Musings

For the heavy-hitting moms

I sat behind a friend’s family at church two weeks ago. She has A LOT of kids….just how many you will see in the poem I wrote below. Their family got to church before ours, and her kids were super well-behaved through the hour-long service. I was in awe. I wrote a poem.

For all you moms out there, especially you heavy-hitting ones with a bunch of kids, this is also for you. When you gather up all your kiddos and take them to church, so they can give their Heavenly Father proper respect, you are doing something that God can’t do himself. I’m pretty sure He is super happy with you, and He knows the struggle. It’s oh so real.

Happy Mother’s Day!

Some Sundays are not as ideal as others. I’m sure my friend Anjella has known many that didn’t go so smooth. Like probably every single Sunday when at least one of her kids can’t find the right shoe. Or when they didn’t make it on time because someone puked at the last minute. That maybe happened six weeks in a row. Or when the kids aren’t well-behaved, for an entire two years straight. But, I firmly believe that when we do our best, God takes care of the rest, and helps in every way He can. We are revered. We are partners with God in raising His children. He must be so grateful when we remember Him, and even more grateful when we teach our children to do the same. We are all poem-worthy.

Disclaimer: the dad in the poem had a name-tag on his binder
under his chair that said, “Hello, my name is crazy.”

Revered

9 little heads of hair:
5 crew cuts, and
1 cascades to the chair.
Two bows,
and a fishtail braid

9 feet.
Each has a match
encased in the finest.
A closet-full of oxfords,
cowboy boots, and sandals.

9 bodies
outfitted pristinely.
4 dresses,
5 white shirts with vertical ties
and one horizontal striped.

9 pairs of hands
tiny to preteen,
turning the hymns,
clutched in contemplation,
and combing mama’s hair.

9 sets of eyes
look to mom,
glance at dad,
proliferate the chapel,
missing nothing.

9 hearts in need.
9 mouths to feed
9 sets of skin
to wake, wash, and love
over and over again.

9 children
with just one mother
and a dad named “crazy”.
They meet each need
before their own.

9 is monumental
more than possible
for just two sets of hands.
Oh wait!
There’s 2 more.

The 2 oldest
joined the rest
after serving
the Lord’s supper.
1 more week of power.

He Shuts Her Out

He shuts her out.
Again and again.
For years on end.
Every time it’s harder.
Every time it’s hell.

He shuts her down.
Time after time.
She listens
but does not understand
the silence.

He shuts her door
and walks out cold.
He’s as mad as red,
but won’t admit
the honest cause.

He shuts her heart
and deems it untrue.
Her intentions are
misconstrued.
She wants nothing but him.

He shuts her mouth.
She can’t say a thing
that will make
him understand
his rejection’s blow.

Because his is always
more
larger
complicated
and unknown.

He shuts her out.
She can’t get in.
She sits alone
and wonders
if he will ever

Let her in.
To see a place
that has been
transformed
just for her.

He shuts her out.
She’ll never know.
He won’t clean house.
It scares him so
much more than she does.

Reverenced

Red hair, black shirt.
Sitting at a short table.
Food in front.
Ocean spray juice in a plastic bottle
with a blue lid.
I can smell the pasta
from my circular booth.
Marinara.
It shouts at my nostrils.
I’m cheap. I’m microwaved.
I’m in a flimsy black bowl.
It all sits still, untouched.
Laid out neatly
as if waiting for a queen.
Drink on left.
Pasta in the middle.
Napkin and plastic fork on the right.
Her head bows.
Reverencing her meal
in contrast to her hair.
Her bright pink hair.
It’s not red.
It’s pink.
Bright pink
like a darker-dyed flamingo.
And it fades and ombres into
Cindy Lauper.
All the way down her back.
She is bowing.
Bowing.
It’s been a minute.
At least a minute.
She is still.
She is grateful.
She is reverent.
She is praying.
With her pink hair.
Her flaming hair.
The hair that screams
rebel.
I’m a rebel.
I’m a rebel queen.
And I have a Father.
A Father God.
And she stands.
Her belly is bulging.
A princess is waiting.
Her hair may be pink.
Just like her mother.
Her rebel mother.
The Queen
with a Father.

Rainbow Theory

So, in my college literary theory class I am studying feminism and queer theory. It’s been a bit painful for a believer like me. A bit painful is an understatement. There are actually “theories” that say the future should be forgotten, and we should live for the present. How is that a theory? How does this theorist get recognition? My only guess is because much of academia has gone crazy for liberal hogwash.

Anyhow, liberalism has been swirling around in my brain like a fly larva excreting mad cow disease. I have sat through class after class trying to be open-minded and expand my thinking, but l have felt like the very fiber holding an actual being of existence is under attack. And the liberal theorists who stemmed from deconstruction will assure me that changing reality is exactly what should be happening with literary theory.

I completely disagree. And, if I get angry enough I might actually brave grad school, so that I can prove otherwise.

I like my reality. Thank you very much. I like my favored binaries. I like my faith. I like the answers which my faith give me. They are concrete. I don’t like abstracts. They are ridiculous. If I like abstracts I’d be a math major. Give me concretes. Like the idea of a God. He is real. He is an exalted being that was once a human just like me. I like that. It makes Him accessible. I don’t like wondering how in the world a big bang created man and then another big bang created woman. And somehow that man and woman found each other in some cave existence and decided to perpetuate all of mankind. (After they figured out their genders. Psh) I believe in a big bang, but I also believe I don’t need to understand it because someday God will teach me about it using telepathy. After I’ve been resurrected, and my brain can grapple with it all a little bit easier. I like my genders. The gender roles are a little touchy, but please don’t tell me we should actually strive for a genderless society. That’s honestly a joke to me.

Oh man, I can see a guy from high-school with the initials of JP finding this post and going ape-crap cra-cra. Whatever. Leave my reality alone. I like it. It makes me feel safe. It gives my life purpose. It gives my literature meaning. Like teaching me something. Not something like a black hole that deconstructionists want to sit in all day, but something like human beings are flawed and we can navigate through those flaws.

God will help us with flaws. At least in my reality I think so.

I’ve been struggling with another person in my life lately. No matter how hard I try to communicate effectively, it never works out.

After months of being really crappy at seeking out God in my life, something happened. Give me a break, I was drowning in liberalism. I prayed. I read scripture. A still small voice spoke to me. It didn’t say what I wanted to hear. “You are right.” It never says that. Dangit. It said, “Text her right now, and ask her to tell you how you need to improve.” Whu whu what???

I did it. She gave me good advice. I was happy. My reality was once again grounded. I got up from the kitchen table with restored faith and drove my husband to work.

On the way home, I saw Him. He was in a very very very faint rainbow, but I think He was smiling. He said, I got this. Don’t you forget it.

And then three hours later, I forgot.

It’s a good thing He has promised more rainbows. I need all the reminders I can get. I’ve got 60 more credits of liberalism to muster.

bow

Here are three other reminders I loved on the internet today.

Love weeps by Brene Brown.

Forgiveness by the Amish.

Young and old brought to you by the daycare in the nursing home.

God is good. He’s real good.

What is motherhood?

Motherhood is…

when your wake up call is at 2:45, 4:37, 5, and 6 a.m.

when you get your sick 6-year-old daughter situated on the couch with a movie and you set the baby up in his pack-n-play to catch just a few more minutes of shut-eye just to be awoken by frantic screaming, “MOM, MOM, MOM.” You jump up, and ask with consternation, “What do you need?” “Um…I want to wear a red and white striped dress for Dr. Seuss day tomorrow!”

when you go to find the power cord to your laptop, one half is buried under a pile of blankets. You find it 45 minutes later.

when you have 5 loads of laundry in your room waiting to be folded because you just couldn’t make yourself do it yesterday or the day before that.

when the baby has diarrhea. And a crazy rash. And has had three ear infections, a concussion, and a dilocated elbow in the past four weeks. You hope child services comes and takes him just for one day, so you can catch a break.

when you put the baby gate up to try and keep your little Houdini out of the kitchen while you do dishes. He throws every single toy he owns over the gate for the entire time he’s locked out, making several really good passes all the way to the trashcan you moved to the other side of the kitchen.

when you have class at 4p.m. but you have to pick up one child from school at 3:30 and get another to daycare and a third to art lessons in between. You actually make it to class before 4:00 50% of the time. The other 50% you arrive within five minutes of start time. You think you are a freaking miracle worker. Everyone else thinks you are a hot mess. You don’t care.

when you laugh hysterically when someone tells you how nice you look at school trying to contain their complete surprise (but failing miserably) because you know they are thinking, “She cleans up nice.” They have no idea.”You think, JUST WAIT!!! You’re lucky I even wear clothes.”

before you can go to bed you have to walk the dog, take out the trash, deal with the pile of papers multiplying on your kitchen counter, respond to five e-mails and ten text messages, find your phone, charge your laptop the kids left dead, clean out the dog water full of soggy dog food (because your Houdini must have figured out how to get over the baby wall), and at least 40 other things that are different every single day, while yelling at your kids to get back in bed more than 10 times.

when you cook dinner EVERY SINGLE NIGHT. The process of cooking, feeding, cleaning always takes at least 2 hours. Even if you somehow justify tacos on taco Tuesday.

and when you finally sit down on the couch for two minutes before your eyelids refuse to stay open, you are stuck in the bum by a barbie foot sticking out betweeen the couch cushions.

Then you wake up an hour later and go to bed. Your husband rolls over. You give him a quick kiss, and roll over the opposite direction before he gets any ideas. You can’t sleep. Because your teenage daughter and her boyfriend are worrying you out of your mind.

You finally fall asleep at 1 a.m. The baby cries at 1:11 a.m.

16 years later. You sit down to write a blog post. You laugh. But you really just want to cry. And you really need a vacation. But tonight you are going to fork over $300 for your daughter’s soccer tournament. And you have a pile of doctor bills for another $600. And you have school all summer, and your Spring Break doesn’t coincide with your kids’ spring break. And. and. and.

I’ll get back to you in another 18 years. Hopefully I will tell you it was all worth it.

But at this very moment, you are certain that you’ll never make it. Unless you can somehow secure one week in a nice quiet hospital bed that will serve you postpartum punch. And then you remember you had a hysterectomy last year. You laugh. Then cry. Because you really need a baby nursery and some postpartum punch.

Oh, and do you have any idea how hard it is to study feminism as a literary theory when a Barbie movie is playing in the background? Near impossible.

Why Trump?

Dear Washington,

I’m just an average Republican. I’m religious. I’m middle class. I’m conservative. While growing up in California during the Reagan administration, I believed in America. I believed it was the greatest country in the world, and I still do. However, all you slimeballs are ruining it for the rest of us patriots. How we see it, you sit around the White House and the Capitol, and pretend you are working for the people while really just employing strategies to keep yourself on the American governmental dole. A lot of the time, you are just out playing golf and taking your family on luxurious vacations on my tax dollar. Some of you are sleeping with prostitutes. You drink your Starbucks coffee brought to you by all your unpaid interns and 37 assistants. You assign yourselves exemptions from ObamaCare and pay raises. You crap on the Constitution with your executive orders and Supreme Court legislation. You wine and dine the big money and make secret deals for your campaign funds. You smooze with Hollywood and throw ridiculous parties. You fly first-class. You go to church for the cameras. You pretend you want race and poverty issues resolved yet continue to oppress people. You think everyone should do what you say instead of doing what the majority of us wish.

You do all the things that I don’t do — that I will never do. I don’t fly, much less first class. I can’t afford Starbucks coffee, if I did drink coffee. I don’t have the luxury of ever sitting on my butt. I don’t have ideal healthcare coverage paid for by people with less than I do. I didn’t even go to the doctor when I broke a rib last year because the last thing I needed was another doctor bill. I don’t have a retirement fund that was given to me by people I ignore. I don’t have a single assistant although I could really use some help at home while I am in my college courses. You see, even though I believe in the mother’s role in nurturing her kids at home, I need to gain my large family a second income so that we can pay our mortgage. I rarely go on vacation, and if I do, I camp somewhere close by so that I don’t have to spend too much on gas that was drilled in the Middle East.

But, enough about me. Let’s talk about Donald Trump. I’m not in the Trump camp, but I can see why so many are. Half of my party is grumbling on facebook about the other half who support Trump. You see, in case you didn’t know, Trump supporters must be idiots.The other quarter of Republicans are divided between Cruz and Rubio, and the liberal media is already innundating us with their typical propoganda about how all three of them are in Washington’s pocket. Surely, we can trust Hillary or Bernie more than any Republican. Psh. I believe I am in the last quarter of my party. I am in the quarter who gave up on Washington somewhere between a Bush and the first African-American president. It may have been when Clinton was lying about Lewinsky. It may have been when my health insurance became a bad joke. It may have been when I lost my home in 2011 because the state of TN couldn’t pay their court-appointed attorneys on time, even though that attorney’s clients always got their welfare checks on the clock. Maybe it was when I realized that America would jump at the chance to elect a fradulent woman, but not a cleancut patriotic Mormon. I don’t know, but I am definitely Washington-averse. I don’t like you people. Any of you! And you don’t like me, so the feeling is mutual. Let’s just make that clear, so I don’t feel bad for admitting my unChristianlike feelings. Let’s not even get started on religion.

So, why Trump? I believe it’s because a lot of America is saying, why not? Can it get any worse than the circus it is now? If we have a bunch of selfish crooks in Washington, why not let a reality TV star join them? At least he will bring a little of his own money that he made without the IRS involved. Why not get a guy who can give his own speech without a staff telling him what needs to be said to secure the most votes? Why not get a guy who recognizes that the average American is sick and tired of paying for things illegals get for free? For delivering the babies for the people who don’t pay taxes? Why not elect the guy who doesn’t want drug addicts buying steaks when I can’t afford hamburger? Why not? Anything has got to be better than what we have now? Anything. Trump is anything. He is the only viable candidate that we have that has not made a career out of pretending he cares about me.

Trump is popular because Trump is seen as the outsider. Period. If we could go back to Ross Perot, we would, but we all know how that turned out. America is screwed. We have no choices in government anymore, so why should we care? It’s all going to hell in a handbasket.

Forget you people. We are over it.

Sincerely,

Just an average Republican who wishes she could start a revolution. Instead she might just vote for Trump because it doesn’t require her to buy guns illegally in a month from now when her beloved Republic becomes a socialistic dictatorship.

Happy birthday, buddy.

Today my nephew Braxton is sixteen. He’s most definitely celebrating on the other side. With some green balloons and maybe an airhead or fruit roll-up. Oh, how we miss him. There’s a special story that I hold dear to my heart about Braxton and my son Maximus. Someday I’ll share it. I know these two were buddies in another realm. Even though Braxton had graduated from earthlife and Max hadn’t started yet, I know that they were together cheering one another on. It’s a special thing to think about. I’m actually pretty jealous about it. On days when I’m Max-ed out as a mom and I’m wondering why I had Max at 41, I think of Braxton, and I thank him for sending me Max. I can’t wait to someday sit around a fire, and hear the story from Braxton’s perspective.

Happy birthday, buddy. We sure love you!

What if

Today society is being bombarded with online messages. It happens at my house, that is for sure. While cooking dinner the other night, I listened on with equal parts entertainment and disgrace as my three teenage daughters were hashtag-searching for all available Kardashian trivia. The idea of the newly discovered brother, Rob, was “epic”. They laughed at the idea of him being too self-conscious from weight-gain to be included in the family photo concluding that he must be just as vain as his sisters. My daughters’ brother, Max, is a heavy-weight too. It’s a good thing he’s too young to be embarassed. Of course, that led them to the natural succession of assigning other Kardashian equivalents to our family. Finishing with the completely insane idea of their dad having a sex-change to become a Kaitlin. Roars of laughter. I even chuckled at that.

This conversation got me thinking about the mind-numbing nature of the internet. As a mother I want to withstand the harmful culture. I want more for my kids. I have big plans for our front room when we move. It will be an electronic-free zone. The only thing available will be books, records, musical instruments, notebooks and pens, art supplies, and comfy chairs for lounging, pondering, sharing, and creating. The only rule will be to seek out the best things of the world. The wisest things. The secrets of the universe. All will be encouraged to find answers for troubling things and to seek serenity. I cannot wait. I have a feeling when my kids discover the joy of a distraction-free zone, it’ll become the best gathering place in the house. If they don’t discover it, I will have a totally quiet space to enjoy it for myself. I’m not gonna lie: both conclusions sound equally legendary. You see, even though I try to be a really good mom, I’m still by nature, selfish. I need a room where I can figure out how to change.

great minds

So, as I’ve been planning the details of my new home’s room of intellectual glory, I’ve simultaneously been learning about a literary analysis called deconstruction that is focused on assumptions in the reading/writing process. The scholar, Jaques Derrida, encourages taking apart literary works and looking at them from a new angle. He thinks that as readers we should find a point of emphasis and then ask ourselves “what if”. What if the meaning were different? What if there were no limits of language, but we could open our minds to endless possibilites? I know. I know. It all sounds a little too new-age and LSDish, and yes, this is a discovery from the 1960’s. It’s taken me a lot of time to understand its usefullness. I found the answer on facebook, of all places. Homework procrastination can be helpful sometimes.

So, here it is:

What if that black rapper who does all the crazy stuff (you know the one who people call a sad excuse for a human) is really battling some kind of mental illness?

What if those people on food-stamps actually work harder than you, and are doing better than you with the little resources they’ve been given in life?

What if butter is really good for you?

What if those people who have more kids than they can afford actually listen to God more than you do?

What if God is trying to tell you to help them?

What if there is no life after this where you will ever be able to eat again?

What if all you’ll be allowed to eat are the things that you didn’t overindulge in now?

What if that star is your future?

What if the alcoholic was beat and raped throughout her childhood and she drinks to keep the nightmares away?

What if you really learned to love yourself?

What if evolutionism and creationism are both true?

What if it’s easier to get into heaven as a homosexual than it is as a heterosexual?

What if light is dark and dark is light?

What if you automatically go to hell if you have never owned a family pet?

What if the Bible is true?

What if the least of these is really the greatest? Like the janitor?

What if sexy is nonexistent?

Anyhow, I could do this all day. Even though I am not quite getting to the really deep ideas that the literary theory intends, I think the less deep ideas hold greater life applications.

What if asking “what if” only accomplished a world where people would quit judging each other and start loving each other more?

Then, desconstruction would actually have worth. Instead of just making everything have no meaning, and being the biggest liberal warcry of all time, it would literally provide worldpeace. I think God likes that.

2015 blog stats

This is a simple shout out for my top commenters. Not a lot of comments make their way to this old blog, but when they do it always makes me smile.

Screenshot_2016-01-23-09-36-01

For not blogging that often due to my college/kid constraints I was extremely happy with my 2015 report of filling up 6 subway trains in readers. Thank you all for reading/sharing. It’s humbling and fantastic when even just one person resonates with something I’ve written.

Blowing you all kisses!

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2015 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

A New York City subway train holds 1,200 people. This blog was viewed about 7,700 times in 2015. If it were a NYC subway train, it would take about 6 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

A Poetess’ Hamartia

I’ve been studying Dorothy Wordsworth this morning. She is the sister of the British great, William Wordsworth. Both Wordsworths were close friends with Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Come to find out, many of the journal entries of Dorothy are included in the works of William Wordsworth and Coleridge. They stole many of her observations! She had a very keen eye and a knack for object description. Although she was never published in her life, she has since been recognized for her role in literary history. She explained writing some of her poems because “I shall give William pleasure by it.”

While reading her journals I am thinking she was a predecesor to the great Annie Dillard. I like to think I share both of these women’s love for all things natural. I aim to have their abilities in describing the physical world. Someday.

Dorothy eventually ended up having a mental collapse in 1835; her brother, William, cared for her for 20 years until he died. She had suffered a severe personality alteration. Once viviacious and sweet, she became insufferable as an invalid and would act aggressively. My text blamed her mental breakdown on being overworked during her entire adult life, playing secretary to her brother and helper of his household. (Norton Anthology of English Lit. Vol. 2, p. 403) As a mother of five, being overworked is something I can identify with on a cellular level. I am so grateful I have modern medicine to assist with my own brain chemistry. So many great writers were shamefully stagnated by their lunacy.

dorothy

A Poetess’ Hamartia

My dearest dad I cannot go
unless I can see as now.
The hues of yellow as they infuse
upon the palish brough.

But child of mine, sharp poetess
impossible it ’tis for thee
a mortal mind is far too fragile
to perceive that kind of beauty.

I shall not go then, father fixed
I cannot bear the break
Seeing and hearing the pink petticoats
All lifelong without, I’d ache

Okay sweet one, but you must go
A concession I’ll make to you.
But there will be a price to pay
For omniscient skills so true

Oh thanks daddy, please do make it so
Thy sight is vital to my soul
Creation must not be concealed from me
I accept the price and toll.

All right my lovely keeper of British countryside
Thy eyes will stay immortal to see
but thy mortal mind won’t always understand
Sentinel keen, thou on earth will be.

I’ll be crazy. I’ll be haunted.
I will take the pain and mental stops
Confusion may come and invalid me
in my millions of diamond drops.