Southern Woman on the Skids

  I wasn’t a kid that gave my parents gifts. I assumed I was enough of a gift. Also my mom always balked at the idea. “If I want something, I’ll get it for myself.” she would say.  Heather was the one that would manage to get a card. Heather is funny. She is smart and biting and has always been the one that you wanted at the table at dinner for entertainment. She always found the perfect card that would put my parents in stitches. They would quote the punch line of whatever card she found for weeks.  I would hear my parents laughing as they read the card. My mother’s hiccuping laughter ringing through the house, “Oh that is choice! Ellis, look at that!”  Then I would hear my dad mumble out the card and its punchline and bang the kitchen table, laughing with my mom. I used to love when Heather would come home from college for that reason. She cracked my parents up. She broke that awkward teenage tension that was there without her. She brought noise. I would be upstairs getting ready for

  This morning I slept in. So did the baby. I woke up to Rob whistling, the baby cooing along and the smell of coffee being made. Heaven. This is what I always wanted. It’s not much.  A family. A man that loved me and told me I was pretty and would bring me coffee in the morning. A man that would wake up when I had a hard day and let me sleep. A garden that was trying to grow. Friends that would laugh at my jokes and love my oddity. Parents that would hold my hand and tell me they are proud and be there for me to lean on. A sister to call when the world turns over so she can turn it right again or die trying. Kids that fall and get up and apologize and forgive.  Yesterday was a complicated emotional day. But today is bright. And I am happy.

  When I was in my twenties, I wrote a book. Well, I started one. It has the same basic ingredients as the one I am working on these days. A group of 12 year old girls, a cemetery and a chilling adventure that happens during one of their weekly sleepovers.  I know. It sounds pretty good.  It’s not really, but it was my first. I was so eager to publish a book. I think in part because my mom always talked about writing a book. I wanted to reach goals for her. I wanted her to be proud of me.  This being before Twitter, I found an agent via some sort of book. I remember I had this image of her in my head. Long cascading hair, a sunlit office on some street filled with brownstones.  I wrote the query letter and described my book. I left out the part that it was only four pages at this point. I assumed she would read my letter and my genius would shine through.  About two weeks later. She wrote back. Not only did she wrote back, she asked for the first twenty pages.  I had four. Four pages.

  When I was 12 I became an acolyte at my church. I remember feeling like I was part of the cast. I was I guess. I would quietly follow the cross, holding my candle so carefully, pretending to be like the statues of angels you see in the cemetery. Quiet and perfectly reverent with just the right sort of thoughtful look on my face. Whenever I smell candle wax it reminds me of sitting behind the altar, watching the people in the congregation.  Being twelve was confusing. I wanted to stay a kid.  I wasn’t ready for boys and makeup. I didn’t care about clothes or hairspray. I hated having to go into the girls bathroom at school. All the other girls would be fixing their hair and talking about eyeshadow and periods. I just wanted to get out of school so I could read or go into the woods play.  Sitting in church with my fluffy white robe covering me was comforting. There I was ageless, like a cherub, always young and innocent. Special occasions were even better. Christmas Eve and Easter with

  Today after school the family was gathered on the front porch talking about the day. We were discussing what I could write about next when it was decided that this blog will be a 365 day endeavor. I will write and post daily. I can’t guarantee quality, but I can guarantee quantity. Daily posts detailing the strange and mildly magical life of a forty something mom and her family.  My daughter asked me if I wanted to be famous.  I want a clean kitchen, a flower garden and twelve straight hours of sleep. “No, I don’t want to be famous.”  I want to have something that my family and friends can read when I disappear. So they can hear my voice reminding them of all the crazy wonderful things in our life. All the stupid frustrating moments that one day we will miss.  I have one story my mom wrote. One. The pages are worn from being read and passed around and read again. My son keeps it by his bed.  I have so many blurry memories but one story. One story that her fingers pushed out through t

  Sometimes it feels like we are just waiting for the next shoe to drop. The next sick parent, or worried kid, or angry email from the stratosphere. The sunny day when the dog has to be rushed to the vet. The quiet night when just as you are drifting off, you hear a kid vomit. Maybe that’s being an adult, a constant obstacle course of averted and non averted crises.  My therapist tells me that I have to learn that life is taking the good with the bad. That things will be good and bad at the same time. It seems so simple but it blew my hair back. As a kid everything is pretty good. Bad moments come up. Sometimes you stuff them away till later, but for the most part, all is well. You might get yelled at or grounded or have to write papers about copper for your mom. Maybe that was just me . But as a kid, you’re good.  I think for a while I kept my head in the sand. Closing my eyes to any stress. Now I have Rob. He pulled me out of the sand and I can see all this goodness. Sometimes I also

Yesterday we took a family trip to Six Flags. “How fun! The kids must have loved that!”  Nothing is simple with a family. Even joyful days of amusement. My friend once said there are no family vacations. There is family development. It’s true.  It starts with an idea. Let's do something fun with the kids! Ziggy hates crowds and is a militant vegan. Charlie hates waiting in line and needs a gift shop. You see our conundrum. When we were kids, you did whatever your parents said you were doing that day. “We are going to a movie. Get in the car.” “Yay!” “We are going out to eat. Get in the car.” “Yay!” Of course there was whining in our day as well. I might accidentally lean onto Heather's side of the car or she might be frustrated by my existence. But then dad would bark at us and it was done. Or else. Those days are gone. It’s my fault really. I raised my kids relatively free range. Trying to communicate openly with them and give them a voice.  That has come back to bite me in th

Firstborns are raging fires. They bend into the winds, plowing forward at all costs.  My son was born with red embers in his belly. He screamed and spit his first few years. Stomping his feet in frustration at all the things he couldn’t yet understand.  My friend would watch in awe as we communicated in fits and starts. “It’s like you have your own language. I don’t know if I have ever seen a mother and a son so connected.” We had to be. He didn’t sleep so he clung to me endlessly day and night. I wore holes in the floor pacing at night, my arms cramped from cradling his little body, trying to understand what had pissed him off so royally. Then he started to talk. Once that happened, he turned into an elderly man.  “Mom, I’m going upstairs to dress.” Ziggy at three. “I hate teenagers. They smoke and are dangerous.” Ziggy at five. “Mom, I’m making some homemade pasta.” Ziggy at ten. “I love this place. Can we come back tomorrow?” Ziggy at my mom’s memory care home.  Now Ziggy is sixteen

  A 10 year old daughter is a living breathing mirror of all the pain you ever caused your mother. And sometimes a mirror of the pain your mother caused you.  My daughter cut the tension in my life when she came along. If my son was raining fire, she was still waters. Cool and calming. She sang and cooed from the second she arrived. She would twirl and giggle and make her intense brother untangle.  Then life tossed us all around a bit. I held onto them as tightly as I could, but when life whips you around, things shift.  Things are supposed to shift. And now she is ten. She is snarky and funny and a smart ass. We talk about writing and books and all the things happening with the other girls at school. And then she smiles,  “Okay, mom. Bye,” and shuts her door.  All of this is normal. Me standing outside her door with that deep hurt in my chest. A cocktail of worry, fear and jealousy. Wondering what she sees in the mirror. Wondering if she still thinks I'm wonderful and fascinating.

  I have a sister. People never think we are related.  She has almond shaped hazel eyes with flecks of gold. I have close set brown eyes. She has high cheekbones and blond hair. I have a long face and brown hair. She is driven and unafraid. I am not. Unafraid that is.  When we were kids I would peek through her door to catch her practicing smiles, and reading Metal Edge. Like most older siblings Heather would play with me for a while, then grow bored and wander off. Sometimes the game would be “Redecorate Megan’s Room”,and she would wander off after pushing all the bedroom furniture to the center of my little room. Leaving me standing there looking up at the giant dresser, waiting for her return. I desperately wanted to impress her.  We were raised in a cursing house. My dad casually dropped bombs in between laughter. So once in a while, in front of the neighborhood kids, I would let a word fly. I felt dangerous. Of course Heather was always nearby. And after a few weeks of my five yea

  Rob and I have a perfectly unique relationship. He is the man that holds the door. The man that brings me cookies because I’m too skinny.  The man that tells me daily how special our family is to him.  He makes up silly songs on his guitar to make Charlie laugh. Or stays up late watching boxing movies with Zig.  He’s my perfect.  Besides the millions of other things I am not including on this list, the cherry on the cake is our mysterious eyeball game.  It started with Shrinky Dinks. Rob started the tradition of us making them for the tree every Christmas. There are always one or two that are too weird or cattywampus to use, so they would be put away. Kept as memories.  Fast forward to February. I started finding a random Shrinky Dink hidden in strange places. First stuck into the toilet roll. Then in my bottle of vitamins. I finally caught on and started playing with him.  The Shrinky Dink only lasted about three months. And then Rob turned up with a wildly realistic eyeball. One mo

  I am considered a “geriatric mother.” Being pregnant and geriatric is a strange combination. I don’t feel geriatric. In my mind I am still twelve years old and wondering when I can get outside to ride my bike and pick honeysuckle. But there it is. Scrawled across my forms from the Obstetrician's office.  Not only am I considered geriatric, my parents are geriatric. Ligitamitly.  My dad is eighty and still a practicing physician. He drinks strange Russian soda and watches people work out Calculus problems on YouTube and sends my sister and I pictures of our mom. My mom. She was a writer. She had a little writing room in her walk-in closet. I would hide behind her clothes and listen to the sound of her big electric typewriter clicking away and breathe her in.  She once wrote a story about watching her own mom slip away to dementia.  And now she has slipped away. In some separate place but still here. Smiling at me but far away.  So I will write about all the things. I’ll leave a pi

  Every morning when I stumble out of my house, I splash coffee on my bare feet as I tiptoe to the car, 10 year old in tow. I think this is the world reminding me to watch where I step.  Meet Cat. The one thing my precious daughter wanted when we moved to Newnan. Of course I obliged. It’s not like it was a pig. It was a sweet ball of fur that would purr on her lap.  At least in the beginning. Then Cat was let loose to roam. This is when the reign of terror began. At first I wasn’t sure what it was. Beaks, tiny paws, is that an eyeball? No, certainly not. My sweet loving husband would eye Cat like an exorcist, waiting for her head to spin. Chipmunks, moles, birds. Each morning she deposits a new sacrifice in our drive. Rob has started putting chalk lines around them a la Law and Order. He dutifully removes the broken little bodies. I tell him our kids have seen their share of tiny deaths. But he wants to protect them.  So each morning when I feel that splash of coffee wash over my feet,

  When I landed an agent it was a huge deal for me. It made me feel legitimate and like I was on the right path. Even if that path would be littered with disappointment and pain.  She was well respected and sent several of my stories to big publishing houses that sent me the most beautiful rejection letters.  I reworked a few of them and reached out to said agent.  And then I reached out again.  After about a month of sending emails, “Hi there! Is all ok? I have some new ideas!”  agent replied. I asked to have them sent out to a small publishing house I loved. She did and I received another lovely rejection.  Then, a week later I emailed with a new story. This time I received an auto-reply.  “This email is no longer in use.” Hmm. I double checked the address. Yes, it was correct. How unusual. I reached out again.  “This email is no longer in use.”  Then I noticed, tucked at the bottom, “Please send any submissions to agenty-agent at new agency she started.” Hmmmmm. My agent had ghosted

  Making friends as an adult is complicated. Don't get me wrong, I am lucky to have a dozen amazing friends who have known me since before I had braces. But they are spread across the country and I don't see them daily.  I’m a bit of a mess. There are moments I wish I could be the manicured mom. But alas. I am the unkempt mom. The mom with the leftover muffin in the minivan console. It has its purpose. I might get hungry. This “creative chaos” I carry about can make it difficult for me to make friends. People do not like to be sticky. And my life (and car) can be sticky.  So, I purchased a bird feeder. My sister inspired this purchase. She has a lovely well kept garden. She also has a bird feeder. I was standing in her drive watching the little things fly to and from the feeder. I thought, these birds seem happy. So I went home and sat on my porch swing looking out at my “lawn meadow” and imagining all the little friends that would visit me.  It arrived a week ago. A green meta

  Have you missed me? Don’t fret. I simply took time to bury some things. Then I removed my funeral attire and went out looking for more. I’ve had several successful failures in the time I have been away.  Teaching at my child’s school? Failed.  Writing for the town paper? Failed.  Failed so gloriously that the editor of the paper actually said, “Who are you again?” When I ran into her in town. “I write for the paper.” I said. “No you don’t.” FAIL. I even cultivated a delightful weed garden that is the envy of my neighbors.  Now, with my college sweetheart by my side and a new baby, I am ready to strike out and get my hands dirty again.  Our sweet little town has no idea the cloud that has descended.  I’m embracing life one failure at a time.  Enjoy.