Seasons of Change

The weather connects us to our past. It dictates our days and nights. It holds us hostage when it chooses. It sets us free at a whim.

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Seasons of Change

We are between seasons in this part of Alaska. The mornings hold a fall chill while the sun fights against the oncoming winter by surrounding the afternoons in warm rays. Children throw off their jackets and scamper delightedly in damp grass that is still cool from the previous night’s rain. The end of summer dances with the brief kiss of fall. From the tops of mountains white snow looms, threatening to cover the earth in a blanket of white. “How long?” we wonder, looking up at fat grey and white clouds. How long until we must stuff our children into snow pants and boots? How long until the days recede into mere moments? Collectively we hope for a drowsy, wet October, warm enough to unzip jackets and show off Halloween costumes. Warm enough for cider sipped in sweaters on back porches amidst not yet barren trees awash in orange and yellow leaves.

The weather connects us to our past. It dictates our days and nights. It holds us hostage when it chooses. It sets us free at a whim. Long ago we assigned Gods and Goddesses to the wind and rain. To the Sun and Moon. To the earth and its many complex happenings. To the birth and death of plants and animals. We even created a deity responsible for our very souls that would measure our worth and design our eternity accordingly. Still the weather guides and defines.

Norse Mythology describes a Hell referred to as Helheim ruled over by a giantess Hel, half living, half dead. The region is described as generally cold and lifeless; A place of eternal winter.  The Greeks also assigned Godly personages to the changing seasons. The myth of Persephone and Hades explains the seasons through desire, capture and enslavement and an agreement between the deities that resulted in the seasonal patterns we have now.

As Persephone was stolen by Hades, King of the Underworld, from Demeter’s, her mother’s, life giving, fertile bosom and spirited down to the underworld with him, everything above it began to die. Tricked into eating fruit from the underworld Persephone would be forever tied to Hades as her husband.

Ultimately as the story goes, in order to appease Demeter Persephone would spend part of the year above the earth with her mother and these would be the spring and summer months when life on earth would flourish. Flowers would bloom, people would harvest their hearty crops and the sun’s rays would shine down in a delicate balance with spring and summer rains, gentle enough to coax the most fragile bud into a blossom. Then when Persephone would sink below to spend her time with her husband Hades and rule the underworld beside him as his bride, fall would come as the air cooled and the flowers and crops began to die. Winter for the ancient Greeks marked the same lifeless frozen world described in Norse mythology. People were forced to create warmth for themselves with fire and blankets. They prayed to the Gods to survive the winter. This was no guarantee.

As a child I reveled in winter. I dug forts, made snow angels and threw snowballs at my friends. I loved the snap of cold air into my lungs. I loved the way icicles formed on my eyelashes. I loved the taste of a snowflake falling straight down onto my waiting tongue. My daughter also loves the snow. She finds it magical. However she struggles with January and February as do I, the fierce cold overwhelms her. The oppressive darkness and unrelenting cold of those months do indeed invoke images of the Hellheim described in Norse Mythology and the Greek desolation of a world without its maiden Persephone.

This year I plan to hang lights in as many rooms as I can in our house. I’ll have well-placed lit candles, the fireplace burning, two Christmas Trees; one upstairs and one downstairs. My daughter and I will make snowflakes out of paper and hang them from the ceiling so they can swing gaily as we pass by them. The appearance of my sons will fill her with joy. Lighting up an otherwise dark and dismal time. She is already making plans for her brothers. They will make a snowman. Pelt each other with snowballs. She wants them to eat the snow with her. “But not the brown snow,” she clarifies.

We will make our way through the winter taking comfort in the festivity of December. We will hold each other close, as in the last months of winter the season tightens its icy grip in defiance to its eventual melting and disappearance from the surface of the earth. Eventually we will rejoice as we jump in puddles between melting piles of crusted snow and call forth the blessed spring and the promise of new life. We will grow and thrive with all life on earth, nurtured by summer’s golden grace until the circle once again stops its spin and the needle rests in winter’s icy palm.

For now I’m content to relish in these last days of summer. The roses still bloom from their pots on the deck. The tomatoes still grow in the greenhouse. The lawn still needs mowing. And my daughter throws off her jacket and runs barefoot in the yard. These are the times we wish would last forever. At least one can take comfort in knowing that even though it will leave us, like a devoted lover it will return.

Perfection

It is.
This hideous beast inside pretending at destruction
that releases glory suddenly
like a storm cloud that reveals
a single perfect ray.

It is.                                                                   My obsession that keeps me up long past the turning of keys and the clicking of lamps
and the rustle of sheets on a bed
that misses the weight of me.

It is.
An omnipresent loneliness that swallows me whole and deposits me— undigested,
Slick with self loathing and causeless fear
into a place I’d forgotten about.

It is.
A pulling up and out of myself the guts of me and spilling them onto computer screens and sheets of paper while unoriginally searching for meaning, perhaps even absolution.

It is.
That cavernous space between my lover and myself full of pit traps and mines only recently discovered and not yet admitted to.

It is.
The nobility of happiness despite the mundane death after death of all aspiration.

It is.
One life with all of its small joys and deceptions—
fragile, perilous, unrelenting and ultimately unavoidable.

It is.
Perfection.

Kimkoa 2018

 

Easter Baskets

We think we know what defines joy and yet we run through the days at light speeds missing each occurence.

 

Easter Baskets

I kissed you today-
And for a moment it was as if nothing had ever broken.
The sun was all around your face and I felt like laughing.
I wanted to stay there- fixed, encapsulated, unchanged.
The heat of my happiness set off  explosions in my brain and I remembered you- drunk and smiling, dropping the Easter baskets all over downtown.
That day you were beautiful…you even pissed your shoes!
We think we know what defines joy and yet we run through the days at light speeds missing each occurence.
You’re sleeping now and I check and check
and check again, to see dark hair strewn across a pillow,
and one foot out of the covers,
While the stretch of your arm reaches out over my absence.
I want to pull you out of the bed and onto the floor.
I want to hold your face and cry out now!
It is now and we may not always have it!
Just today the cymbals were crashing and I’ll stay up all night to feel this in love.

Kimkoa 2010

 

Banana Milkshakes

I will read you every word so you will know I’m smart like you are will you stay with us I won’t be loud I need you even though you have to go

Banana Milkshakes

Foam the milk with fruit it’s not as sweet as I was hoping can we add some ice-cream please I had a dream that you were gone don’t ever leave us pink and red I wore the shirt I know you like and maybe if I watch you closely I can stop the clock from ticking I will read you every word so you will know I’m smart like you are will you stay with us I won’t be loud I need you even though you have to go I’m still not ready it’s ok I know you love us give me reasons to accept the way it is and has to be I need a hug don’t change or grow I love you mom I love you mom I love you
just
the
way
you
are.
Kimkoa 2010

Sing It Loud, Say It Proud

I don’t do this for myself. I do it for my children. For my daughter who will have her own children one day and may suffer as I did.

You never know what will happen when you reach out to someone. Not everyone is ready for a true friend. It’s taken me a long time to realize this. I still don’t understand it and take it personally more often than not.

I’m a transparent person. I have hurdles I have to overcome, battles I need to fight and I am an imperfect person something I don’t try to hide. I worry sometimes I come across as a toddler yelling “I make mistakes!” with a wide sunny grin as though it were a gift. Perhaps I do come across that way sometimes however I don’t think that’s something to apologize for. One thing about making mistakes is at least you know you’ve tried to DO something. You’ve tried to make a thing happen even if you bungled the entire operation from start to finish. Some mistakes are worse than others obviously. Still we learn from them, however hard the lesson.

My continual need to reach out to other people and share my story with them and hear theirs is just part of me, it’s who I am because of how my life has been. The joy I’ve experienced when I share what I’ve been through and someone else shares what they’ve been through with me and we each accept, forgive and love each other despite those scars is nameless. It literally cannot be touched. Because of this however, when I see an opportunity for that level of happiness and my attempts are met with a firmly closed door, or worse a mere dismissal as if my olive branch never existed I am so crushed, I feel so rejected that it’s hard to LET IT GO. I can’t MOVE ON. I want to know why I couldn’t reach them. Why they wouldn’t let me in.

The truth is, it isn’t about me. It isn’t about me at all. There are a million and one reasons why someone keeps the doors of their life closed and the shades of their heart drawn even against the brightest, most beautiful days. It’s their right to take solace behind a locked door. Just because I want them to feel the sun with me doesn’t mean they have to and it doesn’t mean that sunlight is any less beautiful. It’s just the way of things. It’s the way people are. For someone who is used to hiding, used to pretending to be “perfect” my openness and consequent awareness is off-putting. What? They say. How do you know me so well? Only because I am you I think. Only because I used to try to hide too.

This is how it is battling bipolar disorder. Battling anxiety, depression, self doubt. Battling any mental illness really. Once you accept that you need help and you ask for that help and you receive it, you want to share it with everyone else. And you become adept at spotting the same illnesses, the same broken pieces in others. You want to help them too. Even when they don’t want anything you have to give. Because part of the struggle is learning to break open that rusty lock and connect with others who feel the way you do.

I’m on a journey. I used to take a multitude of pills just to stay stable. Things are different now. It’s important to note I have been working with medical professionals and no one should ever EVER just stop taking their medication. I just happen to have a big mouth and a refusal to accept a regimen that isn’t working for me (restless legs, 50 lb weight gain, the inability to write, etc) So I used my big mouth and about a thousand phone calls and I now take one pill for my bipolar (lithium), one (will likely become two) pill for my raging ADHD (vyvanse), two for the anxiety brought on by OCD (gabapentin & klonopin) and one for sleep (lunesta). I actually tried ambien and had a psychotic reaction to it so if this has happened to you you’re not alone. I took the pill and 30 minutes later I told my husband- “The eye told me you have bodies buried in the yard.” Needless to say I never took it again.

Sleep is so elusive but my God it’s so vital especially when you’re battling mental illness. But who can sleep when there’s so much to do, so much to think about and everything whirls around in my head like a carnival ride you can’t get off of. It’s important to note that sleeping pills are EXTREMELY dangerous. The wrong one can change you into a psychotic mess. And if you’re extremely depressed, in large doses they will kill you.

I wrote in a past blog about how lucky I was and how much I loved my doctor. Well as usual nothing lasts. This is what we as people who suffer these illnesses go through. I put my entire trust in her and our last appointment she told me that although she was reducing her case load she would never drop me as a client. A week later I got a phone call from her office saying she would no longer be seeing me, I was referred to a new doctor and the earliest appointment would be in three months. I thought well of course that happened. So for the last two and a half months I have become best friends with the certified medical assistants who have been my bridge over this doctor-less sea of side effects and dosage problems. Insurance issues and complete frustration and loss of faith. If you ever see a CMA give them a hug. I don’t know what I would have done without them.

All is not lost however. I found out that this new doctor is an osteopath who specializes in treating people with psychiatric conditions using a combination of traditional western medicine and alternative natural remedies. Hallelujah! Praise the Lord! I may have hit the jackpot! I have been praying for this since I got sick. Because there are not just these diagnoses that hang over me like a witch’s cloak. I have polycystic ovarian syndrome. At the time I was diagnosed with Bipolar 1 I was suffering extreme postpartum psychosis, WHICH can last UP TO THREE YEARS. I also have uterine prolapse so I only ever go two to three days maximum without bleeding like a stuck pig. I also have cysts all over my thyroid so prominent you can see one of them sticking out of the side of my throat! Hmmm. How many conditions could the side effects of what I am going through mimic? How many doctors would want to throw pill after pill at me clueless as to why they don’t work? I’m not saying I’m not bipolar. I really don’t know where I fall on the spectrum of mood and mental disorders. I’ve learned that a pregnancy can shift a mild case of bipolar 2 into a severe case of bipolar 1. I do have many of the symptoms. I also have many of the symptoms of the other conditions I’m suffering. So who knows and really I HATE labels. We’re all humans dealing with different levels of hardship and whatever you call yourself, judgment and stigma must be erased from our vocabularies.

What I’m trying to say is that there may be more ways of treating your condition whatever it may be, beyond just pills. On top of pills. On top of pills.

I know I’m not alone. That’s why I’m speaking out. In the Netherlands their schizophrenic people remain integrated into society. People treat them with kindness. The reorient them into reality as a whole, as a group, rather than locking them away. Studies show they get better! They regain their grip on who they are and what is real. Now I can’t say that would work for everyone. It would be amazing but this society is so diversified and disconnected I have a hard time believing what works in a homogeneous social system would work here in the melting pot that is America. But the lesson is in their lack of judgment. The person is sick. Not evil, not gross, not to be shunned and avoided. Just sick. That’s all. It’s so simple.

When I was hospitalized I went on social media and asked for visitors. I asked for flowers. I let everyone know where I was and that I was lonely for companionship. One loving couple came to see me with flowers and a balloon. My aunt Nycki and Uncle Tom. They brought a card for Alice. Do you know why they came? Because their son suffers from a mental illness and they were not afraid of the behavioral health ward. Which by the way is calm, clean, full of loving nurses and good people. People who are ill just like anyone else. There are children and husbands who come and spend time with their mothers. They bring games and cookies. They bring the freedom of the outside. Their are girlfriends who come to see their boyfriends with paper bags full of sweatshirts, headphones, love letters. They hug each other. Long embraces. Everyone looks away as the tears roll down their cheeks. Usually one of the older female patients will bring tissues. Sometimes a tiny carton of juice. Of course there are the patients who sit in their rooms during visiting hours. Because no one is coming. That was never me. Even though none of my friends came, my aunt and uncle did. And my family was there for every visitation. I even had a birthday cake with real candles in my room surrounded by them. Another Aunt and Uncle sent flowers. A dear friend from high school sent flowers. He was in Hawaii and unable to visit. But he made sure to let me know he cared. But none of my friends came. Most of them ignored my obvious distress. I thought to myself here I am in the hospital, having been diagnosed with a disease deadlier than cancer and hardly anyone seems to care. But that’s how it is. People hear the word bipolar and they want to get as far away from you as possible. Women hide their postpartum conditions out of the very real fear of judgment. And then they end up in the hospital crying over why it has to be this way while their visiting babies fill up the ward with their sounds of new life.

For all of these reasons I sing out my story. I tell anyone who will listen about what I’ve been through, what I’m going through and what I have yet to overcome. I don’t do this for myself. I do it for my children. For my daughter who will have her own children one day and may suffer as I did. I do it for all the other people struggling under the weight of their diagnoses, their medications, doctors who don’t listen, friends who don’t care. I will never be quiet. And maybe just maybe things will change.

Gone but only for a while

I tell myself I should be grateful. That even though I have to say goodbye, at least I’ll get to say hello again.

My middle son Elliott boards a plane tomorrow. To the sound of breaking hearts everywhere. Every day I wake up and wish his father hadn’t moved across the country. But some things can’t be helped.

I tell myself I should be grateful. That even though I have to say goodbye, at least I’ll get to say hello again. I wish that logic worked. All I feel is an empty place that only he can fill. We went to the trampoline park yesterday. It was the most fun I’ve had in I don’t know how long. It was as if we both forgot he was leaving for these few precious hours and just let go. Sailing from square to square, bouncing like kangaroos, playing virtual video games, running all over the park like little kids…it doesn’t get better than that. Later we watched Brooklyn 99 and I twisted his hair. We stayed up until two in the morning. Laughing, talking, doing his hair, making memories.

Of course nothing lasts forever. Every time my roses bloom I clip them faithfully, making fragrant and colorful bouquets. They’re beautiful. Until they’re not. Until their petals begin to fall. Until they curl and brown at the edges. Nothing lasts forever so we must make each moment count. I remember when Elliott was a baby, soft and fat and gorgeous. Big blue eyes, a wide engaging grin…the easiest baby you could ever ask for. It’s hard to believe he’s as a tall as I am now. That he can’t seem to eat enough tacos. That he broke my heart by going to Oregon and never coming home.

It’s been a hell of a summer. My daughter is operating on all cylinders, my mother took off for a month in Spain, I have a hysterectomy scheduled in early September because I can’t stop bleeding. Luckily yesterday it was mild enough that I could forget about my pain. At least for a little while. My oldest son was here for a month and barely made it that long. He says he’ll visit when he’s older. Unless I move I don’t see that happening. He hates Alaska with a passion. I am forced to watch him grow up on Instagram and Facebook. It’s about as painful a thing as you can imagine. All I can think is he’s my son. He’s my son. How is it I don’t get to raise him? How is it that I missed straightening his tie for his first homecoming dance? That I’ve never seen a concert or a play he’s been in? That I have to beg and plead for recordings and videos that never come? That he and his brother didn’t even send me a card for mother’s day and FaceTimed me with horrible reception while working on their stepmother’s mother’s house as though I mattered as much as a pebble on the ground? My head echos with these truths unceasingly. I have to remind myself that life is a lot of things but fair is not one of them.

I feel angry. I feel hurt. Most of all I feel lost. I feel lost when I hear mothers talk about taking their teenagers to football practice or guitar lessons. When they complain about their messy rooms. When they snap pictures of them with their girlfriends. I can’t relate to these women. My sons were ripped from my life and I’ll never know those moments. I don’t get that time. They’re growing up without me, being raised by another woman. In another state. And I am powerless to change it.

It hurts most when I think of my daughter. She can be moody as hell but she loves her brothers fiercely and when they are gone all she does is talk about when they’re coming back. I never wanted it this way. They live with their stepsisters and often it feels like they forget their blood sister even exists. They’ve never even gotten her a present. Not even a card. They don’t call her. They don’t realize what it’s like to be a little sister who’s brothers were there one day and gone the next.

I’ve felt like throwing up every day for the  past week. I’m not pregnant. My husband thinks I’m just heartbroken. The body has funny was of dealing with pain and stress.  And mine apparently chooses for me to feel like I’m going to throw up on the floor.

However time marches on. I wanted to work on music with my son. It never happened. He just wasn’t here long enough. He had overnights with friends, parties here, parties there, a little sister to play with and everything else that gets in the way of everything you try to do. Maybe one day.

My consolation in all of this is that despite the distance I know my sons love me. They may be forgetful and even selfish as most teenage boys are but the love is there, the bond remains unbroken. I like to imagine one day playing with my grandchildren, the pain of the past a distant memory. My sons seem to be growing and thriving which on one hand hurts because I selfishly want them to need me more, but on the other hand and the most important point is that they are well, happy and cared for. I would never interfere with a son’s need to be near his father. That relationship will shape the men they will become.

As I said before I clip and prune my roses when they have bloomed fat and fragrant. The hardest part is waiting for the new blooms to open and cover the bush with beauty. It’s the same way with my sons. They come to me full of blooms and I gather them up and breathe them in, every last bit of them. They leave their blossoms all over my heart. All over their sister’s heart. And then when they have given all they can and the clock strikes the time of leaving I watch them go, still strong, green leaves and branches with the tender buds I sowed that will grow over the long months until I see them again full of new life. Until then I can only love them, miss them and wonder what color their roses will be next.

June

I don’t want to be nice to you I say quietly beneath my breath
I hate you I say even softer and I mean it

Tonight a poem.

June

My mouth opened and nothing came out
I guess it was too much, all those words, all that screaming
A reaction to the sickening politeness I’m surrounded by…
It’s enough to make even the steeliest ones of us vomit glittery frustration… and still I climb out to find you.
I don’t want to be nice to you I say quietly beneath my breath
I hate you I say even softer and I mean it
And yet love pours out from somewhere I didn’t know existed
As the hands on your watch tick I let you hold me…as jumpy as a cat for the moment I am calm.
This doesn’t mean I forgive you I say. Needing to say something.
It doesn’t have to mean anything you whisper over my head and I still hear you.
At least for the moment I am not angry.
I can feel the breeze from the half open window. It blows the scent of roses into the room.
In the June half light this could be a scene from a movie. I decide to kiss you and so we do. To the onlooker we are lovely
Here in the hazy late afternoon we can be them.
The lovers.
At least until the sun goes down.

Kimkoa 2018

 

 

 

 

 

 

Shattered Glass, Mended Hearts

My daughter is a force of nature. Wild and at times reckless, crashing through life boldly and without fear or restraint. She is intrinsically joyful. She doesn’t walk, she bounds.

Alice broke a cut glass bowl that belonged to my mother’s grandmother today. It was early this morning before my coffee had a chance to fully wake up my brain.

I was downstairs getting my robe on when I heard a crash that I knew was glass breaking. Oh no, I thought what broke? 

That bowl had been sitting on my mother’s counter for as long as I can remember. As a child I used to marvel at the edges and how the light was refracted through each one creating a kalaidescopic effect. Tiny rainbows in sunlight. I’d run my finger along those edges imagining how each one was cut by hand. “They’re slightly uneven do you see that? That’s how you know it was made my hand and not machine. It was my grandmother’s bowl. I’ve always loved it. One day it will be yours to pass down to your daughter.” My mother’s words were wistful and seemed full of purpose. I felt important holding that bowl. I would never have let it break.

My daughter is a force of nature. Wild and at times reckless, crashing through life boldly and without fear or restraint. She is intrinsically joyful. She doesn’t walk, she bounds. Because of this I have lost treasures. Others have been broken and had to be repaired. A snow globe with Cinderella and her prince that played the theme from the movie was shattered. Dolls my father gave me as child of 6 and 7 have lost fingers and toes. Sometimes entire limbs. A winged angel my mother gave me for my 20th birthday has one wing glued back on. Several books I’d saved that were favorites of her brothers were torn apart or scribbled in. But she’s never touched the cut glass bowl.

Never having raised a child like this (her brothers were not this way) I kept having to adjust the location of anything and everything that she could possibly destroy. Pictures were moved higher and higher on the fridge. Anything fragile found higher and higher homes as she would scale the shelves, counters and anything else climbable like a tiny monkey. We called her curious Georgina. We learned to grab her paintings and drawings from her before she had a chance to tear them to pieces. We learned to laugh at the destruction she’d leave in the wake of her play. We turned ourselves inside out teaching her to care for the things around her. That she didn’t need to break everything open just to see inside.

Lately she’d been good about breaking things. Too good perhaps. Yes there was the occasional climb on top of the refrigerator to steal candy or the endless glasses of water tipped on their side, but she had gotten to a place of understanding how to love her things while they remained in one piece.

The shattered bowl was an accident. Ironically what she was doing when she knocked it over was destructive on purpose. Trying to pull the leaves off my African violets that were given to me by my Aunt and Uncle when I was in the hospital. My mother told her to stop and she pulled her hand back sending the bowl careening to the floor where it shattered into bits of glass edges and dust. It would no longer make its tiny rainbows. No other child would marvel at its edges. “Go downstairs I cannot even look at you right now!” My mother could not bear the full realization of the loss in that moment. After hearing the glass break I was on my way up the stairs when Alice was on her way down. By the look on her face I knew.

”What did you do, what did you break?” She didn’t answer me and ran for her room. I reached the top of the stairs and my mother was sweeping up the remnants of the bowl. Her expression unreadable.

“Alice broke my cut glass bowl. It was my grandmother’s.” I couldn’t speak at first. “It’s just a thing and she didn’t mean to but I just had to send her downstairs I didn’t want to say something I’d regret.” She began tearing up.

You see there’s more to this story than a wildly curious little girl and a cut glass bowl. My mother’s sister is dying. It’s only a matter of time. After years of estrangement they’d finally begun talking.  My mother’s childhood memories are all around her right now, including her grandmother and the glass bowl.

In addition this is Alice’s first day home from preschool since her father and I pulled her out after we were unsuccessful in getting her school to do anything about an older girl that was bullying her mercilessly. Doing things like telling her spiders will bite her and turn her into a wolf, giving her nightmares. Convincing her to bring her toys to school, stealing them from her and lying about it. Teaching her to say butthole repeatedly. Sending her home with paper fold outs saying things like poop your pants and sit in your poop and cut your pants and many other gross and stupid things. Telling her Santa Claus isn’t real. My husband and I had actually gone to the school together and talked to the teacher after his talk with the front desk did nothing. She assured us they would be kept separated since this child was years older than Alice, in foster care and already a source of problems. I found this little girl and got down on my knees and I told her to stop stealing my daughter’s toys, telling her to poop her pants and swear, lying to her and bullying her or she’d have to deal with me personally. The look she gave me confirmed everything I suspected. My Alice was not her first target and would not be her last. I walked over to the teacher and I said this is the fifth time we have come to you guys about this girl and how she’s bullying our daughter. I’m so angry right now I’m holding my breath so I don’t say something I’ll regret. But you need to follow through on supervision and age appropriate groups. (This school shuffles their preschool children back and forth between rooms of practically toddlers and kids as old as 8 and 9 because they have inconsistent staffing, poor organisation and a whole host of other problems I will outline in a another post called BRIGHT MINDS IN WASILLA IS A SHITTY FOR PROFIT PATHETIC EXCUSE FOR A SCHOOL. No I won’t write that post but you get the idea: massive late fees if your child is not there exactly on time despite the fact that you’ve already paid almost $700 that month for her slot whether she’s there or not. Why is this you might ask? Because if your child is sick, even though they’ve already been paid for that day, they will take a drop in for more money. So if you show up late you screw up their ability to charge two families for one slot. And that’s just the tip of the horrible preschool iceberg. And guess what? If you’re late they won’t even let you in the building.

Needless to say Alice starts kindergarten in a month during which I will be repairing the damage done to her by this awful school. Having to re-potty train her. Sorting out behavioral problems. And now teaching her about bullies.

She had a timeout for what she did this morning. More importantly she made her grandmother a picture to show she was sorry. I even had her trace the words. When my mother stopped back home after a meeting to drop off the vegetables I asked her to get she saw the painting and she and Alice shared a hug. The bowl would remain forever broken. But at least their bond was strong. Their bond is forever.

More than just the cut glass bowl has been broken today. My daughter’s trust in an older girl she thought was her friend. My trust in the school system of this rough town, with its massive meth and opioid addiction problem running rampant throughout the community and its non-existent budget for quality public schooling. For profit preschool is one story. Public elementary school is another. I was viciously bullied for years in a school that I fear could be very much like the one my daughter will be attending. You’d better believe I’ll be volunteering in her classroom, keeping a close eye on her progress and making sure she’s not held down by the throat on the playground like I was. God help the child that even tries to to do that to my daughter.

Sometimes the things we pass down to our children are not the things we choose. Instead of passing down a cut glass bowl I will instead be passing down my experience in fending off bullies. How to hold your head high after someone lies to you. How to never forget that sometimes glass breaks. But unlike glass, a broken heart can always be mended.

Yours To Keep

Crack in your heart
Crack in your head
Little lies creep in
And you can’t help it you broken girl
Star-shaped dreams keep you awake at night
A lover with a heavy gaze and fingertips like feathers
Who makes you forget yourself
Who makes the earth fall away
And the sky open
Who éclipses the labels they’ve given you
Can you imagine this?
A world of stars and the absence of the need for reality
Dreams with beating hearts.
All they are…are dreams after all
Lovely at night
Stupid in the light of day.
But yours after all. And isn’t that the point?

Kimkoa 2018

Sent from my iPhone