and as I rubbed his little back and he prattled on I thanked whatever powers brought this child safely into my life, and I hoped that the same magic would work once again (Once! Once and then no more!) for his brand-new sibling born last week and placed directly in the arms of a very nice family who will with any luck celebrate the miracle of adoption while never forgetting the tragedy and loss from which it cannot be separated.
Apr 062010
Eventually the diminutive and talkative man reappeared, coming outside for what I assumed was some sort of attention. We ignored him and chattered on. Eventually, the sky darkened with rain and we walked past the man to go inside and ask about the bus, which still hadn’t arrived.
The man followed us in, along with a group of around six other people. He resumed his humming and imitating of cell phone rings, and I continued to ignore him. At one point I asked him out loud to please be quiet.
Eventually, in front of the now packed waiting room, as I waited at the ticket counter, he began calling out to individuals.
“I guess Seattle should have a welcome sign: All niggers and Arabs allowed!” He smilingly announced to the room.
No response. I turned my back on him and faced the ticket counter.
“Hey, do you want to hear a nigger joke? It’s really funny!” He chuckled to himself as he took a seat in the corner, facing us all.
No response. (Keep reading here)
Apr 062010
Working in the digital realm has given me the opportunity to become acquainted with a variety of people I’d never have run across in my sedate little meat-space town. For this I am profoundly grateful, and from time to time I’d like to take the chance to introduce some of them to you.
That time is now:
Ziztur.com — A friend of The Beautiful Kind, Ziztur writes about science, atheism, science, sex, science, feminism, science, religion and science. Check her out for logic, rationality and lots of smarts.
Good Girls Don’t — or DO They? — This former good girl writes about her experiences in morphing into a very very bad girl during her fifth decade of life. Read it for the inspiration and sexy fun.
SheThought.com — Intelligent talk about science. Want to develop a healthy sense of skepticism? Exercise it here.
Exploring Intimacy.com — Dr. Ruthie Neustifter offers classes, workshops and personal coaching in all areas related to human sexuality. She also writes a blog.
KellyEddington.com — My brilliant artist friend who is taking a year’s sabbatical from teaching to concentrate on Making Art. You must have a look at her incredibly detailed portraits. You’ll be inspired and awe-struck.
My hope is that you will enjoy their contributions as much as I’ve enjoyed working for (and with) them.
Apr 052010
