Fierce Creatures

I love that my little girl brings out the fight in me. The lioness. She craves my wildness so she can embrace her own.

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My daughter is a fierce little creature. She will not back down for anyone, for anything. I try to imagine myself as I was at her age. Her fearlessness, her unbridled zest for life. That time is becoming fainter in my mind. Like the edges of a picture softening. I suppose this is the process of growing older. I’d like to think I remember what matters. The essential grace of my life as a child.

Most of my early years were spent outside. My mother felt at home outdoors and she wanted that peace for me. I can close my eyes and I’m instantly surrounded by fragrant joy. I spent many happy hours sitting in the grass making crowns from clover, under the purple lilac tree in our front yard. I can still hear the bees buzzing in the lazy summer air and the gentle pricks of grass on my bare legs. Once I came home from playing in the woods all day and I was covered in aphids. I remember my mother singing as she washed them out of my hair. I liked seeing their little green bodies floating in and out of the bubbles. Like they were having their bath also. My mother’s happiness at the evidence I was a wild thing in the woods even for just an afternoon sticks with me. She could have been angry. She could have been afraid. Instead she found it hilarious and part of the circle of life. That was a gift she gave me. I got to be a fierce little creature that afternoon.

Alice was determined to wear her princess sock the other morning. It had no match. Should it have mattered whether or not she could find the match? Probably not. But she’s been challenging me on everything lately and I just did not want to back down. Because after the princess sock it would have been her shoes, and after the shoes her jacket and then wanting a certain snack in the car and I did not have the energy to battle her! Ultimately the battle over her sock was as big as all the small battles together would have been so as usual my daughter won. I am a lioness raising another lioness, although she is mostly a straight up wildcat at only four and three quarters and she lets me know it every single day.

I’ve been battling the waves of bipolar lately. Up and down, back and forth, I’m being tossed around the stormy sea of my emotions. It’s so hard to feel like I’m making any progress on bipolar storm days. All I can do is breathe in and hold, breathe out and hold and let it be. The hardest days for me are when the weather outside is changeable. It makes me feel changeable on the inside. There is a distinct feeling to storm days. There is almost an electricity to my mind. I inwardly tell myself to “batten down the hatches.” As anyone with bipolar knows it doesn’t matter how much medication you take, there will be bad days. Really the only thing you can do is get through them.

I use sensory tricks all the time. Certain smells really help me. I am a connoisseur of perfumes, scented lotions and essential oils. Certain textures also really help, the softer the better. My family knows what it means when I’m wrapped in a blanket with a hat on and the fireplace going, candles lit and the scent of lavender pervading the room. It means I’m taking care of myself. It means I’m doing battle. It means I’m being strong as hell. I am captaining my ship over ferocious waters, through the vicious bipolar storm.

I talk a lot about wanting my daughter to learn to fight for herself, wanting her to be a warrior. But what about when the enemy lies within? That is a different kind of battle, needing a different set of skills. In a sense you are doing battle against your own mind. I find that when I am struggling it even leaks over into my dreams. My dreams become chaotic and often terrifying nightmares. I would be lying if I said this disease were not agony. I often want to still the clock for the duration of the “dip” and let it spin again when I feel more able to handle the world.

Alice senses so much of what I’m going through. The irony is the more depleted I feel the more she wants to cling to me almost as if she is pulling me out of the storm by the sheer force of her will. I have to remind myself to be consistent with her, not to surrender to the beast all children become when they know mom is tired and they might “get away with something.”

Today, after picking Alice up from school she had to use the potty. “Mama I need to go potty!” Literally the next sentence I heard her say was “Mom, there’s pee on the floor and I puked in the toilet!” She said this with the same matter of fact tone she says everything.

“What?!” I was trying to figure out the extent of the damage.

“I said there’s pee on the floor and I puked a little bit in the toilet because I don’t feel good.” I was already up the stairs by then.

“How did you get pee on the floor?” She then demonstrated how she sat too close to the edge of the toilet and the pee shot out over the edge in a yellow arc. Luckily there was a rug easily washed to catch the evidence. “Poor baby why did you throw up?” She hasn’t felt well lately and I was genuinely concerned.

“I don’t know, but I’m better now. Can I have chocolate?” I envy her youthful ability to quickly move on from things.

“Alice, of course not, you just threw up!” At this response to her query she began to howl and yell the word chocolate over and over again. My head felt like a balloon about to pop. I calmly looked at her and said, “since when has that ever worked with me?” Inside I was praying this would be enough to dissuade her. Amazingly it was. She quit howling and ran over to the pantry. She climbed up and grabbed a bag of chocolate chips, thrusting them at me.

“You really need to hide these higher!” I suppressed a laugh.

“Ok goofball.” I shoved it behind some cans on the top shelf. She was onto the next.

“I really need something sweet! These crackers!” It made no sense.

“What? Those are gluten free cheese crackers, they’re not sweet at all.” At that moment I realized this was the best part of my day. My weird, wild little daughter climbing in the pantry like the fierce creature she is.

“Well, they’re a little bit sweet…and I can have cheerios! With Almond milk!”

“Sure, that works.” All in all this was a happy outcome. She was momentarily satisfied. Soon after eating she asked for a movie on her grandma’s laptop. And then she wanted to paint space. And she did, beautifully. My daughter moves so fast I have to race along with her. Together we are going at top speed and before I know it I am flying above the raging waters of my illness.

I love that my little girl brings out the fight in me. The lioness. She craves my wildness so she can embrace her own. I know I will never stop learning from her, as she learns from me. That is the best part. The storm may throw me in a million directions. But my daughter will always guide me home.

Love Letter

With you I am me.
With you I remember my loveliness
Effervescent Time traveler you—
Simple grace little one clinging, singing, running faster than I can breathing in and out
Chewing on your collar
How can someone so small be so majestic
Mighty
Mommy’s little wildcat
Fight forever baby girl

Kimkoa 2018

The Conversion Machine Part 3

I put my arm around her and said “Who cares what anyone thinks. It’s your baby, your body. You don’t have to get married. You don’t have to feel like God is disappointed in you. The price has already been paid long before you were the sparkle in your mother’s eye. Just make a life for your little girl and for God’s sake it’s just sex people have it all the time. You just got lucky.

Somehow I made it through eight years of that life. I remember the strangeness of our Jamaican honeymoon where all the tourists were white and the servants were black. The heartbreaking shanty towns, full of barefoot children playing among huts constructed out of cardboard and discarded metal with tin roofs. There were no playgrounds for them. I remember A woman getting arrested while braiding our hair for not having the proper paperwork. I remember the shops; clean, beautiful and full of white people. The rich white vacationers disgusted me. I hated the flippant way they ordered about the help. I wished they would suddenly switch places with their servants. The thought of it made me smile. I remember men constantly trying to sell Ian weed. I remember the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach knowing I’d married the wrong man. I tried to be happy in Jamaica but the whole thing felt like a lie. I’ll never go back there. You’d have to drag me.

We didn’t stay long in Alaska as a married couple. Ian had a ton of friends in Oregon, a posse really, and it seemed like we could start our lives there. It didn’t really work that way though. I felt so stifled by the bahai faith, by this set of laws I was supposed to follow. It brought me nothing but pain from the outset. Of course they mindfuck you by saying your misery is a result of tests from God and they are gifts. The more tests and difficulties the more God loves you. It’s practically foolproof.

Until you start looking into the life of Baha’u’llah, prophet founder of the Bahai faith. He married his first wife Asiyih Khanum, when she was just fifteen years old in 1835. He then married his second wife Fatimih Khanum, eleven years his junior when she was just twenty-one in 1849. He then married his third wife Gawar Khanum some years later. This is of course in keeping with the custom of muslim men in the middle east and this is what Bahais will tell you in defense of his multiple wives. They’ll claim he was just following the laws of the land and hadn’t yet written his own. Really? So he just wanted to fit in I suppose. I didn’t know prophets cared about “fitting in.’

On behalf of the Universal House of Justice 10-23-1995

Regarding the wives of Baha’u’llah, extracts from the letters written on behalf of the beloved Guardian set this subject in context. They indicate that Baha’u’llah was “acting according to laws of Islam, which had not yet been superseded”, and that He was following “the customs of the people of His own land.”

When Baha’u’llah did write the Kitab-i-Aqdas (His book of laws) following the laws was so ambiguously difficult they had to be translated and explained to be understood and even those doing the explaining were unsure.

A synopsis and codification of the Kitab-i-Aqdas:

The text of the Aqdas upholds monogamy, but as it appears to also to permit bigamy The Gaurdian was asked for a clarification, and in reply his secretary wrote on his behalf: “Regarding Bahai marriage; in the light of the Master’s Tablet interpreting the provision in the Aqdas on the subject of the plurality of wives, it becomes evident that monogamy alone is permissible, since bigamy is conditioned upon justice, and as justice is impossible, it follows that bigamy is not permissible, and monogamy alone should be practiced.

Several things bother me about this entire subject. To my mind, if Baha’u’llah truly were a prophet he would not have married three different women, especially not a fifteen year old girl, and then excuse himself from breaking his own laws by claiming his marriages occurred before he revealed the laws. Another issue I have with this thought process is that the only reason for prohibiting polygamy is His Revelation. Not because women were deserving of feeling at ease, loved and protected in their homes and NOT having to share their husbands. Because maybe women didn’t want to feel like property, just one more shiny object of desire their husband has racked up. No, simply because at this time the laws don’t allow for it and should that change we’ll be back where we started.

I tried to fit in with the other Bahai women in Portland, Oregon. I washed my face and kneeled and prayed the memorized Bahai prayers because of course as a Bahai you are not allowed to use your own words to pray, you must pray the prayers written for you. We were all so young I guess we thought we were making a difference. We all abstained from alcohol, smoked (because that healthy habit was allowed) drank a ton of coffee and tea, had as much sex with our husbands as we could stand to keep them happy and did our best not to gossip although we did, with relish. I was the first one to get pregnant. The only words to describe the feeling is sheer joy. I knew my baby would be beautiful, loved and perfect in every way. Like dominoes the rest of them fell. It was like I somehow made it ok for us to move on to the next step. One after another they got pregnant. I related most to a couple of the girls. One in particular I spent most of my time with. I couldn’t stand her husband. He wouldn’t let her use the air conditioner in her car even when it was in the 90s and she was SO pregnant because he got it in his mind that the air was impure and somehow the baby would breath it?!! He also made her drink gallons of milk because he believed she needed to store it up to breastfeed their daughter. It was such an ignorant belief I had to resist laughing in his face. He was insistently, consistently wrong as hell, but I adored her. I couldn’t understand why she married him other than her family was devastated she had broken Bahai law. I remember sitting at the piano with her, her eyes full of fear and guilt. I could see the tears threatening to fall. I put my arm around her and said “Who cares what anyone thinks. It’s your baby, your body. You don’t have to get married. You don’t have to feel like God is disappointed in you. The price has already been paid long before you were the sparkle in your mother’s eye. Just make a life for your little girl and for God’s sake it’s just sex people have it all the time. You just got lucky. Don’t have a cliche shotgun wedding. You’re better than that. Of course that’s exactly what she did. And they fought tooth and nail until they decided to live separately. I wanted more for her. After Ian and I headed back to Alaska to be closer to my mom and have her help with Jaden, I thought about her every day. I even wrote her a song:

Under a Veil

You and I used to get mad, plotting escape like two thieves                                                                Walking the baby in circles you cried, He’s no lover!                                                                       Afternoons spent at your place, doing laundry and watching the kids                                           We’d try not to drink too much coffee…years later I wonder…                                                

Were you happy baby living under a veil?                                                                                               Is it sweeter there where you don’t have to think for yourself?                                                                               When he holds you close does he shut out the rest of the world and all of its darkness…                        knocking you senseless…

You and I used to get mad, and then laugh at all their words.                                                     Knowing we knew more than they did, it was one of our secrets                                               You’d play piano for me, and I’d sing our babies to sleep                                                             That life seems so far away now…since I chose to leave it

But were you happy baby living under a veil?                                                                                               Is it sweeter there where you don’t have to think for yourself?                                                                         Are you still the same girl who talked about running away,                                                                          Who longed to be free…Do you ever miss me?                                                                      

Kimkoa 2015

She’s different now though. Too busy to call, too busy to text, too busy to remember we were young girls together once, learning how to be mothers. Life does that to women. It steals the essence of their youth, not by an obvious hardening but by a gradual forgetting we were young. Young enough to walk in the rain at midnight smoking under umbrellas. Young enough to run through the rose gardens drunk on the fragrant air, young enough to giggle like school girls when we talked about sex and husbands and how we thought we knew so much but in reality we knew nothing at all. We’d give each other advice on how to please our husbands in the kitchen and in the bedroom. Sometimes we’d laugh until our sides hurt.

I connected deeply with another girl who wasn’t part of our core group of Ian’s friends and their wives. She was different. There was no callousness when it came to Sarah. Her essence was as gentle as a breeze on an almost still lake in the sun. She was one of the purest hearts I’ve ever known. There was nothing I couldn’t tell her. We’d go to this hipster fancy tea place on Hawthorne Blvd and order flowering Jasmine tea. We’d watch the tea bloom, the cream colored blossoms popping out from the olive green leaves. We’d share our lives, our hopes and dreams. We’d share our struggles and our grief. We’d trade places crying on each other’s shoulder. Sarah had no pretense, no ulterior motive. She often cried about work and how they treated her. She was scientist, she worked in a lab testing foods for the state. I remember I called her once from Hawthorne. I had been walking and it was raining and I just was hit with a feeling of intense grief. She showed up and made me get in her car and she had made me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It was so Sarah. Of course she did. It was the best peanut butter and jelly sandwich to this day I’ve ever had.

As much as I loved Portland’s lush summers, I was terribly allergic. As much as I loved the culture, the restaurants and the shows we had no money to enjoy them.  As I wrote in my post: A day Without Rain the endless rain of the winter months depressed me terribly. By the time we left we had moved across the bridge and were living in Washington for the public assistance and health care. I was lonely for a life I couldn’t name. I felt I was living Ian’s life, all the while drowning for lack of oxygen in my own. This was the beginning of Jaden’s love of music. He had such a hard time falling asleep and so I would drive him around listening to all my favorite cds that I figured weren’t too exciting so he’d be able to drift off. We listened to Joni Mitchell (he used to ask me to sing “Little Green” to him every night.) We listened to Coldplay, Carole King, Billie Holiday, Gillian Welch, Elliott Smith, Rufus Wainwright, Louie Armstrong, Norah Jones, Aimee Mann. He loved getting in his car seat, he knew what it meant.

Jaden doesn’t remember much of Portland in those early days. The walks we would take in his stroller with the other moms in the group. The late night gatherings. I remember saying goodbye to Sarah. It felt like I had a glass heart that shattered. I knew I’d never find another Sarah. And as hard as I tried to stay in touch we haven’t talked in more than fifteen years. After all this time I’m still looking for her.

Landing in Alaska the smell of the evergreens was indescribably beautiful. After living in the city for so long I’d forgotten how clean and pure the air and the water is. I was excited to have help with the baby and to be able to have our own cozy little trailer to call home. I couldn’t have been any more naive if I’d been hit over the head with a cinderblock and thought it fell from the sky. The trailer was on Ian’s parents’ property and it was literally crawling with bugs. It also had mice in all the cupboards. I have a distinct memory of waking up and walking down the hall to the living room and Ian was jovially spraying a line of massive ants with raid. “Mornin’!” He called out to me as if he were making pancakes. I think I turned on my heel and went straight back to bed. I used to have to boil the silverware regularly after cleaning up mouse turds. Yes, it was quite a palace we lived in.

The worst day was when I woke up and flying ants were dropping on me from the ceiling, and crawling down my nightgown. I screamed and threw off the nightgown, pulled on jeans and t-shirt, grabbed a laundry hamper and filled it with some clothes. Then I ran into Jaden’s room put him on top of the clothes in the basket and carried the whole thing out to the car. Jaden went in the carseat, the hamper went in the trunk and I peeled out of the driveway, not stopping until I reached my parents’ house. I think I was already driving by the time Ian figured out what was going on. I called him from their house and told him I wasn’t coming back until he fixed the insect problem and the rodent problem. He said “Ok” in that way of his when he has no idea what else to say and no plan to fix anything. I did eventually come back after finding out I was pregnant with Elliott. The trailer had been fumigated, but unfortunately Ian decided he wanted to build a mini studio at the opposite end of the trailer and he used manure board to do it. So although there were less bugs, and less mice, the kitchen smelled like, well, shit. As summer marched on the smell got worse and worse and worse. I couldn’t figure out why and I couldn’t stand it. I complained to Ian to no avail so I took the issue up with his parents. As usual they told me I was being difficult and oversensitive probably due to the pregnancy. I complained and complained and complained. They did nothing. Until one fine day they were cited. A neighbor called and complained about the smell emanating from their property and an investigator was dispatched. As it turned out they had raw sewage bubbling up all over the grass not more than a few feet from the trailer and surprisingly close to where the kids like to explore. I remember Ian’s mom telling me they’d be working behind the trailer and I might want to keep the window closed without mentioning a damn thing about the fact that I was aware of a problem months ago and she put us all at risk. In my mind I punched her in the face. In reality I just stared at her until she left.

By the time Elliott was two and Jaden was four I had had more than enough of the trailer, Ian’s ridiculous parents, our charade of a marriage. I remember coming home from work and Jaden was dragging his little brother down the stairs in his diaper. “What are you doing?! Where’s your father??”

“He’s sleeping and I’m taking Elliott for a walk.” Jaden said matter of factly.

“Of course he is.” I sighed. Another time I came home from work to find both boys in their rain boots eating cheerios off the floor. There was milk everywhere.

“We’re having breakfast mama!” Jaden was proud of himself.

“Yummy” Elliott smiled cheerios falling out of his mouth. “I love mama.”

“I love you too pumpkin”

“Ian! GET OUT OF BED!” I yelled down the hallway, furious, but half laughing a the spectacle.

“Huh? What happened? I didn’t hear anything…Oh Jeez!!” Ian’s reaction was unreadable. he wasn’t fully awake.

“Have fun cleaning that up” I said, and headed down the hall to the bedroom.

A few days after that I was sweeping the kitchen floor and Jaden was watching me. Suddenly he made the statement that changed everything for me. “Daddy and me and Elliott make all the messes and you clean them up Mommy!” I stopped sweeping and looked at him. I looked at the run down trailer, at the mass of cords and instruments tangled on the floor. I looked at the shabby little window that opened into two panels of greenish glass. I looked at Ian’s speakers and his mix board and his manure board and inside I started screaming.

“You know Jaden, you’re right and I’m sick of it.” I realized in that moment I had to get out. Out of the marriage, Out of the Bahai cult, out of all of it. I looked at my sons and promised myself that whatever happened They would not grow up and become Bahais. I swore I’d show them a different life, a broader and brighter one with more color and life and less rigid rules designed to imprison them.

I’ll never forget when Ian said you know I’m only with you for the kids. I thought I could say the same thing! I had tried over and over to convince him we weren’t right for each other. The last time I told him I was leaving him he told me “I’m not going to be the first one in my family to get divorced!” His face was pinched and his eyes were like daggers. My answer was easy.

“You know Ian, it’s not really up to you is it?!” And I walked out the door. It took me eight years to get physically free of a loveless marriage and a religious cult and many more years to heal from the brainwashing and nearly obliterated self esteem. In the early days I would almost throw up every time I had to drop the boys off with Ian for his custody weeks. I also walked around feeling like I was going to be struck by lightning because the Bahai faith teaches you that there are special punishments for those of us who hear the message and reject it. I also took a dive in a completely different direction and threw myself into a relationship with a woman who had borderline personality disorder, which is tale for another day. But once I did get free, truly free, the air was the purest I’d ever breathed. The water tasted like sunshine. I felt taller, more centered and the master of my own free will for the first time ever. I was only nineteen years old when I signed my life away. And I’m forty-one now. For all the good, the bad and the ugly, I can say I’ve lived. And what is life for, if not to be lived.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stuffed Animal Conference

I was picking each animal up, and putting it on her freshly made bed, and the little girl in me realized I could do whatever I wanted with her stuffed animals.

My daughter popped awake at 5:30 this morning. She was part of the alarm of the day, which is always set for me, the one who doesn’t need to be up that early. Basically I’m used to my husband’s alarm going off intermittently from 5:30 to 6am (the James Bond theme song) during which time I get up, get my natural energy caffeine substitute since I cannot have coffee, check email, facade book (no that was not a typo) and the gram, or simply lay there wishing his alarm were set for 6 while he continues sleeping. My mother is the same way, I hear her alarm go off and she will turn it off and disappear back into dreamland which is something I’ve never been able to do. Anyways, my daughter decided today was the day I needed to start mothering two minutes after I opened my eyes. At least I was prepared for her jumping into bed, hearing her voice in the hallway “I’m thirsty!” Lately she’s been waking up in the wee hours of the morning and stealthily creeping into my room and then suddenly leaping onto me “I want to sleep with you!” Then of course she proceeds to beat me and my husband up for the rest of the night; a punch to the eye, a kick to the balls…she likes to keep us on our toes.

So as I stumbled out of bed and made my way upstairs to get her water I realized how much that half hour of just me and the quiet house meant in the morning. Even though Alice is in preschool now and I have time during the day, I assign myself work to do and don’t consider it “free time.” What many people don’t realize is how easy it is to get behind when you are “your own boss.” If you don’t do the laundry you end up living under it. If you don’t grocery shop you are at the store every day and dinner is always late. If you don’t clean…well we all know that story. When I was trying to do everything myself and take care of all three kids full-time I slid into a special kind of insanity I don’t even have a name for. Really my days are manageable for the first time in a long time. That being said, living with two adults who work full-time I feel a great need to account for my time at home and when not writing I am either engaged in some kind of chore or running errands or taking the occasional nap when needed (No I won’t apologize for that! Bipolar people need their sleep!) I also spend time pacing because that is how I think. My son does this also. In fact if I have not already written what I am going to write in my head I like to write at the counter so I can walk around it between paragraphs. (Yes you can laugh at that image.) The earliest part of the day is different though. Hushed and dark, before the world has called for me I swallow the beauty of my own existence in huge gulps. That time is mine to relish or squander as I please, regardless of the expectations of others. It is not stolen, nor gifted me but earned fairly and earnestly and I do notice when it is infringed upon.

After I got Alice her water I tried to start the day with her and it did not go well. Alice, like every 4 and 3/4 year old (the 3/4 is extremely important) is less than cooperative when tired and kept insisting she did NOT have to go potty. I of course insisted she did and as every mother knows that is not a battle one can win. Ultimately I lost my patience and yelled, giving her bottom a useless smack. I felt instantly terrible and she continued to insist she DID NOT HAVE TO GO and needless to say she ended up cuddling her father who missed out on fifteen of his cherished snooze minutes. The battle over and lost, I was left wanting to feel proactive and instead feeling defeated. So I chose to let her boss her own body (she eventually did go potty of her own accord, and had a dry nap, then had an accident later in day go figure!) and I got her dressed, hair done, eating cheese and oranges and watching a show all before 6:30. I had time to kill so I decided to make the beds and put away her laundry. After making our bed I started work in her room and something happened. It was a small thing and yet not a small thing. It was a lightbulb moment that would not turn on for me until later this afternoon.

Alice, like every little girl, has a stuffed animal menagerie. Having missed out on my time from this morning I inadvertently took it back by creating a something in her room. I was picking each animal up, and putting it on her freshly made bed, and the little girl in me realized I could do whatever I wanted with her stuffed animals. So I started lining them up and arranging them sweetly along the side of her mattress. I was putting one with the other and before I knew it there they were holding court on her bed. I heard the bathroom door open as my husband having finished his shower began making his way down the hall. “Hey babe, I called, look what I did for Ali.” I felt proud and sparkly eyed at the sweetness of the picture.

“It looks like they’re having a conference.” He said, smiling.

“You’re right. It does. A stuffed animal conference.” We hugged and I felt a little better about the day. What happened next I hadn’t planned on. After driving Alice to school and finding the door locked I realized it was professional development day and school was closed. What? Huh? Oops. Alice was thrilled. I had plans that were suddenly not plans any longer. The day had its ups and downs. I lost and won other battles. But specialness still won out. We had spent the morning upstairs, a kaleidoscope of cartoons, play dough and a variety of snacks and I was writing this post in between those parenting moments. Suddenly I remembered “The Stuffed Animal Conference.” “Alice, I did something special in your room!” I wasn’t sure why I hadn’t thought to show her before.

“Really? Can I go see? Should I close my eyes?!” She was so excited.

“Yes of course, hold my hand.” I led her down the stairs and into her room.

“Open wide!”

“WOW!” She was as excited to see them as I was to show her and she began adding to the group from her toy box, it was adorable. I thought suddenly oh, she wanted my time. The lightbulb clicked on. The one thing every battle with her has in common is that it makes everything take longer. Today I gave her the gift of my time and the most special part of “The Stuffed Animal Conference” was that it was spontaneous and given without expectation or request. It didn’t even take that long, but it was my time and she knew it. So often as parents we want to give our kids so much…when all they really want is time with us. It doesn’t have to be a long time either but it has to be genuine. Not side glances they have to steal from us while competing with a computer screen or an iPhone. Real, honest-to-goodness time. The funny thing is, that doesn’t change even as we get older. As adults we compete for each other’s time just as often…and we make just as much noise when we don’t get it. 

Motherhood

Heavy wine head
Exhausted
Hot baby knees
Love
Little fist sweaty curls breath
Anxious warm restless
Moving just enough to startle
Nonsense whispers coughing
Stubborn feet pressed against thighs
Soft blanket snores humid dark
Air purifier whirring
Laughter behind a closed door
Sudden joy.

Kimkoa 2017

Ballerina Cat

Now of course this whole time she was dressed in pink tights, a black leotard and a tutu like the most adorable baby ballerina you ever saw. Ironically she was kicked out of ballet for pretending to be a cat; crouching in the corners and meowing and hissing at the other dancers.

Well, here goes…
I’ve never written a blog before. I’ve written poetry, good poetry. I’ve written text-rants to my sister and made her laugh so hard she almost dropped her baby (too much? “she almost dropped her coffee” there, feel better?) Anyways she text-yells at me write a blog!
     So here I am, writing a blog and it feels very weird because I’m supposed to be sleeping and I’m writing on an iPhone with a cracked screen that I can’t afford to fix for various and assorted reasons I will go into someday. So I can’t see that well, plus tonight was ridiculous anyways because I was making quiche which was taking forever and my mom was playing with my daughter who was being a cat. Things were rolling along sort of when my mom, affectionately known as Grandmommy by my 4 1/2 year old daughter (the half is EXTREMELY important) suddenly stood up and said “I can’t take this anymore will you please turn back into a child?!” And Alice, that’s my daughter’s name (yes I named her after Alice in Wonderland because I am awesome) just kept meowing at her until she gave up and was mama cat for like 15 more minutes and then she was REALLY done. She told Alice to pick another game or she wasn’t going to play with her anymore. So of course Alice started barking at her. My mom said “I give up.” I said “She’s a method actor, she likes to stay in character.”
     Now of course this whole time she was dressed in pink tights, a black leotard and a tutu like the most adorable baby ballerina you ever saw. Ironically she was kicked out of ballet for pretending to be a cat; crouching in the corners and meowing and hissing at the other dancers. Of course she dances perfectly with Emma from The Wiggles. Hey, your kid learns their way, my kid learns from the happy Australians on my television set. It’s a free country. Sometimes she’s a ballerina and sometimes she’s a cat. Sometimes she’s a ballerina cat. Sometimes she’s a cat for a whole day and that’s when I find I myself have forgotten how to form complete sentences. Well, this is only the first half of my evening, and truly a teaser! For the next bit you’ll have to check out my second post. Trust me, it’s well worth the effort.
Toodles!
So as those who know me will tell you I am a writer and mom of 3 diagnosed with bipolar 1 with psychotic features. My mission in life is to eradicate the stigma associated with mental illness. As part of each post I will be including a poem that I feel reaches through the void of falsehood and touches the realm of the heart. God bless.
Mermaid
The shells I pick up are bits of who I was.
This expanse of beach with its white, twisted limbs and water rounded rocks is the vast and lonely world my mind has become.
I gather the bits of shell and bramble, desperate to build the husk I used to wear. That they all wear.
I plaster a smile across the face of it thinking there’s no way they won’t notice this shabby, thrown together version of me with its wide fake smile: my teeth too white, my lips too red; cracking at the corners.
But I’m wrong.
I leave the desolate beach of my mind and it’s as if that husk reassures them.
They greet my clown face with their own false cheer. Can it be that no one notices I am a collection of forgotten, broken beach glass and fragments of shells cast off by creatures freer than I’ll ever be?
I try to focus on their words but all I can see are their jaws moving and their teeth like angry warnings.
I am suddenly hit by the ugliest truth: what I see is nothing more than their cobbled husks and I can see past it into a well of confusion and fear.
Their teeth give it away. Angry, rebellious. Cruel.
So I run. I run away from their fake leering curiosity masked as concern. I run, my chest heaving, the shells and glass breaking away and crashing to the frozen, unyielding earth. I run until I can see the beach. The beach of my mind.
I run tripping over sticks, cutting my naked feet on broken shells and rocks. Then I stop. My husk a distant memory. Like a snake I have shed my skin and I stand there naked and new under the cold sun watching the waves crashing against each other, the delicate sea foam riding the water’s crest.
I marvel at the beauty of this moment. My feet bleeding into the cold sand. The pools of red waking the dead ground. I race forward and jump into the waves leaving only red footprints.
I am a mermaid.
Kimkoa 2018