Life does not suck here at 7 Stepehn Smith. The fire roars, the Christmas tree glows, the
Sauvignon blanc glistens and the WNYC enlightens.
I mostly feel pretty good. I mostly actively delight in every piece of this new life. However, no matter how far, how drastically, how vigorously I move, I still live with a monster.
Several weeks ago I started seeing a very smart, very aggressive, very tender, very motivated therapist. The good news? Apparently I can be fixed. The bad news? I am so jammed up, so tight and controlled that I have no idea how to start. I'm 41 and creeping right up on 42's ass... I don't have years and years to do this. I have shit to do and children to tend to.
Fuck! Is anyone else listening to the radio right now? The carols they are playing are playing right into my cerebellum... 'Tis the season, indeed.
2011 was all about us ingesting, digesting the lusciousness of Lincoln and moving our life and family closer to... to... to more tangible things. And it was a bitch of a whore to navigate. 2011 fucked like a pro.
And here I sit, on the precipice of 2012 terrified of the work before me once again.
Sunday, December 18, 2011
It was my son's birthday last month. He turned three. I couldn't write about it though. He and his 7 year old sister have so destroyed and mangled my macbook that it's impossible to sit at my (ha!) desk and use my (ha!) computer. Add it to the list.
What else is on the list? Which category should we start in? Things destroyed by dog? Things destroyed by dog of significant value or low value? Things destroyed by children? Things co-opted by children? I really feel like I am facilitating squatters around here.
Wasn't my womb enough?
And the fuckinmuthafucker of a dog. Fuck. That. Shit. Look, I love him and I wanted him but he most certainly did not get the "They saved you, don't devour their shit and leave it in ribbons all over the porch/tv room/dining room/hallway" memo. He must have missed the "If you jump on and nibble at small people, they will hate you" memo, too.
I wrote that about 5 weeks ago. The dog has a new (loving?) home and I'm still without a computer. Oh, woe is me. I'm writing this on an iPad. Feel sorry for me yet?
What else is on the list? Which category should we start in? Things destroyed by dog? Things destroyed by dog of significant value or low value? Things destroyed by children? Things co-opted by children? I really feel like I am facilitating squatters around here.
Wasn't my womb enough?
And the fuckinmuthafucker of a dog. Fuck. That. Shit. Look, I love him and I wanted him but he most certainly did not get the "They saved you, don't devour their shit and leave it in ribbons all over the porch/tv room/dining room/hallway" memo. He must have missed the "If you jump on and nibble at small people, they will hate you" memo, too.
I wrote that about 5 weeks ago. The dog has a new (loving?) home and I'm still without a computer. Oh, woe is me. I'm writing this on an iPad. Feel sorry for me yet?
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Tempest in a teapot
Hell hath no fury like an 11 year old girl going through puberty and ain't no heart big enough to love the crap out of her.
Ruby. A gift.
She stuns me with her thoughts, articulations, moods, ideas, expressions of love & fits of passion.
The other night I said "I'm not the fucking maid!" in response to finding that she had (artfully) painted strokes of nail polish on the downstairs shower stall, soggy towels on the bathroom floor and perfect curls of eyeliner pencil frosted with the merest slips of melty, deep blue color smeared into the vanity.
I was pissed and she was stolid. She didn't waver till I uttered the obscenity and then she crumbled. I apologized for the word, but not the sentiment, for the anger but not the message and then I left it alone.
Later, when she was fresh out of tears, I told her that I really was sorry for swearing. And she said, that's ok. And then she said, when I'm all upset all I want is you, mom. I act like I don't, but I do. She closed with a kiss and an I love you.
I asked her to try to be patient with me in a few years if (when) she says that foul word to me. I told her I hope I'd have as much grace and presence of mind as her.
Minus the F-bomb. This shit goes down in my house EVERY DAY. The kid blows my mind like Mikey with the pop-rocks & coca cola. She asks me hypothetical questions (and she prefaces with: This is hypothetical, mom). She tells me she knows it's weird she's addicted to love songs even though she has NO IDEA what it feels like to have an unevenly broken heart that's deeply rolling. She asks me to buy her meringue cookies simply on the basis of their appearance.
Two days ago, she said she's considering vegetarianism again not because of the moral conflict of humans eating meat (we're not the only mammals who do, you know. Animals eat each other. It happens) but because of the filthy practice of turning the sweet hog into savory bacon. Yes, she said "savory".
I'm not kidding. She's extraordinary. And she's changing. Evolving into a most stormy and delectable thing. I don't wish her one second older or younger. I want to eat her alive and rub my tummy. And for now, she wants me to, too.
Ruby. A gift.
She stuns me with her thoughts, articulations, moods, ideas, expressions of love & fits of passion.
The other night I said "I'm not the fucking maid!" in response to finding that she had (artfully) painted strokes of nail polish on the downstairs shower stall, soggy towels on the bathroom floor and perfect curls of eyeliner pencil frosted with the merest slips of melty, deep blue color smeared into the vanity.
I was pissed and she was stolid. She didn't waver till I uttered the obscenity and then she crumbled. I apologized for the word, but not the sentiment, for the anger but not the message and then I left it alone.
Later, when she was fresh out of tears, I told her that I really was sorry for swearing. And she said, that's ok. And then she said, when I'm all upset all I want is you, mom. I act like I don't, but I do. She closed with a kiss and an I love you.
I asked her to try to be patient with me in a few years if (when) she says that foul word to me. I told her I hope I'd have as much grace and presence of mind as her.
Minus the F-bomb. This shit goes down in my house EVERY DAY. The kid blows my mind like Mikey with the pop-rocks & coca cola. She asks me hypothetical questions (and she prefaces with: This is hypothetical, mom). She tells me she knows it's weird she's addicted to love songs even though she has NO IDEA what it feels like to have an unevenly broken heart that's deeply rolling. She asks me to buy her meringue cookies simply on the basis of their appearance.
Two days ago, she said she's considering vegetarianism again not because of the moral conflict of humans eating meat (we're not the only mammals who do, you know. Animals eat each other. It happens) but because of the filthy practice of turning the sweet hog into savory bacon. Yes, she said "savory".
I'm not kidding. She's extraordinary. And she's changing. Evolving into a most stormy and delectable thing. I don't wish her one second older or younger. I want to eat her alive and rub my tummy. And for now, she wants me to, too.
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Motivation is Everywhere
Since we moved, I've been poking into my brains for the perfect first post in the new digs. Plenty of inspiration. PLENTY. But those trifles will have to wait because tonight I was pulled to the keyboard to officially record a most troubling find:
While I was in the bathroom (on the toilet) cleaning up from a rogue peeing episode by Lincoln all over my lap, pants, undies, legs (more on that later. maybe), I discovered TO MY FUCKING HORROR a grey pubic hair. A G R E Y P U B I C H A I R
While I was in the bathroom (on the toilet) cleaning up from a rogue peeing episode by Lincoln all over my lap, pants, undies, legs (more on that later. maybe), I discovered TO MY FUCKING HORROR a grey pubic hair. A G R E Y P U B I C H A I R
Friday, July 1, 2011
Ask and ye shall get a really long answer
At the pool the other day, a woman made her way over to where Link and I were yucking it up/making out and asked me what his "disorder" was.
Her face was warm, motherly. Her own son really cute & playful with a huge mop of brown curls that he'd lick pool water off every once in a while.
It was the first time that a total stranger had the nuts to ask about Lincoln in public. He was super pumped up that day, twisting his arms up and twirling his hands like a Deadhead all the while saying "gheeeeeeeeee" with the biggest shit-eating, drooling grin. In between sets, he'd maul me with hugs and kisses (read: HEAVEN).
My boy don't come off like other boys. He acts the way we all want to act and it shows. I know it shows and this woman kindly, gently asked me what was up.
What a relief to have someone FINALLY FUCKING TALK TO ME ABOUT IT! I am a bit of a braggart (this point perfectly, dryly pointed out by Ruby mid-conversation). I love to be interviewed. I'm kinda a show off.
And the other day I got the really fantastic opportunity to show off my child's light and spread it around like the swirling whirls of fireflies.
Her face was warm, motherly. Her own son really cute & playful with a huge mop of brown curls that he'd lick pool water off every once in a while.
It was the first time that a total stranger had the nuts to ask about Lincoln in public. He was super pumped up that day, twisting his arms up and twirling his hands like a Deadhead all the while saying "gheeeeeeeeee" with the biggest shit-eating, drooling grin. In between sets, he'd maul me with hugs and kisses (read: HEAVEN).
My boy don't come off like other boys. He acts the way we all want to act and it shows. I know it shows and this woman kindly, gently asked me what was up.
What a relief to have someone FINALLY FUCKING TALK TO ME ABOUT IT! I am a bit of a braggart (this point perfectly, dryly pointed out by Ruby mid-conversation). I love to be interviewed. I'm kinda a show off.
And the other day I got the really fantastic opportunity to show off my child's light and spread it around like the swirling whirls of fireflies.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Turn, turn
I am moving out a house that two of my children were born in. I am moving into a house where a father died. The weight of these pieces falling into place hit me smack dab in the ventricles today. On July 11th I think there won't be enough Lexapro in circulation to keep me from sobbing uncontrollably at the closing tables.
One of the days we were looking at our new house I found a four leaf clover near the driveway. It's the size of a lentil and I saw it immediately when I looked down. First one I've ever actually spied growing in my life up until that point.
The very first time we toured our new home I was initially underwhelmed. Like bored. But as I walked the halls, opened doors, crept around the grounds, it grew on my like the spongy, welcoming moss that envelopes the earth around one of our trees.
We will be happy there (we'll be happy anywhere, don't get me wrong). But this house feeeeels sooooo riiiiight. And I feel equally at peace leaving our current home. It served us beautifully. My hot husband and I have grown so much here. So many fights, evolutions, jobs, worries, hopes, births, birthdays. We've had sex in every single room. Except the garage. I think. Mighta been drunk that time.
We owned the shit out of this house, damn it. And we'll own the next one, too.
One of the days we were looking at our new house I found a four leaf clover near the driveway. It's the size of a lentil and I saw it immediately when I looked down. First one I've ever actually spied growing in my life up until that point.
The very first time we toured our new home I was initially underwhelmed. Like bored. But as I walked the halls, opened doors, crept around the grounds, it grew on my like the spongy, welcoming moss that envelopes the earth around one of our trees.
We will be happy there (we'll be happy anywhere, don't get me wrong). But this house feeeeels sooooo riiiiight. And I feel equally at peace leaving our current home. It served us beautifully. My hot husband and I have grown so much here. So many fights, evolutions, jobs, worries, hopes, births, birthdays. We've had sex in every single room. Except the garage. I think. Mighta been drunk that time.
We owned the shit out of this house, damn it. And we'll own the next one, too.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
I promised
Because of him I love the smell of petroleum. When he'd come home from work (he ran the printing press at our local newspaper) the smell of gasoline & ink clung to him like powdered sugar on cake and I drank it in like lemonade.
He was my favorite. He didn't yell (at me). He never drank. He made my school lunches & I look just like him.
When my parents told me they were getting a divorce, it was his soft, mushy white t-shirt clad belly I buried my face into and cried.
I knew he was far from perfect. I knew my mother, her mother and all of her sisters hated him. I knew he was embarrassing, running like a MADMAN onto the football field when a Pop Warner kid went down. Gut churning, sweat flying, tackle box full of EMT tools bouncing and bouncing and bouncing. I knew the neighborhood kids (and adults) thought he was a buffoon when he'd come bursting out of the house, SCREAMING & YELLING and demanding justice for his kid during a game of kick-ball.
I loved him most anyway. Like I said, he didn't yell at me. He never hit me and he promised me the world. Over and over and over and over and over and over again. He PROMISED. He promised.
I was 11 when my parents divorced he disappeared and over the years his lack of remarkableness settled in like soot.
He came to my high-school graduation and when I was about 20, he took my brother and I out to a movie and to the diner for dinner.
He has never met my husband or any of my children. The last few times we talked, he asked for money. Like, lots of money. Could we buy his house for him and let him live in it? Could we pay for him to re-locate to another state?
And the very last time I heard from him, I got copied in on one of those fucking mind numbing, infuriating chain mails that INSIST that Jesus WON'T LOVE YOU ANYMORE unless you forward the fucking thing to 20 people. Dick doesn't even know that I'm an Atheist.
Now I know he also has Fragile X. The gift that keeps on giving and he didn't have to spend a dime! Sweet, isn't it?
He was my favorite. He didn't yell (at me). He never drank. He made my school lunches & I look just like him.
When my parents told me they were getting a divorce, it was his soft, mushy white t-shirt clad belly I buried my face into and cried.
I knew he was far from perfect. I knew my mother, her mother and all of her sisters hated him. I knew he was embarrassing, running like a MADMAN onto the football field when a Pop Warner kid went down. Gut churning, sweat flying, tackle box full of EMT tools bouncing and bouncing and bouncing. I knew the neighborhood kids (and adults) thought he was a buffoon when he'd come bursting out of the house, SCREAMING & YELLING and demanding justice for his kid during a game of kick-ball.
I loved him most anyway. Like I said, he didn't yell at me. He never hit me and he promised me the world. Over and over and over and over and over and over again. He PROMISED. He promised.
I was 11 when my parents divorced he disappeared and over the years his lack of remarkableness settled in like soot.
He came to my high-school graduation and when I was about 20, he took my brother and I out to a movie and to the diner for dinner.
He has never met my husband or any of my children. The last few times we talked, he asked for money. Like, lots of money. Could we buy his house for him and let him live in it? Could we pay for him to re-locate to another state?
And the very last time I heard from him, I got copied in on one of those fucking mind numbing, infuriating chain mails that INSIST that Jesus WON'T LOVE YOU ANYMORE unless you forward the fucking thing to 20 people. Dick doesn't even know that I'm an Atheist.
Now I know he also has Fragile X. The gift that keeps on giving and he didn't have to spend a dime! Sweet, isn't it?
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