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Showing posts from November, 2011

So we sailed on to the sun.

I was eternally grateful to share this New One's impending arrival with my Big Son. I let him declare his name for a Warrior because it was necessary for the days to come.

He went easy on me. In utero. As if he knew I could use a break. And he wasn't one to drag me through a long or difficult labor. As if he knew my breaking point had already overreached. He was a pro nurser. No fuss as if he knew time was of the essence. He was a miracle sleeper and I kept his bed next to mine when we moved to our new place. And then again. But he wouldn't complain.

He's a trooper like that.

Oftentimes, he would suffer silently for days until I realized he was ill or ill equipped. Why didn't you tell me?, I would say. It wasn't that bad yet, he would shrug.

He thinks of others often. His is a sharp intuition, noting nuances he cannot yet articulate. He is sweet and good on the inside where it counts. He is generous to a fault but his world is a challenge in which to coexist…

You'll be my breath should I grow old.

During the formative years of my three sons, sometimes a preacher man would call my house and our conversations would inevitably begin by him asking:

"Who's winning? The big people or the little people?".

To which I would answer:

"The little people, of course."
Just being honest.

My little Man Child is the "Rowdy Maker". He is a climbing thing, always on the move. He goes directly from crawling to running and worrying me to death. He's there, playing with a pull toy on the grass next to you but, if you linger a half second too long with the neighborhood gossip, you may turn to find his fat, little legs carrying his giant, curious head down the street and across the way. Diapered and barefoot.

He runs circles around the rest at the pool, fearlessly flinging himself into the deep end so that I must invest in a shirted intertube and hope for the best or stay away altogether.

He shimmies up trees as tall as our roof and then down again.

He does it…

Take my moments and my days.

Tis a humbling privilege to have your very own son come to you and say Here are my feelings. Here are my thoughts. Here are my worries. I am currently lost inside them.

Tis a humbling privilege to have your very own son come to you, expectant and anxious for your counsel. Show me what I cannot see.

Tis a humbling privilege to have him sit at my bedside and wait for his turn at my ear. Mom, will you pray for me?

Tis humbling because I cannot fix what's bothered or broken. Tis a privilege because what he really needs is my prayer over him because we know Who can.

And the prayer is as much mine as his because, through this humble privilege, I am gifted with joy inexpressible and love undeniable. One narrow channel overflowing is a fountain of mercy.

Tis a humbling privilege to be so fully quenched after thirsting so long and I am thankful.

If you don't know me by now.

Like most folks, my eighth grade year was spent dodging my sense of self worth, forever scoffing at my own reflection while unashamedly embracing vanity. I couldn't get a tan but I couldn't do Algebra either. I fluctuated between rolling out of bed at the last deliciously carefree moment and showering multiple times a day. I liked brainy boys but pondered long on my straight legged denims (a cuff? or a roll?) Like most folks, my eighth grade paradigm was a paradox.

Recently freed from my tortoise shell glasses, life was a blur of misery. Long naps and longer nights. Repeated calls to Captain D's Time Is Now to avoid a house phone ringing after hours. Clearly, something dire needed it's say. Absurdly poetic musings scribbled in a journal to which I could not stay faithful beyond 3 days. Cassette tapes warbling a radio version of Bohemian Rhapsody, the soundtrack to my swinging moods.

During the spring of my eighth grade year, I got to visit Washington, D.C. with some cl…

Boy, you turn me inside out.

You were late but I was later. You had an empty chair behind you.  You watched with intense eyes and Adam's apple. You overheard my conversation. It was about You.
You bought some khakis. You climbed onto your roof. You were jealous. You gave me bracelets. You wanted to be my only.
You tried to leave. You wore a bolo tie. You chased the trains. You took the Taboo route. I missed you.
You got me back. You let me go.
You dyed your hair. You found me. You floundered. You brought a mint truffle. I got dizzy.
You made up your mind. You played Crazy Eights. You wrote sad songs. You watched a puppet show. You bought tea to share.
You made your bed. You broke your lunch box. You bought me curtains. You found a cat. It was hell for cats.
You got bitten by a brown recluse. You recovered.

You have a Flower. You answer a call. You wait patiently for me. You believe and You give.
You are the best one.

Real stuff my son says after being in the company of Dad.

"We got my brother a pirate wig and my sister a blue wig and I got a Kurt Cobain wig and we made a washtub bass...We're getting the band back together!"

You keep reaching out but come up empty handed.

I know a One who falters and fumbles and fakes, has one eye on the reflection but can't see cleary.

I know a One who wants Something but won't give into It. I know a One who stares into the abyss, willing into it's fate.

But it's only because that One fears.

I know a One who refuses the Hand that will wipe away the anger of unimputable shame.

I know a One who hands have been gifted, whose mind is among the strongest but whose tender heart is safely tucked away inside layers of bittery sadness.

I know it because the layers are translucent.

I know a One that need only take one step forward to a foundation already laid, smooth as glass and warm inside.

I know a One whose only baggage can all be left behind.

Loves like a hurricane; I am a tree.

If you want a mother whose naggy and frustrated of an evening, then see to it that you leave behind a pile of cat food atop the dryer where the cats dine because dogs won't let them otherwise. Or, if said dogs help themselves to last night's dinner leftovers from the garbage can and leave a half chewed corn cob on the futon, then leave it for someone else to clean up although, chances are, that someone will be your mother whose already firecracker angry because she has discovered your bro's new eye glasses lying in his bedroom floor along with a mound of clothes, helpless Cleans intermingled with hapless Dirties.

Or, if you can tolerate the furious sight of your mother in your doorway, weeping, gnashing and bemoaning the state of the hallway you share with your bro, try starting an argument with her over something totally unrelated and see how that goes because that's not working for her and it ain't working for you either.

It could be the that the day began with …

The only baggage you can bring is all that you can't leave behind.

As a young girl, I had to forever be concerned with coolness because I had a big bro and that was the name of the game. Pride is a heavy burden to bear. It's one thing if you are an extrovert like big brothers but quite another when you find yourself with the timidity of a mouse. Some laugh as I describe myself thusly, but they don't even know. I was miserable with public fear in my formative years. A trooper nonetheless.

Motherhood stretches a person in unforeseeable ways. Years ago, I was forced to emerge from the warmth of my cozy shyness and join the pack. Unreluctant in the least to embrace my role, I still occasionally find myself withdrawing, or perhaps, rebounding, into a more comfortable solitude.

Winter tries to chase me away from her gray skies and chilly bones and I relate well to Grinchyness with his self loathing and slow slides into madness. One anxiety congeals with another to solidify into a freezing mass of unsecured emotions.

I can bust out if I want but …


• Sometimes I aggravate Mr. Sugarman to get him back for choosing to cuddle with others.

• Maybe I shouldn't but he looks so cute when he bares his teeth like a miniature lion and blinks at my fingers.

• I really wish I was alone right now but I'm not and that makes me grouchy.

• Of course I love my family but sometimes I choose not to cuddle with them.

• I often try and force my eyes to stay open while I'm reading of an evening.

• It's stupid to stay up late reading because I won't wanna cuddle with anyone tomorrow.

• It's stupid to have hair that insists on a washing every Less Than 24 hours when I know that some people can go days.

• Baby powered hair is a poor substitute for clean hair.

• I feel dread about HMB driving.

• I feel irritated at HMB needing rides everywhere.

• I didn't vote in the last local election.

• My vote Sit Out was probably unfair. Surely, a couple of non crooks ran.

• Next time, I'll protest vote.

• That's 1 for Mr. Sugar…