Oh no he dit-ten

Brandon just said, "I don't really like cookies."

Will I ever understand this man?

Sand Dunes

We are working on "desert" but for now Anika calls the sand dunes the "beach".

We call Anika and her cousin Emmet "Charlie and Lola".

Janna

For years I have been telling Janna and her husband Mike that they live in a magazine. They have too much style for one family. Her house looks like a magazine and any old time I stop by they are doing things we here at our house wouldn't dream of. Things like: roasting whole chickens, cooking live, mail-order lobster, baking cakes, or just enjoying their general hipness. They are the family that "came with the frame". Janna has always had the ability to find the neatest things and is always one step ahead of the collective style consciousness. I convinced her to start her own blog and personally believe she was born to do so.

Check it out- Wish

She just got it up and running and is still working on the set-up. She confessed she just learned how to "copy and paste" so I'm sure it will be updated in the next few days. But already I must say... "dang girl, I already love the set up!" I don't think there is much to change.

The Law of Entropy

Nature tends from order to disorder in isolated systems.

There is something I can't escape. My ponytail. I get a new haircut occasionally and vow to myself I will NOT wear a ponytail everyday but it takes energy to maintain. If energy is not expended to maintain, order tends to disorder as quickly as gas released from a glass box. Some how, some way, my hair magically finds its way back into its happy place. I swear I don't know how or why it does it. Disorder is more probable than order.

The cardinal sin: ponybraid

At least I finally forsook that...
From childhood to Motherhood. It's probably too late and already written upon Anika's genes.
Hereditary memory?

Why, Alana, does hair in your face make you want to scream?

The years... they come and go....

And still...

Just buzz it already, would ya?

Some occasions are rare and special enough to warrant the hair partially down...

But most aren't...

Why Alana? Why, since childhood, have you never been able to out-run this measly ONE HORSEPOWER? Somebody help me! This little ponytailed girl wants to be a woman!

M.I.A.

170 essays graded, 30 to go! Then I'll be back in blogging action. Getting a gym pass tomorrow. It's time. You know when you have to buy a new bra (3 sizes up), because your regular is somehow cutting off circulation, it's time.

Coming soon: Halloween cookie decorating party II, that was so fun! I didn't eat nearly enough cookies... which brings me back to the gym pass... ope!

What Are Years?

What is our innocence,
what is our guilt? All are
naked, none is safe, And whence
is courage: the unanswered question,
the resolute doubt,-
dumbly calling, deafly listening- that
in misfortune, even death,
encourage others
and in its defeat, stirs

the soul to be strong? He
sees deep and is glad, who
accedes to mortality
and in his imprisonment rises
upon himself as
the sea in a chasm, struggling to be
free and unable to be,
in its surrendering
finds its continuing.

So he who strongly feels,
behaves. The very bird,
grown taller as he sings, steels
his form straight up. Though he is captive,
his mighty singing
says, satisfaction is a lowly
thing, how pure a thing is joy.
This is mortality,
this is eternity.

-Marianne Moore

Zion

Running down the trail... oops, have to make a pit stop to see the letters. Letters are always the main attraction wherever we go. (store signs, grocery store, packaging...) She is still seeing letters in odd places. The latest strange ones were "T" in the seams of our concrete, "J" for a hook on Janna's wall, and I'm still looking for some "H" she talks about while pointing at the front of our house because I don't know what she's pointing at. She officially knows her entire alphabet and now she is learning some numbers. She's also liking shapes and knows and says "circle", "octagon", "oval." She finds circles everywhere too. What a crazy girl!

She steers Brandon's head like the reigns on a horse. Whenever he would stop to look somewhere else she would grab his head, point it down the trail and kick.

Camping was a bust so we made a day trip on Friday. Brandon went hunting today and didn't shoot a dang thing. Lucky Babmbis! He is so tired and is already asleep in the chair in the living room. I guess I will Netflix it alone tonight.

Fat bottomed girls, you make the rockin' world go 'round... (click)
This happens to be one of my favorite songs of all time and I can't help but rock out to it!

Mmmm, I think I'll just taste some of this delicious looking mud...
Anika was obsessed with throwing rocks into the river and is still talking about it. Brandon had to be real quick about restocking her pile because she would freak out when she ran out of rocks.

CAMPING

Not what it used to be?
Or not the girl I used to be?

I think our big camping trip we had planned is going to be a bust this weekend thanks in totality to the Great Brandino double booking. Who knew the Big B was such a popular item? I asked him only about 50 times if he was sure the weekend of the 19th was okay. We have been planning this trip since July. He decided to call me last week to casually announce, "I can't go on our trip. I forgot it was the deer hunt." Lame. Could kill.

Remember that one Havasupai trip when all I packed to sleep with was a $5 hammock? While Nicole was loading toilet paper and commenting, "Better safe than sorry", I threw my hammock and ramen in my pack and replied, "Better light than safe." Dangling and swinging in the wind between two riverside trees with NO blanket, I cursed myself. Live and learn.

Baby changes everything.

To pack: huge ass tent, ice chests, hot dogs, play pen, baby blankets, baby clothes, bottles, diapers, snake-bite kit, first-aid kid, practically my whole entire house.... you get the idea. I practically have to adjust the tire pressure due to the enormous load in the back of the Vue. The logistics of camping with a child damn near take all the fun out of it, especially without your husband there to share in those logistics and hovering.

I am remembering the days: Itty bitty backpacking tent, 0 degree ultralight bags, water purifier, and nothing to feed me but fly line and a butane stove. There is just about nothing better than eating a fresh trout from the Colorado, drinking its ice-cold water and feeding fish skins to ring-tailed cats... not much on the agenda or on your back. Now THAT is fun. Waking up to a thin sheet of ice on your tent while in the middle of a herd of buffalo on the North Rim used to be a novelty and still would be... if I were not concurrently wondering if my baby was hypothermic, breathing, or about to be stampeded.

The mere thought of packing this whole house up and hauling it away only so I can chase Anika around, worry about her falling in the fire, getting bit by fire ants, or being kidnapped by some barren, hairy Eastern European woman and smuggled out of the country where even Amber Alert can't reach her just about turns me off to the whole experience.

I guess it's still always worth the work but... not without my hubby. I need his help but MOSTLY I just want him there for his comforting, cozy and somewhat aloof companionship. He may be a weenie for abandoning us but I LOVE my little absent-minded nutty professor.

Oh no he dit-ten.

Lately

A, where are you?? I feel lost without you.  I'm compulsively checking to see if you're still incognito.  It's camping isn't it?  Blast that camping.  

Just wanted you to know that I'm basically suffering a mental health stress breakdown without your regular insight.

As for me... last night I ditched Dancing with the Stars and went to Tuacahn to freeze to death.  Lucky for me, I brought my trusty snow parka.  I pulled myself deep inside of it and took in a big wiff of nothing less than New York.  In one breath I was suddenly taken back to a little Mott street, some Upper East side in the rain, and Battery Park.  There may have been cold gusts on the great lawn and fresh sewer steam from eden alley too. Lately I've been longing for NYC like those baby cows by our apartment that get separated from their mommas.  I haven't started wailing yet... but I'm close.

Logic

Real conversation 4 minutes ago:

Meg: "Stop singing Christmas songs Nicole, it's Halloween."

Me: "I know, but if I sing them long enough, it will be."

I don't even think it's the holiday that I'm so excited about. I never have a problem holding off until after Turkey Day. Honestly, I think it's the thought of putting my time in and getting it done. Everything I do is planned in months: Months tell the 2nd mortgage is paid off (5), months tell summer (7), Months tell we refinance (11), Months tell big trip to Thailand (13), Months tell I get to retire and become a stay-at-home mom....
You get the picture. I'm just putting in my time. Earning my stay-at-home momness. Working like a dog. Being as patient as is excritiatingly humanly possible. Months, months, months, one day at a time.
"You better watch out, you better not cry, you better not pout, I'm telling you why..."
Trying to be a good girl... so when this whole teaching middle school is over... or at least easier... and someday, when sunday nights are not masses of dread and despair, I'll appreciate it.

Lame

I have been waiting months to purchase some drapes for our bedroom. I waited forever so I could get the ones I REALLY wanted- heavy linen, lined, grommets, my dream! I opened one panel. Gorgeous. I started getting the next panel out but quit to look for an open window. I smelled serious cigarette smoke. Finding no window I started to think maybe Alex's ghost was visiting me and said aloud "Oh, hi Alex." Brandon, with much less a fanciful imagination, said "maybe it's the curtain." WT??? It was!!! Ooooh, I was so ticked. I waited so long so I could get what I thought would be quality, from Pottery Barn no less, and they sent me something that some smoker must have returned!

Not done. The duvet was in some strange packaging and I thought it must have been returned too. Fine, don't mind.... BUT- it had a big snag in the fabric that will disintegrate with the first wash. Maybe they do, in fact, ship things from a barn. They scheduled a free UPS pick-up tomorrow and are shipping replacements.


Short of calling for a boycott, please echo with me:
Oh no they dit-ten.

Just Clued In

I was clueless about the whole anonymous scandal that was going on until recently. Wow! Its like a soap opera on the internet. What ever happened to being non-judgemental? Isn't that what Christ taught. I love you Nicole and Alana.

PS: Remember when we were at Nic's house when I was visiting and we were talking about my mom and me taking care of her and I couldn't think of the word that started with "R". I remembered what it was. Resentment! I was trying to say that I didn't want to resent her because it is not her fault that she is sick and I want to have good memories of her. So I pray everyday that I will be patient with her and that I won't resent her.

I recant

... for posterity. (and my soul).

Conference Weekend in Pine Valley

The weather,
Anika's mood.
Celestial.

Delightful Idea

I was reading this great blog: Goold is Good, and it got me to thinking that maybe people don't sleep at night because they feel too much of life. Maybe the anxiety comes from an extended peripheral vision that is too great in scope to shut off at whim.

I often wish someone could invent some sort of thought recorder. I'm always having my best, most intellectual thoughts when I'm at that place in between sleep and awake and I'm too incoherent to get up and write it down. I try to persuade myself into remembering what my mind said to itself but the next morning, sure enough, it has vaporized.

Like today for instance... Semi drifting into sleep I had this great philosophy that went something like "I was born to write and live so I have something to write about" but that's not it (thank heavens... that is way too cheesy and so cliche). If I had a thought recorder, I could get up the next morning and wade through the mumble to find the good stuff, the gems that would become America's next quintessential novel if only I could get them in ink.

LET ME LEAVE YOU WITH THIS
I have this potentially great idea. I'll work out the details and tell you, but I'll give you a hint: Traveling Journal
Something communal... We'll see.

Miracles

• Today I am addicted to blogging. It's like my new cable replacement. When I want to check out of life, I just come here... only instead of going brain dead, you all manage to get things pulsating again.
  
• So this is me:
  

• Explanation:

TEACHER JOB DESCRIPTION:

1. Expected to perform miracles
2. Perform some miracles
3. When miracles are performed, they are not applauded as they were...well, expected

I've just spent an hour with a wall... the student behind the wall never surfaced. It would be easy to be a bad teacher. I used to think, how can they sleep at night? but now I know the truth: good teachers don't sleep at night anyway. I understand the ad teacher premise- they are going to do as little as possible to stay as close to the line as possible. The line I'm talking about is the one where you get paid or compensated fairly according to how much/hard you work. They've realized that factor A (the pay) isn't going to change so the only variable left is B (the amount of effort they put it). I think some of them are trying to get as close as possible to the line. These are the true master penny pushers. I once assumed they were mearly officient beasts of productivity. Now I know that I will never not find more ways to push students and punish myself. Maybe the miracles will be worth it when I stop working to perform them. Maybe the student who today said, "Mrs. Hadley, I've learned more in your class this quarter than I have my whole life," made it worth it... maybe just for today.

War Heroes

General Petraeus.
Much too old?
Nah, I'd do him.
But.
I'm going through a serious war hero phase.
Honor.
Bravery.
Power.

Next week: flintknappers.

(General Casey ain't lookin' too bad himself these days either.)

P-arty

Do I look fat to you???

Beside the point.

Sunday we went to a picnic in the part with fam and I noticed the shear impossibility of finding a spot that wasn't dominated by hispanic music, pinata's, and tacos.

I mean to say that I think the Latin American demographic takes the cake on the how-to of throwing a big bash. They have portable speakers, dancing, alcohol (well... can't go there), grills on wheels, volleyball nets.... It was like they set up camp bucca in the middle of Vernon Worthin. Why can't white people do that?

I definitely picked up some good tips for my baby shower (assuming I ever have one).

Right Now

I'm sitting in my classroom eating deep fried fish. I ditched prep and went to the BBAR. I'm checking blogs and being seriously entertained by the activity on our site. I'm thinking: This is the first time I've slacked on my job since school started. I'm also thinking: Whay does something so good (deep fried bliss) have to be so bad?

Also: Still amazed by Alana's comment about Adam and Eve a while back. Last night that had me up past midnight, going over the significance in my mind.

Hurray Friday!!! Want to watch the marathon tomorrow with Q and I at the morgue?

ps- so not a sit down shirt for pictures.

Dear Alana. From Quinn.

Alana, this is regarding that mysterious, anyonymous Hadley Enterprises commenter. First of all WTF? How old are we? 13? Don't comment if you're not mature enough to say who you are right? Anyway, thanks for your comments in our defense. And, if there's anyone who doesn't need to be told that they need to grow up and gain a better prospective on real life it's you! only if she knew the things you have been through! We love you and admire you! You are totally awesome and a great friend to Nicole and I. So, lets not give little miss annonymous the time of day. She clearly has some issues!

You're the Best,

Quinn

Response/Reaction

Alana,
you are the next Sandra Cisneros.

So I've been thinking about responses. I don't know. Maybe I'm over it...

To Alana: You may be attracted to suits and soldiers, but what man is not attracted to a pair of boobs and tall legs to carry them on?

To Anonymous: If you think what I wrote was offensive, then you didn't understand it.

To Ciara: Why do you have so much energy?

To Paul: Are you OK? I worry about you daily. Is it OK to worry about you? I just mean that I hope you survive. If you are happy... How did you do it?

To Jenny: Do you have any regrets? and... help! I don't know the first thing about booking my Thailand trip.

To Kari: You are my hero. I want to be just like you. I say a prayer for you always... not that you need it, just that you deserve it. You are a rock!

To Me: Look at how hard you work. You work so hard. Is it time to stop now?

To Renters: I hope you are happy and that Quinn is helping you and that it is working out for you and that we can be good landlords and that the air works and that the neighbors moved out and that the grass isn't dead and that the washer is hooked up correctly.

To my ex-boyfriend: I seriously hate your guts

To my other ex-boyfriend: What happened to you?

To Mark: KEEP going Keep fighting.

To MMM: Why can't I be nice to you? Why can't I swallow my pride? Why do I treat you so bad? WHy am I so impatient with you?

To Meree: No more roads- destinations please.

To Hiedi: Seriously, why are you still with Spencer? Who could be with someone so manipulative for so long? OK- I get it, maybe Jessica from session 2, but come on, she had mousy brown hair and low self-esteem. Hiedi, on the other hand, has everything going for her. She could have any guy in the world. Plus, did you see Monday's episode? Spencer completely disrespected her mom! I think I have never lothed any human being more... even more than Richard Hatch from survivor. Seriously- they should just write im out of the plot and pretend he never existed. The world would be so much better with out Spencer Pratt! What does he even do anyway? He doesn't have a job... he doesn't have any friends anymore? oooo- I feel my skin crawling just thinking about him.

If I had to choose between an all expense paid trip to Europe with Spencer Pratt and being stranded on a desert island with no food but what I could forage up for a month I'd choose the marooned option and add extra time just for the priviledge of avoiding an encounter with the most narcissistic person on the planet.

Primal Woman

The hormone talk with Nicole got me thinking... how much of us is really.... us? Sometimes I feel like there is nothing more to me than a brain, susceptible to the smallest fluctuations of hormones or abundance of receptor cells.

A cliff- dive of progesterone after birth had me avoiding even the sight of my own newborn. BUT, if Nanny Lori (Lortabs) was babysitting, tears of joy would roll down my cheeks while rocking baby. Through the whole postpartum nightmare the only thing I kept repeating to myself was, "This isn't me, this isn't me, this isn't me." I knew it had to be a physical thing but it felt so real. Life and death real. So, what is real?

One of my Professors once said, "Let's hear it for lust!" The entirety of our brains are wired to simply propagate the species. Is love some fanciful tale we have invented when really nothing more than pheromones and ovulation is involved? Is it the trick of nature? I feel so slighted. Sometimes I feel like nothing more than some hairy creature with no autonomy. I feel like the female Teen Wolf who not only howls and goes crazy mad but also menstruates with every new moon. It takes the moon 28 days to phase from new, to full, and back to new again. Creepy!

Day 14: I like to think about ovulation like the full moon.
I feel energetic. My skin looks good. I feel beautiful. I feel... well, we all remember New York, don't we? Gratefully, I have a husband and a strict moral code, because if I didn't you KNOW I would have gotten on my back for any one of those sexy suits we saw at the NYSE. I notice my ovulation without glancing at a calendar. Ovulation is what I call: Alana "in heat". These are the days I fantasize about putting on heels, a strapless dress, and going out dancing 'till dawn.

If your ovulation goes unnoticed, surely PMS does not! I feel fat. I retain water. I can't dress myself. My skin breaks out. Even the scratchiness of clothing makes me want to scream, let alone a husband leaving the trash on the porch to attract ants! Rage against the machine.

Pregnancy. I am calm as a lake at dawn. Progesterone acts like a sedative on your brain. It also relaxes your very body, like your vascular walls. Varicose veins. Sleepiness. And for me, nice as pie! Brandon loves me pregnant! He said it was the most pleasant 9 months of our marriage. Nothing could ruffle my feathers. I was mellow-yellow and that is sooo not me! Confession: Sometimes I think about getting pregnant just so I can have a few anxiety-free months. If only the depression didn't come afterwards... but that's a story for another day.

Remember this night on Nicole's houseboat?
Remember the full moon? I do. I have near-proof that I can't help but go skinny dipping under a full moon. Months later, while talking to my sisters, we discovered that all of us were skinny dipping under that exact full moon, on that exact same night. I was in Lake Powell, (at least until that boat full of guys pulled up with spotlights) Janna was skinny dipping in some hot springs near Salt Lake, Andrea was skinny dipping in Lake Arrowhead, and Cara was skinny dipping in the ocean in Newport. We always joke that we are like four witches. The kind with brooms and everything.

See, I can't help it. Nature calls. (and tells me to take my clothes off)


CHAPTER TWO: Primal Woman (that's me) likes Primal Man.
In a non-ovulating state of mind, is Alana really attracted to a suit? I suppose so... maybe if they know how to load a shotgun. Quinn put it eloquently once: "What kind of man", he posed, "doesn't know how to dig a hole and shoot a shotgun?"

What is sexy? Those suit guys are sexy because they are powerful, and perhaps have money. That is really hard for me to admit. I have previously liked to pretend that power or money is not an attractive quality. Then I read The Other Boleyn Girl and I sooo wanted King Henry. It was the POWER that was attractive. So, I admit it. Embarrassing, huh?

But seriously, what kind of man, I ask, doesn't know how to load a shotgun? Or pluck a turkey, gut a deer? Speaking of shotguns and shovels.... I saw an ad for Pet health insurance. Seems preposterous. I chuckled to myself and thought... "Pet insurance???? Don't you mean... a shotgun and a shovel?" Did I just get off the subject?

My man had better know how to: chop wood, tan leather, build me a lean-to, slaughter a wild boar, take a bra off with one hand, and build me a truncated stellated dodecahedron. I'll take a construction worker, oil driller, ice-road trucker, lumberjack, war hero, cowboy, bounty hunter or carpenter any day before some guy that gets manicures. Did you know that really exists? Man manicures? That sudden knowledge came with as large a thunderbolt of shock to my sensibilities as when I found out partial-birth abortions are still legal in some states.

Manual labor is sexy.
Rough hands are sexy.
War is sexy.
Yeah, I know war is bad and all, but dang those boys are fine. Primal Woman likes the protective, the jealous, the angry.
Bloodlust.

Sometimes I feel like a cave woman, nothing but a product of evolution (I use the term loosely)... as if all I need is a a nice cave, a woolly mammoth rug, and the most virile cave man I can find to fertilize me with the most survivable genes on the tundra.

Yup, that pretty much covers it.

But here's where the nurture, not nature, comes to play:
I find myself attracted to men who struggle. Men who struggle personally and emotionally. Boys with broken souls. "Soulful struggle" is NOT on the fittest list (survival of the fittest).
I can only figure its behavior modeling from watching my parents. They say you are attracted to the type of person like your opposite-sex parent. I would guess then.. that I like soulful, romantic, charismatic... alcoholics? I suppose it pets my nurturing nature.

Don't worry, Brandon and I talk about this and are open with all of our thoughts and feelings. He knows I'm into hypothetical ex-cons. We laugh because he is so the opposite. Thankfully! Two crazies DO NOT make one sane. Brandon is calm, sweet, simple, innocent... purely heaven-sent. There is no one more GOOD than Brandon. I love him, obviously. He does have the basic man-sexies covered too. (like fish hooks stuck in the upholstery of his truck...puurrr) Maybe its like complementary colors? I love blue, so why not orange?
Opposites attract... And I am attracted to opposites.

How much of Alana is Alana? How much of Alana is part of my Primal Soul? If you get right down to the grits... pre- cave man and pre-parented... before a physical body and worldly experience to interfere.... If you get right down to it... who am I? What am I becoming?
How will I learn to harness this body and make it work for me?

and.... If you see me out there... on the dark desert sand... naked... and howling at the moon........
Howl back!

Williams - Herbie & Sage

Eating again. It is a hourly thing. Just in case you are wondering, I vacuum at least twice a day or more:)

Williams - Sage

Sage had ballet & tap today. She also had a soccer game.

Williams - Visit from Friends

I had a surprise visit from some friends on Sunday and it made my day. Libby Williams and Audra Bunderson stopped by on stayed the night on Sunday with us. It was so fun to see them. I worked at Lins Supermarket with them when I was in High School. We have some great memories working together. They were both working in Alaska this summer and were on their way home.

Williams - It's Blog Night

It has been far too long since I posted and read this blog. I have lots of things to share so I may have a couple of separate posts. We painted our house so here are a few of us working hard!

To the Mercy Killers

It has been a poetry-post overload. I have been spending too much time reading my old book of poems, but I am enjoying it. Some poems, some phrases, some lines, are on microfilm stored inside my granite skull. Earthquakes rattle them up, and the words reverberate on my bones, but they are safe and constant inside my head. They are retrievable.

December, last year, I retrieved this:

If ever mercy move you murder me,
I pray you, kindly killers, let me live.
Never conspire with death to set me free,
but let me know such life as pain can give.
Even though I be a clot, and aching clench,
a stub, a stump, a butt, a scab, a knob,
a screaming pain, a putrefying stench,
still let me live, so long as life shall throb.
Even though I turn such traitor to myself
as beg to die, do not accomplice me.
Even though I seem not human, a mute shelf
of glucose, bottled blood, machinery
to swell the lung and pump the heart- even so,
do not put out my life. Let me still glow.
-Dudley Randall

It was mid-December. The Lake House was cold. Anika was sleeping in an unfamiliar crib at the foot of my unfamiliar, squeaky brass bed. Her crib, or maybe the floor, was slanted and she kept rolling into the side and waking up crying. I wondered if she, too, was starting to feel sick like I was.

During her short periods of sleep I would peek out the sheer curtains to the moonlit lake and crusty snow. I was keenly aware of the index card and pen I had placed on the nightstand. My thoughts were racing and I couldn't bring myself to jot anything down. Alex's memorial was in the morning and I was going to speak.

The cold was pouring through the single-paned window.
And I was getting sicker.

Brandon lay awake, motionless beside me. He had been helping with Anika and was aware of my impending doom. He knew, as I did, that I would soon be in the throes of food poisoning, yet he was typically unaware of the storm blowing up inside of my soul.

I soon got violently ill. I went down the hall and vomited in the toilet. "This is the first time", I thought, "I have ever tried to vomit quietly." I was in the top of an old A-frame home and was worried about my family scattered throughout. It didn't end with vomiting. This was the kind of sick you remember forever. The kind, like childbirth, you remember but can never recall the severity of.

I collapsed on the linoleum and curled up next to a heater vent that was underneath the cabinets. My chilled and shivering body lay there awaiting the next wave of vomiting. I remembered how Alex used to call this the "fetus position" instead of the "fetal position".

"It's between the In N Out Burger or that italian sausage.", I thought. Something hadn't agreed with me. I was suspicious it was grief.

My thoughts took me to the last time I was this sick .... It was December, four years ago. It was another A-frame Lake Arrowhead house, cold enough that I saw my breath in it once... Alex's house. It was the Christmas of the epic storm and we were trapped on the mountain. One of my tacos from our favorite eatery tasted funky but I ate it anyway. This was also to be the remember-forever type of sick. I was on my way back from the bathroom, almost to my bed, and I blacked out. I was alert for the first half of the collapse, trying to steer my heavy body away from the nightstand I saw coming towards my head. Blackness. My head hit the hardwood floor instead.

Alex must have heard the thump because when I woke up he was there. He frantically asked me what happened and if I was okay. (Have you ever stubbed your toe, been solicited for feelings, and snapped at someone?) I must have snapped something at him in my agony because he turned and left the room. I clearly had hurt his sensitive feelings.

So many small regrets.
So many big regrets.
Total loss.

"It could..." I thought... "It could be the grief."

There on the linoleum in the fetus position, I prayed. The only thing that came out was "Make it stop. Dear God, make it stop."

I don't remember getting sleepy. I had fallen asleep there on the bare floor. It was still dark out and I didn't know how long I had been there. I nervously remembered what had happened and quickly took inventory. "Do I need to throw up?" - "Can I roll over?" It had miraculously passed. Never in my life has food poisoning lasted less than 24 hours. I couldn't believe it. I felt okay. I felt comforted.

I nibbled on cookies all day and eagerly spoke at Alex's memorial.
It was a miracle.

Mortality.
Our corruption.
My grief.
My sick body.
This mouldering pain inside my flesh.
A clot. And aching clench.
A stub.
A stump.
A butt.
A scab.
A knob.
A screaming pain.
A putrefying stench.
Even though I seem not human....
still let me live, so long as life shall throb.
Dear God, do not put out my life.
Let me still glow.

___________________________________________________________


The Lake House.... mere hours before sickness ensued.

The cynic in me

Only one word can describe the way I feel right now...

"whatever"

This may require a phone call to Alana instead of a blog.  Yep.  Dialing....

Like a car stuck in gear,
a chicken too stupid to tell
its head is gone,
or sound ratcheting on
long after the film
has jumped the reel,
or a phone
ringing and ringing
in the house they have all
moved away from,
through rooms where dust
is a deepening skin,
and the locks unneeded,
so I go on loving you,
my heart blundering on,
a muscle spilling out
what is no longer wanted,
and my words hurtling past,
like a train off its track,
toward a boarded-up station
closed for years,
like some last speaker
of a beautiful language
no one else can hear.

-Getting Through, Deborah Pope

I wish... she was mine.

When I taught you
at eight to ride
a bicycle, loping along
beside you
as you wobbled away
on two round wheels,
my own mouth rounding
in surprise when you pulled
ahead down the curved
path of the park,
I kept waiting
for the thud
of your crash as I
sprinted to catch up,
while you grew
smaller, more breakable
with distance,
pumping, pumping
for your life, screaming
with laughter,
the hair flapping
behind you like a
handkerchief waving
goodbye.

"To a Daughter Leaving Home", Linda Pastan

This is going to sound crazy. When Anika was a teeny tiny baby I broke down. I broke down daily but this time it was over something that was a seeming eternity away... my daughter leaving home. She couldn't even sit up yet and here I was bawling at the mere, and first, realization that she didn't belong to me. I realized that the day would come when she would move away from home. I realized that the day would come when she would slam the bedroom door and say, "I hate you Mom". I looked at her little angel face and knew she wouldn't know how much I love her until she cradles her own.

I must admit. I must admit I was more attached to the nursing than she was. I liked to tell myself and others that it was only a nutritional thing but I am heartbroken it is over. All those days of nursing and cursing it. "Oh, I can't wait until this is over and she can eat a happy meal." I love watching her grow but I hate the days passing. Phases and stages coming and going, never to return.

And the fear. I fear her going away from me. Unspeakable fear.

Anika's self-weaning has been a lesson in letting go. This is my first little practice test and I am failing miserably. I love her. She is part of me.

What if she meets some boy someday and moves away... far away? (I already want to kill that son of a......) :)

I will learn. I will practice. Letting go.

Anika darling, my wittle one. You will know what this is like someday. Someday you will know what this love, this incredible love, feels like.

Beautiful daughter, you have brought me happiness. I want to freeze time and keep you just like you are. But... I want you to grow and discover who you are. Each day. Each moment. Just having you. It is enough. Because of you, I have enough. I am enough. It is enough. You are my joy.


I tried to tell her:
This way the twig is bent.
Born of my trunk and strengthened by my roots,
you must stretch newgrown branches
closer to the sun
then I can reach.

I wanted to say:
Extend my self to that far atmosphere
only my dreams allow.

But the twig broke,
and yesterday I saw her
walking down an unfamiliar street,
feet confident
face slanted upward toward a threatening sky,

and

she was smiling
and she was
her very free,
her very individual,
unpliable
own.

-Offspring, Naomi Long Madgett

I found my old tattered and torn book of favorite poems. Some so close to me. I have been flipping through the old thing and likely will be sharing some of my all-time faves in the coming days. I also found my equally tattered and torn Journal of Summer! Yeah, you know the one. I will for sure be sharing some selections from that old thing.