Middle Schooling



Yikes!  I can't even believe I'm putting this
woebegone 8th grade pic out there.


Since I've been thinking about sleepaway camp and being 11-years-old and all, I automatically cannot stop myself from going to the dreaded next stage of life -- Junior High.  (Although here in Houston they call it Middle School -- is that what everyone calls it now?  I have no idea.)  To put it mildly, seventh and eighth grades were, for me, two of THE most awkward, ludicrous years of my life, but years that were crucial steps toward becoming a teenager, and, then, finally, of course, a grown-up (although, that, in itself, is highly debatable).

Anyway, I attended a school called Matilija Junior High...and, as I'm thinking about it, I'm realizing what a total trip it is to mentally go back there.  I guess I was age 12 in seventh grade and 13 in eighth -- seriously ungainly ages.  I had my hair fashioned into a short blunt bob, but with sky-high poufy bangs (seriously, could there be a worse hairdo?).  I also had that whole dreadful braces thing going for me, which I described in gory detail in my last post.  I was one of the shortest and scrawniest in my class, and also one of the biggest goody-two-shoes imaginable.  Total priss.  But very academic, and strangely fixated on making all "A"s.  I once remember getting a "C" on a paper from a particularly high-strung teacher named Mrs. Kell, and I think I cried for a week.  If only I knew then what I know now -- that grades, especially grades in junior high, just don't really matter in the great scheme of life.

To me, the best thing about junior high was going from zero flirtation beween girls and boys in sixth grade, to full-throttle obsession with one another in seventh and eighth.  All of a sudden, there were clear-cut boyfriends and girlfriends on campus, all of whom would get down and fully make out in the hallways after class.  It was crazy -- we were all so lusty and into it, but three things made this even more ridiculous: 1) we had no earthly idea what we were doing, 2) we were doing it because we thought it made us look cool (little did we know that we looked like madly passionate Oompa Loompas), and 3) we were doing it because we thought that's what we were supposed to be doing!  Sadly enough, my own experience with this was nothing short of pitiful.  My very first boyfriend was a sweet boy who was actually a year younger than me -- this, by junior high standards is practically a lifetime, but I had that whole low self-esteem thing going.   We both had braces, so our after-school makeout sessions were reduced to a lot of metal clanging against metal, interspersed with some heavy chin wiping.  (Thank God our braces never actually locked - although I'm now thinking that might just be an urban myth.)  I was determined to "go" with him an entire month, just so I could be like all the other girls with a real boyfriend and all, but after 20 days, I broke up with him.  The pressure was simply too overwhelming, and, besides, I was getting a rash on my chin.

Another significant experience I had with the whole junior high dating scene was shortly after my breakup with boyfriend-number-one, and with this nice boy named Ted.  I was at my locker, heaving out my Social Studies book (why was this even a class?  I still don't know what we actually studied), and he stopped right in front of me, leaned his arm against the adjacent locker, and asked me point-blank if I would be his girlfriend.  I was shocked!  I mean, no one had hinted to me that Ted liked me.  Ted had never shown interest before.  This was all so out of the blue!  I, of course, did what my mother always told me to do in these kind of circumstances: buy time.  I stammered out, "Ummm, Ted, I need to think about it, okay?"  That night I tossed and turned as I mulled the situation over, but eventually came to the conclusion that I wasn't ready for another boyfriend quite yet -- I still needed time to heal.

The next morning when Ted approached me, I felt the blood rush to my face in nervousness.  "Ted," I said, "I just don't think I'm ready for another boyfriend yet.  It's too much, too soon."  (Seriously, could I have been any more dramatic?!)  Ted was very sweet as he answered kindly, "I understand, Sarah.  If you ever change your mind, let me know."  Two weeks later, Ted was riding his bike home from swim practice when a car ran over and killed him.

This experience has always haunted me in the recesses of my mind.  If I had said yes to Ted, would he not have gotten hit by that car?  Would we have had plans that night so he would have skipped swim practice?  I'll never know, but I have thought about Ted periodically throughout my life, and wondered about about different outcomes that might or might not have taken place.  A few months ago my mother asked me if I had named my son, Teddy, for Ted from junior high.  Truthfully, I had never corresponded the two together, but when she asked me this the hairs stood completely up on the back of my neck.  So maybe I partially did name Teddy, which is, in essence, an unusual name, for Ted, after all.

When I think of Junior High, I think of slow-dancing in the gym to melodramatic ballads like "Penny Lover" and "Purple Rain."  During these soirees, girls were supposed to put their hands on the guy's shoulders, while boys were supposed to put their hands on the girl's waist.  Where these "rules" came from, I honestly have no clue.  I also think of the silly yet serious Truth or Dare games on my friend, Amy's, back lawn.  We would sit in a large circle and try not to make eye-contact with the boy/girl across the way that we actually liked.  For some reason, I never got to kiss that person, and always was dared to do something bizarre with the foreign exchange student with acne who didn't speak English.  "Sarah, I dare you to make out with Pierre's left eyebrow."  Ugh.  I never was very lucky when it came to party games.

Junior High was a period of time that none of us really stop and think about all that much.  While we were living it, it was like we were just biding our time until the real deal, high school, came along.  And looking back, it seems like such a blip in time, and one that barely mattered.  But, in actuality, it was the first chance we had to leave the safe enclave of childhood, and really sow our oats.  As I've written this post, I've enjoyed thinking about this preposterous yet endearing stage of life, and now I've come to realize just how extraordinary it really was.

Well, minus the hair, perhaps.

Camp Sights



Me and my best friend, Cortney, at Kennolyn Camp --
I'm the one standing up, wearing the eye-catching
combination of hot pink and forest green.


Sleepaway camp is one of those rare experiences that completely lets you know where you stand in life.  You are somewhere on the brink between childhood and puberty, and there is nothing like a summer away from your parents to define just where you exist on that terrifying precipice.  For the "cool" kids or, perhaps, the advanced ones, overnight camp was a fabulous journey to freedom and merriment.  For those kids who were "uncool," or, maybe those that were simply scrawny and/or underdeveloped (that would be me), it was a totally different -- and sometimes hellish -- journey, but one that nonetheless was filled with unforgettable and valuable life lessons.

My own personal sleepaway rite of passage was tolerable, interesting, and, at times, fun.  But, as everyone who has been to overnight camp knows, there are always the preposterous and life-altering moments -- and since I seem to be incapable of leaving a single stone unturned in my occasionally interesting past, here are a few of my darlings:

I went to Camp Kennolyn in the Santa Cruz, California, mountains for three summers in a row, 4th through 6th grades.  Kennolyn was run by two old farts named Aunt Marion and Uncle Max, who were like no aunt or uncle I ever had.  First of all, Aunt Marion's midsection was a perfectly round sphere, upon which sat her bobbly head, and underneath two shockingly skinny arms and two even skinnier legs.  To top it all off, she was about 4-foot nothing, and therefore could easily be mistaken for a sour-faced garden gnome (including the beard).  On the other hand, Uncle Max was about 6'2," and looked eerily like Mr Greenjeans from Captain Kangaroo.  Both of them were as strict and unfriendly as the day is long, which is really odd considering their passion in life was to own a sleepaway camp for kids.  One time Aunt Marion caught me chewing gum on camp premises (a definite no-no), and she dragged me by the ear to the dining hall, where she forced to stand on stage during dinner with the wad of Hubba Bubba on my nose.  Fun stuff, epecially when you are 11 and overrun with insecurities.

Let me just interject here by saying that at this point of my life I was pretty shy and awkward, and did not think of myself as pretty or cute at all.  As I mentioned above, I was dreadfully flat-chested, but I was also really, really short.  (I don't think I grew until I was, like, 15 or something.)  The worst thing, however, was that I got my braces on at 11, and, besides having a giant mouthful of metal to deal with, my already biggish lips ballooned into these giant oval pillows with virtually a life of their own.   God, it was tragic!  (Fortunately, my lips returned to their normal size when I got my braces off, oh, four and a half years later.  I was practically scarred for life.)

OK, back to camp.  While Aunt Marion and Uncle Max were total nightmares, the counselors, on the other hand, were wonderful.  Most of them were in their late teens, and bubbly and energetic.  My first counselor, whose name was Rain (and whose middle name was -- what else? -- Beau), was SO energetic that she took to bringing male counselors from the boys camp into her bunk at night.  I, unfortunately, had been assigned the bunk immediately OVER Rain's, as I had been the last of our troop to arrive to the cabin.  I would lay there awake, eyes wide as saucers, listening to Rain and her consorts giggle and moan.  It was awful for two reasons: 1) I seemed to be the only one in our cabin that heard it, probably because I was directly above the commotion, and 2) because I didn't fully understand what they were doing!  Later that summer, when I was back safe at home, I must have still been processing because I crafted a bunk bed for my Barbie -- she and Ken would titter and wrestle on the bottom, while Barbie's younger sister, Skipper, would obediently lay on the top with a tiny pink pillow over her head.

As far as my own extra-curricular camp activities, they were nowhere near as exciting.  I was so uncoordinated at sports during this period of my life, that the activities I signed up for were nothing short of sedentary and, to be quite honest, nerdy.  I enthusiastically participated in cooking, stained glass, arts and crafts, animal care (which basically meant feeding ducks and small rodents -- although one year things got REALLY exciting on the a.c. premises when someone accidentally stepped on a guinea pig), storytelling, and, of course, campfire cooking (slightly, though adequately, different, from the aforementioned basic "cooking").  The one vaguely physical activity I did at camp was Water Ballet.  Can you imagine anything more ridiculous?  To this day, whenever I venture into a body of water, I am still strangely compelled to perform my favorite aqua dance move, known simply as "The Sinking Leg."

Once a week at Kennolyn we had to camp in the woods (which were actually part of the Sierras and were really, truly beautiful, although, of course, I didn't appreciate that at the time).  This phenomenon was called Outpost.  We would trek into the Redwoods, lay out our sleeping bags, and overdose on powdered hot chocolate mix eaten straight from the bag, which we would then follow with a delicious mug of hot Tang.  Mmmm...I can still feel my gag reflex kicking in.

One of the more bizarre traditions started at Outpost was the tradition of kissing a banana slug, so as to become a member of the highly esteemed Banana Slug Club.  The weird thing about banana slugs is that they don't look like they should actually exist in the natural world: they are about 8-inches long and precisely the same shade as a ripe banana, hence the name.  Why Mother Nature created something that so clearly does not blend in with the rest of its environment, I have no idea.  Anyway, during one Outpost, our counselor was determined to have all her girls be members of this fantastic Banana Slug Club (although I don't particularly understand why it was so fantastic.  I mean, where were the perks?).  Anyway, she picked up an especially large one of these yellow slugs and held it right in front of our mouths.  We puckered up and the counselor pushed that cold, slimy beast right onto our quivering prepubescent maws.  Ick.  But the funny thing is, I still feel a swell of pride when I think about it.

Camp was, for me, rich with coming-of-age adventures and experiences.  Of course, there was the time my best friend, Cortney, brought a cookie into our cabin, and when a hungry mouse came scurrying across our sleeping bags in the middle of the night, our piercing screams woke up not only the entire girls' camp, but the boys' camp, as well (we nearly got expelled).  I also had my very first slow dance on the tennis courts at Kennolyn.  I still remember it was to Thompson Twins' "Doctor Doctor," and was with a nice Canadian boy named Damian -- although the next day I decided his head was too close to the shape of an egg for things to progress further.

Fun and terrible, sweet and scary, overnight camp was the first glimpse I had of real autonomy.  And to have that total freedom again, as well as that unmitigated immersion in nature, is something I still long for daily.  But, more than anything, I feel thankful and appreciative for these charming and bittersweet memories -- they will forever be a part of me, and so will Kennolyn.

And so, unfortunately, will banana slugs.

Cave Pawings

Cave painting from Lascaux, a cave in the French Dordogne Valley

Okay, here we go, it's time for another doozy of a blog.  (I sort of feel as if I have to intersperse the heavy posts in-between the silly ones, probably for my own sanity, as well as yours.  Seriously, no one wants to think or hear about deep shit ALL the time.)  Here's the thing: I have been sexually offended on three separate occasions in my life.  I say "offended" because, even though these are real and big things that happened to me, I still feel as if the words, "violate" or "assault" are too strong.  Maybe there's a part of me that doesn't want to think about these experiences in that way, a part of me that wants to make them less important and serious.  Anyway, for whatever the reason, I'm going to make light of them, as I tend to do about a lot of things, but I know in my heart these instances had a hand in shaping me, and the person I am today.

So, the first time something of this nature happened to me was when I was 17, when we were on a family vacation in France.  For some bizarre reason, my parents thought it would be absolutely thrilling to visit a region called the Dordogne Valley, where there is almost nothing to do but look at Paleolithic cave drawings.  (Oh, there's also a lot of delicacies to eat in this region, namely, goose parts.  I once consumed a delicious soup, and after I was through, I asked the waiter what it was made of.  He beamingly replied, "pureed goose fat."  I nearly choked on the crouton that I had moved on to, which probably had also been fried in that same scrumptious lard.  Oh, those crazy French!)  Anyway, we spent an entire MONTH going from one damp cave to the next -- not to mention, it never stopped raining that summer, so we were perpetually chilled to the bone.  The cave paintings were interesting and all, but, really, not anything to die for.  They were, quite simply, really old cave drawings, and more than anything, a welcome diversion from our boredom and dampness.

Anyhow, these fascinating French caves varied in sizes: some of the bigger ones you would take trams into, and some of the littler ones you would just walk around.  At one of the smaller caves, the tour guide (a chubby, older man with longish greasy hair), tells us he'll take our family around the cave with a flashlight to show us the drawings.  At the the first drawing he stops and places me right next to him, puts my family on the other side him, and then another family behind us.  (You also have to remember that it is PITCH black inside these caves.)  As he's showing us the first drawing, he starts grabbing my hand and sort of massaging it.  I immediately tense up, but chide myself, saying he's only being friendly, no big deal.  Then he takes us to another drawing.  Again, he places me right next to him.  As he's showing us this one, he starts rubbing my breasts.  I start totally freaking out, but I'm paralyzed with fear.  I'm only 17, and there's this whole other family of tourists with us, and I don't want to make a scene, but also I sort of can't find my own voice.  He then takes us to another drawing, and this time starts rubbing my behind as well as my breasts.  Now I can only pray, "Please let the tour be over soon.  Please let the tour be over soon."  At the last and final drawing, he places me right next to him, but, as you can guess, reaches over and starts touching my you-know-what.  I am so traumatized at this point and so scared, I don't know what else to do but just to get through it.

After the tour is over, I fall over myself running to get away from that horrific cave.  I sob to my parents, and tell them what happened, and even though they believe me and everything, they actually underreact, as they have no idea the extent of what I feel inside.  Because what I felt was such a loss of control, or perhaps, a loss of my own power.  I had always been such a pleaser that I was actually afraid of disrupting the tour, or of making a scene.  I think a certain part of me didn't want to embarrass my family with an outburst, or even to embarrass that dirty old French man, who deserved no such kindness.  I simply shrunk into myself out of fear and humiliation, and let the whole thing happen as I struggled to find my voice.  Of course, looking back, I envision myself calling the dude out, shaming him, shouting at him to stop, or whatever -- but the bottom line is, he was a nasty old man who took advantage of a young girl, and he had probably done it countless times before, and did it countless times again.

A couple of years later, when I was studying in Florence, I would ride the bus to school every morning.  This one morning the bus was particularly crowded, and there are probably, like, sixty of us all standing and holding on to those hand loop things that hang from the top of European buses.  We're literally like sardines smushed against one another.  All of a sudden, I feel this thing rubbing up against my behind.  I try to ignore it, but it happens again.  And again.  This guy (middle-aged, but I never really got a good look at his face) is actually masturbating against me!  (I have subsequently learned that this action is called "frotterism" -- good word, huh?)   You would think I have learned my lesson by now, but, once more, I don't say anything.  I just wait until the next stop and methodically and carefully wind my way through the Italian bus passengers, and then once the door opens, frantically stumble off in a flurry of book bags and drawing portfolios.  I don't think air has ever felt so fresh.

I was also coerced into sex by a guy I was dating in my 20's, and I didn't fight out of that same terrible and paralyzing fear.  By today's standards, this would probably be considered "date rape," but labels make me nervous, and actually make these incidents almost more important than they have to be.  The bottom line is, I had VERY disenchanting run-ins with two dirty old men, and an overly-testosteroned 25-year-old.  But what I learned from these experiences is that if I don't use my voice, the same shit will just happen over and over again.  Making a scene, creating a ruckus, whatever you want to call it, is not necessarily a bad thing, it's simply finding your own personal power and using it as a vehicle to create change in a given situation, or even in your life.

So I guess that is why it has been so important for me to find my voice within this blog.  I can't change what's happened in the past, and, actually, I don't want to, but I know I can change my future.

And that's a ruckus I'll make any day.

Poems #3

Girls' Night

I enter
a scene
of lights
and lipstick
and noise
and sheen,

and the earth opens up
for me
in expectation,
in want,
in what will I be,
in who will you love
tonight?

Desire for more
translates into drinks.
One becomes
three.
When is enough,
how much is much?

I cannot be filled --
until, until --
I feel you
beside me,
the back of my neck,
the bruise of my lips,
the shame of my soul,
the lift of my glass
to us.

I reapply
gloss,
and screw
back on
its laughing,
littering
cap.




Loss

There is nothing quite so real
as a gash

inside a love
inside a void
inside a howl

of a dog searching for the moon.

In desperate pleas
of darkness,
his weakness
and thirst --
though futile,
at first,
beckon
become
strength.

The Shakti stars above
reflect
in his lonesome
stone-grey eyes.
Puddles of longing,

belonging
to no one.

Truth be known
or unknown.
Like walking sticks without legs,
I cannot feel anymore.
I am numb
to the disappointment of loss,

like the dog who lost the moon in the night.




Shower

Glittery visionaries
weep in masses
and I forget
and I lose
my quiet senses.

And I see a life like a turnip
pulled from the truck.
Laughter ripped
and shrill
in the muck.

I see a babe
crawl home
into my arms.
Eyes as levers
pulling me in.

I see a waste of an ocean
and a burning beach.
To feel that heat
beneath my feet.

And then I hear joy
and I turn my head --
dreams
and tricks
and wetness
licks,

it all subsides into dread --
and then
and then
it's life
that's fled.

Die anew,
it's me
and
you.

Creative Endeavors

A watercolor I did of Maui, Hawaii

As most of you know by now, I come from a pretty artistic family.  My dad paints, my sister, Jen, paints, and my Aunt Jane is photograher.  I, myself, have always painted here and there, but not consistently.  The problem is twofold: 1) I am a perfectionist, so I will noodle something to death before I'm really satisfied with it, and 2) I'm not good enough for anything to ever turn out the way I want it to.  So, unfortunately, painting is not  all that relaxing for me, and therefore has infrequently been one of my creative outlets.  My best outlet turns out to be --you guessed it -- writing.  And I also do a lot of various physical activities, which gets out my pent up anxiety and stuff.  But before I found these personal vehicles, I searched high and low for something to free my many emotions (and there are many!), and here are a few of my most ridiculous avenues to inner peace:

Right after I graduated college and was working in Los Angeles, I began seeing a therapist named Babs.  Babs worked out of her house, which was a lovely little cottage and all, but what was really disconcerting was the fact that she chain smoked and had a very lazy glass eye.  She would have a giant bowl of Malboro Reds out on the coffee table, and during our sessions together I would maniacally smoke cigarettes with her, mostly out of nervousness that I would inadvertently make eye contact with her bad eye.  Meanwhile, her husband was a recluse and lived at home, and as we were talking he would pace back and forth outside the glass doors of her office.  It was really disturbing!  Babs informed me that I was not allowed to raise my voice so as not to agitate the odd little guy.  I would have to whisper my deepest troubles to her, "My boss is a cocksucker and my boyfriend broke up with me and I think I'm having panic attacks."  In response, Babs would whisper back, "Ssshhh."

After Babs, and actually that terrible breakup that I mentioned above, I decided I would give Buddhism a try.  I really wanted to want nothing and to not get attached to people or emotions or things, but after trying to be perfectly zen for a day, I actually started to crave fine leather goods and fancy Starbucks lattes with froufy names.  It was as if I was a rebellious child, who when they are told they can't have something, just start wanting it more.  Subsequently, I went with a friend to hear Thich Nhat Han (a Vietnamese monk) speak, and after three grueling hours of sitting cross-legged on a metal folding chair and listening to such heavily-accented and inaudible words they sounded like nothing more than ice crunching, I made up my mind that I was not, and could not be, a Buddhist.

After my Buddhist phase, I met a woman named Diane who did craniosacral therapy.  I'm still not exactly sure what this is, but I think it moves the fluid between your bones around or something.  She was a very nice lady, but when she told me she had visited Venus the previous Tuesday, I began to wonder if something may be awry.  Then, after one of my sessions with her I actually hallucinated that Diane was a giant deer with antlers growing out of the top of her head.  At this point, I was the one who fled.

A few months later friend of mine suggested I to go to this guy who did past life regressions.  I walked into his office and before I could say anything at all, the diminutive older man told me that I have a strong personality, a love for the color blue, and a fear of air.  Hmmm...the first two, yes, but a fear of air???  He proceeded to hypnotise me and we discovered that in a past life I was an American Indian man with a mullet that wore paper bags on his feet instead of shoes.  Okay, WHAT?  I do not make this shit up, although I am preeettttty skeptical about the validity of this deduction.  After the session was over I practically tripped over his gargantuan desk in my hurry to bolt, saying, "I'll call you next week..." with, of course, no intention of ever doing so, but who should be walking in right at that moment but my boss and the secretary he was having an affair with?!  Talk about awkward!  Apparently, they believed they were soul mates and wanted to find each other in past existences, but I quit that job shortly thereafter, so I'll never know if they found the answer they were looking for.

I've tried acupuncture (effective, but boring), color therapy (pretty!), God knows what and you name it, but for the the most part these days I stick with writing, exercise, and imagery (but that's a whole other blog entirely!).  And as for painting, maybe I'll go back to it one day, or maybe not, but I'll always be drawn to the arts, and to the artists I know and love with my heart.

And besides, this blog is probably better than any portrait I could do of myself, or of anyone for that matter.  I never could paint people.

Mother May I?

My mom and me circa 1973

I sort of touched upon this with my first post, but lately I've noticed so many of my female peers giving up huge chunks of their own identities to become what they believe wives and/or mothers should be.  Us mommies are told to live for our children, to adore our husbands, and to have only the most humble needs of our own.  Maybe I'm seeing this so often because I live in the South, and naturally it's more conservative here.  But even in California and New York I find women looking inward less and less, almost to the point that they aren't even aware of what they REALLY want -- for themselves.

Perhaps this is a generational thing, as women in the 60's and 70's were encouraged to express their independence through multi-faceted layers: family, career, art, sex, etc.  Women's possibilities were limitless, and they still are, but today in 2011 it seems as if traditional womens' roles have backtracked a little.  I truly believe that those of us who are wives and/or mothers just need to be shaken up a bit and reminded that we also have to be true to ourselves -- to the inner voices and personalities that are yearning to get out and differentiate us.

This brings me to my own mother, who I haven't even known how to write about yet as our relationship is so big and complex.  Entire BOOKS have been written about mothers and daughters, and it is impossible for me to sum up my relationship with my mom in one succinct blog.  But what I can say is that she is one of the strongest, most independent-thinking women I know, and she never completely gave up her own needs and desires in all the years I have known her.  I may have been a bit traumatized by her strength and volatility at times, but I think ultimately I developed the greatest possible admiration for her, and for her free-thinking ways. 

OK, so to describe my mom, Lynn, she is physically pretty petite, although she doesn't exercise and I'm fairly sure she has never broken a sweat a day in her life (in fact, she may not even have pores).  Her hair, which is naturally brown, is always changing, mutating even.  First, it was dark brown and straight, then it was light brown and curly (during this phase my dad drew a picture of her with whited-out eyes, as she uncannily looked like Little Orphan Annie), then it was medium brown with wings a la Mrs Doubtfire, then it was a blond bob, then a blond pixie.  Now we are back to blond bob -- phew, thank God, I'm exhausted and can't keep up.  She has beautiful light green eyes too, and kind of freckley skin.  She is amazing with money and real estate, and she is truly gifted in these realms.  (Of course, the minute she starts talking about either money OR real estate, I find myself sort of glazing over and staring at her unusual glasses' frames, which are also ever-changing.  Clearly, I did not inherit those parts of her brain.)  She is a fervent animal lover, and she also fiercely loves my father, my brother, and me to the point that she has told me that when someone wrongs us she feels like a steroid-injected bull elephant inside, ready to trample them at a moment's notice.  And, yes, it's happened and it's not pretty.

But here's the most distinctive characteristic of my mom: her voice.  It can be both impossibly shrill and loud at the same time, almost inhuman in quality.  You should hear her call my dad for dinner, "FREEEEENNNNKK!!!  DO YOU WANT DINNER OR NOT??!!!" (The assumed tail-end of this sentence is "YOU BASTARD," which is or is not always spoken, depending on if we have company over.)  And when she used to pick me up in carpool line at my junior high, she would scream across the parking lot, "SSAAAARRRAAAHHH!!!  I'M OVER HEEEERE, KITTYCAT!!!  HOW IS YOUR BLISTER DOING?!?""  If it was possible to actually die of embarassment, I'm pretty sure that I would have during those precious after-school snippets.

I call my mom every day, not just because I love her and miss her, but also because we have the most amazing conversations.  Yes, she can't stop herself from occasionally interrupting (ahem...), but she also is a great listener, and if you ever need anything done, she is on it like milk on Rice Krispies.  Seriously, she'll come over and have my entire house organized in 2 hours.  It's almost scary.  (And yes, another part of her amazingly efficient brain I didn't inherit.)

My mother is an eternal optomist, and I adore that about her.  You can tell her that you lost your job, wrecked your car, and have the stomach flu, but that your annoying hangnail has suddenly healed, and she'll say, "Your hangnail is better?  That's FABULOUS, darling!!!"  And that's my mom.  Always seeing the positive.

To bring it all full circle, my mom always stood up for her beliefs, always made sure she was heard wherever she went, and always let my father know EXACTLY how she felt (I grew up hearing, "Go fuck yourself, Frank" so frequently that it has now actually become a soothing mantra I sometimes say to myself when meditating.).  She didn't care what the other, more reserved parents of our childhood thought of her.  She always refused to fit into anybody's mold, and that's not easy, especially when you grow up in a small town like Ojai.  I have learned so much from her, and I feel as if I can finally apply all of it just now, at this stage in my life, when I am searching for my own path, and not just the path of being a wife and a mother.  The path of finding out who I really am inside and what I really want. 

The bottom line is this: I am really, truly proud to have Lynn Kirk as my mother.  She has helped me grow and succeed more than words can express, and now, looking back, I can recognize her independence and fearlessness and use it to inspire my own unique journey.

So, thank you, Mom, I love you.  And, yes, my blister is just fine.

Two Much

Bella and Charlie at the Houston Arboretum

I think I have been feeling a little guilty about writing a blog about Teddy, and not my other two offspring.  The thing is, Teddy is just so slapstick, while Bella and Charlie are a little more subtle, as well as complicated.  But, of course, there are some endearing stories about them, as there are with all children, and a few come to mind naturally.

First off, there's Bella, who's eight.  She is by far one of the sweetest little girls, if not human beings, I've ever met.  Here's a perfect example:  the other day my mother-in-law slammed Bella's middle finger in the car door, and when I say slammed, I mean all the way closed.  Bella tried her very best to keep a stiff upper lip, but when her finger started turning black, she kind of lost it and started wheezing out a noise that was a cross between a moan and a howl.  Meanwhile, my mother-in-law, also known as "Honey," had also fallen apart COMPLETELY, and was beside herself with anguish.  But Bella, who always worries about other peoples' feelings, was troubled that her grandma was upset, and shakily tried to comfort her through teary jags, saying, "Don't worry, Honey, it's not your fault...it was MY fault because I put my finger in the way of the door."  Three hours later, as we're waiting at the emergency room she whispers to me, "I'm sorry you have to go to all this trouble for me, Mom.  I won't let it happen again."  Ugh -- heart wrenching.

Bella wrote a poem at school recently and the last lines were, "Peace flies through the wind on a Saturday night.  Peace lives in my family room by the fireplace.  Peace walks down my street in the afternoon."  When I read this I nearly cried because it's just so honest and so pure, and also because there's no question that my daughter is a far better and more appreciative person than I am.

Bella does have her faults, however.  She is as dramatic as they come, and once she starts sobbing it's virtually impossible to get her to stop.  And she's not one of those quiet, docile criers.  When she cries, she cries LOUD, and her mouth uncannily resembles the shape of a giant peanut shell (it takes everything in my power not to laugh at this.).  Furthermore, Bella is super skinny, and when I hold her and rock her, which is usually the only way I can get her to calm down, I feel like I'm holding a moving bicycle in my arms, limbs and elbows poking at me everywhere.  I think I may even have some bruises leftover from her last episode.

But there's really nothing sweeter than a little girl, and I feel blessed beyond measure to have a daughter that loves me and wants to be with me 100% of the time.  Now Charlie, on the other hand, couldn't give a SHIT about spending time with me.  This kid, who's five, wants to do WHAT he wants to do WHEN he wants to do it.  Usually that consists of building Legos, drawing, watching Pinky Dinky Doo, and eating white, tasteless foods (namely, tortillas, string cheese and bread, in that order.  It's actually shocking that he's not more constipated.).

Charlie is breathtakingly handsome (I'm perhaps a tad biased), and the girls LOVE him.  Literally, when I pick him up from school he has a throng of lasses chasing him and trying to tackle him so they can play doctor and patient (Charlie is always the patient, smart boy.).  He also loves to adore himself in his reflection.  He often stands naked on the bathroom counter and preens in the magnifying mirror as he soulfully sings the lyrics to his mystifyingly favorite song, "Jessie's Girl."

Charlie loves to do anything related to art, which I suppose he got from my father, and he'll spend hours drawing, building, or play-dohing.  This visual and observant nature of his creates in him a certain softness and intuitivism, and therefore he's a genuinely sensitive and kind little boy.  If he knows that you're sad that he has a Rice Krispie treat and you don't, he'll immediately cut his in half, no matter how ravenous he is.  He'll take the blame at school for something he didn't do so Tommy won't get another time-out.  And he is wonderfully gentle with children younger than himself, even tiny babies.

The kid can be a challenge, however.  He is annoyingly impatient to the point of insanity, and he has a tremendous amount of difficulty in expressing himself.  He is one of those inward types, whereas Bella and Teddy are so expressive you know every nuance of every emotion they experience (which can also be fucking exhausting).  Charlie retreats into himself and it is hard to get him to talk -- about anything.  And I often feel guilty for the simple fact that he is a middle child, and that he subsequently gets a little shorthanded in the attention department.  But as a parent, the only thing I can do is my best, and thus I continually tell Charlie how special he is, and encourage (or beg) him daily to talk about his feelings.

Honestly, I feel so very proud of my three children, and so truly grateful that they are as happy and healthy as children can be.  Parenting is definitely the most challenging, as well as the most rewarding, thing I have ever done.  It is a constant exercise in selflessness, but it is one that I would do over and over again.  And I know my children will adore me forever, but that they will also break my heart at times, as we all did with our own parents.

And the truth is, I wouldn't have it any other way.