Filed under Sunday Night Sonnet
I don’t get how some companies only give their employees a week off for a whole year’s work. Thank god and universe my company (Starving artist/stay-at-home Mom) has a more flexible vacation policy.
I’m not saying I’m ripping it up in Rio or chillaxin it down in Fiji, but I am able to take a few days here and there to discover the wonders and rejuvenating benefits of staying with family and friends in the great American south.
Rejuvenating? With family? Actually, yes. Keep it at three days tops and you’re golden.
I just came back from a girl’s trip. Me and two of my besties finally converged to chill in the Florida sun like we did every summer for years until kids came into the picture. So this trip was a little different in that instead of packing a pipe we had superhero figures, Barbies, and juice boxes in our myriad of bags and suitcases.
Yep, we brought our kids.
Now I had spent a little time with these kids and besties over the last five years or so but it was only for brief moments when one of us was in the same state as the other. But you know when a friend is a friend for life even if you don’t see or talk to each other often.
The three of us got together again and it was as if no time had passed.
We picked off right where we left- comfortable and making squirrel noises and doing silly dance moves in between making pb&js. You should have seen the clockwork cadence of our moving about in the condo kitchen while cooking, cleaning, and opening a plethora of Prosecco.
And the kids got along famously.
Now luckily I was the only one on her period so there were no foul moods or irritation. Only some “Stop being so bossy!” And some “We’re not going to the pool until you eat something other than fruit gummies or Klondike bars!” That coming from us Moms to our kids, of course. The only thing we had to yell at each other was “Hey that’s my wine glass!”
The three of us saw each other through high school, college, and those weird years afterwards where we were each in totally different places and phases in our lives. But we still made time for each other on our days off. Blueberry pancake breakfasts, afternoon swimming, box wine, piling in the hatchback listening to 311 and going to the movies. We were the three musketeers, or the three squirrels, as we called ourselves (thus the kitchen squirrel noises).
To see them now, all mature with stable jobs and children and talk of Cub Scouts and art projects was so interesting. They have each aged like fine wine in that they are more comfortable in their own skin. And seeing them is like a mirror for me. I remember where I came from, what it took to get where I am now. My wine has aged, too. It is subtle sweet and full-bodied. Not that it couldn’t use a few more years in the barrel, but perhaps breathing in a carafe is more of its stage now.
I will miss my friends greatly. That little vacation came at a perfect time for each of us. And my son said it was the best time he’s had with me.
It wasn’t Fiji but it was just what I needed. Sometimes good friends, silly board games, and an undiscovered wine is all you need to feel as if you’ve been to an exotic island and inhaled a breath of fresh air.
Filed under Observations
On the heels of Maya Angelou’s death my son’s fourth grade class put on a poetry tea. It wasn’t planned this way. They just happened to transpire in the same week.
I’ve never been to a poetry tea. I’ve been to poetry slams, where upon entering everyone is given a paint stick. Instead of clapping or snapping (never really understood that one) you slam the paint stick on the desk in click-clack applause.
When my son told me weeks ago they were beginning to study poetry at school I was elated. Finally something I could get excited about. Common Core math is all he seems to bring home and talk about (and fail). I don’t do math. I took remedial math in college because my ACT math score was so low. I used to stab my math book with a pencil on homework nights in middle school. One year I snuck my worn math book home on the last day of school, placed it in the dry creek bed behind our house, and set it on fire.
But poetry? I wrote my first poem sometime during elementary school. I’m sure my mom still has it as she has much of my early schoolwork, artwork, and report cards archived.
I continued to write poetry into high school. Became the editor of the writer’s group. Won an English award for outstanding achievement. Wrote more poetry in college. Went to more poetry slams. Acquired more paint sticks.
My mom even kept one of my poetry slam paint sticks. And brought it to the tea. My son was intrigued. But asked me to please not slam it.
It was a dream of mine to become the next great American poet or author. To make money and gain notoriety from what I loved and seemed born to do. That dream among wanting to become a famous actress, a CIA agent, and at one time an astronaut. Now I hate being in front of a camera. Don’t like guns. Haven’t flown in six years. But this writing and poetry thing? Yeah, it stuck.
Maya Angelou’s first book I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings was published when she was in her early forties. You don’t have to be young to be an accomplished writer. And you don’t have to be accomplished to write. We do it because we have to.
I don’t know what my son will end up being passionate about. Right now he wants to become a firefighter. Or create story lines for video games. I don’t care if he doesn’t get math. Because I get that. Would I love if he were to get into poetry? Sure. But he will do what is in his heart to do. And yesterday at the poetry tea I was very proud of him. For an afternoon we shared a common dream. To express our thoughts from heart to paper to audience and have at least someone moved.
Here is his original poem he recited to two classrooms filled with nervous students and tea-drinking parents:
Beach Poem
Clearwater beach sunset not too hot excited sand, water and shells grainy, soft and wet the sand and flowing water crashing waves and the birds singing running in the sand and watching the sun go down watermelon and salt water tired and ready to go home.
“Words mean more than what is set down on paper. It takes the human voice to infuse them with shades of deeper meaning.” ―Maya Angelou, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings
Filed under Sunday Night Sonnet
I felt it coming on during the Memorial Day pool party Monday afternoon. Seems as soon as one of my neighbors announced he had a cold and wasn’t feeling well my sinuses began to clog.
I don’t get sick very often. Take my vitamins. Eat healthy. Work out. Wash my hands like an OCD sufferer.
During this month alone I nursed my son through conjunctivitis and the flu. Then my husband through Shingles (meaning I sequestered him to the guest room and occasionally brought him tea). And then through a series of surgeries which had me applying ice patches, eye drops, administering meds, draining fluids and recording them, and holding a bucket for him to pee in. And let’s not forget enduring the moaning and groaning.
I could have made a pretty damn good nurse.
But now the nurse needs a nurse. And no matter how much my husband and son try to help they cannot live up to the high standards of the one who nursed me through countless bouts of strep throat and a few horrendous stomach bugs as a child.
I want my mommy!
As I sit here on the stained recliner I finally regained command over I am overwhelmed with a craving for Mom’s sweet, soft southern voice. And some bacon, eggs, and biscuits. I can see her now, dashing about the house in her muumuu, carrying a box of Kleenex, a thermometer, and a recycled plastic honey bear filled with ice-cold orange juice.
But right now she is in her condo. A mere fifteen minutes away but still. Probably in her muumuu, sipping coffee and watching some network morning show. I texted her I wasn’t feeling well and of course she replied she’d be available if I needed help. Then she added the emoticon with the kissy lips. I instantly felt a small surge of healing.
Still want that biscuit though.
Filed under Yep I'm Becoming My Mother
Swooping down from above to place hands in care however needed No hidden agenda
But perhaps not hands but wings floating above a withering body a lost soul
In your eyes loving kindness What if that love turned to hate It cannot be can't entertain that thought of despair
The world is full of dust but underneath it a lush green forest where angels and fairies take respite
They strengthen together then float back to dust to extinguish it lay hands and wings on without hidden agenda.
Filed under Sunday Night Sonnet
I remember snippets and chunks of my childhood. Mostly because my mom has the bulk of it archived in 70’s and 80’s faded photographs.
I look at my son sometimes and think, God it would be great to be a kid again. Would if I were you right now. I also say this to my dog when she’s lying around snoozing and I’m running around like a chicken with its head cut off.
But really, wouldn’t it be fantastic to be a kid again for a day? Especially a kid like my son who lives in a safe place, surrounded by friends and parks and beaches and the invention of some really kick-ass nerf guns?
Or come back as myself, time-warped back to the 80’s, where my playroom smelled of chalk, encyclopedias, and Strawberry Shortcake farts. Where there was no worry about diets or jobs or bills or relationships. It was all, how are we going to keep our bed-sheet tent from falling on top of my 8×10 glossy of Noah Hathaway from The Neverending Story? Or ouch this hose water is hot but we’ll drink it anyway. And oh crap the streetlights just came on, better run home before the pot roast gets cold and we hear Mom screaming our names in that annoyed sing-songy way.
Not that childhood doesn’t have its share of problems, but come on, wouldn’t you love to trade a hectic day, or even a melancholy crap adult day to run in the sprinklers and smell the honeysuckle without the nagging worry of time or sunscreen or disappointment?
My son is at school today. And that is definitely not a place I long to be. I have lots of work to do. But maybe I can sneak away for an hour, go to the beach. Splash in the water and smell the sea air. Wearing sunscreen, of course.
Anyone wanna join me?
Filed under Yep I'm Becoming My Mother
So it’s come to my attention that some Busted Flip Flop followers have requested my blog guesting. If that’s a word.
So here I am after a bit of a hiatus. The pug with the fruity name and the she’s-so-ugly-she’s-cute face. I still don’t get that one. Shouldn’t I be insulted?
There’s been a lot of snoring going on around here. Seems like everyone is so busy with their own drama that I’ve been sawing the logs on an even more regular basis. But Mom did give me a bath yesterday and with baths come a treat so at least that’s something.
Me. Sittin pretty.
Oh yeah and brother had a sleepover so popcorn was consumed and “dropped” on the floor for my snacking pleasure. Yeah they pretend to drop popcorn on the floor so I can eat it. I’m all about some popcorn. There could be tens of other things being prepared in the kitchen but as soon as Mom starts shaking the pan on the stove and I hear the POP! and the Ouch, the oil got me! I am in there like a pug outta the front door.
Oh yeah and speaking of front doors I did escape one day. But brother’s friend grabbed me before I could get to the lady who always feeds me greasy people food my mom crinkles her nose at.
Well it feels about that time. Time to stare Mom in the face and give her that pitiful look I give even after I’ve already been fed. My bowl runneth empty.
Filed under Cherry Pearl
In times of trouble
I need to hear the birds sing
remember where I came from
and who I used to be
all the struggles overcome
all the times come undone
but put back again
by some strength within
In times of trouble
I need to hear the birds sing
I need to remember it's not just me
a speck in the universe
bound yet free
a flitter of a thought
not all for naught
In times of trouble
let me hear the birds sing
let me rest under her wing
let me let it be
Filed under Sunday Night Sonnet
Remnants of your breakfast
hurriedly eaten
chocolate chip waffle crust
sits stale now
You're in that long building of learning
your pants high-waters again
My heart weighs heavily
thinking about your happiness
your safety
Hoping to God I'm not the
contention one day
in the therapist's office
We snuggled yesterday
for the first time in ages
You were like my baby
And I hope those moments
are not few and far between
I know I must let you fly
just like I let go of the bicycle
when you told me you were ready to pedal
Just like I tell you to be careful
as I watch you walk away
with the other boys
to your fort in the woods
I was ten once
I still smell the school hallways
disinfectant and chalk
And I knew Mom was always there
waiting for me
a cushy cradle for my lanky limbs
A solace from the noise of the world
over the crust of a cinnamon bun
left to sit
A melancholy reminder.
Filed under Sunday Night Sonnet
Today I saw a turtle making its wobbly way through a patch of wet grass. He was coming straight for the road. I looked on the other side and noticed a pond. In his determination to get to that refuge he was unaware of his possible demise.
Or perhaps he studied the traffic patterns of a Saturday afternoon and knew this was his best chance.
Remember Frogger?
Only this wasn’t a post-Pong, pre-Mario game. This was real. One wrong move and that shell, no matter how sturdy, couldn’t protect him from the weight and speed of a moving vehicle.
I prayed the cars behind me saw him. And perhaps the jogger on the sidewalk might catch a glimpse, run over, and carry the poor thing across. There was no where for me to stop so I moved on. I couldn’t linger in the rear-view for fear I might see the worst. A shattered shell. A busted dream. A snack for the vultures.
What happens to the shell? It is discarded. Its crushed pieces refuse on the street. A reminder to look before you cross. And once you do, you do it with all the heart and speed you can muster under the heaviness of the hull.
Perhaps the shell is taken and studied. Or even collected like pretty beach shells we use to decorate our houses and yards and hold them to our ear to hear the ocean.
Or maybe another organism finds in the abandoned husk a new home.
Filed under Observations
Busted Flip Flops 