Humanity

Mother’s Day

Why do I like this made-up feshta so much? (I live in a Portuguese area and everything important has an sh in it.) Mother’s Day, Mother’s Day!

Mother’s Day.

More than any other it honors the love behind it all. Whether its mom or sister or spouse or best friend, its a love day for the ladies, way more than any Valentine’s might be. Its a day the pressure is mostly off, for me. I don’t have a partner, so its not like i have someone to grill burgers for lunch, so its not that kind of pressure. There’s just some lessening of the code, some ‘i don’t care, just leave your phone in the car’ time with the kids, some pleasure mixed in with favorite foods or take out for dinner, or this year? This year we got to go to my Mom’s, in person, unmasked. My middle kid was giving everyone long hugs, even though he lives with some of us. I’ll take it. My kids told me thank you and I love you multiple times all day, though it was primarily that middle kid again. He does make me smile. I chose to keep my eldest home from a soccer game that was smack dab in the middle of it, and he didn’t give me too much grief, and got a chance to talk to him grandmother and aunt and actually give them a chance to find out who he is, as he grows into his young man self.

That was pretty fucking great.

And yes, I know what a tricky day it is. And I am grieving my mother-in-law who is still alive, and I know this a day of a lot of grief for many many. There is no way not to mention the layers that there are here. Women. Its all the women of the world and what for many of us, is a nurturing capacity. whether we have access to that part of us is massive. And with whom and how the nurture is shared is a multiplicity. Fur babies, friends, step-children? And probably some don’t have it, and how does society view them? There is also so much loss, loss of babies, loss of moms, loss of possibility for babies. Its all in this one day, somehow. Its hard to hide from it, and even I don’t want to see the social media world on this day. There is too much that looks like ‘perfect’, and I don’t want to see it.

My best friend in the world told me that if she could choose anyone in the world to be her mother, it would be me.

And so my heart broke open, and the skies poured down baby rainbows and dandelion puffs. And I loved it. I would do it in a flash. Anyone else need me ? I’m offering the nurture here, free. I’ll bring tea and an extra blanket, maybe some lozenges, and a hand hold, and a shoulder squeeze.

love you all, and holding you in a long hug.

-lovelove

Humanity

Not working, and the country is on fire, and has been for four hundred years.

well. i’m supposed to be writing, for work. and i’m not. shocking, i know.

this is what i’ve done this morning instead of writing.

laundry. dishwasher. ordered seeds for the yard, calendula, valerian, zinnia, and lovage.

I’m going to figure out what to do with tons of calendula this year. You bet your ass I am.

texted with an old friend who i asked to yell at me and he did.

texted with another old friend who got saucy. it was funny but distracting and i was taken aback.

ate some crackers. made myself an instant coffee (sign of the apocalypse, yes.)

made a schedule for errands this afternoon which include finally watching one of the classes I signed up for, assuming I get another thousand words written.

I found a birds nest in the rhododendron. No eggs yet but I figured out how I can look without touching.

I have no self-bribery system set up. The floodgates are down and I’m not withholding anything and if I want candy, I go buy it, furthering the ‘not working’. This is the complete dissolution of productivity, folks. utter dissolution.

My inner core says the work will still get done. Am I doing drugs without my knowledge?

These are the things guys.

And I’m still not shot because my inspection sticker is out of date. Its’ literally not even conceivable. Right? What about you?

close up photography of zinnia flowers
Zinnias, Photo by Swapnil Chakraborty on Pexels.com

Humanity

All quiet

For the first time in my fifteen year shift as mother, all three children were throwing up at the same time. (first, and only. RIGHT?)

Its quarter to ten in the morning, and everyone is lying down somewhere, even the dog.

I haven’t been out to let the chickens out as I’m finding it hard to take more than ten steps at a time. šŸ™‚ I’ve been through tougher spots than this. There was a two week period a few years ago, where the kids all went down consecutively, so there was never any break. This was just one night and at some point, they all stopped throwing up long enough to catch a few hours of sleep.

and now its quiet.

I have a book at my side that is creeping me out, called THE HUNGER, by ALma Katsu. For those of you who regularly read scary things, this is probably not scary. But I’m a novice, and I’m getting spooked by the ominous and the foreshadowing. My brain already knows whats what, but I am waiting, waiting, waiting to find out who and how. Its set in westward expansion times (Donner party) and there is a wagon train and bloody mystery. (even mormons, for godssake.)

So this is what I’m doing, after stumbling to the study to pick up this piece of computer, I am going back to it. Reading. Listening hard for coughing that will lead to more throw-up or throw-up laundry. We shall see. This is the gig.

When my kids were sick last night, they were so grateful. It was insane, but I recognize it. When someone takes care of me when I am ill, I am also so grateful. I love it, in fact, because I get to say to my children out loud…. I love being your mother, all the time, even when you are sick. You are my babies, forever and ever, and I will always take care of you.

Getting to say that, in the middle of the night, to a weak child, while feeling weak yourself? Stunning. Adding to that the sincerity involved? Massive.

So, its all quiet here. And I’m okay so far. Fingers crossed on this. all the fingers, please.

Its not all bad. Not even nearly.

Humanity

in which i call bullshit on myself.


It is what it is.

I’m a pleaser. I want the people around me to be happy. I want to smooth their way forward in life. I want to leave behind a satisfied grin. I want to be the hidden favorite, the one who brings a smile. the generous one. the good one.

After I do this pleasing, smoothing thing for a while, with adults, I feel the ting and tang of loss. What have I been given, for all that giving? Have they just taken it all and run? what do they know of me?

You know what? This cycle doesn’t really do me a lot of good. It’s gross. You ever hear of a male artist who spent his free time smoothing the way for others? No? You don’t think Hemingway gave a shit if the kitchen counters were clean do you? You think he gave a shit for anything besides his beer and his next adventure?

Almost all the famous women artists that you know of? No kids.

I don’t even have the energy today to call myself an artist. I fight it, in my head, pointing to other people instead. But you know what?! I call bullshit on that.

Just because I don’t have the myopic self-absorption of a male artist? I’m constantly distracted from thought and doing by children and house and family, constantly. and I don’t want to give that up, or choose otherwise. (i mean, i’d give up the distractability, but not the kids and their lives, right?)

They’re growing, I don’t have anyone physically attached to me anymore, so it is easing. Their demands are for presence and food. And the presence has to be close, but not too close. And I laugh as I type, because its true now of all of them, even the 8 year old girl. I’m the favorite sofa. Necessary at times, but not especially expected to speak. I’m the witness and the solidity. (and that might be the best thing i have ever written about the way i’m parenting these kids. although i need to squish flexible into the solidity somehow and I’ll work on that tomorrow. )

I don’t make enough currently with my writing. I’m still supported by alimony and child support. I’m going to have to get a higher paying job to manage without them. When then will I have the time for the writing and the thinking? I’m not at all digging where my mood is taking me right now.

it is the way it is.

and it’s my whole gig right now, to imagine something else.

my daughter asked me what my dream job would be. just this morning. no lie. and i told her, ‘mom’ and then for the second, i was stuck. but also very very dreamy. what is it? what’s the feeling i want when i go to work, what’s the subject i want to be working with? thinking with? hmm?

I need to get more dreamy.

This is a rambler. I’m working shit out, I think. Maybe next time I’ll write it somewhere else first and come here with something more cohesive.

but i wouldn’t want to shock you too much. heh.

hmmm. thought-filled.

love, love,

me.

Humanity

Kid pressure. February, you ass.

Mother Guilt

My kids started giving me the full-court press last night at dinner.

‘Get a real job.’ (*whose voice is that? really, i mean it. Who has told them that I don’t have a real job? I write and I raise them. What is not real? )

‘I think you’d be fine in a classroom mom. You’re not that deaf.’ (oh but honey, i am though.)

“I’ve never even seen you in ‘business casual’ mom.” (since when is this a complaint a regular child voices?)

This was dinner. In order to defend myself, I end up pledging all my energy to the ‘i really am deaf, guys’ team. and I am not deaf, let me be clear. But I AM profoundly hearing impaired. Being in a classroom full of joybombs isn’t something I think I could do well with my hearing. Not being in charge of the learning of the loves, or the distinguishing of one voice from the multitudes, and I am a very ardent believer that a good classroom is a noisy one, 78% of the time.

Spending any minutes at all thinking about how much hearing loss I have sucks. It does. I do not like it, at all. Feeling guilty or bad around my children because I can’t meet their expectations is killer. I feel so much guilt, like I have to ‘prove’ something to them, and the idea that I am not good enough, right now? Holy simolians….

It is true that I don’t earn a lot of money doing what I do. I mean, this here blog earned me 17 cents last month, though. (i’m winking at you.) The gods of blogdom don’t pay me til I hit $100, so I think when I hit 74, I’ll be allll set.

But get this, I make money on writing. Legitimately. Every month. And you know what? That is not something to be discounted. It’s only getting better, kids.

But my god, the guilt. The ways in which I want to shape myself to fit into something for them? Ugh. I can feel my inner glow contorting itself to fit what they think I should be. Wanting to satisfy whatever it is they think is better than what i am right now.

And I know that I do this in a million ways every which way. In dating, fuggetaboutit. But also in ‘what will the teacher think?’, ‘what are the other mothers doing?’, ‘what will i tell my mom?’

And then there are the ways which no one but me will ever see. ‘will the waitress judge us because of the rice that fell on the ground?’ (boy, thats ages ago…fuck covid, again.) ‘does the bank teller judge my messy penmanship?’

Some of these are absolutely fucked up, guys. There is literally no reason that my brain should travel those paths. As far as my kids go, there is no choice. What comes out of their mouths is just what needs to be addressed, that’s all.

I know, its just tip of the iceberg thinking, there is so much in there. so much womanhood, so much conditioning. Mother guilt. Woman Guilt. GAH.

i know, i know.

and so on, and so forth.

love you,

me.

*and yes, if its their dad’s voice wishing me to get a ‘real’ job so he could pay me less, i just point to the mandate of the court, and how i willfully and happily take less than that already, because of the ‘strain’ it causes him. roll right off me, devil! (i’m winking again, but in a snarky, vicious way…)

This is a woman who writes, and gets paid for it. Look.