Tuesday, March 24, 2009

Probably shouldn't post this one, but...

Let’s try this again, shall we? I’m PMSing. I’m tired of being broke. So is my husband. He’s also pissed that the house is a mess. Never mind that I’m the only one that works. Oh sorry, that’s my bitterness showing. He does go to school part-time. [AND he has RA and Ménière's syndrome.]

He and I had words last night. He felt the need to point out the ways in which I am failing my family… not cleaning the house, not potty-training the boy, spending too much money, not buying the right food… and I refused to just whimper and apologize. Not that it would have mattered if I did.

It’s no secret that my husband is an ass. I knew that when I married him. But hell, I’m no angel either. I’m stubborn and independent. I don’t really know how to be married. I was raised by a single mother and would have done just fine as a single mother myself, thank you very much. But I’m not single. I am married. And sometimes it is not easy for me.

I need to learn to bend. I need to acknowledge that my husband likes to be needed even though I don’t do needy. I need to learn how to admit when I’m wrong without feeling like I just took it up the ass.

Analgesia

I decided to self-medicate with some new music and a quick image search on Google for our boy Johnny here. Hey, I'm a simple girl who's easy to please...

I'm not sure if I like this one or not [the dirty bottles are a little disturbing] but it's interesting. You're welcome.

Friday, March 20, 2009

A month has passed

Hard to believe that on Monday it will have been one month since Garrison died... since he was killed. I don't even know how to say it. In honor of that I'm posting two photos today since I will be away from the computer on Monday. I may regret it...

What do you notice about the pic above? I noticed that he's eating broccoli and there's a cabinet lock visible behind him. Stuff a good mom does.

Here Garrison is on the left, a little over a year ago, with his silly mama and his older brother on the right.

With love and prayers and all that...

Thursday, March 19, 2009

From the lips of babes

I thought I was doing better. I thought I was closer to accepting that I would not be able to understand what happened. Not understanding was killing me at first. I needed to know more. Every question I got an answer to led to another question. Until I realized I was being selfish in my need for more, more, more information. Then I began to accept not understanding.

A new theory has surfaced. I’m not the only one who wants to know “why,” but we’re all just reaching. This new theory pulls at me because she never mentioned anything to ME about this particular subject. And she talked to me about A LOT OF THINGS. Why not this? Is there any truth to it? Does it matter? The bottom line is, whatever the “reason,” the underlying issue is her mental health.

The feelings I’ve had have been cyclical… shock, completely freaked-the-fuck-out, sad, thankful for my own babies, angry. Each peaks and subsides to be followed by the next. The anger usually passes the most quickly. The freaked-out feeling [is there a better word for that?] bothers me the most. When that comes I feel off-balance, overwhelmed, and a little scared. When that comes I feel like I can’t do my job, like I can’t go out in public without the possibility of a teary breakdown right in middle of Target. Is that anxiety? I don’t think that’s quite it. It might be part of it.

But like the other feelings, it passes, and the sadness that follows renders me silent and motionless. That stillness removes me from my family. Even if we’re all in the same room, I’m not really there.

It’s usually my son that shakes me loose. He is the Kissy Monster. Kisses on the top of my head, my neck, my arm. Long kisses on the lips when he holds my cheeks so I don’t break away before he’s ready. Someday not too far off he will learn that’s not the way big boys kiss their mommies. But right now I get to enjoy his pure display of love. And I need it now more than ever.

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

My Daughter's Namesake

I named my daughter for a woman who inspires me always to be a better person.

My next tattoo will be the first two lines from the second stanza of this poem...

Woman Work
by Maya Angelou

I've got the children to tend
The clothes to mend
The floor to mop
The food to shop
Then the chicken to fry
The baby to dry
I got company to feed
The garden to weed
I've got shirts to press
The tots to dress
The can to be cut
I gotta clean up this hut
Then see about the sick
And the cotton to pick.

Shine on me, sunshine
Rain on me, rain
Fall softly, dewdrops
And cool my brow again.

Storm, blow me from here
With your fiercest wind
Let me float across the sky
'Til I can rest again.

Fall gently, snowflakes
Cover me with white
Cold icy kisses and
Let me rest tonight.

Sun, rain, curving sky
Mountain, oceans, leaf and stone
Star shine, moon glow
You're all that I can call my own.

Tuesday, March 17, 2009

Convert

The screams in my head are more guttural now.
Did this seal the deal?
Not just a lack of freedom,
But of sanity as well.
No babies for me, they say.
No chance in hell.

Monday, March 16, 2009

Mariposa

My car was overtaken by monarch butterflies on Friday afternoon as they traveled northward. Literally hundreds fluttered like a living orange cloud around and over us as we sat at stop sign. By the time Austin and I got home, they were less concentrated, passing through the backyard one at a time or in small groups. I hollered for everyone to come outside.

My mother-in-law and I sat in the backyard pointing the buddhaflies out to each other as more and more passed through. My husband fired up the “tractor” [a ride-on mower with a small trailer] and took the kids all over the property we live on with my parents. As they lapped the field of sagebrush that separates mine and my mother’s house, the kids laughed and squealed as the single axle trailer bounced over the ruts in the dirt that were left by our last big rain and dried to a crust by the sun. I sat on the grass and momentarily considered the neo-pagan belief that Friday the 13th is a day of good fortune and a cause for celebration.

Saturday was my husband’s birthday and I planned a family day out, cleverly avoiding Garrison’s memorial celebration. It would have been too weird being there without Lori, and too awful the reason for Lori’s absence. So instead we went to Bass Pro Shops and Joe’s Crab Shack, and then came home for pie, cupcakes and ice cream. The old man turned 39 which means my mental planning for a big 40th barbeque bash begins… NOW!

I woke this morning to the sound of Stevie Wonder’s Superstition on the clock-radio. I had dreamt that we had been hunting poisonous butterflies while riding alligators bareback. Apparently if we had been touched on the skin by these butterfly wings, we would have been exposed to a fatal disease that could be transferred from human to human once contracted.

But why were we riding alligators?

Thursday, March 12, 2009

I can't find a good song title to steal for this one

I would very much like to think about something ELSE now, thank you. I had some quiet time yesterday and I wanted to sleep because this time change is KICKING MY ASS. But sleep wouldn’t come. It surprises me how many things in my house make me think of her. And closing my eyes seemed to be out of the question.

I know, a book! I’ll read a book. Something that has nothing to do with yoga, music, toddlers, husbands, daughters, sons, mothers, pooping, walking, sex, work, death, bankruptcy. [Anything else I can’t think about?] My newest interest is Gypsies. But we’re supposed to call them Romani now. So here I am three chapters into this great book when the author starts talking about morality. Oh, hello. Seriously, all these thoughts need to go the fuck away.

My husband thinks I’m taking it too hard. I see where he’s coming from, but I can’t help it. EVERYTHING makes me think of her. E-VER-Y-THIIIINGG

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

It's Coming Down

My chest tightens with a scream that can only be heard inside my head. My son falls, fattens his lip. His cries make my heart race. I imagine her baby crying in pain.

“Do you trust me?” she asked. I said yes only because I wanted to hear what came next. “You know me. I’m still me.” No she’s not. But I couldn’t say it.

“I’m fine,” she says. “Everything is fine.”

If I know anything, I know that everything is NOT fine.

Monday, March 9, 2009

What's been going on

I was able to visit my friend Lori on Friday afternoon. I'm still making peace with our conversation. I'm not sure how much I should post here since the trial, if there is one, hasn't even started yet. Not that the Riverside DA is one my regular readers or anything.

My friend is lost.

Thursday, March 5, 2009

Let's just bump that last one down the line, okay?

Haven't had any new music on here in a little while. Here's a new find I'm enjoying quite a bit.

The Next Time Around by Little Joy

Is this thing on?

For shit’s sake people, I write two little posts about my friend killing her baby and it’s like all my bloggy friends fell of the face of the earth. You’re lucky my real life friends still care enough to talk to me about it in person, or I might have offed myself in an effort to attain my desired bird incarnation.

[You know, the suicide and murder related sarcasm I’m so fond of has lost something lately.]

Yes, it is absolutely fucking horrible. There are images in my brain that I don’t wish on anyone. I have cried everyday for the last 10 days. I couldn’t face seeing her three year-old who doesn’t understand where his brother and mother are. But I still love her. If there is a higher power in this universe, I ask only that she be granted mercy and peace.

If it wasn’t for the fact that I’ve never met a therapist that I thought had an emotional IQ above 20, I would probably try counseling. But seriously, the last one I went to when I had a bit of a breakdown two years ago pointed me in the exact opposite direction of mental health. So instead I talk to our mutual friends. Muster up the courage to call her husband for updates on the kids. Write her a letter [like, on paper]. Then go find a place to scream my head off.

Monday, March 2, 2009

To whom it may concern,


Purple-crowned Fairy-wren
Originally uploaded by ozymiles
I’m not sure where to file this particular request, but next time around I would very much like to be a bird. I’m not picky about type or location, just so long as there are trees to perch in and songs to sing. I’ll even line up for one of those cute little anklets.

Thank you in advance for your consideration.