#SOL14 - Thirteen Memories

Still tinkering with the idea of Stevens' Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird. My mom's birthday was yesterday, so she's been on my mind all week. Here then, are thirteen ways of looking at (growing up with) my mom.

I
Because of her,
We discovered the wonder
Found in new words and worlds,
Between rows of books.

II
Hair, rich chestnut brown.
Pony and pigtails,
Long or short,
Always thin;
fine as spiderwebs.
"Just wait," she warned,
"When you're older it all goes away."
I didn't listen, but I should have.

III
Nighttime meant
The smell of Noxzema,
Pink and white plastic pins
Placed carefully into hair rollers, and
An open Bible, read
By soft lamp light.

IV
The best part about
Being sick
Was candy-sweet hot tea
And toast
Thick with butter.

V
On the night everything changed,
When pulsing lights lit up the sky
In red and blue and white,
And men's voices barked
Commands into the darkness,
She wrapped herself around me
Like a cocoon, eyes searching
My face, crying, "My baby,
My precious baby,
What's happened to her?"

VI
Joan Jett sings
About loving rock and roll,
While Mom and I dance
Like wild things
Across the living room floor.

VII
After the accident,
When the leg brace was removed,
A shiny purple question mark
Remained on the top of her knee
As if asking, "Why us?"

VIII
Her hands and knees
Press firmly to the floor.
I stand in front of her,
Watching.
She arches her back up,
then down.
Then up again.
I laugh.
"Don't laugh," she huffs,
Back swaying down once more.
"I'm doing my calisthenics."

IX
Words are a game
In her mouth,
Rolling around like a ball
On a roulette wheel.

X
She sang,
And sings still.
Prayers and praise
Sent up to heaven
Note by note.

XI
I wake, finding her poised
At the edge of my bed,
Crying.
Her body curls over itself;
A wilting plant.
"Oh honey," she whispers,
"What am I going to do?"

XII
Her superpower
Is knowing just the right card,
Remembering every birthday and
Always, always writing in that
Perfectly formed print
The words you need to hear.

XIII
On Friday nights
In those desert days,
Mom and her best girl friends
Hit the casinos
But she never left without
Me first placing
A lucky quarter into her waiting hand.

#SOL14 One Little Word

My One Little Word for 2014 is light.

Typically I identify with my word easily and it slips right into my life. I notice it taking shape throughout the year and know I've chosen well.

Only two months into 2014 and I wonder when the meaning I sought behind light will appear.

This year I want to keep things light, notice the brilliance in every day moments, embrace opportunities to let my life shine.

Only two months into 2014 and it has been a struggle. I am seeking light, but finding many shadows in the way. But still, I'm a silver-lining kind of girl. The light is there, if we just keep looking long enough.

Last night I sat on the bench swing in our backyard with my sassy little (step)daughter. Though she is barely eight years old, our relationship has been a struggle. She pushes, I pull; round and round we go. I love this brave little strong-hearted girl as if she were my own, and finally last night as we sat beneath the stars and chatted about this and that and big girl problems in little girl words, the world stopped for a second and gave us our moment to shine.

We giggled in the dark and traded secrets and truths that whispered away into the night air.

We sat in our own little bubble of light, if only for just one moment.

And that's all that really matters, isn't it?

All those little moments that build into the life we make for ourselves.

The Right Audience

Today I read the Littles (she's 5, he's 8) my newest picture book manuscript. Right under 1,000 words, it's just short enough for a quick read aloud. Of course, I have no awesome illustrations to keep their interest, so I have to really play up my reading skills.

They squeal, they laugh, they nudge each other at all the right places.

My inner monologue, the one that was snickering at me last night while I narrowed down possible publishers to query, whispered, "That's right, you're a read aloud story creating rock star! Get it, girl!" It was nice to have my persnickety monologue being polite, for a change.

Of course, the story is inspired by our youngest's larger than life attitude, and they know it. So -- hardly an unbiased crowd!

Still, there's something magical about sharing a story with children -- something you've crafted on your own from beginning to end -- that makes them clap their hands over their mouths and laugh until they fall over.

Our little man immediately piped up with, "I'm going to be the illustrator of this book!"
And the sassy Diva herself pointed at me and quipped, "That book is not about me, it's about you!"

I wrapped that small moment around me like my favorite warm fuzzy blanket on a chilly night, and carried it with me the rest of the day.

And it was a very good day, indeed.

Ode to My Mama

Here are some things you need to know about my mom:

She took my sister and me to the library every week of our childhood. Seriously. What the United States Postal Service is for your mail? That's my mom and literacy. Girlfriend isn't playing around.

Every holiday, without fail, was made special by Mom. Yes, every one of them. We even had visits from The Great Pumpkin.

The woman can sing. I'm not talking about your run of the mill karaoke style jams. When mama sings, people listen. Partially, it's because they have no choice -- I mean, when a middle-aged woman is throwing down Joan Jett opera-style, you can't help but notice. As a teenager, this was the bain of my existence.  But on those days when I'm feeling bummed and have a ton of housework to do? Easy fix. Slip on some earbuds, turn on the iPod, and belt out some tunes. I'll never be asked to sing at weddings, as she once was, but I've got some pipes! I'm pretty sure I got those from her.

If you need a prayer warrior, call my mom. She has a direct line. She'll hook you up.

Growing up, my mom's goofy childlike antics were soo embarrassing. After all, I was 15 going on 50. I never quite knew how to be a kid. Apparently I age emotionally in reverse, because now? If you peek in my window around dinnertime, you'll see what I was growing up with. Every once in a while I pause, a little mortified -- I've become my mom! -- and then quickly go back to the dancing, singing, giggling antics of my own. I learned from the best. May as well use it.

She sends cards. Like, way more than the normal card-giving status quo. You could open up your mailbox one day and have a card for Groundhog's Day and a "Just Because I Love You" card waiting there for you at the same time. Who does this?? My mom, that's who. It's basically impossible to be around my mom and not feel unconditionally loved.

If you're dying for a good home-cooked meal, don't go to her. Mom, you know this is true, so don't even pretend to be offended! She will, however, stock her pantry with every one of your favorite ready made foods, drive 30 miles to find the perfect meal, and send you an insane amount of Christmas goodies for you to enjoy over the holidays. Oh, and if you're having a party? Yes, invite my mom. She makes THE best seven layer dip, chocolate eclair cake, and weird-yet-delicious blueberry cream cheese glob of dessertesque food you will ever taste. So, lesson here? My mom is more of a party girl than a wine and dine sort of chick. Go figure.

Oh, and you should know this. She is an amazingly talented writer. When I was a senior in high school, she took a writing class and shared her writing with me. It may have been one of the first times I realized we had some pretty important things in common.

There are many, many more things I could tell you about my mom. How she caught me hiding two baby birds when I was eight and called the Vet to help me put them back in their nest. Her unceasing praise and encouragement for every single thing I've ever told her I wanted to do. The countless surgeries and therapy sessions she shuttled me back and forth from when I was a kid. How she held my hand when I was in labor with my first son. How she's held my hand limitless times through the years when I have stumbled, fallen, and picked myself back up again.

My mom always tells me that I am all the things she always wanted to be. Strong. Independent. Brave. A go-getter! In fact, she told me all these things again just last week.

Here's the thing I need to tell my mom about herself: I am all those things because of who she is.

So thanks, Mom. A million words do not begin to describe the gifts you have given me, the lessons I have learned, the love I have gained.

Happy Birthday. Don't forget to make your wish when you blow out the candles tonight.

Grandpa Mogk's Farm (Day 2)

Grandpa Mogk's farm meant family.
It was Damon's silhouette running,
stick-sword in hand,
across a mile of hay bales;
Devin's giddy backstroke
through a pool of golden grain;
Steven, Ryan, and Daegan
climbing a towering pyramid of hay,
fists pumping in triumph,
adventure conquered.

It was octogenarians gathered,
swapping stories on the lawn;
children hop-skip-galloping around them
or bouncing along on Buttercup's back,
dancing into their own memories.
Rustling stalks of corn stretched out,
an emerald lake rocking with
the rhythm of the wind,
and horses whinnying a welcome
upon your approach.

Grandpa Mogk's farm was Frisbees flying
as we ran, laughed, tackled each other
to snatch them from the air,
a sparkling audience of bobbing kites high above us.
Sunshine warming our faces,
breeze across our shoulders offering comfort,
clouds lazy-sailing across a blue-blue sky.
It was Welcome! and Uff da! and Nice ta meetcha!
A place where the word "stranger"
was defined by the possibility of new friendships.

It was chocolate raining on strawberries and pretzels,
stuffing and turkey and warm wheat rolls,
soft lemon cake melting on your tongue.
Fireflies twinkling like Christmas,
the boom and the bang of pyrotechnics,
tiny shadows bounding through the dark,
calling, "Ghost in the graveyard!"

But most of all,
Grandpa Mogk's farm was laughter.

Sorry, Dad.

I'm driving to work.
I'm in bed late at night, laptop open, working on a school project.
Sitting on the couch, watching some mindless tv show.
Pushing a grocery cart through the store, alternating between speed-shopping and contemplating ramming my cart into everyone in my way.

It doesn't matter what I'm doing.

When my phone rings, and the name "Dad" glares at me from the screen, I always feel the same.

A sucker punch to the gut.
The air rushes from my lungs.
Suddenly, I feel as if I may either pass out, empty the contents of my stomach onto the nearest (hopefully) empty receptacle, or both.
And the guilt.  The horrible, nagging, heart-wrenching guilt that follows as I watch the call pass, listen to the voicemail alert, and slip the phone back into my pocket.

One day I may regret this.  Sometimes I watch my phone sadly, wondering if he's calling to say he's sick, something's wrong, he needs me.

But for now, all I can hold onto is this small degree of separation, this minute piece of a barrier between alienation and the emotional onslaught that will most definitely hit us like a tsunami the next time we speak.

Pretty is as Pretty Does

This evening Sassafrass is running through the house (and believe me, this is quite a feat in itself, given the limited space and abundant stuff that clogs up said space) yelling in her tiny-yet-loud sing-songy voice, "I love you, Kelly, I love you, I love you, it's fun to have a step-mother, a step-mother,IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou, and now I can call you mommy!"

I'm trying like hell to watch her and respond, even though there are only about 1.2 seconds between each sentence, and sometimes no time at all as if her words must match her feet as she nearly flies, tumbles, hops through the house.

Then, suddenly, she is right in my face, mouth full of tuna melt, breath on my cheek, as she proudly declares she loves me, once more, in a spray of spittle and tuna, which, on most circumstances is not a very desired gift -- yet somehow, as I wipe the remnants of her statement of love from my eye, thank you very much, I can't help but laugh.

She twirls, she prances, she curtsies, she dances.

"Sassafrass," I call her to me, "come look at these dresses. I think we're going to order one. Help me pick out a colour."

And soon we're alt-tabbing and scrolling our way through ye olde internets as we wade through a sea of ribbons, bows, polka dots and flowers, pinks and purples, trying to decide on the perfect dress. When suddenly, she peeks up at me, batting her too-long eyelashes, and says, "I must have that dress so I can be beeeaaaauuuutiful!"

Insert loud sound of record screeching to an abrupt halt HERE

Say what?! I just stared at her, unable for a moment to bring forth the words, as images of Dove commercials and catwalks with supermodels and my own pathetic teenage years flashed before my eyes.

"Sass! You ARE beautiful no matter what! You don't need a silly dress to be beautiful." I say this, thinking simultaneously, 'Well who was the dumbass that was showing her all the dresses in the first place? Way to go, Ms. Women's Movement USA.'

She stomps her little feet and folds her arms, pouting at me and declares, with all the attitude a diva could possibly muster, "Kelly, you don't want me to have that dress, but I will have it, and I will be beautiful in it!" If that weren't enough, she ends with a dramatic staredown.

Sassafrass will be four in June. FOUR. I am new to the world of little girls and ribbons and lace. I always said if I had a daughter she would play soccer in the mud and wouldn't care about Barbies and make-up. Less than a year with Sass, and I am frothing at the mouth anytime I'm near anything lacey or pink.

But I don't want her to grow up dependent on stuff for confidence. Surely there is a happy medium somewhere. Let's just hope we can find it. Soon.