Us

In the early morning light
I watch him sleeping

I remember the sweet smile I got
before

I remember the laughter I heard
before

I remember the tender touches
before

I remember the butterfly kisses
before

I remember the heat of passion
before

Then

I remember

The flashing eyes
The cruel words
The daggers of hate
The cold silence

I think

What happened to us?
When did we stop being those people
That couldn't pass each other without
a touch, a kiss?

I worry that "we" have evaporated
and all that is left is this
empty husk
of the "used to be us"

A tear escapes
trails down my cheek
drops on to my empty hand

I reach out
touch his shoulder
he stirs
turns
smiles

Opens his arms for me
to rest my head
on his chest

I feel his steady heartbeat
hear his breathing

I worry too much
about......everything

He is mine for always
and I am his

And this is the way it will
always be

Safe in his grasp
the rest disappears
and I know

We are still us
damaged
hurt sometimes

But not
ever
broken

Where am I?

I wonder sometimes where I am

not physically, not in terms of my life goals

in terms of who I used to be

who I thought I was

who I thought I would or should be

Where did I go?

Who is this person living my life?

I feel like an imposter in my own life

I've got them all fooled

I am not anything like they think I am

I am a completely different person

than the one I wear on the outside

this suit of life does not always fit me

I want to break free

I want out of this fake life

I want to start living real

I don't really know what that means

Paranoia and motherhood

I know that sometimes I am a terrific mother and sometimes I am the devil and he my devil-spawn, the things that come out of my mouth sound like they could not possibly come from me and yet they do. They spew forth like an eruption I can neither stop nor control once it has begun. It scares him sometimes, it scares me, that this sweet child could elicit such anger from me sometimes for just being a willful child, like they all are sometimes. And then in the quiet moments we share our thoughts feelings, fears, we talk about everything and I am still his very best friend, he, being 11 now I know that this will not last much longer. I cherish these moments of closeness.

He does not have moments like this with his dad. His dad is the best father I could imagine but he is not a big emotional talker. They will not talk about feelings and dreams and the scary world of discovering that you "like like" a certain girl. They will wrestle and laugh and joke and talk about tv and movies, books, schoolwork, math, dinosaurs and soccer, "surface" stuff. I get the "inside". I wonder sometimes if we are too much alike and that is why we clash. I wonder sometimes if I push too hard to make him the person I want him to be instead of letting the person he already is unfold on its own. I worry constantly that I have scarred him for life. Then I see his silly smile or he makes a stupid joke or dances to his own music and sings his own songs, I think, this is a happy child perhaps I have not failed him.....yet. This is what I think sometimes that I just have not failed him yet, but I will someday.

We talk about what he wants out of life. We talk about his perception of himself (not the word he uses). He tells me that he is "different" from other people. That his brain doesn't work the same as other peoples. He thinks he is "weird" and relishes that fact. He has long hair when all his classmates have close cropped hair. He wears horribly clashing colors because it makes him laugh and feel good inside.

I told him once that dancing to the beat of a different drummer is an amazing thing, the people that hear their own music and move to a different set of ideas are the ones that change the world, but it isn't easy, it won't be easy to the one who is different. And he should never compromise who he is and what he believes because someone or a group of someones don't get it. He may be "misunderstood". He thought that was just fine because his true friends would always accept him for who he was and while they might not agree with him they would respect him (pretty smart for an 11 yr old huh?)


I try not to judge him for his ideas, but sometimes I do and that makes me sad, why can't I just keep my mouth shut, let him be who he is? He is an amazing little person and I have to remember that he is his own person and no longer someone I can "mold", I can steer in the right direction sometimes or introduce him to things I think he "should" know or do or be. Maybe it is my own insecurities I am trying to guard him against.


He told me that he wants to be the boy that the bullys pick on because he can defend himself, verbally. He says "you know what they do mom? they pick on the kids that can't stand up for themselves, I wish they would pick on me cuz I can stand up for myself" he has gotten in trouble at school for standing up for someone else, coming to their aid against a bully and he got an in school suspension for it. What does that teach him? I was so proud of him and yet had to remind him that the school has a "no tolerance" policy and while he did the wrong thing, he did it for all the right reasons, and what did he say? "I'd do it again mom, sorry if I got suspended, but I would do it again" How can I argue with that?

On this approaching Mother's day I wonder what I am worthy of, to receive from my most precious charge, what have I done right? What have I done wrong? If left to his own devices, without dad's input, how would he "honor"me?

Hello Out There!!!

OMG, I have spent months trying to get back into my blogger account and kept going round and round, I couldn't get the email reset, I couldn't get my password reset, I just kept getting looped back to login and getting nowhere. But anyway, I was showing a friend of mine how to blog and I tried again and followed the steps to reset password, etc, and lo and behold I AM IN!!!

So I have a couple of years of empty cyber-space to make up for. Lots of things big and small, important and trivial to talk about, I hope I haven't forgotten how. So we will see how it goes. But in the mean time, it sure feels good to be able to be here again.

Jojo

My Thing with Books

I have a love affair with books. I love the way they look, feel, smell. I am attracted to books with interesting covers. I have found many treasures by authors I’d never heard of because the jacket looked......whatever: bright, cool, dark, intriguing, whatever my mood is. I am drawn to covers with photographs that are stark and clean or spare and moody (gee think I am the perfect consumer, caught in the marketing trap of "pretty covers"?) I admit I sometimes judge a book by its cover. Or title, a good title will always catch my eye. "The weight of Water" "Peace Like a River", "Decorations in a ruined cemetery", "The Time Travelers Wife" (I am always drawn to books that involve time travel, I am not sure why, maybe to escape my life...oh that is another post) Anyway, the point that I am having a hard time getting to is that I love books. I love to read, I love the tactile experience of reading, I could never read a book online or on an ebook reader, it just wouldn’t feel right. I like a paperback book to look like and old friend, I don’t mind if the cover gets worn or I get coffee stains on the pages. I will not however, ever, dog-ear a page, that is what books marks are for, I also have an over abundance of those.

Okay okay, the point.

My dear friend gave me a little clutch purse for my birthday, it is quite adorable and just the right size for carrying your essentials on an evening out. The problem? It is made from an old book. A Nancy Drew hard cover book:"The Secret of Red Gate Farm". While I appreciate the ingenuity and creativity of the idea and they did a great job of making a beautiful little purse all I could think of was "but what happened to the book?" I asked my friend what she thought they did with the books innards and she said they probably recycled them. Okay, I get that, if the book were old and decrepit and falling apart and couldn't be enjoyed by anyone else, or the pages were falling out or the spine broken anything that would excuse the fact that the book had been disemboweled. But to make a purse! The book covers, front, back, spine, the whole thing is perfectly intact it is, as they say on ebay, in mint condition. So why, I ask you, would someone take a perfectly good book, albeit a might out-dated (there is probably some collector on ebay that would appreciate it) and skin it, remove the innards (most likely discarded), punch a hole in it's cover for a pretty pink button add some pretty pink material for the sides and inside that match the pink sweater of the girl on the cover and make a purse? I don't get it. It is a clear case of book-abuse, bookacide if you will. I just can not fathom it.

I tried my hardest not to let my friend know that I felt like she was giving me a carcass of a dead animal (okay perhaps I overstated that) but you get my drift. Remember a couple of Christmas's ago they had those kitties all curled up on little kitty beds and they breathed. They had a battery and a motor and they looked like they were sleeping, and their chest would methodically go up and down like they were breathing,they were soft and cute and cuddly and thoroughly gave me the creeps, that's what this purse was like to me. I smiled, admired the creativity and fine workmanship and I kept thinking "how can she not get that this is so NOT something I would approve of?" I have know her forever I figured if anyone would understand that she would, I guess I was wrong. She thought I would appreciate it, as a book lover. As a book lover I found it abhorrent, sacrilegious and just plain wrong. Maybe I should have been happy that someone gave this book a second life, but I wasn't

I know, I know, what is the big deal, it's just and old book? But that's how I feel about books. You can not throw them away, give them away yes, throw them away - never. Make coffee table legs out of stacks of them. Donate them, leave them at bus stops or on a park bench for someone else to pick up, drop them off at a hospital anyplace someone might need to put there hand on a good word. But don't turn it in to an accessory to carry tampons and lipstick in to make a buck at a craft sale.

I have brought books to Half Price Books many times and the ones they don't want to buy they ask you if you want them to "recycle" them, I can't ever do it cuz I know they are going to dump them into a giant book-chipper and turn them into sawdust and I just can't stand the thought of it, so I take them back home and hide them under the stairway until the DAV or ARC come around or take them to the salvation army and hope someone will give them a good home.

I will put my dead-book purse in my closet and once in a while I will pull it out when I am going out with my girlfriend, to let her know I use it. Or maybe I will put it on my book case, vertically, spine out, and pretend it is still a real book.

In the grand scheme of things is this important? Maybe not, but then again maybe yes.

Yes, there is a Santa Claus (at least one more year)

This may be the last year that the magic of Santa is alive and well at our house. There is something sad about the "passing" of Santa. I might get another year out of him, but I doubt it, he hasn't asked yet, but I know he thinks about it. He tries to do the math, how many kids, how many toys, how many hours, etc. and when logic fails he just smiles and accepts my explanation "that's why Santa's magic" But soon he will stop believing in a magical fellow that can know every secret wish and traverse the world overnight. He still believes, Santa is real and my son eagerly awaits what treasures Santa will put under our tree. We will leave milk and cookies and nibbles for the reindeer. I will revel in the magic that is christmas in the sparkling eyes and smiles of my son. Ain't he cute?

Path of destruction

I walked the path of mental self destruction and found it littered with the empty, unfinished chapters of my life. I tried to change something that couldn't be changed, no serenity prayer for me. I was desperate for someone to see me and reach out a hand, a lifeline so I would know I wasn't alone on this path. I have never been good at asking for help, seeking it, when I need it. Not by choice or design, I mentally buried myself and waited for someone to notice and come to my funeral. No one showed up to throw dirt on my casket or cry over my immortal soul. No one came to sing amazing grace or read the 23rd psalm. No one seemed to notice that I had disappeared from my own life. Somehow I thought it would be obvious that I was not really inhabiting my life, it was not. I got up, went to work, came home, made dinner, did homework, read stories and even made love, all completely on autopilot; without passion or energy and nobody seemed to notice. Does that say more about the people in my life or me? Are they completely clueless or am I a really good actress?