Random recall. 270 Huntington Avenue.

I was 9 when I left my mother. Our studio apartment on Huntington Avenue. The Tobin School. My two (first) cats: Kitten Pepper Randolph, and Lady. When I lost my favorite book: Henrietta Wild Woman of Borneo. When I first and last lived in a place called home. In the original sense. I moved to Roxbury. To Cambridge. To Newton. To Southern Florida. To Brighton/Allston, places with and without space to park a car, or fly a kite. I moved to Harlem. A suburb outside (way outside) of Boston. In just that order. Sometimes twice.


I've lived in my share of houses. In places I've decorated with the same African gods, princesses, masks my daughter makes eyes at; masks my daughter knows are mine. That's YOU Mummah!


I've lived alone. With men. College friends. In a shared and a silent bed. I've had a family, grown well above and beyond the confines of a small space on Huntington Avenue.


And yet, when I walk by 270 Huntington (and I have, and I do, both in my mind and in the flesh), I remember, as if randomly, but more purposeful and poignant, less polite, more profound:

How many winding steps I once took to get to our apartment. How the lighting was so dim it was my first analogy of a country-fog. How it felt to be hungry, over-full. How it felt for your tears to swell and seep into your ears when laying in bed causing a warm and hallowed near-deafness. How to later listen with a hungry ear to the wall, when the neighbors played Harlem Blues. How it came to be that I'd love cats, and loathe pigs, and learn to smile though my head was full of city sounds. How I was, and will be if forever only in my heart: a small, city, child.


And, of course, how Mummi mothered me, even when she could barely mother herself
But she did.
As well she/we could.

Sniffle. A bug perhaps. Karma. Ultimately: A bad day. I think. I dunno.

This morning semi-sucked. I mean that. If one can be firmly committed to mediocrity. #shrug.

But it did. Kinda. Maybe. I dunno.

I woke up worried about my karma (yes for real). About putting things out into the universe that I am not ready to accept (i.e. consequences, injustice) cause I have perhaps fallen from the throne of responsible, perhaps made a prank call, something so unserious but that has me worrying about my fall from the stellar. I semi-wondered if my eyelash extensions were holding up well enough for this week. If I could realistically buy a new dress, tell my grandmother I started and am completing another masters degree (uhh, as of this week completing it) without her knowledge. So much stuff, such little motivation. #anothashrug

any way, I woke up to the reality of Zora calling me to her bedroom. B is in CA so it really was just the 800 of us (if you count the cats/ants). Walked into her room and... well, its hard to be worried about Karma and other assorted neo-soul-yogi-vodoo when your kid is this cute/this bubbly. And well, this itchy too.

#WTF?

Z: I'm itchy mummah
Me: Ok baby. (I'm ignoring it in a mom kinda way)
Z: NO Mummah, I"M ITCHY. (In a this-shit-is-serious-even-if-I'm-is-2 kinda way)

My child had a damn tick in her back.

I call the doc, who laughed at me (we live in the western suburbs). I call Brian who is in CA and its technically 5 AM there or so (he adapts quickly to time change), he sounds like its 5 am or so there.

I cry. Zora cries.

I call the doc for the 3rd time. She reiterates how OK and normal this is. I urge otherwise. I also get the tick (or most of it) out.

Zora thanks me. Most likely not for crying, but for being as good a mom as I can given my bad-damn-karma. I decide we'll tip the whatever the tipable thing is in the proper direction and go see my Mummi.

She looks thinner every time I see her. Her eyes look a lil dimmer too. I remember now, how in a recent office meeting, someone mentions that people with mental illnesses die about 25 years younger than folks who are "without" a diagnosis. I almost do the math. I'm interrupted by a smile my mother saves just for my daughter. I can only count her beautiful teeth.
Zora waits knowingly for her strange-bag of luck/love.

She also knows, we're not going upstairs. We won't be greeted with tea. We won't await Nana's attention as she skims AARP mail. We'll meet in the car. We'll love in a very small space. We'll leave before it gets too intense. Perhaps we'll drive. But we'll say I love you a dozen (or more times). These are our visits.

But Zora knows especially, most importantly, to be gentle, always gentle with Nana.

When we leave/post-car-visit, Zora asks to roll the window down. She says as dramatically as Nana needs to hear it:

I love you Nana. I neeeeeeeeed you Nana.
Nana smiles through tears.

And when we drive away, Zora asks me in a very small voice: Hold your hand Mummah?I yoga-bend backwards and drive one armed as my response. But a few achy moments in, ask why she needed this now.

A few second pause: I can't see the blue sky Mummah. mumble, mumble. The bug bit my back. mumble, mumble. I want banana juice.

But I know what she means. Karma. A bug. some other shit. I know baby.

I'm blue today too.

Love.

I had a conversation with a friend today, and realized (as we should realize daily, secondly, inchly) the amount of care and concern and love that goes into a person is as essential, as important, perhaps sometimes more important than the things we dedicate our time to.

And dedication is love. And concentration is love. And a whole lot of things that take away rather than give to our well of love can and do impact our ability to see past some fogs, and to the things, and to the people that require/deserve/can benefit positively from that love.

And so, since I'm all about love today, I wanted to say it to someone else (you) in the event you were all about farm/cityville, zoomerang results, or checking your BMI on some random (ass) website.

Love mfs. Love.

Besides an organic multivitamin, breastmilk, or, well protected monogamous intercourse, its likely one of the best things you can do for yourself today.

-D

I'm so happy. I want to talk. (not type)

The holiday is over. I'm happy. My mummy is too. My precious baby girl.
I'm so full, I want to talk, not type.

And so, I will/do.

#Done.

Mother's Day. Happier Please.

So.

(ahem)

So. I've been told I'm a holiday ho. And not the whole santa laugh either. But, I require holidays. Period. I celebrate them. Hard. And I fall hard when they're empty.

So, now that we've met...

Mother's day is, well, upon us (ok, its tomorrow). And I'm happy/sad/anxious/overdoing it with the whole thing, yes, already. But (yes, there'll be plenty of buts) it's a decently important holiday... though I acknowledge , that I have a problem, so I'll need to say this in hushed tones.

I don't think I need to change. I mean there are plenty of other news outlets out there that get off (way off, nasty style) on bad news, and I'm sure going overboard for valentines day (think 17 elaborate gifts for a cubby full of toddlers), and what isn't worth celebrating more than earth-day?! Three kings day?! Sheep Shearing Saturday? Err... the second coming of my 26 and a half birthday?! I like to think I find the god in small things. And god is so embedded in celebrations.

Obvious bias: I like to find things to celebrate. I can celebrate (and nearly do) ey'thing.

When I was a kid, my mom always got me "surprises". I'm talking before her strangely assembled bags of random items, but one, maybe two desired gifts inside. A pinwheel. One or two Andees. The Do the Right Thang VHS (no comment). But things I wanted and that were in fact surprising. It's genetic you know, even Zora's second favorite (or most used word) besides no of course, is SURPRISE.

But I realize not all folks have it in them to celebrate. That, as I said in my last post, some celebrations just don't make sense considering context, relationship; reality. And I get that. I understand.

Even how I approach wanting to get to happy is likely a lot (hi Brian), and so, I get that too.

I understand.

And I will continue to hunt for happy, for celebratory, for mother's day and evacuation day alike, cause thats who and where I am.

Mazal tov and #Kanyeshrug

D

It's (darn-near) Mother's Day. Holla at me now.

At a recent monthly meeting that I manage (the same meeting I call from the heartbreaking comfort of my bed big-scary-monstah-meeting), my awesome co-chair began the ice-breaker.

Now, before anyone e-frowns, I’m all about ice-breakers, on-boardings, and any other hyphenated collaboration of creativity and wit to a burdensome process. I am however not as clutch with the icebreakers, and so dear colleague began:

“As we are approaching mother’s day, this is a good opportunity to share what about our own mothers have we inherited, gained, or what about the relationship has supported who we are today”

See. I couldn’t have done that. And so dear colleague shares fun and poignant story. I go next, nearly reciting verbatim my previous blog entry about my 2 year old and Mummi. A few coworkers others share. It’s really some-kinda-gorgeous the variety we get.

But one person doesn’t share. And she doesn’t have to. And I feel terrible that she’s on the spot. And I feel good that she says what she does “I’ll pass.” She was and is entitled to do so.

Holidays can be hard. Before my blog-days my own were decently shitty. I was very lonely sometimes, and other times not so much, but annoyed at the expectation. Hurt by the expectation. All kinds of crap by the expectation.

And even now that I’m less annoyed and more joyous to the point of bubbling over, my story isn’t exactly what folks may have had in mind when discussing mother’s day… I mean, it started with “As many of you know, or well, know now, my mom has a mental illness and it characterized how I grew up. It impacted our reality…” and my ending that my own two year old gets the true version of Nana having a certain kind of day post-episode wasn’t exactly what they wanted to conclude with. #Kanyeshrug I've said this before, but we are as we are made.

Ultimately, what folks can’t say (in general) with the same level of pride I can (most days) is that: I have the onliest Mama who wore mink coats (from who knows where) to the grocery when we bought spam in the lean-late-80s.So, well, holla at me now.

That, and of course: if you celebrate it, if you beleive it in, if it works for you and yours: HAPPY MOTHER’S DAY!

Epi-Bio. Or maybe thats a typo.

Maybe I meant epic bio.

#shrug

i was sitting on my back porch today. Half-(a smaller half) attempting to work. Letting some sun-shine in. I watched my daughter (a very two, two year old) run, on her very new legs happily through the grass. I had Internet access. My phone takes awesome pics. My blankets were warm, within inches from me. I had a full belly.

I realize I was/am blessed.

You see how far you've come, climbed or carried, on days like this. It felt good to smile and not question, and so I did that too. It felt good not to have to remind myself to do so.



And I mean.. I realize I have an anchor, I'm writing a blog about caretaking, and schizophrenia, and moms, and other stuff, and I realize those things involve hardship, and tiredness, and are soul-cracking and other things too.

But here is the other side: I'm ok. My family is ok. Today was wonderful.

Things can feel good. And they do.

And... well perhaps that isn't epic enough of a biographical sketch... but its mine, today.