Southern Woman on the Skids

  I have one of those late in life babies. I have a sixteen year old and a ten year old and then Weldon Leigh came along. Having a baby after such a long break, and so much life lived, is very eye opening. She is vastly more independent. This is probably because we set her down and take off. Days are spent shuttling kids and trying to stay on top of laundry and the faux flowers in the garden. So she is very content most days to sit and play, for at least a few moments, and watch us all go by. In the mornings when I am busy trying to keep up with my 365 days of writing, I plop her on the floor of her nursery while I sit by and write and watch. When left to her own devices it’s amazing what she gets up to. She scuttles around the room however she feels works best at the moment. Rolling scooting, dragging one leg and clawing the carpet. It all works. I watch her laugh at herself and she wobbles and scoots. Amazed at herself and how far she has come. She is fascinated by the strangest thin

  This summer we don’t have much planned. We are going to the mountains for a week. Then we are home. We have had enough adventures to last us a lifetime in the past few years so we are looking forward to slow mornings, and sprinklers to run through, and dinners outside while watching the lightning bugs come out. So why do I feel so guilty? My mom planned amazing two week trips for us; California, Boston, Europe, you name it. Don’t be confused. My kids have been all over. Their Mimi and Papa spoiled them with trips to Disney World and various other places when they could. But our lives are busy. And complicated. And expensive. When I was still up several times a night with the baby, and trying to plan some perfect summer trip, I had a realization. I realized that I didn’t have to plan biannual magical trips for my children. I couldn’t in fact. Some years we may decide that we need an escape. But some years we may need to be in our lives, with no escape. We may need to keep our feet pla

  The garden is tended. The baby is napping. The weather is nice and the sun is out. Today Rob and I will… Oh hell no. I see you squirrel. Here I am minding my own business, enjoying the lovely morning and watching my sweet little bird friends have their snacks. And you and your fluffy little tail decide you want some too so there you go, shimmying up the little pole. Your cute little paws pulling the feeder toward you. Okay so that’s pretty cute actually. And that little bird is just snacking right there next to you. Maybe that’s your little friend. Maybe this little bird told you there was a house that had a little woodland creature buffet and that everyone could come and enjoy some treats. Okay. Well, don’t hog all the seed. I mean I suppose I could get you your own little feeder. What’s that little squirrel? A squirrel picnic table? Well, I mean yes I have seen those. Okay. I can do that. What now? Oh well thank you! I mean I think the wildflower patch is nice too. Okay Blue Jay, l

  Yesterday I became aware that some of my lovely blooming meadow flowers were, in fact, weeds. I was telling my wildflowers good morning like all master gardeners do, when I saw several little sprouts that had been choked out by a certain yellow flower. Said yellow flower had been very successful in my lawn meadow. I thought it was due to my tending. I was wrong. I pulled one of the deceiving yellow non flowers out by the root. The little wildflower sprout, freed from the suffocating grasp of the yellow lie, grew a full inch. It even gasped an almost inaudible, “Thank youuu…” Clearly this story is mostly untrue. Except the part about the realization that my yard was becoming overtaken by a form of giant dandelion. They were lovely, but they were in fact killing my actual wildflowers. I’m sure that they have some benefits but they were stealing the spotlight from so many others, and had been for too long. So I spent most of yesterday in a muddy and vicious battle ripping apart my lawn

  Rob is home for the summer. We went to sleep last night not long after the baby and today we woke up to a quiet house.  I was rushing about as usual and Rob stopped me. “Go write.” So this morning he is playing with Welles and giving her breakfast and singing her silly songs. And I’m writing and watching the birds.  Rob has been going nonstop for the past year. In three years he has become a father of three, a special education teacher, a husband, the sole breadwinner of our family and held me up while my mom began to disappear. He has chronic pain that we never hear about because he moves through life determined to do right by others, remain selfless and humble, and be the first to raise his hand when needed.  He works with kids that have no voice. They are the ones that are pushed aside by society for being different and complicated and misunderstood. He teaches with the most incredible and humble human beings I have ever met. And he more than fits in. He shines. I know he will mis

  I have been thinking lately about what makes a great writer. I follow several children's writers on various platforms and it struck me. We all have such lovely sparkling images of ourselves that we put out there. Pictures of smiling creatives. We write children's books. We are the writers that build worlds that children drift to sleep exploring. Where animals have tea and discuss the daily rumpus. But we are still writers.    Yesterday I lost a contest. Charlie held up her fist and said, “Repeat after me! I am brilliant! I am a GREAT writer. Now tell me what you are writing this minute. Go.” Clearly, she is also a writer. But I wasn’t that shook about this loss. I have thrown myself in front of failure so many times now that the sting is comforting.  So, if you are wondering how to become a writer, here is my personal recipe. Fail. Be the underdog. Embrace the deep sense of awkwardness you feel in all situations. Know that things around you will forever be slightly “off.” You

  Ziggy is sixteen and starting to do all the teenager things. He was telling me about having some friends over this weekend to celebrate summer. “Don’t get arrested.” I laughed. “Mom!” He groaned. He knows the story. It’s become legend in our family.  I remember it so clearly. I was tucked in bed when I heard my parents downstairs. Dad called out, “Well, Heather is in jail.” I sat bolt upright in bed. Could it be true? The life of an only child flashed through my mind. No more blackmail. No more names like Hackerhair or The Big Gapper. I would be free.  Unfortunately for my fantasy, Heather was released. Heather says she was terrified, but when dad rolled into the station to break her out he was laughing. “Where’s my jailbird?” He joked with the cops. I’ll let the details of her arrest stay confidential. Let’s just say you should see the other guy. Looking at Zig as a teenager I have to keep this moment in the forefront. Kids make stupid mistakes. Hell, adults make stupid mistakes. I

  I read this article about being happy. It said happiness is an emotion so it will come and go. The key to a good life is fulfillment.  Trying to be a writer is complicated. Agents publishing contests rejection. It’s a bag of needles I carry around and push my hands into, hoping I can find the piece of hidden hay. So yesterday after whimpering to Rob about wrongs and rejections. He took a breath and looked at me. “You saved me today.” He was in the thick of it at school, and he read my post and it made him joyful. It shook me out of my selfish pout and made me realize again why I wanted to do this in the first place. So my family would remember the bits and pieces of our life. When I was teaching at Charlie’s school I floundered. I loved the kids and the energy but I never felt quite like I found my rhythm. I wasn’t there long before mom got sick but I wanted to make friends. Charlie's two teachers at the time were the obvious choices. I had a reason to talk to them and could pop

  There are dishes in the sink, piles of laundry on my table, and crumbs on the counter and dog hair litters our floor. But it’s drizzly today and Weldon has decided she wants to try walking. So while she naps I think it’s a good day to lay in bed and read a book. When she wakes up we can play on the floor, make some snacks and practice walking.  My friends' kids are starting to graduate high school. Zig will be there in just two years. Two. That’s it. So I’ll sit and have a day where I lounge about a bit. And I’ll watch. I won’t think about how fast it’s going. I’ll just try and be here and with them while I can.  Last night Rob and I were laying in bed and there was a constant borage of taps at the door.  “Mom, look at my outfit.” “Dad, what do you think about so and so…” The kids came in and out asking questions and getting ready for the next day. I watched Rob, who is in the throws of the last week of school as a first year teacher and completely exhausted, give them all he had

  My dad is a character. I have mentioned this before. He does calculus for fun. He reads the paper/books/articles aloud but mumbles so you have no idea what he is saying, He drinks Russian soda. He is also humble, aware of his shortcomings and introspective.  He reads constantly. I grew up with him and my mom sitting amongst stacks of books. History, science, mystery. And art. My parents went to bookstores and galleries. That was my perfect weekend as a kid. Dinner, the bookstore and the museum. Whenever my parents traveled they would go to galleries and bring back a special painting or two. My dads walls are covered with paintings, but to me they are reminders of moments in time. Boston, Santa Fe, Europe. I think something that he did defined how I see parenthood. He had said something that hurt my feelings. I was in my room. I was sitting on my bed and he came in and sat with me. Then he apologized. To me. A kid. I felt ten feet tall and so loved at that moment. I think of that mome

  Today is Weldon’s baptism. I am embarrassed to say that after about two weeks into pregnancy I abandoned Sunday morning at church for Sunday morning in bed. Now that she’s here, it’s easier to just let her nap instead of dressing and rushing out the door. I know that I should go. I want the kids to have that same sense of peace that I had when I walked into church as a kid. I know that God will find them. I have to trust that. As much as, deep down, I want to drag them through my own life and force them to see the things I saw just the way I saw them. I can’t. If God has taught me anything it’s that I am not in control. I have tried. And failed.  Weldon was a miracle baby. Rob and I reunited miraculously after twenty five years and our own personal struggles. We knew having a baby was likely not in the cards without help so we got some help. Month of tests and medication and tears and morning after morning of shots that left me bruised and sore and emotional. And then she was there.

  I swear I am not an overprotective mom. I’m not. But I’m old. I know things. I was ten once. And I’m a writer. Have been since birth. So all the awkward things have happened to me. Truly. That’s part of being a writer. If your life is smooth sailing there isn’t shit to write about. So when I walk into social type situations with my girl, who is also clearly a writer, I put my guard up. I’m not saying that’s a good thing. But it’s what I do.  Charlie is a little daydreamer. She once told my dad to turn off the radio in the car. “I can’t imagine, Papa! Turn it off!” She yelled at him from the back seat, gazing out the window at the passing trees. She plays with the kids that will play pretend with her. She could care less who you are or where you came from, if you have an imagination and an easy laugh, she’s in.  She was homeschooled up until second grade. Before I put her in school she was a little free spirit. Barefoot and picking flowers and always singing at the top of her voice. 

  My mom was an animal lover. We had all kinds of pets over the years and there were always cats roaming about. The cats would have kittens. Sometimes they would have those kittens in the trash wagon. Heather and I got to keep one kitten each. But sometimes tragedy struck. When tragedy struck, my mom would need to find another creature in need to fill the space they left. So when my kitten crossed the rainbow bridge, God rest her soul, she went to the pound. The pound was a mythical place to me as a kid. In my mind it was like Valley of the Ashes in The Great Gatsby. A dirty dusty place of no return. But my mom wasn’t afraid. The story goes she went to the pound to find me a new kitten. As she was walking up one of the employees was taking a little pup out. My mom saw this and intervened. “Where is this little dog headed?” She asked. “It’s her time. Too bad really. Sweet little dog.” My mom wasn’t gonna have that, “How much for me to take him right now?” “Ten bucks.” “Sold.” My mama sn

  In the car this morning, I went to set my coffee down and realized the HunniWagon was littered with detritus from our days. Bottles, snack wrappers, a cookie cake box, school papers, possibly a piece of dried mango. My week was spread through the car.  I mumbled a complaint and Charlie chimed in, “But mom, it’s like the junk wagon!”  “You mean the Trash Wagon.” I smiled to myself.  My mom’s silver Datsun became known as the Trash Wagon. Melted crayon dotted its red fabric. Kittens had been born in the front seat. The seatbelts were frayed and there were candy bits stuck in the fluffy red carpeting. Honestly it was still cleaner than our van, but the Trash Wagon had a special something. I have foggy memories of the long drives to Disney World, picking at the melted crayon. I was very small during the Trash Wagon glory days, so I reached out Anna Kate for some more details. “Well, I don’t remember any kittens being born in it. And thankfully I think it was only your Dad’s Porsche that

  Late last night my dad sent Heather and I a picture of our great Grandpop. It was his wedding photo from about 1915. He is dashing and looks a little dangerous. Unrecognizable from the 90 year old man I knew. Pop in my memory was a small round man that woke early.  “Coffee, coffee, coffee.” He would mumble, rising before the sun and sitting at the table to have his first cup. Pop was always dressed impeccably and the man could walk. I mean he really walked. I remember walking with him. He had a walking stick to protect us from wild dogs. At least that’s what he told me it was for. And when you walked with Pop, you were gone for most of the day. He walked in winter's chill. He walked Georgia's sticky summer heat. In a suit. Miles and miles.  When he wasn’t walking he was in his room watching PBS. I would go and sit with him. Not because I enjoyed PBS. B I was there because he always had a full Whitman's Sampler on his dresser. I would sit and eat candy in the relative quie

  Tuesdays. Just a day. Sewing class. Tutoring. School programs for Rob. Me home sorting laundry. Cleaning up after the bulldog. Dishes. Naps. Planning how to eat the strange combination of things that are hiding in the fridge. Ziggy said the other day he wished he could be a stay at home dad. That my day seemed so fun. I guess it is fun.  I remember being a kid, waiting for my mom to take me to the bus stop. I would watch our little dog sleeping on the couch. Oblivious to the world. I watched her and wished I could just be her. No stress about homework, or letters home from the teacher or what drama might happen with the cliques in school. She just stayed home and got  loved on by my mama and ate. Amazing. Of course she died when she was 9 but still. Being a kid is complicated. You have no control. Everything is changing both inside and outside. And kids know that things just get more complicated. They see in the hushed conversations and the stack of bills on the desk.  So perhaps I h

  A friend recently wondered about why the end of the school year is always so insane. MAYhem. I responded. I was a teacher. Most of the Cookies are teachers as is my husband. It is widely known amongst teachers that May is and will always be the fire of Hell you must walk through to get to the coveted summer vacation.  Recitals. Testing. Parties. Field trips. Grades. All of it and more happen in May. The children smell this mixture of fear and chaos and they add to the fun. Something in their little brains snaps on May 1st. They go nuts. They call home “sick.” The good children become wild. The wild kids get wilder. It’s feeding frenzy.  Charlie is no exception. She does very well in school. Perfectly behaved. Good grades. But she’s not a fan. She would rather be home. Reading. Sewing. Playing with the dogs. I can’t blame her. I was the same. So when I got the call from the school nurse, I wasn’t surprised. The nurse knows me well. When you have an anxious kid, you know the school nur

  Today I let myself be spoiled. Rob is really good at that. Even when he is dealing with a mountain of school and first year teaching and being far from family, etc. He will also hold me up a little today. He will hold me up so I can remember to be with my mama today. She slips a little further underwater each day so I need to hold on while I can. Before she loses her grip on us. We will all caravan up to see my mom, the kids Mimi. My dad has ordered a boatload of BBQ. We will bring board games to play and sit around making each other laugh and love on my mom. We will show her pictures and she will hold Weldon in her lap. Zig will not leave her side. He will hold her hand and kiss her cheeks. Charlie will watch her Mimi not sure of how to act and eventually fall back into the safety of childhood, running around with Maeve and Dutch, happily lost in play. Heather will turn on that bright light of hers for the afternoon. And when she loses that shine for a moment, we will step away and

  Dear Zig, Charlie and Weldon, I have this group of friends. You know them well at this point. We have been together since elementary school. We met when we were about Charlie's age in fact. When you are friends with 15 women for that long you go through some shit. Fights. Forgiveness. Marriage. Birth. Divorce. Death. There were years when I lost touch, to tied up in myself to realize that my most important relationships were falling by the wayside. But they stayed by me. Those summer weekends when I go to visit them are so important. You see why. I come home happy and laughing. Someone’s daughter is being bullied. Someone’s husband isn’t rising to the challenge. Any question or fear or joy I have can be shared and understood by them. We spent our childhood together. Awkward goofy kids making each other laugh and keeping secrets. And you know the Cookies. You know how we are all different. It’s not as if we all share the same politics/faith/beliefs. We don’t. But over the years th

  When raising babies in a city far from home, people show up in your life. Sometimes they teach you how to mama and how to cook and how to garden. Sometimes they don’t know how desperately you needed them. How they were saving you every time they held your baby, or cooked you a meal, or dug in a garden while you watched, clinging to a crying baby.  My mom swooped in when Ziggy was born. She cared for me. Rocked him and cradled me when I broke down. Hopelessly depressed. But my mom had to leave.  While she was gone I found the women who would be by surrogate mamas. The ones who let me come to the play group even before I had kids so I could sit and eat cheese and crackers and feel some ground under my feet. So I could watch and learn. I saw their babies grow. I saw all the phases and how they struggled themselves. They taught me to be brave. To plant my own damn garden. Who cares if it fails the first time, keep planting. They taught me to raise my kids how I knew was best. They taught

  This is a story I wrote for a Twitter KidLit competition. We spin for a word. Mine was suspicious. We only had 125 for the story.   The old woman was always on her porch at this time in the morning. Before the sun had started to stretch morning rays across the street.  When Annie and her mother had moved to the house on Blake Street, it was hard not to notice the old woman’s house. Nothing grew in the garden, it was as if the soil was poisoned.  Her mothers garden was bursting with life and color.  The night she saw the old woman, pacing her porch, muttering to the old matted gray cat, Annie couldn’t ignore her fears anymore.  So she sat and watched early one morning in the dark. She felt the cat around her ankles before she heard the chanting. The old woman. And her mother. Then, darkness. . 

  I am reading a book about a punk nun. She is the ultimate Rebel Catholic and I love her. In the book there is a fellow nun that spends her days tending the herb garden. In my mind I have decided part of me is a mash up of these two characters. So today I am wandering around my lawn meadow, baby on my hip and long black moomoo dress flowing, learning about my weed flowers. I got this app that tells me what they are and if they are sick and how to tend to them. It’s fascinating. I feel like that mash up nun, poking around in my medicinal garden. Everyone may THINK these are weeds. But I know better. I know that mugwort repels snakes. And Mosquitos. I know that my goldenrod won’t bloom for a while but it was used to treat asthma and hemorrhoids. Can your perfectly manicured lawn treat hemorrhoids? I didn’t think so. I trimmed the fungusy leaves off of my Fiddle Leaf. I applied neem oil to keep the bad pest away so that all the birds and bees and butterflies can enjoy the lawn meadow wit

  It was always my goal as a writer to get a literary agent and sell some books to a small publisher. That’s the dream I guess. So with all this writing I have been doing. I dipped into my picture book manuscripts to see if there was one I could throw out to agents to see if I got a bite. I polished a little story I love and sent it out to sea.  I get a little driven. Okay, maybe obsessed is a better word. I’m like a dog with a bone. If I decide I want something I run through brick walls until I make it happen. This can be good. I know what I want and I go after it! Also it can be bad, I shut out everything and everyone, I drive towards my goal at all costs. That’s not how it should be. I love all my stories. Better still, my kids and family love my stories. Of course I want Odd Edgar and Lonely Potato to be out in the world. That’s the dream. But for now, in the rush of building all this new, raising the kids and looking ahead to what may be next for our family, I realize that taking

  Having a daughter that is just like me is a blessing. And a curse. Sometimes I feel like I am looking into a mirror to my past. She has the same gaps in her teeth. The same school disdain. She hides herself in books and has a dark humor. She also has knots, just like I did. Like I do. Nasty hard to manage knots. Last week one hid beneath her long hair, building up strength, somewhat unknown to me. I have battled Charlie's thick tangles before. I know those tangles. I had them myself. But this one was different. When she came back to us after the weekend, it was worse. It was peeking out from underneath and grabbing at the rest of her hair, willing her whole head to join in the fun. I knew we needed help. So I called in my secret hair weapon. Heather. She has a salon. She knows hair like a priest knows the devil. I warned Charlie that there was a possibility that we may need to just cut it. To root it out and start over. We looked at short little hair cuts and prepared ourselves.

  As a kid, Spring Break meant one thing, Disney World. My parents had their own trips during the year. Two weeks in Europe in the fall. So this was a trip for the kids. Anna Kate would come along so Heather and I didn’t kill each other on the ride. Part of the fun was preparing for the ride. Loading snacks, notepads and thinking of games we could play along the way. There was really only one stop on the way and that was Shoney’s, mostly for the brownie sundae. We always stayed at a small hotel in the park, The Golf Resort. It doesn’t exist as it was anymore; but it was perfect. Right in the park but not annoyingly themed. I have memories of getting out of the car after that long eight hour drive to the smell of lilies and freedom. My parents gave us a room key and let us loose. We hopped on and off the monorail, ate junk food in every country at Epcot and stayed out until the park closed. My parents would stay in the room and read for the morning and meet us at night to avoid the stic

  Yesterday we brought home two little birds. They aren’t ours. Not really. They are class pets from Rob's school. But I get them all summer long. My little summer birds. I think perhaps Rob was concerned about my muttering to the birds on the feeder. So now we have two lovely blue and white parakeets. Polly and Tommy Shelby. I have been researching how to keep them happy. What the sounds mean. How to decipher bird body language. If they sing and are fluffy they are happy. If they make themselves skinny and are quiet, they aren’t. Sounds like me.  I want the birds to feel safe and happy. So I have been playing "Happy Parakeet Chatter” on YouTube. An endless loop of parakeet chatter and tweets that is supposed to make them “sing and settle happily into their new home.” I have searched “How to know if your parakeet likes you" and “How to gain a parakeet's trust.” Maybe I’m coming on a bit too strong . Perhaps I should just go about my days.  Let my two little birds watc

  Saturday morning. They evolve so much as you grow. As a little kid, I remember sitting on our green shag carpet, Cheerios and orange juice in front of the massive wooden TV. I sat so close I would kick the little decorative handles on the TV with my feet while I watched Scooby Doo. Or I would wake up early and pull on my swimsuit, waiting for my mom to finish her coffee so I could start a long summer day in the pool. In high school if my friends weren’t at my house or vice versa, I slept in. Waking up to a quiet house. My parents already in the midst of their day.  Now, either I wake with the baby or Rob does, the other kids here or not here. If they aren’t here, weekends are a little too quiet. I find myself straining to hear them so I wander into their rooms. Charlie's smells of Strawberry Pound Cake spray, cloying and sweet. Zigs smells of rubber and sweat, his shoes lined neatly along one wall. Sometimes Charlie leaves us a note. I found one in my wandering this morning, coff

  Yesterday was a rare occasion when all of us were home. Zig didn’t work. Charlie didn’t have sewing. Rob didn’t have class. So we were able to have a family dinner. It was perfect weather, so Zig requested we eat on the front porch. We balanced our plates on our laps and sat scattered about on the front porch. Talking about our days and watching the birds land on the feeder. As a kid there was no question about whether or not we would eat as a family. It just happened. Broiled lemon pepper chicken, microwaved potato halves, and broccoli. That was the most common line up. I set the table. Heather made sweet tea and got ice in the glasses. Then we would sit and eat. Simple.  We have a new baby, so I give myself a little grace for the current crazy. But I look forward to those occasional days when the kids know that we all need to slow down. When they congregate in the kitchen without me hollering up. They sit and linger over a second helping. They tell us about hard things happening in

  There were several games I played when I was little. Throw rock at Tree was one I enjoyed. It was more complex than it sounds. But the real game of games for us was Knight and Collins.  Knight Rider was my favorite show as a kid. And David Hasselhoff seemed interesting to me. His car was far more interesting. Because of this, I chose him to be my imaginary husband. Heather went with a more reliable guy. Stephen Collins. At the time Stephen was starring in a show Called Tales of the Golden Monkey. Maybe you don’t remember it. Because no one does. Needless to say, Stephen was Heather's pick.  This game was like a soap opera with cabbage patch kids. Adoption Dolls as we called them. Clearly our husbands were never around, so the game consisted of me running around pretending to be in Kit, and setting up the dolls in various activities. Sometimes Anna Kate got in on the action. She was married to Tom Selleck. I remember one time Anna Kate and Heather decided the dolls would have ch

  I started working on the book. I was nervous to look through it. It’s broken little pages trying to fit together. There were pages where the words simply stopped, hanging on to nothing and then pages where I wove things together perfectly. Maybe not perfectly.  I told my therapist about this book. about how it was a bridge into my new life. How when I started it, I was cracking open. How Rob and I would stay up together, editing pages and discussing characters. In reality he was helping rebuild me, helping me pick up pieces of myself and put them where they should have been years ago. This is the book I needed at 12 and again at 40. This is the book my daughter needs now. So it was painful to open it and see how I had abandoned it. The lights were off and I had to stumble a bit to adjust to where I was in the story. I had to get the lights back on. Then it was bright. I could see where I was again. I felt the familiar pull, the need to show them how to escape. How to stand up and tak