My smallish ego is smiling right now (I know, I know - it's just one tiny win). I received a call late yesterday that my essay will be running on the presses tonight for Friday's paper. Ahhhhhhh. I didn't get a proof, so I'm anxious to see if there are any errors (I sent it in with none, but it was reset for the press). Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.
On the "interesting shit" front, my hella cool artist friend SK and I have decided it would be fun to collaborate. We're scratching our heads to put together some form of painting and prose/poetry in hopes that some non-nose thumbing small gallery looking for one (1) solid artist and one (1) renegade/feral writer will have our crazy asses. Then, the plan is to seal the deal with publishing the lot of stuff in a smallish book (on a print-on-demand deal most likely). The battle before us now is rounding out a theme and then the age-old chicken/egg question. Artwork then writing or vice versa? And being that I'm type A, this is the annoying, oh-the-hell-with-it-all question.
That being said, we've got some themes in the development stage. I'm curious, though. What theme/idea sticks out in your mind as interesting to view from the perspective of 2 mom creative-types? BRAINSTORM WITH US! First things that pop into your head. WRITE IN THE COMMENTS (please)!
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Holy Street Cred!!!
WOW! Just got the following notice:
Congratulations! You are one of the top three winners in the Wired Art Essay Contest, sponsored by South County Times, Art World Association, St. Louis Writers Guild, and Wired Coffee cafe.
We hope you are able to attend St. Louis Writers Guild's Open Mic night at Wired Coffee next Tuesday, March 11, from 7-9 p.m., where you will have an opportunity to read your winning entry at the beginning of the program. If you submitted more than one essay, you won't find out which one placed in the contest until that evening. Don't worry--we'll have copies of the winning entries on hand.
Please let me know whether you'll be able to attend and participate in Open Mic on March 11 ... and again, Congratulations!
Congratulations! You are one of the top three winners in the Wired Art Essay Contest, sponsored by South County Times, Art World Association, St. Louis Writers Guild, and Wired Coffee cafe.
We hope you are able to attend St. Louis Writers Guild's Open Mic night at Wired Coffee next Tuesday, March 11, from 7-9 p.m., where you will have an opportunity to read your winning entry at the beginning of the program. If you submitted more than one essay, you won't find out which one placed in the contest until that evening. Don't worry--we'll have copies of the winning entries on hand.
Please let me know whether you'll be able to attend and participate in Open Mic on March 11 ... and again, Congratulations!
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Seasons of Wisdom
I am entering a contest sponsored locally here. This is the second-round version of an essay inspired by an oil painting of two large hibiscus blooms. Comment away!
*********************************************
It’s almost time.
After the final winter freeze has laid its icy blanket upon the ground, I’ll impatiently watch rows of flawlessly aligned seeds shoot up to present their annual flowering performances like an organic version of Las Vegas showgirls. The days will lengthen, a garden pot will appear on the stoop, and I’ll discover more about the workings of life.
I moved in next door to Ms. June seven years ago on a chilly fall day – the kind of day when a jacket isn’t quite enough to keep one warm. She and I spent the winter months exchanging simple neighborly greetings and smiles as we passed each other on the street or scraped frost from the frozen windshields of our cars.
Spring came and blended with signs of the coming summer, the days still short on humidity. I stepped outside one Saturday afternoon, and my eyes caught sight of a bulky, nondescript garden pot newly situated between Ms. June’s stoop and my own. The vessel held a woody plant with sturdy green leaves and deep pink buds like fuchsia lipsticks half-turned up from their bright green tubes. A hibiscus, I beamed – my favorite summer foliage.
I stood eyeing the flourishing plant as Ms. June, in pedal pushers and a t-shirt picturing a sleeping kitten, emerged through a screen door. As she knelt and turned the soil of her flowerbed with a hand spade, she spoke of the care a hibiscus required indoors until the season was right to bring it outside. The chat turned to her black plastic trays of mottled annuals, the stockpile of plants in her extra bedroom, and then – somewhere between the begonias and impatiens - to life.
Our conversation has never ended.
Over six summers of Ms. June’s eternally-thriving hibiscus, we’ve cultivated a relationship, like that of a mentor and a protégé. Sometimes Ms. June’s lessons for me come as simple thoughts. Strawberries aren’t good this week. Kirkwood Farmer’s Market has the best pies. The war has gone on too long. Other times her teaching is more spiritual. A parent’s love endures even when a child’s does not. The loss of two husbands and a son is soul-rattling, but survivable. Surely God exists.
The current temperature is a glacial 22 degrees. I anxiously mark red X’s across my calendar as winter draws to a close. My seventh summer learning across Ms. June’s hibiscus is imminent. I eagerly anticipate the return of the pot and the humid nights I will spend on the stoop with Ms. June in whisps of citronella smoke, swatting mosquitoes. I have much to learn, yet I’m acutely aware that our front-stoop talks may be numbered. Just as a bright hibiscus bloom withers away when summer fades, so does one’s lifetime.
Then again, my other neighbor has seen 95 summers. And the thriving hibiscus? Well, it could live another 40 years.
*********************************************
It’s almost time.
After the final winter freeze has laid its icy blanket upon the ground, I’ll impatiently watch rows of flawlessly aligned seeds shoot up to present their annual flowering performances like an organic version of Las Vegas showgirls. The days will lengthen, a garden pot will appear on the stoop, and I’ll discover more about the workings of life.
I moved in next door to Ms. June seven years ago on a chilly fall day – the kind of day when a jacket isn’t quite enough to keep one warm. She and I spent the winter months exchanging simple neighborly greetings and smiles as we passed each other on the street or scraped frost from the frozen windshields of our cars.
Spring came and blended with signs of the coming summer, the days still short on humidity. I stepped outside one Saturday afternoon, and my eyes caught sight of a bulky, nondescript garden pot newly situated between Ms. June’s stoop and my own. The vessel held a woody plant with sturdy green leaves and deep pink buds like fuchsia lipsticks half-turned up from their bright green tubes. A hibiscus, I beamed – my favorite summer foliage.
I stood eyeing the flourishing plant as Ms. June, in pedal pushers and a t-shirt picturing a sleeping kitten, emerged through a screen door. As she knelt and turned the soil of her flowerbed with a hand spade, she spoke of the care a hibiscus required indoors until the season was right to bring it outside. The chat turned to her black plastic trays of mottled annuals, the stockpile of plants in her extra bedroom, and then – somewhere between the begonias and impatiens - to life.
Our conversation has never ended.
Over six summers of Ms. June’s eternally-thriving hibiscus, we’ve cultivated a relationship, like that of a mentor and a protégé. Sometimes Ms. June’s lessons for me come as simple thoughts. Strawberries aren’t good this week. Kirkwood Farmer’s Market has the best pies. The war has gone on too long. Other times her teaching is more spiritual. A parent’s love endures even when a child’s does not. The loss of two husbands and a son is soul-rattling, but survivable. Surely God exists.
The current temperature is a glacial 22 degrees. I anxiously mark red X’s across my calendar as winter draws to a close. My seventh summer learning across Ms. June’s hibiscus is imminent. I eagerly anticipate the return of the pot and the humid nights I will spend on the stoop with Ms. June in whisps of citronella smoke, swatting mosquitoes. I have much to learn, yet I’m acutely aware that our front-stoop talks may be numbered. Just as a bright hibiscus bloom withers away when summer fades, so does one’s lifetime.
Then again, my other neighbor has seen 95 summers. And the thriving hibiscus? Well, it could live another 40 years.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
From the Vault
Birth of a Writer
The diner was crowded for a Sunday at midnight, I’d surmised as I pulled up in the tiny well-worn parking lot. With its 1950’s dulled brass light fixtures, wood paneling, over-bleached countertops, and brusque but friendly wait staff, the diner was the perfect spot to encounter life. I’d been visiting this legendary neighborhood spot for over fifteen years on different occasions – Sunday brunch with the family, late-night coffee with dates, conversations with friends in high school. Tonight was different. I was on a personal assignment.
Checking out the scene through the glass door, I saw about a dozen people perched atop chairs and counter stools – a businessman reading the paper, a young mod couple conversing over pots of coffee, a pensive college girl in the back corner with a laptop and an ashtray brimming with spent cigarettes. I wanted to be among those characters, but needed a spot where I wouldn’t be scrutinized.
I grabbed one of only two seats to the right of the cash register, hoping it would block everyone’s view of my clandestine work. I sat on my stool like a CIA agent thinking about the classified secret held in my brain, hoping no one would ask why I came into the diner bearing a notebook and pen. I was eager to start my next writing exercise, needing a moment to take in the scene.
“What’ll ya have, sweetie?” the waitress asked me in her cigarette-seasoned voice.
“I’m easy tonight,” I replied. “Just a Coke, thanks.”
She whisked away with a cock-eyed smile, as diner waitresses do, and returned with my drink. “One outta the tapper on the rocks, babe,” she said as she set down a textured hard-plastic cup at my perch. I thanked her, and she scurried back to tend the sizzling bacon on the hot griddle. The smell of it swirled in the air with pungent scrambled eggs and the aroma of Camel cigarettes.
“Janine, when you quit slingin’ hash here and get your real job, you want me to be your financial planner?” asked a t-shirt and ball cap clad twenty-something. His two much-younger companions laughed as he sucked on an unauthorized beer bottle. “I’m gonna be really good,” he continued. “Got a 3.7 last semester. I wanna work with stock and mutual funds and stuff. Financial advising - that’s where the money’s at, you know. I can do it. I’ll be real successful – nice clothes, awesome car, and fat paycheck.”
“I’m sure you will, baby,” she smirked. “And if I ever have enough change to throw your way, I’ll do it.”
I sat amused, taking in the discourse between this young hopeful kid and older sarcastic woman. The more I listened as he continued on, the more I realized how much like that kid I had been not too long ago – full of hope, ready to reap the rewards of my degree, confident in my confirmed intelligence. I’d thought getting that first career job would bring about the satisfaction and reward I’d deserved. I had to keep from giggling out loud thinking back on that period of my life.
He caught me watching the lively conversation and gave me a smile. I had inadvertently drawn attention to myself. And then he opened his overconfident mouth at me.
“Studying, huh?” he asked.
“Nope,” I said like a five-year-old with a sheepish smile.
“You must be a teacher,” he concluded.
“Nope,” I repeated, sipping my Coke and dreading the next question.
“Then what’s with the notebook and pen?”
The words came out of my mouth like a surprise belch, shocking and utterly out of my control. “I’m a writer.”
And then I had that moment – the one in the movies where all of the activity in the room comes to an abrupt halt. I had twelve sets of eyes on me as if I’d just declared I was the reincarnation of James Brown. I felt like an exotic zoo animal who’d escaped from its habitat – completely liberated and yet unsure of my surroundings. I hadn’t meant to say it; I was just getting started after all. Who was I to say I am a writer? I could envision literary critics rolling their educated eyes.
“What kind of stuff do you write?” he continued in the stillness of the room.
“Mostly poetry and short stories,” I replied. Fully aware I was navigating uncharted waters, I was relieved to hear the clatter of plates and clang of the spatula on the griddle again. The customers had lost interest in me, the delusional idiot sitting at the counter. The diner was back to business as usual.
“Wow. That’s really cool. I mean it. Do you have a degree?”
“Yeah, in biology with masters work in molecular genetics,” I smiled smugly.
“How in the heck did you end up writing?” He looked completely baffled.
“I hated my life,” I said with a shrug. “I had money, stock options, and a title, but I just hated waking up for work every day. So I’ve gotten back to what I’m passionate about, which happens to be writing. This,” I said tapping the notebook with my pen, “is my real love.”
In that moment, I self-righteously felt like I held the secret to happiness – the secret that he needed to know. I wanted so badly to tell him that I’d been exactly where he was – confident and looking forward to reaping that huge material reward. I wanted to shake him and let him know prestige and money wouldn’t be the elixir if the job didn’t make him happy.
“That’s totally awesome that you get to do that,” he said. “I don’t think I’d have the balls. That’s crazy, you know? Putting your head out there on paper for everybody to read.”
I laughed almost silently. “You’ll be surprised at what you’ll do when life goes contrary to the plan.”
I was on the verge of lecturing him, but I didn’t. I sat silently chewing on my words. Maybe he’d be one of the lucky few, I thought – those people that somehow happened to choose a befitting career right from the moment they matriculated. I knew a few of them; they seemed to just fall into the right place from the start. If he wasn’t one of those lucky few who found contentment, I knew that he’d have to learn the lesson himself, just as I had.
He stood up from his stool and the counter, opening his wallet. Pulling out a crisp twenty dollar bill, he approached the cash register. The waitress tallied up the tab, snatched the bill from his hand, and returned his change.
Without realizing his self-symbolism, he waved his bills at me. “Good luck with that new career. If you write about me, make sure it’s good in case my mom ever reads it. And tell Janine when you’ve hit the big-time so I can do your financial planning, ok?”
“Absolutely. Good luck with school and that big plan of yours,” I smiled.
He walked out of the diner, his two companions in tow. I watched him head to his car and realized he’d inadvertently helped me conquer my biggest fear of all – reinventing myself, going outside the bounds of my prior plans. I’d been given the chance to recreate myself into the person I’d always wanted to be, and I didn’t need any degree or edict to declare that I could do it. Under the flickering overhead lights of a corner diner, I’d been freed from the self-doubt that comes with taking on the unknown. And all it took was an hour, a notebook, and a college student – the tools of divine intervention.
The diner was crowded for a Sunday at midnight, I’d surmised as I pulled up in the tiny well-worn parking lot. With its 1950’s dulled brass light fixtures, wood paneling, over-bleached countertops, and brusque but friendly wait staff, the diner was the perfect spot to encounter life. I’d been visiting this legendary neighborhood spot for over fifteen years on different occasions – Sunday brunch with the family, late-night coffee with dates, conversations with friends in high school. Tonight was different. I was on a personal assignment.
Checking out the scene through the glass door, I saw about a dozen people perched atop chairs and counter stools – a businessman reading the paper, a young mod couple conversing over pots of coffee, a pensive college girl in the back corner with a laptop and an ashtray brimming with spent cigarettes. I wanted to be among those characters, but needed a spot where I wouldn’t be scrutinized.
I grabbed one of only two seats to the right of the cash register, hoping it would block everyone’s view of my clandestine work. I sat on my stool like a CIA agent thinking about the classified secret held in my brain, hoping no one would ask why I came into the diner bearing a notebook and pen. I was eager to start my next writing exercise, needing a moment to take in the scene.
“What’ll ya have, sweetie?” the waitress asked me in her cigarette-seasoned voice.
“I’m easy tonight,” I replied. “Just a Coke, thanks.”
She whisked away with a cock-eyed smile, as diner waitresses do, and returned with my drink. “One outta the tapper on the rocks, babe,” she said as she set down a textured hard-plastic cup at my perch. I thanked her, and she scurried back to tend the sizzling bacon on the hot griddle. The smell of it swirled in the air with pungent scrambled eggs and the aroma of Camel cigarettes.
“Janine, when you quit slingin’ hash here and get your real job, you want me to be your financial planner?” asked a t-shirt and ball cap clad twenty-something. His two much-younger companions laughed as he sucked on an unauthorized beer bottle. “I’m gonna be really good,” he continued. “Got a 3.7 last semester. I wanna work with stock and mutual funds and stuff. Financial advising - that’s where the money’s at, you know. I can do it. I’ll be real successful – nice clothes, awesome car, and fat paycheck.”
“I’m sure you will, baby,” she smirked. “And if I ever have enough change to throw your way, I’ll do it.”
I sat amused, taking in the discourse between this young hopeful kid and older sarcastic woman. The more I listened as he continued on, the more I realized how much like that kid I had been not too long ago – full of hope, ready to reap the rewards of my degree, confident in my confirmed intelligence. I’d thought getting that first career job would bring about the satisfaction and reward I’d deserved. I had to keep from giggling out loud thinking back on that period of my life.
He caught me watching the lively conversation and gave me a smile. I had inadvertently drawn attention to myself. And then he opened his overconfident mouth at me.
“Studying, huh?” he asked.
“Nope,” I said like a five-year-old with a sheepish smile.
“You must be a teacher,” he concluded.
“Nope,” I repeated, sipping my Coke and dreading the next question.
“Then what’s with the notebook and pen?”
The words came out of my mouth like a surprise belch, shocking and utterly out of my control. “I’m a writer.”
And then I had that moment – the one in the movies where all of the activity in the room comes to an abrupt halt. I had twelve sets of eyes on me as if I’d just declared I was the reincarnation of James Brown. I felt like an exotic zoo animal who’d escaped from its habitat – completely liberated and yet unsure of my surroundings. I hadn’t meant to say it; I was just getting started after all. Who was I to say I am a writer? I could envision literary critics rolling their educated eyes.
“What kind of stuff do you write?” he continued in the stillness of the room.
“Mostly poetry and short stories,” I replied. Fully aware I was navigating uncharted waters, I was relieved to hear the clatter of plates and clang of the spatula on the griddle again. The customers had lost interest in me, the delusional idiot sitting at the counter. The diner was back to business as usual.
“Wow. That’s really cool. I mean it. Do you have a degree?”
“Yeah, in biology with masters work in molecular genetics,” I smiled smugly.
“How in the heck did you end up writing?” He looked completely baffled.
“I hated my life,” I said with a shrug. “I had money, stock options, and a title, but I just hated waking up for work every day. So I’ve gotten back to what I’m passionate about, which happens to be writing. This,” I said tapping the notebook with my pen, “is my real love.”
In that moment, I self-righteously felt like I held the secret to happiness – the secret that he needed to know. I wanted so badly to tell him that I’d been exactly where he was – confident and looking forward to reaping that huge material reward. I wanted to shake him and let him know prestige and money wouldn’t be the elixir if the job didn’t make him happy.
“That’s totally awesome that you get to do that,” he said. “I don’t think I’d have the balls. That’s crazy, you know? Putting your head out there on paper for everybody to read.”
I laughed almost silently. “You’ll be surprised at what you’ll do when life goes contrary to the plan.”
I was on the verge of lecturing him, but I didn’t. I sat silently chewing on my words. Maybe he’d be one of the lucky few, I thought – those people that somehow happened to choose a befitting career right from the moment they matriculated. I knew a few of them; they seemed to just fall into the right place from the start. If he wasn’t one of those lucky few who found contentment, I knew that he’d have to learn the lesson himself, just as I had.
He stood up from his stool and the counter, opening his wallet. Pulling out a crisp twenty dollar bill, he approached the cash register. The waitress tallied up the tab, snatched the bill from his hand, and returned his change.
Without realizing his self-symbolism, he waved his bills at me. “Good luck with that new career. If you write about me, make sure it’s good in case my mom ever reads it. And tell Janine when you’ve hit the big-time so I can do your financial planning, ok?”
“Absolutely. Good luck with school and that big plan of yours,” I smiled.
He walked out of the diner, his two companions in tow. I watched him head to his car and realized he’d inadvertently helped me conquer my biggest fear of all – reinventing myself, going outside the bounds of my prior plans. I’d been given the chance to recreate myself into the person I’d always wanted to be, and I didn’t need any degree or edict to declare that I could do it. Under the flickering overhead lights of a corner diner, I’d been freed from the self-doubt that comes with taking on the unknown. And all it took was an hour, a notebook, and a college student – the tools of divine intervention.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Christmas Letter Excerpt
Obligatory Family Holiday Update
Dear Friends and Family,
Here is the required family update on us – the short version.
Hubs: still married to MOTY, working at Chrysler, loving fatherhood
MOTY: still married to Hubs, staying at home, loving motherhood
Diva: 2 ½ years old, budding extrovert, polite but tenacious, majoring in finger-
paint with a minor in potty-training at playschool one half-day per week
Mutt: 8 years old, still acts like a puppy, loves to watch TV
Merry Christmas!
If that doesn’t cut it for your desire to read Christmas letters, please continue reading. Those who want to discard this now, go ahead. But you’ll be missing the good stuff…
What I Want to Say Now that Hubs Isn’t Looking
Dear Friends and Family,
As I sit and type this letter we are awaiting the first big snowfall of the season. Within the next 24 hours, there could be as many as 10 inches of snow on the ground. The temperature has dropped to a chilly sub-freezing mark, and all is right for Christmastime. Well, that’s how I feel right now; just days ago I was feeling anything BUT the spirit of the holidays.
I have very fond memories of Christmases past, heavy with the echoes of childhood Christmas hymns, the delightful sweetness of sugar cookies with my grandmother, and the wonder that enveloped the holy miracle of the season. I can still smell Christmas dinner wafting from Gram’s kitchen and hear the whisper of Bing Crosby on the AM radio. Even today I recall the German lyrics to Silent Night as I sang them year after year in a candlelit church all gussied up in my Christmas dress and patent leather shoes.
Stille Nacht, heilege Nacht!
Alles schläft einsam wacht
Nur das heilege Elternpaar,
Das im Stalle zu Bethlehem war.
Bei dem himmlischen Kind.
Bei dem himmlischen Kind.
But, last Saturday as I stood in the soul-chilling tundra of the mall watching as anxiety-riddled parents struggled to succumb to their children’s holiday wishes, my heart was destitute. I couldn’t conjure up the sentiments of those memories, and my spirit was heavy and longing for the times of old when Christmas meant that all was right with the world. I’m not sure if this is part of growing up and enduring adulthood, but I hated feeling that way. When did Christmas become about finding the best deal on men’s slacks or the newest gaming system? Commercialism be damned; I wanted my Christmas back!
Tonight I was fortunate to catch the last 15 or so minutes of It’s a Wonderful Life, and it put my mind to work. I have a bit of inspiration for you, as I’ve heard that many of you are feeling just as I did last Saturday. I’ll try to keep it short, but as a type-A aspiring writer, that may be hard to do.
I am infinitely blessed to have so many good things in my life. If I were to list them all in this letter, I fear I could not afford postage to send this to you. It will have to suffice to shorten the list to friends, family, health, finances, and faith. How fortunate I feel to know the true and enduring love of so many beautiful people and the mercy of a God who presented Himself on earth 2000 years ago. Tonight I am speechless at the magnitude of wonderful people and things God has placed in my life.
This is my new Christmas wish: that my daughter will one day have a stockpile of Christmas memories as big as or even bigger than hubby's or mine. And someday when the Christmas programs have ceased and the magic of Christmas gifts has faded, it is my hope for Little Diva that her heart will be just as merry and bright knowing that Christmas is about the greatest gift of all – the gracious love of God that He has freely given us that we may give it to each other.
My family’s prayer for all of you is that your Christmas will be filled with a light bigger than any Christmas display you will see, a gift more expensive than any you could buy, and a heart more peaceful than even the most serene snowfall could bring. We wish you all the best of health, happiness, and prosperity in the year to come.
Monday, November 12, 2007
RD Teaser
[Again, no edits, spell checks, or syntax corrections...]
The low electrical drone of the TV was louder than its volume. I could only deduce the dialogue of the old Robert Redford movie by reading lips; it was a plot involving baseball. The flickering colors of light from the screen softly lit the hotel room where I lay in bed with our two-year-old daughter E. After we’d settled her into bed, my husband had gone back to his grandfather’s house to spend some time with his cousins and uncles. E and I had been left unto ourselves to sleep.
We’d been expecting to have a room with two double beds when we arrived at the casino in Lula, MS, where we’d be staying over the weekend to celebrate my husband’s grandfather’s 90th birthday. After a six hour car ride from St. Louis, we’d arrived at the casino to discover much to our chagrin we had only a king-size bed in our room. There were no other available rooms, so we’d have to adjust our sleeping plans accordingly.
As the bright summer sun turned to soft dusk, we’d bathed my daughter that evening and discussed sleeping arrangements. At first, she wanted to sleep on the floor in her well-worn pink Barbie sleeping bag, her favorite hand-me-down from my 11 year old niece. We were relieved to hear this request, as E is a notoriously restless sleeper. However, after 15 minutes of rolling around on the floor, she appealed rather loudly to sleep in our bed. I was a bit apprehensive, knowing I could not sleep with toddler appendages banging into my back all night. However, the weariness of the long car ride forced me to succumb to her wishes in order to avoid a bedtime squabble. So there we lay, just my daughter and I, sharing a spot in the large bed.
She had been rolling about and poking me with every available limb – an arm first, then a leg, an elbow, then a foot. I was more irritated with each tumbling pass she executed across the mattress, but tolerated the arrangement to avoid a cranky two-year-old the following day. I could certainly get by on little sleep as parents are trained by infants to do, but an overtired toddler was a recipe for disaster at any festive function. I resolved to endure the mid-dream punching and somersaults for the joy of all at the birthday party the next day. The sparring continued for what seemed like hours.
Then, all of the sudden, she rolled towards me almost purposefully in her sleep. She placed her puffy, rounded toddler-sized hand on my left breast, pressed her cheek to me, and instantaneously calmed down. The poking stopped and her breathing slowed. For the first time in over and hour, she was utterly content.
I don’t remember noticing my seemingly unprovoked silent tears until I could taste salt at the corners of my mouth. As I looked down at her, my soul breathed a sigh of tranquility. I saw my toddler curled up to me the same way she had curled up during our nursing moments. For the first time in months, I was experiencing the pure unadulterated joy of motherhood, and it simply overwhelmed me. I had forgotten, until that moment, how awe-inspiring it was to hold my baby under my heart.
My nursing sessions with E had ended nearly eight months prior, on the heels of her second birthday. By the time she weaned herself from me, nursing had become the one knowable source of serene contact I had with her. She had literally gone from the quiet respite of bedtime nursing into the independent and rebellious world of a toddler. These last several months had been times of frequent frustration for me as E tested the limits of both her new world and her mother.
The days since she weaned had been filled with one challenge after another. My experience of parenting a toddler had been similar to Bill Murray’s experiences in the movie Groundhog Day. Every day felt the same as the one before – confusing, tiring, and uncomfortably predictable. In my experience, though, just as I would find the answer to one quandary, E would present me with a new, more challenging situation to unravel. I’d been so tied up in learning how to handle temper tantrums, hand-holding refusals, and outright defiance, I’d lost my joie de vivre for motherhood.
Yet there, in the gaucherie of a casino hotel amidst farmland, a miracle had been granted to me for my soul’s restoration. I was given a reassurance that despite the changes in her dependence on me, E would still find comfort in my arms. I’d grown so discouraged with my sense of motherhood, I’d begun to think of myself as distant from my daughter. I thought that perhaps she was pulling away for me, growing a little colder towards me every day. Now I knew from the tiny hand upon my breast and peaceful angelic face that she was still soothed by my presence.
The low electrical drone of the TV was louder than its volume. I could only deduce the dialogue of the old Robert Redford movie by reading lips; it was a plot involving baseball. The flickering colors of light from the screen softly lit the hotel room where I lay in bed with our two-year-old daughter E. After we’d settled her into bed, my husband had gone back to his grandfather’s house to spend some time with his cousins and uncles. E and I had been left unto ourselves to sleep.
We’d been expecting to have a room with two double beds when we arrived at the casino in Lula, MS, where we’d be staying over the weekend to celebrate my husband’s grandfather’s 90th birthday. After a six hour car ride from St. Louis, we’d arrived at the casino to discover much to our chagrin we had only a king-size bed in our room. There were no other available rooms, so we’d have to adjust our sleeping plans accordingly.
As the bright summer sun turned to soft dusk, we’d bathed my daughter that evening and discussed sleeping arrangements. At first, she wanted to sleep on the floor in her well-worn pink Barbie sleeping bag, her favorite hand-me-down from my 11 year old niece. We were relieved to hear this request, as E is a notoriously restless sleeper. However, after 15 minutes of rolling around on the floor, she appealed rather loudly to sleep in our bed. I was a bit apprehensive, knowing I could not sleep with toddler appendages banging into my back all night. However, the weariness of the long car ride forced me to succumb to her wishes in order to avoid a bedtime squabble. So there we lay, just my daughter and I, sharing a spot in the large bed.
She had been rolling about and poking me with every available limb – an arm first, then a leg, an elbow, then a foot. I was more irritated with each tumbling pass she executed across the mattress, but tolerated the arrangement to avoid a cranky two-year-old the following day. I could certainly get by on little sleep as parents are trained by infants to do, but an overtired toddler was a recipe for disaster at any festive function. I resolved to endure the mid-dream punching and somersaults for the joy of all at the birthday party the next day. The sparring continued for what seemed like hours.
Then, all of the sudden, she rolled towards me almost purposefully in her sleep. She placed her puffy, rounded toddler-sized hand on my left breast, pressed her cheek to me, and instantaneously calmed down. The poking stopped and her breathing slowed. For the first time in over and hour, she was utterly content.
I don’t remember noticing my seemingly unprovoked silent tears until I could taste salt at the corners of my mouth. As I looked down at her, my soul breathed a sigh of tranquility. I saw my toddler curled up to me the same way she had curled up during our nursing moments. For the first time in months, I was experiencing the pure unadulterated joy of motherhood, and it simply overwhelmed me. I had forgotten, until that moment, how awe-inspiring it was to hold my baby under my heart.
My nursing sessions with E had ended nearly eight months prior, on the heels of her second birthday. By the time she weaned herself from me, nursing had become the one knowable source of serene contact I had with her. She had literally gone from the quiet respite of bedtime nursing into the independent and rebellious world of a toddler. These last several months had been times of frequent frustration for me as E tested the limits of both her new world and her mother.
The days since she weaned had been filled with one challenge after another. My experience of parenting a toddler had been similar to Bill Murray’s experiences in the movie Groundhog Day. Every day felt the same as the one before – confusing, tiring, and uncomfortably predictable. In my experience, though, just as I would find the answer to one quandary, E would present me with a new, more challenging situation to unravel. I’d been so tied up in learning how to handle temper tantrums, hand-holding refusals, and outright defiance, I’d lost my joie de vivre for motherhood.
Yet there, in the gaucherie of a casino hotel amidst farmland, a miracle had been granted to me for my soul’s restoration. I was given a reassurance that despite the changes in her dependence on me, E would still find comfort in my arms. I’d grown so discouraged with my sense of motherhood, I’d begun to think of myself as distant from my daughter. I thought that perhaps she was pulling away for me, growing a little colder towards me every day. Now I knew from the tiny hand upon my breast and peaceful angelic face that she was still soothed by my presence.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Rough Draft Teaser
*No edits*No structure*No worries*
Streaming live from my brain for later use, in no particular order:
We’d traveled to Coahoma County, Mississippi to celebrate the 90th birthday of my husband’s grandfather. He was sharp as a knife and had a love for every person as big as the wide open country sky. The cotton crop in mid-October left much to be desired. The farmer’s were going through a severe drought, an indication of their families’ financial future that year. The days were unseasonably yet delightfully warm, and the nights rather cool for the humidity I’d come to associate with the heavy atmosphere of the Yazoo Delta. We’d spent our first afternoon out at Papaw’s mobile home, surrounded by the good nature and ribbing of our southern relatives along with several pecan trees and swarms of no-see-ums in the air. I’d come to love these laid back southern style visits which always included fried chicken and a large dose of southern gospel wit and wisdom. While it wasn’t my home, I felt very much at home there, always learning something new about life from the wisdom of Papaw and the love of a great family. That weekend was no different. As the evening drew to a close and the coral-colored sunset disappeared between the run-down barn and towering pecan trees, we packed up the car and headed back to the casino hotel just a few minutes down the road. Not down the interstate; there were none close by. Just down the road. I suppose that’s why down there whenever you ask where something is, folks just say, “It’s justa thataway, down the road.”
Streaming live from my brain for later use, in no particular order:
We’d traveled to Coahoma County, Mississippi to celebrate the 90th birthday of my husband’s grandfather. He was sharp as a knife and had a love for every person as big as the wide open country sky. The cotton crop in mid-October left much to be desired. The farmer’s were going through a severe drought, an indication of their families’ financial future that year. The days were unseasonably yet delightfully warm, and the nights rather cool for the humidity I’d come to associate with the heavy atmosphere of the Yazoo Delta. We’d spent our first afternoon out at Papaw’s mobile home, surrounded by the good nature and ribbing of our southern relatives along with several pecan trees and swarms of no-see-ums in the air. I’d come to love these laid back southern style visits which always included fried chicken and a large dose of southern gospel wit and wisdom. While it wasn’t my home, I felt very much at home there, always learning something new about life from the wisdom of Papaw and the love of a great family. That weekend was no different. As the evening drew to a close and the coral-colored sunset disappeared between the run-down barn and towering pecan trees, we packed up the car and headed back to the casino hotel just a few minutes down the road. Not down the interstate; there were none close by. Just down the road. I suppose that’s why down there whenever you ask where something is, folks just say, “It’s justa thataway, down the road.”
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