Spring has begrudgingly decided it is time, against all arguments against its arriving, through the soggy ground and under a intermittently grey sky. Wilted and bright crocus push through, once again like they do every year, as a signal the tide is turning away from bitter cold and wind with snow and sleet. The flowering bushes and trees seem silly in this cold cloudy weather like spring is trying to find its giddy up. Maybe if the earth puts on its usual show the sun and warmth and good weather will show it’s face despite all attempts to keep it coming like the next ice age.
Winter, peeling off its layers like an old stripper too tired to really give you a show because you have seen it all before will depart as the earth spins its endless circles around the sun.
I don’t know whether to laugh, cry or freak the fuck out like I did the other day. Maybe all three at the same time cause if my cursing, slamming, stomping yelling kirk out didn’t scare the shit out of my kids I bet laughing will push them right over the edge.
I know everyone looses their tempter sometimes but I lost-lost it. Like a mental patient.
Luckily both kiddos forgave me but they shouldn’t have.
I did warn them, after I had calmed down and regretted everything that came out of my mouth that they need to be more selective with the arguing with me. Don’t argue over dinner, walking the dog, putting the dishes away, cleaning up your room while talking to me like I am the hugest idiot on the planet because there will come a time soon that you will want me to hear your argument because it will really be important and I will be all full up to the gills with yelling at me for dumbass stuff and I won’t listen.
And then you will really hate me. Don’t hate me for making you come to dinner.
I couldn’t sleep last night. It might have been all the sordid images floating around inside my head from watching Wolf of Wall Street and over eating causing me to fitfully sleep. I finally fell asleep only to wake with a start. I was so afraid I had already slept through the night and I had to get up early, on my birthday and go to work. I pushed up on my elbow and looked around at my alarm clock and it was 219am. The time I was born.
Sometimes I can feel my mother breathing down my neck but mostly I just want her to put her hand on my cheek.
Half of the world and all the world comes out of our vagina’s, made inside our bodies and fed from our breasts.
Just let that sink in. That kind of power and control is, well, powerful. I can totally see why it could be intimidating to the other half of the world who makes an infinitesimal contribution in a moment of naked release and why it would seem apt to co-opt that, hold it down, make it seem less than it is and turn the table on who has the most responsibility. I don’t mean the responsibility to make it all perfect although society sure makes it seem that way.
My body, our bodies-all women, have the capability to make life. Now, don’t take this the wrong way in that I mean anything about abortion. Laws. Abortion is a totally separate issue related to a woman’s body. I am talking about a woman’s right to present her body in whatever way she feels fit to do so.
Raising a girl who loves tight pants, hair chalk, lipgloss and covets the idea of what a bra means is daunting and makes me feel nervous every single damn day. I go back and forth from wanting to curb her desires to show her body not because I think that her body is something to hide but am worried about the thoughts others will have about her body that she can’t control and what that means for her safety.
Men can dress however they want and will mostly run the risk of being called ugly, foolish, silly, unfashionable, trendy or stupid. Unless a man puts on a dress or skirt there is nothing that anyone would remark about regarding their sexuality and even then the worst thing they might call a guy is fag or gay which frankly is not an insult just an assumption of their sexual preferences which may be looked down on, disagreed with or disgusted by. A man wearing a dress, a straight dude wearing a dress is not super common in everyday life. Contrasting a woman who could wear a short skirt, low-cut top and high heels and she could be labeled a slut, a whore, asking for crimes to be committed just because of how she is dressed. We are accused of provoking evil thoughts in others just by how we are dressed. Women are so powerful that just by revealing our body in some way we can cause someone to think committing a crime against us is okay because we are asking for it-as if we are only here to serve someone else for their sexual inclinations.
Even as I approach the age of 43 (in just a few days so make sure you wish me a happy birthday motherfuckers) I worry when I get “dressed up” that it’s too much. I worry that I am giving out the wrong idea. I worry that I might look inappropriate. I worry that I am just too much. Is my role, as a woman, to be the smoother-over, to be the cohesive bit that sticks the world together in a peaceful non-violent way? Am I not just the other half of the world, the one that holds the power over myself?
How do we struggle, as women, to make an atmosphere of acceptance and love and criticize less and love more? Am I an example? Am I not just one of many? What role is defined for me and what role do I accept as defined for me?
Where them girls at? Where are the girls of all sizes, shapes, sexual orientation, color, race, religion and thought? Aren’t we already right here, right now, together? What kind of same size, same shape, same socioeconomic sphere does an individual fit into now?
I turn into the sunlight, warm and glaringly bright, longing to feel your hand on my cheek brushing the hair out of my face. Right after you say something crazy and mean because you are the only person who can say things like that and I still love you. Cutting me to the quick, knowing my moves before I can conceive of them but allowing me to think I am the master of invention. Never criticizing my adventures, always bragging about my bravery but wistfully wishing I was choosing to be closer -like in the neighborhood. The neighborhood I live in is the one you built without knowing anything about architecture or design. You made me out of thin air inside your stomach and I can only wonder how perplexing it all was. Making people is the easiest thing but raising them to be adults is so complex because it happens whether you want it to or not. Time moves on even if you don’t get out of bed, brush your teeth or get dressed. Embarrassingly, achingly, longingly desperate for your touch that would assure me that it’s okay to get out of bed, brush my teeth and get dressed. Impenetrable connection that even death can not change.
Nitrogen is very difficult for plants to “fix” out of the soil hence you buy plant food with nitrogen in it to promote greenery. There are two ways nitrogen becomes more bio-available to plants-lightening and snow. I am expecting a lovely spring filled with amazingly blooming fantastic plants, dry enough days with lots of sunshine and warmth. I anticipate a long slow summer with fire flies, baby foxes in the field, bunnies, the cardinals nesting in our forsythia bush again and the bright light of the star the sun beating down on my shoulders and warming me to my core.
If that doesn’t happen motherfuckers I am going to be wicked damn cranky because all this snow is total bullshit. My children have had 9!!!!!!! snow days this year. 9!!!!!!!!!! We live in the mid-atlantic area of the US and our particular state does NOT do well with snow. I am over it. Too much fucking snow and it needs to stop.
It is officially spring in a couple of days and winter will need to take notice and step the fuck down. Put away your polar vortex, cloud cover filled with moisture and freezing wind. WE ARE DONE. Consider this your notice, this is going in your permanent file WINTER, you boring and annoying stupoopid fucking weather system /season.
Fuck you and the cycle you rode in on.
There are strange things that happen when your mother dies when you are in your late 20′s aside from the usual grief, paperwork, awkward travel and writing large checks for seriously morbid shit. Your mind is a whirl of fear of being alone and losing your anchor of mother as well as anger for her leaving knowing it wasn’t something she necessarily chose. Your late 20′s are a heady time of self-absorption and exploration. Travel, clothes, dieting, saving money for grown-up purchases and learning to work out your life-partner love thing is pretty centric to the universe. You feel that tug of your childhood holding on like fear of something you know is irrational but it begins to stretch and give more like a rubber band propelling your forward recklessly and with a force you can not control.
For me, I never thought of having children. Children of my own. My own body was a constant war ground of embarrassed fat thighs, weird dry skin bumpy arms, flabby stomach, too small eyes, weird teeth and too loud talking nonstop voice. Having a baby I knew would mean giving up control over something I felt I would never master-my body and the thing it could totally do without me really even thinking about it except for when I was having the sex that made the baby. To be frank, it seemed slightly ridiculous. SEX to make a person? Really? That seems like being able to take a shit in the toilet and that’s how you get a new car? Totally disconnected and silly. Not for me. I could adopt. My awesome cousin is adopted and it always made me feel like your family could be anywhere-you just have to find them. I likened it to adopting our cats we had when I was little. Sassafras could not have been closer to me and felt like we were meant to be together and he was adopted. So to make a family, maybe you just had to look around a little and find them.
When my mother Jeanne died all of that started to change. Over the next 18 months after she died it became apparent that I must have a baby. I felt helpless in this choice and didn’t really understand where it came from. I am sure my husband was also confused. His selfish necessary business of art making was all-consuming and still is but he was cooperative with the person making endeavor as it led to having sex every other day for many months because, let me remind you again, you make people by HAVING SEX! So weird.
So we made this person and I knew it was a boy. As my belly grew and my pregnancy went along nothing really seemed typical. I didn’t look super pregnant, I was never sick, always hungry, had to drink orange Gatorade in the middle of the night, had strange spotting, my hormones were never right in the beginning and I feared in a small corner of my mind that I tried to ignore that we might lose the baby. That was my huge fear. That we would lose him and that it would make me question if I really wanted him or I was trying to establish a destiny for my own mortality because my mom died when I was 27? I would waffle back and forth from everyone does this have a baby thing when they get married to there are more than enough people on the planet and what the hell kind of selfish weirdo do I think I am?
Well, I was pregnant and wanted to do it all naturally, without drugs and to breastfeed. My bff since drivers ed had her babies at home and nursed them all till toddlerhood and she was my only friend with kids so I figured that is the way you do it. As the pregnancy progressed things just were weird. I was having contractions that I know now were real contractions but thought they were just Braxton Hicks. At 28 weeks the labor would wake me up and send me to the L&D unit for bolus’ of fluid to dilute the hormones kick starting my labor and rest at home. 4 weeks later my water would break in the middle of the night feeling like that familiar rubber band snap hurtling me into space.
As I lay in the hospital trying to cook my man a bit longer, reading everything on premature birth and babies (much to the horror and frustration of nurses and doctors to come), trying to eat laying down and counting his kicks everyday. During a routine ultrasound to check my AFI level (amniotic fluid interval) I asked the tech to check the kiddos weight. Measuring his little wee bones it was decided he had only grown 5 ounces in 4 weeks and was very small for his gestation. It was pretty well confirmed that he had not really grown, for reasons unknown, during my last 4 weeks on bed rest.
A barrage of doctors came in to talk to me while I cried and they looked confused that I was crying and told me they thought they would induce my labor the next day on March 2 2001. Our son’s due date was April 17th-21st and this was way too early. Especially for a boy. Boys, I had read, were weak, sleepy, lazy little preemies who often had more complications at earlier birth than girls did. Our son had IUGR (interuterine growth retardation) with low blood flow from the placenta via the umbilical cord. For reasons unknown. All we knew is that it was happening. Jokingly one of my midwives offered that if I were on crack they could pinpoint that to the reason but outside of something like that they usually had no idea why something like this happens.
So I cried all night, holding my belly and talking to him. Asking, well begging him, to be strong and healthy and patient and together we could do it. I promised to nurse him if he promised to nurse. I promised to kiss him and hold him if he promised to be well enough. I cried for the thought of losing him inside me so soon. We forged ahead the next day and he came out. Screaming. Screaming like mad and I was so relieved. I begged and begged the pediatrician to hold him because it was obvious to everyone he was breathing screaming like that and finally they wrapped him up and let me have him.
All I could see was his face and he was wrapped in blankets. His eyes were squeezed shut tight and his mouth gaping open yelling to call the cows home. I kissed his face and said his name, the name we had been calling him since I knew he was a boy well before the ultrasound and his eyes snapped open, his mouth closed to a tiny little O and he looked right at me, recognizing my voice, his name and his place in my life. Right there at that moment everything zoomed into focus, becoming clear and bright and perfect. He was mine and I was his and it was perfect and I knew at that moment, it would all be okay.