Thursday, September 8, 2011

D- for Effort. Mine and Hers.

Case scenario: Brilliant child. 2 going on 3. Goes to an awesome (if expensive) school. Great parents. Perhaps they're having a bad week. Perhaps brilliant child watched too much tv while parents spoke, hushedly, some feet away. But still, away.

Mother, a loving one. Me, even. Picks up scenario-ed child from school. Day two, she won't eat my food. I don't curse, I coddle (this time). "Baby girl, we can go to the grocery, with the mini-carts, and pick out the food you'd like to each for lunch" She's nearly willing. I nearly win.

Moments away, Baby-girl kicks off her shoes. Demands I put them back on. Real-me-Mama (in my mind) is like, Oh Hell No. This time I'm curt. No to yelling, but base is reintroduced in my voice: "Get up. Get the shoes ON. Walk your body to the door. Say goodbye to your friends". Near compliance.


Shoes, again are kicked off. I threaten to let her walk to the grocery in one shoed foot, one socked one. She laughes at the idea.

Moments later Baby-girl is pushing the cart through the over-priced-organic grocer. She's temporarily one inch taller on her left side than her right. The padding of that same foot looks from afar like a kitten paw, perhaps a large puppy's mitt. It ain't. It's a wet, and likely cold, socked foot, paired with a princess sneaker on it's partner.

Yesterday, a small child learned: Mummah loves me, but she might could be crazy.

Moral of story: Baby-girl and Mummah were both pushing it. Keep your MF shoes on.

And... just in case you were wondering, she yelled at me in the car too.
Bed began PROMPTLY at 8.


Wednesday, September 7, 2011

Nearing 9/11

Be good to each other. Even if for the memory of people you never met. To fill the heartache of survivors, of onlookers, of remains that have never been picked up because they couldn't be identified; honor each other.

Life is, in fact, hard.

And some anniversaries remind you of that.

Tuesday, September 6, 2011

Some Kind of Perpetual State.

I'm in a worrying phase.

I don't know if fear is the right word anymore. It's very passive, blase. The definition just doesn't accurately summarize the empty ache I've been carrying in my right hand. The ever-present flutter of my outermost lash. That shit is bugging me. Fear seems so... fearful. Inactive. Lazily present.

And perhaps that ain't what I'm feeling. Worry seems lame too. Anxiety is too much of a diagnosis. I'm not there yet. No.

I been thinking about those closest to me. My mother, my lover, my child, few others. My legit-short list.

Some thoughts get more of my attention than does my work, my play, court-tv.
Some get more of my anxiety than others. It's the difference between lost sleep over love, and lost footing over a misplaced doll. It's a new kind of math, perhaps. Some things simply can be more easily over-come.
Out-run. Over-thought. #shit.

But... I won't be long-winded this go round and I need progress.
I think it's safe accurate to say: I'm feeling a certain kind of way.

My mom is too skinny. My job is a job. My man is uncertain. My child is observant. My ... other stuff too. Some ain't bad. This ain't (that) bad.

But I'm feeling some kind of way.

Right now. Today.