Tag Archives: childhood

February 20, 2016 · 10:02 am

Get the Balance Right

Is it possible to ever get the balance right? Things are off-kilter, ignored, put off, unattainable at the moment, time the ever opponent. My perfectionist personality does not help. Failure is no longer an option and neither is guilt or self-deprecation. It is what it is. And I’m sorry to those of you I have not connected with lately.

Eighteen hours a day working, sleeping, prepping for the two. Which leaves six for chores, errands, food prep, quality time with little Boo, exercise, meditation/prayer/gratitude, and personal hygiene/beauty. So what has fallen by the wayside? Writing. Creating. Connecting with friends and family. Shaving.

And I’m a horrible phone person. I rarely pick up the phone. I have been reprimanded about this at various times. I don’t love the phone. I can’t read the lips of the person speaking on the other line. Can’t see their body language. Hell sometimes can’t hear what they are saying. And because of the demands of life I am a multi-tasker (like so many of us these days). It is easier to have conversations via text with several people at the same time while doing the laundry, dishes, hitting the can. But yes I am fully aware that an uninterrupted phone conversation is important. And I am calling my mom as soon as I finish this.

I made time to catch the sunset on the beach twice this week. It had been too long. Today I am writing. Tomorrow I will catch up with an old friend.

When little Boo was a baby I knew that phase of our lives would be fleeting. There were days that were long and filled with crying and poop, but in between those moments were the giggles and cuddles and chubby legs learning to walk. Now that baby is almost as tall as me and it happened in the swish of a horse’s tail.

I am forever grateful that I am able to see him daily as I assistant teach in his classroom. This will be a year looked upon with great pride and nostalgia when he is out of my daily sights and starting his own career and path in life.

So when I think about all the things I can’t seem to find the time or energy to accomplish I need to cut myself a freaking break. We do what we can.

I was alone when I viewed this spectacular sunset. Now let’s watch it together : )

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Taken with iPhone 5, west coast FL, no editing.

 

 

 

 

 

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June 6, 2015 · 11:02 am

Oranges, Sage, Sand and Time

Yesterday while stepping outside the office to the parking lot I caught a whiff of some kind of dry brush percolating its arid scent in the late spring warmth. It immediately transported me back to 1989. To a sandy and rooted path towards the Mediterranean sea. I looked down at my feet and couldn’t believe I had really gone on that trip all those years ago. Seems like an eternity. The girl who traveled there had freckles and bushy brown hair and a wondering mind. I still have the freckles and a matured version of that mind so it must have been me.

I love how smells take you to places and evoke memories in an instant. In the midst of everyday life we step back and take a deep inhale through the honker and relive a moment as if it were right at our feet.

Take oranges for another example. That smell of freshly sliced citrus transports me back to an even earlier time. To childhood and the kitchen counter and the oranges stacked in a bowl during Christmastime. It is always Christmas when I smell an orange. And now the citrus fruits lining my lanai swell and ripen in wintertime.

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Fresh cut grass reminds me of Tennessee summers and my dad and my brother and the aggravation then prideful relief when the yard work was finished.

Decaying leaves and burning wood always remind me of fall and Halloween. The beginning of school days. Trick-or-treating. Playing in piles of orange and red and brown fallen oak and maple. Writing somber poetry.

Curry and coriander bring forth memories of Christmas Eve and our now decade-long family tradition of enjoying an Indian feast before driving around to see all the neighborhood holiday lights.

Instant coffee and tobacco– my grandparent’s house. Powder soap and crayons– elementary school. Soft, sweet Petunia– my mother’s garden. Aveeno Eczema Therapy lotion– my son’s infancy. Rain– lazy summer days and escaping to shelter. Cinnamon– all the good memories ever all wrapped into one.

Last night I stared down at my feet after a good jog on the causeway. The terrain underneath reminded me of that path to the Mediterranean sea and the desert of the Australian Outback and all the places I’ve been and seen and experienced. It’s still a bit of a shock how much I’ve done. The smell of the salty, shelly gulf wafted around me and I smelled not a memory but a presence. I was home. And alive in the present with all the memories of the past in my brain waiting for the frontal lobe to spark the temporal and let me relive them again, if only for a time.

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May 9, 2015 · 9:35 am

Burnt Bagels and Mayonnaise Sandwiches

Harried, overwhelmed, inadequate. That’s how I felt one morning while standing over the breakfast I’d prepared for my 11-year-old son. I’d burnt the bottom of a bagel, the last bagel. Among the lapping of the dog at the empty dog bowl, the annoying motor sound of the leaking fridge, there was sobbing. “I’m a crap Mom!” I said out loud while trying to slice off the charred chunk and keep my tears from falling into the butter. “I can’t do anything right.”

I don’t know how my mom did it. She raised two kids, worked, kept an immaculate house.

There are dozens of dog hair tumbleweeds rolling about my floors. And I can’t even toast a proper bagel for my one kid.

Being a working Mom ain’t no joke. Being a Mom period ain’t no joke. I’ve been the stay-at-home and the working. They both have their challenges. Time is never on your side.

I am a perfectionist but I have had to learn to change my idea of perfection. And I certainly can’t compare myself to other Moms. God forbid go onto Facebook and see all the seemingly perfectionism going on there. Makes me want to choke on a bagel. But nothing is perfect. There’s always a burnt bagel or a sob fest or a moment of defeat behind gorgeous repurposed doors.

I can look back at my childhood and glorify and romanticize. But it had its moments, too.

My mom usually packed my lunch. Most of the time it was decent enough for a kid in the 80’s in the South. There was a lot of white bread and pimento cheese and I think maybe a piece of fruit every once in a while. But sometimes the content of the sandwich consisted only of mayonnaise. Which I hated. But the crusts were cut off. And while I choked down the vile thing I kind of felt sorry for my mom cause I knew she was doing the best she could do. And she left little “I love you” notes in my Smurfs lunchbox.

I never wanted her to feel bad about the mayo sandwiches so I never said anything about it.

After I salvaged my son’s bagel I brought it to him while holding back tears.

A few minutes later I heard him call out that it was the best bagel he’d ever eaten. And that I was the best Mom there could ever be.

We may not be perfect. In other people’s minds and especially our own. But we do the best we can. And a special note, gratitude, and some sugar and cinnamon goes a long way.

Caprice Estate

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom

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May 2, 2015 · 9:57 am

In My Grandfather’s Yard

Today I want to escape
to my grandfather’s yard
like when we were kids

encase myself in the oak vines
to cover these ills

chase the butterflies among
old rusted cars and wood piles
and junk yard treasures

free my mind

become that child again
who is always just under the surface

today I don’t want to be the adult

decisions to be made
mistakes to be rendered
ever binding pressure

today I want to hide
in my grandfather’s yard
and see the freckles on my cheeks
in the reflection of the tool shed window

and see not guilt not mistakes not hate
but what my grandfather saw in me

a happy innocent flying
soul

Papa's yard

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July 27, 2014 · 10:54 pm

Sleeping Under the Piano Bench

Sleeping under the piano bench
her messy golden curls
alight with the sunrise
gleaming through the window

Little grinding of her teeth
is what I hear upon waking

The children’s discombobulated fort
a series of pillows from every room

And stuffed animals– those that resemble
real creatures like the eagle
and the dolphin
and those that don’t
like the rainbow-spotted unicorn

Blankets and beach towels
their rooftop
and warm comfort

I can also hear the birds singing
in the quiet of the morning
A peaceful proposition
among the days of high-pitched squeals
and incessant questions and whining

But here they sleep peacefully
while I sip my coffee
and wonder how their absence will
affect me

Summer visit from a dear friend
and her daughters
we’ve known since conception
keeping the house very much alive
for my son and I

A never-ending spinning dryer
and dirty dishes-filled sink
And their fort in the living room
all week

A reminder of those glorious
childhood days
laughter and innocence
and wonder
and using pieces of furniture
as a bridge between dreamland
and imagination.

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July 9, 2014 · 10:03 am

The Wonder, Not the Worry

I like to people-watch. And not in a pervy, stalky way either. Get your head out of the gutter. OK maybe that was my head in the gutter.

I like to study how people interact with each other. Wonder what their story is. Listen to their conversations. Relish in their native accents. Imagine what it’s like in their world.

I don’t claim to be a professional people-watcher. I am not out in public every day. Some days I only leave the house to walk the dog. And lately I try to avoid the neighbors too because I don’t want to hear how my bike being parked under the car port is a community violation.

But I digress.

Today I was at a nail salon. I’ve been getting trimmed and buffed and shellacked and waxed there for over a year now. So I’ve become comfortable with the staff and the place. The owner’s 7-year-old daughter is usually there. She is an only child like my son and I like to see how she happily entertains herself when she’s not entertaining the customers. At one point she was staring out the window, singing to herself. Her little fairy-like voice flitting among the sounds of feet being scrubbed and the buzz of the nail buffer.

For a moment I was very envious of her. I wanted to trade places. To be in that child-like state of wonder again. To know Mom was just an arm’s length away. That a hot meal was eventually waiting for me, groddy peas and all.

Then my eyes began to dart over to a fiery woman in her seventies. Her sunset-colored nails were drying so she sat in front of another customer and they spoke about old bastard bosses and the bargain of online shopping. Her Long Island accent filled my ears with happiness. “Can somebahdy give me an excuse not ta go to tha supah mahket?” She asked the entire room as she stood up to leave. I laughed out loud. Only time I ever heard a Long Island accent growing up in the south was when I blissfully watched a Woody Allen flick.

Then there was the lady who was dutifully and a little militantly trimming my cuticles. Her hands were strong but her arms soft. I looked at my own arms, tanned from bike rides and tanning lotion. Toned like someone who has and takes the time to do push-ups and other crap that hurts like hell but feels good when it’s over. I wondered if the lady ever had time for herself. And if she did, what did she like to do? I imagined her strolling in a market, perhaps back in Vietnam, sun shining on her smiling face.

The little girl interrupted my day-dreaming.

“Let’s play rock, paper, scissors. Winner gets to do their favorite trick,” she said with a Chiclets-toothed smile.

“OK.”

Rock, paper, scissors, shoot.

We both drew scissors. Tie.

Rock, paper, scissors, shoot.

Her scissors cut my wimpy little paper.

She did a funny little dance.

“Nice trick.”

“Again,” she demanded.

Rock, paper, scissors, shoot.

My rock slammed her flimsy scissors.

I flared my nostrils as that is pretty much the only trick I could think of while having my nails poked at and my feet grated.

“Wow, how did you do that?” She was wildly impressed.

When they called me to go to the waxing room the little girl followed me. As the blonde Chewbacca fuzz was being ripped from my eyelid flesh she started examining my tattoos.

“Will this come off?” she asked in her fairy-voice as she stroked the quill tatt on my left arm.

“No. It’s permanent.”

“You have any more?”

I showed her the one on my right arm.

“What does it say?”

“It says ‘wonder not worry’. It reminds me to look at the world in wonder instead of worry. Like the wonder of a child.”

“Like me. Like I do,” she said sweetly. She hummed a little tune as she left the room.

I realized the 7-year-old understood what I meant. And I realized I had been taking my own tattoo-etched advice in those moments before.

I can still be that child with the faraway look in her eye, singing songs, playing games.

And with a few rips, some cold cream, and the diligent hands of a woman 9,600 miles away from her homeland, I can have some fuzz-free unfurrowed eyebrows, too.

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May 31, 2014 · 5:00 pm

A Paint Stick and a Dream

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.

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

 

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May 28, 2014 · 10:04 am

I Want My Mommy

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.

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May 23, 2014 · 9:50 am

When I was Ten

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?

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May 8, 2014 · 12:07 pm

Ten

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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.

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