Lazy Sunday, Emily Style

Sunday Morning:

Em: “Mama, can you get up and make me some eggs”
Me: Yep, just let me wake up”
Em: “Ok…Are you awake now?”
Me: “Emily – You have to give me a minute. Your mother doesn’t move so fast”
Em: “Ok Mama. Are you getting up now?”
Me: “Do you see me moving? Do you see me getting up?”
Em: “Yeah. Are you going to make me eggs?”
Me: “Emily, for the love of all that is holy. I am getting up. I am going to make you eggs.”
Em: “Why are you going to the bathroom? I thought you were going to make me eggs”
Me: “I can not cook with a full bladder. Let me go to the bathroom”

She stands outside the door and waits for me to emerge.

Em: “Are you gonna make the eggs now?”
Me: “Yes. What kind of eggs do you want – 2 eggs scrambled?”
Em: “No.”
Me: “What? You got me up to make you eggs. What kind of eggs do you want”
Em: “What kind do I usually have?”
Me: “Scrambled.”
Em: “Ok, Then two eggs scrambled”


I cook eggs well. It is one of my failsafe dishes. I make them light and fluffy and present them to her on a plate with peaches on the side.

Em: “Mama, I’ve been thinking. I don’t want eggs.”
Me: “You got me up and hounded me to make you eggs. Now you say you don’t want the eggs. What on earth could you want?”
Em: “I’d like two glazed doughnuts- cause don’t you want to go to Dunkin Donuts and get yourself some coffee?”
Me: “I’d highly suggest that you eat those eggs, cause there is NO chance that you are getting anything resembling a glazed donut. But might I commend you on the effort to get me to drive out to get you some. Well played, chief.”
Em: “Ok Mama. These eggs look good But if you go out for coffee, can you get me two glazed donuts?”

Part II:

Me: “Emily, we all need to cooperate today and clean up our rooms. Can you please take care of your room?”
Em: “OK – but what are you going to do?”
Me: “The laundry and then cleaning the living room..”
Em: “Ok.” She disappears into her room. She emerges 3 minutes later.
Em: “I’ve been thinking Mama. It makes more sense for me to clean my room AFTER I play – cause I will just get it messy again. Sop I think I should Play FIRST and then clean. That’s a good plan, right Mama? Right? Cause I’ll just get it messy again if I clean it first”
Me: “Go sell that story to your father, Cause I am totally not buying that”


Why am I afraid when a seven year old can out-logic me twice by 9:30 in the morning?

Originally Posted January 2006

Lesson Learned....Never Aim for the Head

By Popular demand, The Back story of "Another Mothering Fail":

Hello all. Sorry for my little “hiatus”. Work has been, well, blecky, and I am premenstrual. Never a stellar combo. Add in the perpetual “My Balls hurt” moaning and you can well imagine the joy that has been present in my home. I am surprised they haven’t knocked on my door to do a holiday special.

Some aside notes: Yes, the Doctor has demanded that we have 20 sexual encounters before they can test his sperm sample for being “clear”. Until then, we can consider his penis a potentially lethal weapon.

We tried for the first time last night. I was terrified. I believe that I lay there like a blow up doll. I kept waiting for the whole thing to fall off on me. Talk about pressure.

He relates that he “feels better” today. Yeah right. I can see where this is going.

So today, I offer for your enjoyment, one of My most spectacular failures of mothering I was ever able to muster up. I present “The Day I caused my daughter to have a black eye cause I threw a Bitty Shoe at her in a fit of irritation” or “Why I almost had to call the Child Protective services people (….or me) on Me”

Last winter, Terrance had gone away for a business trip. I generally can keep my shit together for 5 days, then the veneer starts to crack and I look a little wild eyed and crazy.
At this point, I was driving her into school – which was 15 minutes PAST where I work, and then driving back to work, then after work driving to pick her up and then beginning the 45-minute to hour commute home. Since I picked her up at 5:30, I would get home at 6:30 p.m. or so. Not conducive to starting dinner, right? So every night when Daddy was gone, I would pick her up and take her to a different restaurant. It serves an all around need – we eat, I don’t have to cook, everyone is happy!

So, on the Thursday night in question, I decided that I wanted Thai food. I really, really wanted Thai food. Emily doesn’t care for the Thai restaurant cause she doesn’t like statues. We get to the door, she seems the statues and she starts to scream. Loudly. I am smiling at the Thai restaurant people, as my daughter crawls under my coat screaming “No, Mommy, No, I don’t like statues! Please don’t make me go in there!”

I smile at the worried looking hostess and try to say calmly “Can we have a table far, far away from any statues?” My coat is screaming and moving around. I lift the child and my coat and proceed to carry her to the table where I plop her down on the chair and whip off my coat – “See”, I say, “no statues! Calm down!”

We have a fairly pleasant dinner, after I assure her that the Tandori chicken is not the devils food, and that the jasmine rice is quite delicious!

I reward her with a new Bitty baby outfit. It is Blue and Velvety and she is excited. See – Life with Mommy is Fun!

Full and happy, we drive home. It is 7:30 p.m. and so, like Mommy’s all over the world, I am really, really ready for Em to hit the sack. We read, we snuggle and then it’s off to bed for her.

Except this is clearly not part of her plan. Instead, she hits the floor- in a full blown tantrum. She cannot find her new Bitty Shoe. I remain calm.

Me: “Did you check the car, next to your car seat?”
Em: “I CHECKED THERE IT’S GONE AND NOW MY LIFE IS RUINED!!!!”
Me: “Emily, there is no reason for you to have this reaction.”
Em: “NO, NO, NO, IT’S GONE, I LOOKED THERE AND IT’S GONE”
Me: “seriously Emily, you need to calm down – have you looked in the car?”
Em: “I TOLD YOU I LOOKED THERE AND IT’S GONE, YOU NEED TO FIND IT”
(There was more screaming at me, that I will leave to your imagination)

Me: (Voice raising) “Emily, I swear to god, that I if I go out to the car and find that damn bitty baby shoe, there is going to be hell to pay. I am throwing every last god damn bit of Bitty Baby shit away!!!!”

I run into the January cold night in my bare feet and pajamas. I whip open the car door and there it is – sitting right there – the blue velvet bitty baby shoe. Right where I said it would be.

I fly into the house and round the corner. I am Steaming mad. Psychotic Mommy Mad.

I throw my child’s bedroom door open and scream

“HERE’S YOUR FUCKING BITTY BABY SHOE”

And I throw the shoe in her direction. Now mind you, I wasn’t aiming at her head, really.

But like all moments of clarity, I watch as the shoe flies, in slow motion through the air. It makes a perfect arc and connects with her eye.

GGGGGAAAAAAAASSSSSSSSSPPPPPPPPPPP. Did you hear the sucking intake of my breath?

My daughter grabs her eye and wails. Oh…………………Shit………………………….

I run and grab her hand and wrench it from her eye. I see the black and blue developing.

Em: “You hit me in the Eyyyyyyyyyyyyeeeeeeeeee.”

I burst into tears and run for the telephone to call my husband.

Terrance: “Dawn, calm down. Now what happened? You threw a bitty baby shoe at her? You hit her in the eye? Why did you aim for her head? Never aim for the head, honey.”

So, he calms us both down and I apologize profusely to my daughter. She can tell she’s got me now. The Mommy guilt is wafting off of me like 5 day old fish.

But here’s the thing. I have to take her to school tomorrow. I ain’t got a quiet kid. She is about to relate in gut wrenching detail how Mommy popped her in the eye with a Bitty Baby shoe. Her eye is clearly bruised. I am fucked.

I also, at that time, was managing the registry for all those in the state who had been convicted for child abuse and neglect. If the teacher calls in the bruise, she is calling me into….well, me. Double fucked.

So I must do the Mommy walk of shame into the classroom and explain what happened last night in my house. Yes. I have to hang it all out there, since my kid is definitely talking. I get about halfway through the story and burst back into tears.

Em’s teacher hugs me and tells me that it’s all right- every parent in this room has lost it with their kid and done something that they regretted, including her. A hard spanking, an arm grab, a thrown bitty baby shoe. Nobody talks about it, she says, but we all have our moments.

And so, I share with you all. My Moment. My bad, bad mommy moment. And I can assure you; she milks that baby for all it’s worth. If you ever meet her just say “bitty shoe” and watch the story tumble from her mouth.


Originally posted November 2005

Let's call a spade a spade, shall we?

Part of the beauty of being a white American has been that we - as a group - get to "Opt out" of the ugly side of life.

We get to come up with phrases like "It was just a Joke - can't you take a JOKE?" or other elaborate boondoggles that surround issues of race and culture which are designed to deceive, inveigle and obfuscate what is apparent to everyone.

Racism is alive and well - and thriving - in the United States.

Sure, I see it in Montreal too - but this culture has a very different history and so its brand of racism is based on entirely different factors.

When a police dispatcher gets to forward this photo to her police dispatcher friends on their Police email accounts from their Police Computers of "Air Force One"?


Racist. Nope, not freedom of speech. Not a joke. Referring to our President as a Nigger is racist.

Those of us who grew up in America know what he word nigger means. It isn't even as veiled at the term "colored" - nope. It pretty much sets the stage for what one is going to assume is a Racist comment. Really no line of delineation there.

How about this one?


Any guesses? She loves gardening and has planted the first sustainable and organic garden on the grounds of the white house since the Victory gardens?

Noooo. We all know what this means, wink, wink. Because you know - Black people in America were SLAVES...and SLAVES WORKED THE FIELD to make crops for their WHITE MASTERS, thereby contributing to the wealth and status of those white masters at the expense of their own lives, liberty and pursuit of happiness. Did we mention she is black here? No, of course not. We really mean she just like gardening. Alot.

And because Black American women haven't suffered enough in the way of denigration, lets remind them of the times when they could be raped and lynched for being black. Lets remind them that too many of them are still being raped and that when they call the police dispatcher to report that....Oh yeah. The police dispatchers who forwarded the Nigger email take the call.



Well, it was a JOKE, remember. Geesh, Black people are so thin skinned when it comes to jokes.

A joke like this:


So, a Nigger - complete with bone in Nose and feathered headdress, AND the soviet hammer and sickle. This is quite a nuanced image. But really, its just a joke about health care.

And here's one of my Faves:



Wow, White guys. Imposing the faces of three black men onto KKK members. Not even a veiled try there.

You are collectively scared shitless aren't you? It isn't about socialism - which you wouldn't know if it bit you in the ass since none of you have read the works of Engels or Marx beyond repeating what you hear on talk radio. Its not about health care BEING socialized since many of you are benefiting from Government Health Care through federal health insurance, Medicare, Medicaid, the VA...you know, all programs the scary government run. Its because a BLACK man - unashamedly Black, with a Black wife and Black children - is running the country. A Black Man - who knows all the innuendos and backstory on all these images being served up since it has quite literally been beaten into the collective memory of African-Americans. A Black man who isn't afraid of you - with your gun toting protests and beet red faces screaming about things you know nothing about except that someone has stirred up the reality that having white skin doesn't make you better than someone else. And then you can quote the "founding fathers" who, lets face it, wouldn't have liked you either as they were traveled men of wealth and learning and you are a crazy mob who blindly repeats things they hear from other terrified white guys.

We are not in a post racial society - and only the deluded and purposely blind white people could tell you that we are. Electing this President doesn't mean we DON'T have to have the conversation that many of us are terrified of having - and not just with other safe white people. Cause we can still call the President a Nigger in private. With our safe white friends. They get the joke after all. We don't need to hide behind jokes and images and pretend ignorance of what symbols and words may or may not be racist.

The election of this President has ripped off a very infected scab on the face of America. People crying about wanting "their America to come back" - just say what you mean. The America where the President looks like YOU. The America where you can pretend that we are well beyond racism. The America where you can forward your funny jokes to one another and no one complains. Well, maybe that while lady who married the black guy and has the bi-racial daughter, but we knew she was a race traitor anyway.

Guess what. That America isn't coming back, and its death rattle is long overdue. It will kick and scream and try to get you to go along with the innuendos and winks. Cause your their friend, right? You look like me - We have the same background, right?

Nope. Some white people have turned in their membership cards at the door, me included. And I would highly warn you to watch your words around the other white people you assume to be part of your club. Because the first one of you to make one of these jokes in front of me ( and yes, there have been fool hardy souls to do so) will have your racist ass verbally handed to them so fast that they won't know what hit them.

Don't rest in peace, racist White America. You are a herpes sore on the ass of a fine country and you have got to go.

Another Mothering Fail

Really it wasn't shocking. This latest incident. Since the incident with the Bitty Baby shoe, I have regularly confessed my less than stellar mom ability. My plan is that if I confess it first, she'll get alot less money for the tell-all book I expect her to someday shop around. At the very least, the therapist can read it as a first hand account from the pages of my blog.

I can go a long time keeping my cool. The medication helps of course, but in general I don't get riled up too often. This made me an excellent teacher of young children. Those nervous teachers never last long with the young ones as it quickly becomes a game of "drive the teacher bat shit nutty".

(Can I get an Amen from the teachers out there?)

Between my calm demeanor and my super awesome "teacher look " ( which also works on Undergraduate students and random co-workers) I can manage most situations with aplomb.
You might even find yourself compelled to apologize to me for unknown reasons after I affix the "look" upon you. Unless you happen to be my child.

If you are my child ( and occasionally my spouse), your ability to ignore the flashing warning sirens and shaking of the rattle on my tail is legendary. If you are my child, your ability to think I am kidding when I say "You need to calm down and listen to my words, you aren't listening to me and I am getting angry" is something to behold.

So what put her so far over the edge that I drove the car around the block a couple of times and then threw her water bottle at her when I finally DID come back?

A Spider.

And not even a big one.

We were leaving for camp/work. Things were going smoothly. Lunch, backpack, dry bathing suit and towel were packed and ready. We got into the car and I began to back out. As in actively driving and looking behind me as I attempted the taunting of death that is pulling out of my driveway. Looking behind me scanning for delivery trucks who will TRY TO KILL ME when she lets out a blood curdling scream, opens the door and throws herself from the slightly moving vehicle.

Ok. So it is true that she scared the shit out of me by leaping out of the car. This is a child who, at age 11, will still sit in the back seat and complain that she can't unbuckle herself. Therefore her speedy and deft ability to free herself from the seatbelt AND get the door open was a surprise.

Now you have two screaming females in the driveway. One in the car - with car halfway out of driveway, the other in the driveway - running away.

I can't recall the exact words I was screaming, but I believe they were several expletives, her name and "Prithee gentle child of mine, what troubles you?" or some other less gentile version of that phrase.

From a good 15 feet away, and with face COVERED in snot/tears, she screams: "SPIIIIIIIDDDDEEEERRRRRR"

Ok. Now I know the enemy. And I spot it. On the door. And it is not a death-leap from car worthy spider. I've seen those kind, and this ain't it.

"Emily. Stop Crying, Get back over here - open the door and knock that spider OUT"

More intense sobbing. Mucous emerging from passages. Some kind of jumbled, hiccuping ball of words is shouted at me. I fix my stare at her.

"Emily Damali" ( Dear lord, the middle NAME is coming out - this is mother speak for you, missy, are in some serious trouble and better get yourself together STAT)

"You find a stick and walk over here, open the door and knock that spider out of the car."

More incoherent mucous mumbling. Did I mention yet that this is all Pre-first cup of coffee? Because it is.

"I swear to you Emily Damali, if you don't knock it off this second, I am driving off without you."

Mind you, the door to the car is still wide open.

From Emily, there is pointing and sobbing and screaming. I back out like the Dukes of Hazard and make my passenger door slam shut. I drive away. Not really, of course. I drive around the block hoping that she will come to her senses and start to breathe again.

I circle the block and pull back into the driveway. She is sitting on the front step. Glaring.
Oh yes, my little jedi. Your teacher look, while good, does not match mine. You scare me not.

"Emily. Get a stick. Get back over here and knock that spider out of the car. It is a teeny tiny fraction of the size of you. Yes. I understand you do not like spiders. However, you need to problem solve this. Now get over here and TAKE CARE OF IT."

There is an edge to my voice. You parents know that edge. Shit, I know the edge from my own mother. It is the "Dear Lord Baby Jesus, do not make me come over there and beat your ass" edge. It is the "I am trying everything in my human power to not completely lose my shit and run through the yard trying to catch you while you scream about spiders" edge.

She stands and first tries to tell me there are no sticks in the yard. I simply stare at her. I mean, come on. If you are going to try to bullshit me, give it a real effort. She find the previously invisible stick and marches back over. Opens the door and throws the stick in the direction of the spider. Which misses the spider completely. Most likely it provided the spider with a cooling breeze as it soared by.

I stare at her. We are now in a battle of wills, my daughter and I. I immediately feel the balance of her teen years hanging before us. Will I be one of those mothers - fixing every problem, smoothing every wrinkle?

Oh No, Mo-fo. You are going to do this if it is the last thing you do. I pick up the water bottle she has tucked in the cup holder. And I am sorry to say, I throw it at her legs. And it makes contact. Thunk. She now has forgotten the danger of the spider. The danger of her mother is in the forefront of her attention.

"HEEEEYYYYY! THAT HURTS!!!" she screams.
"GOOD", I yell back, "I MEANT IT TO - NOW TAKE CARE OF THAT SPIDER."

I am in full mother rage. Teeth clenched. Nose breathing. Lips pursed. Palms and armpits sweating.

She stares at me. She looks in the back of the car. She looks back at me.

"Can I use your sneaker to get the spider out?"

"Of course. Please. Be my guest."

And in less than 5 seconds, the spider is knocked from the car door and made a "former spider" by a Converse sneaker wielding girl.

She gets in the car. Our silence is deep. Our wrinkle in time not yet corrected.

I drive.

I offer the olive branch with this question:

"What could I have done differently in that situation?" and allow her to criticize my mothering safely - for both of us.

By the time we get to camp, we kiss and I wish her a lovely day.
She lingers. "I love you, Mom."

"I love you too, my brave girl."

Not seen, Not believed

Terrance was born in Detroit, Michigan, on a fine October day back in 1961. Attending the birth were his mother, father , and various nurses and doctors.

He grew up in the same city in which he was born.

Later, he went east to some fancy pants school where he was often one of the only black dudes to be seen for miles and miles around. He got an undergraduate degree in Law and sociology. He got a Masters degree in Sociology and even had three years of lawyer school. He got a Doctorate in Sociology. He taught at some colleges and university's and was a good professor, from what I have been told. He got good at socializing amongst the white people. he even got one to marry him.

BUT, I think he isn't telling me the truth. I think he was born in Kenya. Or maybe Mali. Niger? Chad? Some place with Black people.

Why do I think this?

He doesn't have a birth certificate.

Yeah, his mom has some "story" about how he was born in Detroit and everything...but I don't know. I mean Yeah - I see him walking around. Yeah, I reproduced with him. But I can't be sure that he IS who he says he IS. I can't be sure that the schools and other institutions that he has attended have adequately documented who he IS, for real.


His "Mom" - if that is who she really is....now that I think about it, I didn't see her gestate and push him out after all - said she went to the records division and was told that the "Hospital", if it was really that - "burned down" in the late 60's and that the records were "lost".

"burned down"? "Burned Down"? ! More like she BURNED it down to hide the evidence of his non-birth. She was a member of the Black Panthers, after all. It was part of her crazy plot to rid the world of whiteys.

According to "her" - if she is female, I have never seen her naked after all, she then went to the state capitol and tried to get some kind of record stating Terrance was born in Michigan - which they wouldn't give her, because they don't have any kind of record ...because they were "burned" with the hospital fire.

Now, we did have a document - a small3X5 card that was alleged to be his birth certificate. It was pretty beat up and when we mailed it in for his passport...we never got it back. Lost, they said. But we all now can see where this is going? The Black Panther Conspiracy that set these wheels in motion in 1961, with the planned insemination of my husbands "mother" and the subsequent burning of the hospital had intercepted the birth certificate and destroyed it.


I see it all now. My husband is not a black African American Man from Detroit, but part of the African Continents long range plan to take over the United States and oppress teh white peoplez.

Why didn't I see this earlier? Was it my liberal, bleeding heart conscience? No, it couldn't be that.

He drugged me. He and his wiley black family drugged me and convinced me he was an American and that I should fall in love with him and get married and produce a baby. How could I have been so blind not to request and see a certified, official, cross your heart and hope to die copy of a birth certificate in a zip-loc bag, hand presented to me by the doctor who delivered him, and then certified by a pristine DVD copy of the entirety of his birth, complete with proof that this DVD was produced in 1961.

Wait. There were no DVDs in 1961. Except in Africa, I bet.

Helpz! Helpz!

Hey, wait a second. Does this mean I will get to be first lady?

I was racially profiled

Several years ago I was stopped by the police.

I was just driving along and bam - pulled over.

Well, actually I was speeding a bit - but downhill. And I was only coasting. And I was on my way to jury duty...where I was juror number 5 in a first degree murder trial. Where the accused were young Hispanic and Black men, and a drug deal gone terribly wrong. It was, however, their good fortune to have committed this (alleged) crime in New Hampshire, where the 98% white populations was Sure to give them a fair and equitable trial. And They pulled me. The white wife of one of the Two Black dudes who lived in all of Strafford.

So there I was, on my way to perform my enforced civic duty when I was so rudely pulled over. And given a ticket. Which seemed wildly unfair to me, given where I was going. Did he realize the photos of blood and brain I had to look at for the past week? That I had to stick my head in a tiny Ford Escort, and look down on the seat where one man died after being shot in the head and neck and two others fled the scene. That my delicate white lady sensibility had been roundly abused by having to learn details of drug deals and babys mommas, my ears assaulted by slang terms like "crush", meaning "to have sex" and why these young men were wearing such baggy trousers as was the style in their "group".

Flash forward to months later when the trial was long over and I was to have my day in court to protest my ticket. I dressed carefully that day. I wore a lovely light purple velveteen dress with matching purple leather pumps. I was wearing the pearls with the matching earrings that my husband had given me for a Christmas years prior. As it was winter, I had my cashmere long coat on with a small, but tasteful, bag to finish the look.

I arrived at the courthouse and presented my bag for inspection. I smiled and flirted with the elderly court guard. I am not a flirty woman, but I was prepared for what I was marching in to battle and a bit of practice couldn't hurt.

I was handed my purse and wished good luck by the baliff. I walked into the courtroom and walked to the front to await my turn. The judge had not yet arrived, so I glanced to my left and right, seeing the police officer who had detained and ticketed me over to the right. There were other people too seated towards the back. Women and men - all white, but dressed in a terrible choice of clothes. Lots of Denim, sneakers and Nascar shirts. Were they aware they were in court?

I was called first - Naturally. I was sitting right up front, after all. The prosecutor offerred his summary of the case - That I was speeding and was given a ticket. I walked across the court room and was sworn in. I sat in the witness box, and offerred my response. Which was that I "might" have been speeding, a little. But That I was a juror on this murder trial and it was very stressful...and that I just don't normally break the law, but this trial - you see - the pictures. Plus I work for the State , part of DCYF (which houses child protection). I help enforce the laws.

I smiled at the judge. I may have even cocked my head to show my earrings and matching necklace.

The judge smiled back. "No more Speeding, Ma'am - we want you to get home to your family safe and sound!"

I smiled back. I nodded.

He dismissed the ticket and I walked out a vindicated woman.

*************************************************************************************

There is sarcasm and irony in this story. There is also a bit of self acknowledged shame that I played my part so well. I went into that court room to portray a very specific image, which I achieved most successfully. As the wife of a Black American , I have been in the car ( or right behind) when He has been stopped for DWB (Driving while Black). I have seen him waved through the airport security when he is with me or our daughter, but stopped and searched when he is alone. I deserved that ticket. I WAS speeding. My skin color and socio-economic status were my free pass that day in the courtroom. As to the trial in which I was a juror, I have written about that before here. I am still a bit haunted by what happened in the jury room.

Lost Playmates

So here is a not so shocking bit of news in the Blog-o-sphere...

When you spazz out and completely flee the Blog World in 2007, because you have a full blown manic f-ing depressive episode...

When you drop off the entire Bloggy planet and don't read any of your friends, even though you Love them...but participating in the bloggy world become just too much to bear because that means, well INTERACTING and shit...

When you decide after two years, which, lets face - is antediluvian in the time epochs of the internets - to wander back and try to find all of your peeps, your homies, your original Phi Delta Badass...

They ain't all there.

In recent weeks, my life seems to be filtering down to something. Wheels turning. Pulp falling to bottom of glass. I twist and squirm in my skin, trying to figure out what it is that I seem to be morphing into, but it still has no recognizable shape or form. I can only tell you is that it is Different.

I feel like I walked back into a playground that was waiting for me to arrive...but there is no one left on the swings. No one on the slides. No one over there by the fence telling ghostly tales and urban myths to each other.

I wandered last night through the places I used to live - old friends who started off as ideas and became people through conversations and interactions. From what I can piece together many of them fell prey to lives outside of the bloggy world - which is good and right and just. In the first heady wave of blogging, many of us set aside partners and children to visit these new friends and laugh. Those who have set aside blogging to be parents and partners, I miss your company, but I understand. Some seem to have fallen into dark places through depressions and miscarriages. Places that if I were braver I would wade into and sit with them to offer comfort and companionship.

Others? Well, others friendships ran their courses. People meandered into different places in lives, goals and careers. I understand that too.

I stand at the edge of my play yard. I look out into the dusk.

I yell

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry I withdrew so deeply into myself that I locked the door to the yard and refused to go out. I'm sorry I missed babies being born, babies being lost and the million other joys and sorrows that happened in your lives. Marriages. Divorces. The terrible. The frightening, the sublime. I didn't mean to abandon you."


And I wait here in the edge of the yard...just on the edge of the dark peering out waiting for a noise. A whisper. Anything. I pick up a small stone and throw it up into the air and watch the bats dive and turn towards it.

I can wait.

Clash of the Titans

The scene: Last night,My bedroom

Me: ( On computer reading witty Internet friends…silence)
Em: (On bed rolling around watching Disney Channel) Can I have some ice?
Me: In a minute, honey – mommy’s looking at something.
Em: Can you get me some ice?
Me: I said I would get you some in a minute, please wait.

Five minutes pass

Em: Mom, you said you would get me some ice.
Me: I know – just let me finish this
Em: (Loud, audible sigh)
Me: Ask your father if you can’t wait.
Em: I can wait, I just want some ice.
Terrance: (From other room) Get her the ice yourself!
Me: Fine, I will get you some ice!

I go to the fridge and retrieve three ice cubes for my child to chew on. At the same time, my husband requests that I fetch him something from another room “since I’m up”. I scowl at him and march back into hand my child her accursed ice cubes, then march back out to give him the paper he requested.

2.7 minutes later

Em: I’m ready for bed – I’m done with the ice cubes.
Me: You have got to be shitting me. You’re done with the ice cubes? After all that?
Em: Yeah, just put them in the sink.
Me: You know, it’s lucky you are so cute, or we would have left you by the side of the road to be raised by rodents a long time ago.
Em: (perfectly serious) One Time you did.*
Me: Oh no, sister, that was your father – you can’t pin that one on me. That’s one therapy session in which I won’t be featured.

** Back story.

When Emily was just three, she had a bad habit of throwing things at us when we drove. Her shoes, socks, toys, books. She would get mad and throw things. One rainy day she threw something at her daddy as he drove and he said:

Terrance: “You do that again and I am going to stop and put you out at the side of the road”
Emily: Throws something
Tee: “I am serious, little bad ass – don’t think I won’t stop and put your ass out”
Emily: “Go ahead. Do it.”

(I am in the passenger seat with my mouth a perfect O – cause it is ON now, mofo. White parents will threaten - Black parents will DO)

Terrance pulls over to the side of the road.
Tee: Ok – Get Out”
Emily: Unbuckles her car seat “Ok, I’m going”

She GETS OUT of the car and stands by the car in the rain and shuts the door,

Me: Turning to Terrance “Holy Shit – what are we going to do?”
Tee: I don’t know – I didn’t think she would really get out
Me: She is such a bas ass. I am going to unroll the window and ask her if she wants to get back in.

Me: Em – are you ready to get back in the car?

She stares at me with her little lips puckered up in defiance

Me: “You can get back in, if you are ready to listen to Daddy’s words”

Emily silently opens the car door and climbs back into her car seat.
We drive home and I prepare myself for the hell that will be her teenage years.


Originally Published October 2005

Nothing more than feelings

Below is the post that I have had in draft since the 2007 BlogHer. I rarely leave my own blog cave anymore, and have only very,very recently started looking at other peoples blogs again.

Not because I don't love my true Bloggy Friends, but because well, I didn't like what the Blog world had become in 2007. I couldn't participate in what I was seeing. It horrified me then and I ran as fast and far as I could.

This is the conference where I watched True Wife get blatently ripped off and very, very few of my Blog "friends" stood by me. Some did, of course -( and you know who you are) and for that, you have my serious lifelong loyalty. I mean it. Karen, need a bottle of wine? I can drive it there. Izzy - you remain THE SHIT. Nancy, Jenn, Jess, and Tammy - we need a serious mini-blog-us long weekend.

In reading some of the recap posts across the net, I have had a hearty chuckle. Oh, the pots calling the collective kettles black. Great googley moogley. Some of these same outraged bloggers did the very same things in 2007. There didn't seem to be any outrage then. Well, maybe from me - who then got kind of kicked out of the "in crowd".

Listen. I hold no ill will towards people who make money from their writing - how ever they do it. I made my peace with where the Blog world was heading in 2007. As with any medium, the cream WILL rise. Women who are good writers will continue on as writers. Mommy-ness has not a good god damn thing too do with it. Children grow, Mommy hood changes - but we remain. The Women writers. The Women Bloggers. Complex. Quirky. Smart. Real.

No one handed me a medal in 2005 for blogging and the 50 bucks or so I earn from all my combined ad revenue keeps me in Coffee for the month, so I continue on. I Blog because I want to Blog, just like I slog away at this PhD ( and this is the point where I raise my fist and say KHAN!!!!) because I WANT it. A newish friend said to me "You have a thirst to write this all out, don't you?"

Yep. Thats why I do this. Because I have to. I want to. I need to.

*************************************************************************************

Ahem.
Hi there.
Its Me.
At BlogHer 2007. And I am not enjoying myself - Which is no fault of the conference sponsors, organizers, or anyone affiliated with the conference planning.

On one hand, I thought it would be good to come and network and visit with old bloggy friends and make a few new ones - kinda like I did last year. And that part? Awesome. Amazing. Pee inducing hysteria and fun.

I mean, for real. When you can wake up and have Izzy announce that she wishes a man with limited clothing would deliver a platter of bacon to our room. Fan-fucking-tastic.

And the drinking? Most excellent, as always. We are a community of barely restrained alkies, us Bloggers we.

However on the other hand - one thing I loved about blogging, the intimacy, the feeling of belonging that I once derived from reading others blogs and in writing my own? I am not feeling it.

Of course, I may no longer be in with the in-crowd after my year long mind-losing crazy fest.

And hey. I was never meant to be in an in crowd anyway. It freaks me out. Shit, just being in a ballroom with what feels like a mind crushing amount of people is freaking me out - which is one of the many reasons I have fled to the safety of my room. I don't know nearly anyone here....and I won't wear my nametag cause having everyone look at my boob is unsettling.

And then, there is something else. I am not a name caller. I will not go into details regarding what I will now forever after refer to as "the awakening" - but something happened here, for me, that has hurt me - deeply. As I lay my head on Her Bad Mothers shoulder today and had a little cry I realized that my perception of the Blog-i-verse? The one in which people respect others and play fair? The one in which credit is given to the appropriate people?

Well. I am naive. I should have been more savvy. Played harder. As much as anything else, I am sad and hurt by my own naivety. I am alarmed at the person I will have to inhabit to rectify what I consider to be a fundamental wrong. I am saddened by the realization that MY dream/fantasy world of BlogHer/blogging is not what I wanted or hoped or needed.

It's No "Tommy"

I have been contemplating what my life would like as a Musical Opera, in the style of the great Rock Opera’s of past.

I would like to propose some song titles that would encompass my experiences throughout the day:

Side 1:

In Praise of Prozac, or how I get up in the morning
Where have all the run-free pantyhose gone?
Kidz Bop is the Devil’s music
Seriously Dude, you need to calm down before you have a stroke (A duet with my husband)
Emily, stop dancing around naked and get ready for school.
(This is a three-parter with the above Duet with my husband)

I have reached heaven, and its name is Dunkin Donuts
Guy in the F150 pickup, do not cut me off, for your job can not be all that great that you need to get there this fast, I see that you are in landscaping and like Nascar.

No small talk in the elevator (leave me alone) - a doo-wop number
What fresh hell is this? (the reading of the email)
Which morphs into the plaintive solo:
Are people really this stupid? (The Idiot Song)


Side 2:

Hey, Gas is 2.29! Fill ‘er up!
What do you want for dinner? (The Cell phone song)
Mommy has wine breath, but she still reads to me every night (sung by Emily)
Go to sleep, child, go to SLEEP!
If Mommy and Daddy don’t have sex soon, we will get divorced and it will be all your fault.

Bonus tracks:

I mock you, yes I do. (The Superiority song)
You can never have too many shoes – unless they are from Payless.
F is for Fuck
Suck it, Uber-Mom’s


Feel free to add your own.

Originally publish November 2005

Rude Awakening

My day started earlier than I would have liked.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHHHHHAHAAAAHHH
Sorry, the futility of the first sentence struck me as funny. Since giving birth to my bundle o'fun seven years ago, ALL my days have started earlier than I would have liked.

As you know, Emily sleeps with me. The American Academy of Pediatrics may suggest that I have been trying to bump her off by endangering her with my "Family bed", and I may suggest that they shove it up their collective asses.

She wakes like clockwork at about 6:30 and begins her Bhutan Death march campaign to wake me up. It's a little game we play. She doesn't want anything in particular, just to be assured that I am NOT sleeping. She seems to feel very strongly that if she isn't sleeping, I shouldn't be sleeping.

I usually murmur something loving along the of "Leave me Alone!" or "Stop Touching me!" and try to roll away from her.

When she was small, I assumed that she had not intended to elbow me in the nose, or kick me directly in the crotch, or lean with her elbow on my nipple. Now I comprehend that she was simply perfecting her technique.

For this morning's stunt......

I am laying there, half asleep. Thinking of the day's schedule - ballet, have to go pick up a cake at a very yummy bakery, going to friends tonight, so need to pack an overnight bag .... you know, the stuff that women think of before they get up.

I hear a funny whirring noise. It's kind of far away and only goes on for a second. So I return to my day dreams of cake and bottles of wine with adults tonight and being away from bags of frozen peas....I begin to drift back to sleep.

Suddenly, I am being rushed back to the tunnel of consciousness. Something is very wrong my body is yelling, wake UP!

As my eyes fly open, they look directly into a small ultra violet light, which makes my head snap back as I exclaim "Emily, what the hell is WRONG with you?"

She has taken this small "Finding Nemo"aquarium top off a toy, and has pressed it's ultraviolet light to my eyelids in her latest attempt to awaken me.

Em:"Oh, sorry, Mama"
She says this in a breathless, innocent way. Then hops off the bed to go see her daddy. She wins again, I am awake!

I can actually still see the purple circle when I close my eyes. She may have cheered the back of my retina's.

I think my kid is channeling Mengele

Originally publish November 2005

Tit for Tat

Good Morrow, gentle friends.

The deed is done.

I had some fun at my now sleeping husbands expense - for instance, I suggested that perhaps he ask for a "ball lift" while he was in there having work done. Mainly to say the words "ball" and "lift" together.

Also, as the Valium took effect and he started to get silly in the car, I said it was nice to have him be so relaxed and he announced "I'm always chill, baby." Which made me hysterical, cause he is the least "chill " man ever. I'm surprised diamonds haven't popped out of his ass.

So we get there and he is a bit loopy from the Valium and he is trying to give me instructions like, "If any of my clients call, tell them I am out of the country"

?????? What?

And "Even though I am dopey, I could still kick anyone's ass if I had too"

Thank God. Roving bands of attack chipmunks will be no match for my about to be neutered spouse.

I also ran out and took this picture while he was in the "procedure room." Was this logo designed by a 9 year old boy or what? Geesh, I wonder what they specialize in here? Does the same designer draw two circles and an arrow pointing at a black triangle for a gynecologist's office?



Then I waited for them to call him in. I threatened to come in and do a photo-documentary. He did not find this funny. At all.

So I sat and waited.


I told you the waiting room was straight outta 1975


And then the doctor came out to get me. I started to smile at him. I couldn't help it.

I go in and there he is - the father o' my child, laying flat on his back with his hands over his face. His crotch is ensconced in gauze and he begins to hold his testicles. He walks out of the building...holding his testicles. We drive home, and he is laying as flat as he can in the. I run into the grocery store to purchase the bags of peas to ice him down.

we begin to drive home. He must be in pain, for he lifts up his sweatpants and places a bag of frozen peas on his testicles. The old man in the truck beside us watches a big black man shove a bag of peas down his pants. He looks a bit distraught - the old man that is. Perhaps the Conservatives are right, for right there, next to his truck is a Black man doing unnatural things to frozen vegetables.

Terrance has no clue anyone is watching him. I giggle.
I hear a new musical coming on:
"ain't nobody having sex with veg-e-tables"

But, oh.....my poor husband. He does look bad now. I just re-iced his balls with another bag of frozen peas and gave him more ibuprofen. He said "My balls are killing me" before he fell asleep.

And then I remember pushing a baby out of a certain place and think that this seems a fair trade.

Originally publish 11/4/2005

I dedicate this entry to Dr. Pap Smear

While I try to locate my sense of humor, please enjoy these older, but still hysterical pieces:

Yesterday I went with my spouse to the Penis doctor and we talked about his vasectomy. I do not have familiarity with doctors such as this, as my needs are quite different. However, I can tell you that when I have been in the office of my midwife, there are lovely paintings, fresh flowers, soft classical music, and an overall sense that things will be just fine.

This was not the case at the office of the Penis doctor. The chairs looked like something that I remember seeing in my grandmother's basement in 1975. They were that Pleather stuff with the multiple buttons punched in the cushions. There was a bucket of skanky looking toys to the side, swarming with typhoid - although why anyone would be bringing their child to this office, I can only imagine. It had a definite "Guys Bathroom" feel about it - without the obvious urine smell.

The highlight, aside from the vast assortment of car and gun magazines, was the electronic Viagra quiz display. With my husband next to me, I delightedly grabbed it, turned it on and announced that I would take the Viagra quiz. There were five simple questions to determine if I needed Viagra. The first was "Do you have trouble getting and maintaining an erection?"

My answer: Yes.

Second question: "When you penetrate your partner, are you unable to sustain an erection?"

My answer: Yes!

By this time, my husband is looking apologetically at the one other man in the office. I am taking too much joy in the Viagra quiz. I am taking this joy loudly. I finish the quiz and score a 5. Apparently if you score anything under a 21, you need viagra. My husband congratulates me on not having a penis.

The woebegone nurse calls his name. I leap up enthusiastically, my high heels and swishy skirt discordant with my surroundings. We walk back into the weird warren of rooms and are shown into a cube of a room. We sit. I announce "This is the crappiest doctors office I have ever been in!". I observe the giant posters of the penis, bladder and prostate. Terrance shrugs. I observe the giant penis related health scramble they have laminated and pasted above the exam table. While having your examine, they would like you to search out words like "vasectomy" and "prostate" and "testicle".

I express my hysteria at this word scramble! The midwife had lovely poetry and inspirational thoughts above her exam table. "Is that supposed to keep your mind off of the "finger up the butt" exam?". I am practically howling with laughter.

The doctor enters and I compose myself. He begins to give us the "Vasectomy Talk". He has a pamphlet which he opens and refers during his speech. I enjoy this speech very much. He gets to the description of the actual procedure where he explains that he will poke two holes in my husbands testicles and cut and burn my husbands vas deferens. My husband looks slightly unwell at this point. I am grinning.

We move on to the discussion of "after procedure" issues. I am instructed to examine my husbands testicles for "bleeds" and told that a cantaloupe sized sack is normal - grapefruit is not.
If I could have fallen from the chair and rolled around on the floor, clutching my sides in laughter, I would have. The doctor then sternly tells us that my husband and I must have sex a minimum of 20 times before he can bring in a sample for testing. Terrance perks us at this news.

I sign the paper giving my consent. Terrance signs the paper. We get his Valium prescription and make a date for the deed - November 4th.

Then - and this is BY FAR- the best part of the whole thing. The doctor asks to examine the husbands penal area. I feel like I have won the fucking lottery. I am fully clothed, not on an exam table, not in labor and my husband is being asked to drop his pants by another guy and I am watching. Oh, the sweet, sweet irony.

I watch, intently. I can not, truth be told, look away. My manly man stand up, fumbles with his belt and drops his pants. Another man puts on gloves and starts examining his testicles. They are chatting and the doctor announces that he has found one vas deferens, then the other. "You're perfectly normal - this will be an quick procedure", the doctor announces.

We leave. We get in the car. "That rocked!", I say. "I'm glad you enjoyed it", says Terrance.
"Happy Anniversary!", I say. "Happy anniversary to you.", says Terrance.
"Now", he says, "let's go get our daughter and go out for some margarita's at Slims."

I grin at him. "I'll even buy.", I say.

wavering

There is a sadness in me at times. I don't know what to do with it.

"Its Hormones", I tell myself. But I don't believe me. My breasts are achey and sore and I am all kinds of bitchy, but I know it isn't just the whore-moans.

My search for an apartment is exhausting. Who knew that finding a place I like and feel that my kid could grow and thrive in could be so freaking draining? Certainly not me. I swing from heady enthusiasm to abject misery with every place I look at or email or call about. Excited! Miserable! Back to Excited! Now with more moping! Gah. Even I am sick of me.

A couple of weeks ago I visited a condo which looked promising. Really promising. The location was good - nice parks, close enough to Ems school for easy transport and a nice "main street" that I love. I viewed it and came home. I had promised to pick up dinner on my way home, so I did that and weighed the next conversation with Terrance.

The "Yes, I am really moving out" conversation. Which I thought we had both agreed was good. Was best. Was the "right thing to do".

Why I didn't expect his protests, I will never know. But I didn't. I was, in fact, shocked. He recanted everything that had been said up to that point. He told me how much he loves me, that our family was the most important thing to him. That keeping our family together is the most important thing to him....but If I was set on leaving, he wouldn't stop me.

Wh-Wh-WH-WHAT? I did what any sane person would do at that moment. I burst into sobs.

"But you said you wanted to get divorced!", I heaved and hiccuped through my tears.

And then - in true Dawn and Terrance fashion - he bit into a shrimp which was hidden in his takeout Pad Thai and had to go to the emergency room. Leaving me flapping and fluttering around the house, hysterically crying and thinking "OH MY GOD I KILLED HIM WITH TAKEOUT!" and alternately mad at him for not picking up the god damn epi-pen from the last time he had an allergic reaction, and then upset because I had no liquid Benedryl in the house and I ALWAYS have liquid Benedryl in the house...

By the time he gets back, I am exhausted. Hysterical and exhausted.

Because what I want, what I crave, is this to be a joint decision. Much like we marched into marriage. But what I am getting is uncertainty. On both our parts. We waver back and forth like flames in a windstorm. How do people just do it? Just pack up one day and depart? AS much as I want this to be over, to just end so I can heal and move on, I am terrified to be without him. I love him. I just don't want to live with him anymore.

Satin is not my Master

So in the last two weeks, Emily and I went to Boston to see my brother and his family for his 5 month old sons christening.

My brother and I have often joked that in order for two of the three siblings to be in the same place at the same time, the third sibling must be forced out into the ether in a triangular manner. We are like the Highlander. We do not exist at the same time in the same place so one must observe closely when we are, as it is a rare and special sighting.

In addition to the rarity of the sight of more than one of my siblings in the presence of another is the humor factor...which gets ramped up into the stratosphere. If there is one person who "gets" me, it is my brother. I did, after all, send his newborn son a "Punisher" onesie... which freaked his wife out a little - the giant skull and all, but my brother was overjoyed.

So there we are. Me, Donnie and Emily, all looking less comfortable in church than the other. Emily is watching the statues carefully since she is convinced they plan on coming to life and touching her, I am looking up at the ceiling, hoping not to catch the eye of the priest who is going to know of my religious ambivalence and start throwing holy water on me....and then there is my brother who is clearly desperately trying to appear vaguely interested...especially as he has been seated with wife and child in the very front pew.

Having come in late, Em and I sneak into the side pews. I throw some holy water on Em as we walk into the church and do a pathetic attempt to bless her and me as we skulk down the aisle. There is deep affront on her part: "WHAT DID YOU DO THAT FOR?" she whispers fiercely.

"JUST COME ON!" I whisper back. We get seated and catch Donnie's eye to let him know his family has arrived, versus bursting into flames at the front door - which we had even money on, really.

Donnie's wife, Keri, is a gracious and lovely woman. She beckons us over to where they are sitting ( in the front of the freaking church). Donnie is looking pained.

Em - being an 11 year old - leaps up at being beckoned and hustles ACROSS the church, crossing from the extreme left of the church, across center aisle to where Donnie et al are seated. Since my child has abandoned me, I now must follow - apologizing to everyone she has trampled over to get to the front while trying to keep that hunched over stance as we are in the MIDDLE of a religious service.

I sit. Emily grabs my arm. In her rush to get to the front, she has failed to assess the potential statue strategic positioning. We are now MUCH closer to the statues in all their bloody, open heart, pained expressioned selves.

I lean into my brothers neck and whisper "Are all these people here for you?" because there are ALOT of people in this church. I mean, I assume he is a popular guy and all, but there are WAY more people at this christening then I think came to the wedding. Plus, leaning into his neck and whispering has the added benefit of not having to make eye contact with the priest who is very very close to me.

Donnie whispers back that it is a group baptism. I was unaware that the Catholic church has gone all Sams Club with it's baptisms. 7 babies for one low low price! But hey - I got the kid who is offended when I fling holy water on her, so I am no religious parenting icon.

I lean back and resume my careful examination of the ceiling and the fans. The priest, a jolly Ted Kennedy looking kind of guy decides to mix it up - get the youth involved in the service. He gives a speech about welcoming the babies into ye olde Holy Catholic family, yadda, yadda , yadda - and then he breaks this little unexpected request out.

Can the older children come up and put their hands on the baptismal font and pray over it to help make it holy water?

And he points at my daughter. Directly at her.

She is a heathen deer in the headlights. She doesn't know WHAT to do. She half stands, then sits. I am whispering to her "You don't have to go up there!", while the priest continues to point and stare at her, and she stands back up...then sits, and does this TWO MORE times. Her uncle and I are both looking at her saying "You don't have to go up there, its OK" as the nieces and nephews of my sister in law watch with astonishment.

Emily moves to her game closing move. Sit down and hide her face in my shoulder. That will teach Lord Voldemort the priest to point and stare the agnostic kid in the pews.

From here on out, the priest stayed mighty close to my brother and I in the front two rows. I resumed my ceiling watching, as the priest talked about rebuking Satan - which frankly seemed a little excessive to me. Wasn't it a bit late to be stating allegiances? I mean we WERE in a church and all. Wasn't this something that could be safely assumed? Lots of Satanists jumping up mid baptism ceremony? I now study my choice of shoes. A lovely deep brown leather slingback, stilleto heel and pointed toe. More Satan talk in front of me. Voices Rebuking behind me. Emily in my shoulder. "Aren't you glad I never subjected you to this?", I whisper.

"Those statues are creeping me out", she replies.

I hear ya sister. Kind of how I feel about all the unnecessary Satan rebuking. Now if you want to rebuke Satin, I could get behind you. In this summer heat, Satin is completely unneeded. And frankly frivolous.

We stumble towards the end of this never ending Satan rebukation. Father Voldemort decides to start the Lords Prayer - which I know having been well indoctrinated in Catholicism before I had the wherewithal to flee. I look around at the congregation thinking, "I'm pretty sure I never taught any of this to Emily" and glance down at her. She is fake mouthing words - perhaps to a Jonas Brothers song?

"What are you saying?". I whisper. She shrugs her shoulders and continues to fake mouth words.
Aw, thats my girl. Fake it till you make it, baby.


(Next post - The mother we spent the entire service mocking for inappropriate baptism garb - With PHOTOS!)

Crimeless Punishment

I am going to get in trouble for writing this. I know this already.

There is going to be fall out and anger around this, and the dual voices that modulate much of my behavior argue furiously about the words that I am typing.

This pattern of pre-emptive punishment is something I am intimately familiar with, as I spend alot of my time punishing myself for the decisions I make. Even when I know they are right. Punish, Punish, Punish.

Why, asks my new therapist. Why do you punish yourself Dawn? Why do you pick fights with people you love before birthdays or other events? Why?

I stare at her sullenly. My mouth draws into the tight lipped O that forms when I am biting back my words.

Because. Because if I punish myself first, then no one else can do anything worse to me. I have already done my best to make me suffer, so when the other shoe drops, it is a small annoyance rather than a cataclysm. No one can disappoint me.

She write notes, furiously. I am a unique beast in her life, I dare to believe. The self aware crazy. The smart crazy. The occasionally witty crazy.

For years, I have hidden one of the many things I do as punishment to myself, for my punishments are not purely emotional. For years I have done these things and carefully pushed them out of my mind as habits. It was only through the Envisage project that I started becoming aware of them, as I photographed some of the instances. I am a picker. I am a scratcher and a digger.

I do not bite my nails. I do not smoke. But when in private and nervous, I start to scratch. Usually my chest first, or my feet. If it is a very bad time, it will be my face. I will pick at skin, at toe nails, at imagined bumps or warts until the skin dissolves under my non-bitten nails. I have ripped off toenails in my compulsive worrying at my body later having to lie to pedicurists that I caught the nail on something. Because what is the alternative? the truth? That I pick,pick, pick at things until bleeding? That I scratch the hell out of my breasts where the world can't see them, often while under very hot showers?

I mean, I know this is not an acceptable habit. I know it has a big whiff of the crazy about it, so I hide it. There are whole after school specials about the cousins to this little compulsion - the cutters, so in my skating the edge between full blown and charmingly crazy, I hide it.

About three weeks ago my 25 year old sister drank antifreeze in an effort to punish herself. According to her, it was not her intent to kill herself, as she very nearly did having stopped breathing and having to be airlifted to a larger hospital with her organs failing rapidly. It was her intent to punish herself.

Magic words, those. Punish herself. Oh, I know this well.

We were raised in a house of secret keeping. Don't tell what goes on here. Don't betray, don't reveal.The consequences of stepping over the rules was punishment. Not physical punishments - no, that would be too gauche. Too obvious. Our punishments happened long after the event, when you least expected it. They got maximum benefit that way. Your guard was down, and the knife went deeper. As children of my mother, we learned to punish ourselves first. In this way, we deadened the later punishment that was coming - and it was coming, I assure you.

It is the super power of the narcissistic parent, this self punishment. Rather clever, don't you think? Get them to do it, so all you have to do is look at them? Get your children so hyper attuned to your ever changing moods that they begin the punishment without a word? And then deny that anything ever happened? Tell them they imagined it all?

And even now, writing this, I begin to pick at the skin around my nails. There will be trouble from this. I am not supposed to talk about these things, you know. Then people will know. Know the depth of the crazy. And what will they think then?

My sister is out of the locked ward, and back on her meds and doing well. We talk as much as I can get her on the phone. Survivors, I told her. Soldiers on the same field of battle like Madge said in her comment. During one of the talks while she was still in the ward, I told her that it wasn't her job to worry about our mother - to worry what she would think or say or do. Not your job, I told her. Her job? Get better. Start uncovering her triggers for the need to punish herself - and work to defuse those. I know I am.

Consequences

My past week has pushed the tenuous push and pull of choices and consequences in the forefront of my brain.

Beyond my three person family, some heavy shit has been happening in my family of origin. So heavy, in fact, that I have had to wade into that quagmire and start to pull out the debris of decades and figure out what the hell to do.

As always, I go to my adult place. It is, after all, what keeps me sane. Calm rational Dawn. You all may not be as familiar with this manifestation of myself, but she - Like Professional Dawn - is amazingly well put together.

After many, many months of my well orchestrated avoidance, my mother has burst through the citadel and reintroduced herself into my life. Yeah. There was a 7:30 am phone call today. Seven thirty in the MORN-ING. She even said "Is there something the matter" to me when I did not greet her with the appropriate amount of enthusiasm? Verve? Whatever people who are awake and alert at 7:30 in the morning possess?

Seeing me move, Coco assumed that it was time for nose rubbing and salad.

"What mom?"

rub-rub-rub, scratch, rub, nose bump, more rubbing

"oh. Ok. That sounds good"

Rub, rub, rub, rub, nose bump to demand more rubbing. Now staring, with the one unblinking rabbit eye.

"Ok. Yep. All right. Hmm? Yes. Ok. Bye"

There is stirring from the other rooms as Emily comes in to lay on top of me. This is her morning greeting. Laying directly on top of me....preferably on top of my inevitably full bladder.

"Were you on the PHONE?" she asks. She is unbelieving too. The mother she knows barely speaks to the people to whom she lives prior to 8 a.m., let alone on the dreaded phone.

In this side family drama not related to the entropy of my marriage, many things are fading in and out of focus. Who is the keeper of truth in a family? What roles do we play as adults to our siblings? Where is the line between helpful and overbearing? I am walking this line with my sister as she sorts through the consequences of her actions - and we all sort out the consequences of my mothers actions or lack thereof.

And here is the sticking point, not so much who is at fault - but who will tell the truth? Who will verify in a family of secret keepers and master chameleons? Who will be the adult?

Me. I am the adult - and not in a martyred poor me way, I get enough of that rained down on me by my mother that I don't need to replicate it. I choose to be the adult and take responsibility for my actions...or my choice to be silent.

In the utter terribleness of the last week, I am being given a way to a relationship with my sister. For that I am immensely grateful.

Oil and Water

The tide rolls in, the tide rolls out - as we figure out what to do and how to proceed.

The odd euphoric calm that has come over each of us was unexpected. We're working better as a team than we have since the days of Emily's birth.

There are many things, in hindsight, always in hindsight, that were indicators that we would not be together forever.

My need for a nest, for a home, for roots...juxtaposed with his need to wander, to travel, to GO. Our oil and water combination could only be shaken so many times until we refused to merge.

My wait and see approach to the world next to his hypervigilance. My occasional retreats into the world of crazy and his baffled watching from outside my cave. My inability to bring what he found important to the forefront of my brain and his inability to give me the things I needed, even as he believed he WAS in fact giving me everything.

To me, the dishes could wait if a book was waiting to be read. The tub could stay funky for another day if the day was a good one to garden. The other things weren't as important as the now.

There were, of course, many other things that remain in our shared locked closet of the marriage.
They are not yet available for public consumption. I am not sure if they ever will be, and this is one of the reasons I am so sure that I can never know what goes on in anyone elses marriage.

And as I cried in the garden, sobbing, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry that it didn't turn out the way we hoped"...and he held me patting my back soothing me, we try to spin the ending so that we can both pick up and move on as whole people. A bit bruised, but not broken.

I hope I will be able to write about something else - wish for it. I apologize to any of you who read this for being so one note and kind of fucking depressing. Pushing this out of my head I hope to make room for the other things, and helps to keep the fear at bay.

Can you go back once you know?

The humor comes in short bursts, in funny places. Emily's laughter triggers my own laughter, this little not quite carbon copy of me finding the absurd funny.

Last week, it came when she expected my arm to curl around her in the morning...and it was my foot, stretch out and over her side. Oh, the belly laugh as she realized it was my foot she was trying to hold hands with...which then crawled into my throat and echoed her laugh.

In some ways, this space feels not unlike the weeks before childbirth. It is quiet, and watching. I also feel able to say things - things because I simply don't care about the consequences. I mean, whats the worst he can do? Divorce me?

Gallows humor, I'll be here all week.

The temperature in the house warmed with a talk on Friday, but bedrooms remain separate.

"I don't want to get to the point where I hate you so much that I want to fuck you over for the joy of it", I said. And I don't. I really don't. For I do love him. He is the father of my child, and as such we are bound forever.

There are many things we do well together, but living isn't one of them. We are the married version of the Odd couple - and my nesting messiness irks him beyond belief, making his blood pressure rise to nose bleed levels. For me, his incessant need to clean and straighten feels like criticism - plunging a knife into the cocoon I am trying to build around myself.

I ignore. He pushes back. I ignore harder and he reacts by trying to control my options. While that gets my attention, it can not be said that it gets it in a good way. No. No, sir. If there is one thing that will get me to rise out of my lair, it is the perception that I am being bullied. Good god. Don't bully me. Don't give me ultimatums and for fucks sake, DO NOT touch my stuff.

So the cycle continues. If you threaten to divorce me for 14 years, one day I will look at you and say "Do it."

We are tangled in a foreign country, with me in school and not working, bound by the conditions of my visa that I am a student, and that we are here together because I am a student. Financially bound together in a way that feels stifling - don't want to stay together but can't extricate ourselves from one another....until I get my doctorate and a job. Nothing like a little pressure to make that writing go smoothly, right?

Can't go back. Can't go forward. Just have to wait. Staring at the bear with the cheesecake in my hand. Waiting for it all to pass.

Embers

At the risk of sounding like a complete and utter bummer, its been a hard week.

Things that have been laying like embers in the charcoal of my marriage have flared up, and words were said.

Not untrue words, but ones that indicate a change must take place - for the sake of everyone.

And so I mourn...and swing to relief....and mourn some more...and then remember when I fell in love with Terrance and think that I want to change - I want that back...and then I realize that those moments were seen with the eyes of a 21 year old girl who was willing to forgive anything, and that I am now a 39 year old woman who must care for her daughter first, and then herself.

Like anything that nears the end of its life, there can be fingers pointed, blame assigned, scorecards tallied. There is no defined winner, no TKO. Neither of us gets our victory lap, and that is disconcerting. We win or we lose - so this middle space is unfamiliar - separated by doors in different bedrooms, and polite conversation on the phone or over dinner about our shared child.

We harden our shells in preparation for the next stage, trying to remain civil, while having to stay in place for the foreseeable future.

Second Hour

So I came back for another round. Almost a month after our first time together.

“It’s been awhile” you said as I sat down. You knew that I had weighed and balanced you in my mind. My need to be in therapy with my expectation that I will never find a therapist who will challenge me.

I almost started to giggle then, you know. I am not accustomed to having others see through me so transparently. I mean, I shield most things from my husband and he sees me every damn day. I shield everything from nearly everybody. I am a chameleon. I can be whatever you want me to be or not be there at all.

To walk in and have you see me so clearly is still new. Like a scab that is still itchy.

So I sat down and began to unravel the tangled mess of yarn that is my story. You wrote nothing down this time. You remembered it all.

I became so absorbed in my self pity and justifications that I didn’t even dodge the first punch. But I felt it. And stopped talking. I looked at you. You looked back, waiting.

“You are an active author in the script that disappoints you, Dawn. Why do you keep doing that? I know you are an incredibly smart woman so it makes no sense that you are acting so helpless in the very thing that is making you so angry….”

Well. I’ll be dammed. I may have even cocked my head at you, like a puppy when their owner does something unique and unexpected.

“You’re right.” It was all I could say. You ARE right. And the first person to really call me on it. In three years, you are the first therapist that has laid it out. It IS my script and I make sure that the patterns never deviate from my expectations. Which we all know are expectations of disappointment and failure. Not my own failure, of course – but that of the other people in my life to meet my needs – or not, as the more accurate case may be. I, after all , survive. I overcome. I deal with the shitty hand that I have been made sure that I will be dealt and power through it.

To do this, though, to be able to maintain this part of my identity, I keep my eyes shut until the last possible moment. And as the point of the knife is at my neck, cutting, I scream and rage and fight back. Until that point, I freeze in place – a willing victim. An open and inviting victim. What I have categorized as patience is nothing like patience. It is the stillness of the trap being laid.

You praise me for not being defensive as you detail the façade that has taken me 39 years to cultivate. No, not defensive. Illuminated. Shaken up a bit, but not defensive. Never defensive. I know myself too well to deny a truth when it is presented to me in such a way.

“Next week?” you ask at the end of the session.

Yes. I am coming back.

The first hour

We've only spent an hour together, so I know it may be too soon to be hopeful.

But I liked you. I liked having that hour with you.

But more than that, I felt like maybe you could help me find a way out of this forest of shit I am dealing with at the moment.

I'm not entirely sure what it was - the way you kept track of the names I used, the way you did not look phased at some of the more shocking things I prance out at a first therapy meeting, the way you gently chided me for an action I deserved to be chided for and did not back down when I glared at you.

I mean - lets face it. I am a hell of an intimidating subject to take on. When you asked about my "history" and I started to laugh - finally saying "Do you want from birth - or simply the last three years?" - You took me head on. "Start with now" you said "and we'll work our way back." I've been in therapy for 19 years - that alone makes me more knowledgeable and self aware than some of the therapists I have interviewed.

You are tiny. I towered over you in my three inch heels. I also decided I hated your shoes and purse moments after you called me into your office. I can be a miserable judgemental bitch, you know. A pretentious snob, I believe is the name used.

Maybe it was when you nodded as I talked about my post partum experiences. Maybe it was when I talked about how I actively planned to kill my baby - but only held back because I didn't want to go to jail, not because I considered infanticide wrong and you didn't even lower your eyes.

Maybe it was when you asked why I had terminated the other three therapists and I told you - one didn't listen to me and was pushing lithium - one didn't challenge me enough - and one was all right, until I felt judged by him. He was the last one. Who had the good grace to at least look a little bashful when he saw me today.

I don't know. When you asked me at the end if I felt we could work well together....I was pleased. First - not a one of the others had asked that. You clearly respected my ability to judge what I needed as a patient...and it isn't a mother. I need a partner in this next part of my soul journey. It is going to be a hell of a rugged road - my resistance to going back to therapy coupled with my weird quirk of picking at spots on my skin until I am raw and bleeding which have kicked into high gear - indicate that I am ready - if not entirely willing to leap into this .

This next part is hard...and I know from hard. So when I say Hard I mean that while I want to work, I will most likely fight you - kicking and screaming - as you help me drag my sorry ass to the next level.

So I called for another appointment today, after three weeks of thinking about it. It was wise of you to leave it up to me to seek you out. I hope you're ready.

Slow Burn

I wrote this reflection after reading the book , "The Burn Journals" by Brent Runyon. It is part of my thinking about this line between childhood and adulthood , what drives adults to "forget" the experiences of being a teen. As Emily walks - no, runs - into this stage of her life, I struggle with my fears. As a parent, I use these reflections to remind me to Watch. Really watch. Not assume that no news is good news, or that her physical body in the house = everything is fine. My family is rife with depression (and other more exciting mental illnesses) and to ignore the clinical evidence that most depressions begin with the onset of puberty would be foolish.

Yes, Teenagers are kind of alien. I think it is something built into the human transitional phase that is kind of healthy. We need to experience this metamorphosis in order to emerge on the other side. It is my role as a "Guide" that I ponder. I do not want to throw up my hands and say "Oh, Teenagers - You Know How they Are!". I struggle with the distance to maintain, while never abandoning her to the durm and strang of being a teen.

One of the intriguing ideas that I have been grappling with following the Thursday evening discussion of The Burn Journals is my awareness of which “voice” I am reading.

Like many others in the group, I found myself frustrated at times with Brent's subtle refusal to look inwards as to why he attempted suicide, as well as his non-cooperative attitude towards the therapists who were attempting to draw these reasons out into the open. In my “adult reader” voice, I felt annoyed that Brent had so clearly cried out for help through the suicide attempt, and yet seemed to actively resist the help that he had finally attracted. Towards both his family members and his doctors, Brents inability to be honest about his motivations – while simultaneously taking pleasure in the attention he drawn to himself strikes my “adult reader” as incredibly self centered and solipsist.

However, once I have recognized that my irritation is coming from my reaction as an adult and parent, I must step back and look further into the source of that anger.

What is it about this young man and his internal dialogue that is rubbing me the wrong way?

If I examine Brent's story from the reading perspective of “teen Dawn”, I must admit some uncomfortable similarities in thinking. I, like Brent, believed that my events and tribulations were all encompassing and ever lasting. No mean comment, no heartbreak, no bad grade was ever going to be able to be overcome. Everything was all or nothing.

In fact, while preparing for the Picture Essay, I re-read my high school journals and was struck by the rollercoaster of my emotions. While the 38 year old woman wanted to reach through those pages and soothe the 17 year old girl, tell her that things aren't that bad, and that she IS lovely and talented and smart....I couldn't. In reading those entries in my own journal, I could once again acutely feel the turmoil of my feelings.

Frankly, the adult in me didn't like it very much. I didn't like looking backwards into that space and feeling so powerless, so out of control, and so self isolated. Upon taking up the mantle of adult, I have prided myself on my problem solving skills, my calm and my ability to weather storms. Seeing my inner teenage self laid so bare was viserally uncomfortable. I had left that person behind, and Brents' story brought her back into the spotlight of my gaze.

If I view Brents memoir through the lens of “teen Dawn”, I recognize the confusion, the lack of ability to describe the “why” of my actions. I believe that Brent is being truthful when he states that he simply doesn't know why he lit himself on fire, beyond being the result of a series of decisions which don't make a lot of sense. I believe that the pain he caused himself, and as an extension his family, seemed like a reasonable trade off to Brent at the time he did it. He made his inner pain external. Brent made it impossible for anyone to deny that he was hurting, all the while denying it himself.

This is where my discomfort lay. My role as parent steps in to reasure my inner voice that I would always know my child, and would certainly know if she was so deeply unhappy. My “teen Dawn” voice pipes up and tells me that I would ( and did) hide the depth of my despair carefully from the adults in my life. As an adult, I want to believe that I have control over my world and the people in it.

Brent's memoir, and it's connection with the inner voice of the teenage Dawn, reminds me that I don't have control, nor are there always concrete reasons for individuals behaviors.

Rethinking Yoko

I was a huge Beatles fan as a child and teen. Partially it was because I was born in 1970, to a young mom who came of age during the British invasion. I grew up handling the real vinyl albums that she had bought when they came out, pouring over the liner notes and staring at the pictures. The four men who changed from album cover to album cover were a solid fixture in my life.

When I began to come of age, I started collecting my own Beatles paraphernalia. My collection grew to include rare copies of Quarrymen tapes, and first editions of 45's (the complete set) and a first printing of Lennon's "Spaniard in the Works". In addition to all my adoration came the decision that it was indeed Yoko Ono who had broken the Beatles. Yep. Things were good until Yoko. She's the one. And then John moved to New York and got shot. Yep. More Yoko. Her fault.

This weekend, Terrance demanded that I come to the John and Yoko exhibit at the Museum here in Montreal. He had taken Emily a week or so prior and was genuinely taken with the experience.

Fine, I said. I'll go. Because it is Sunday and we should do a family thing. But I didn't promise to love it. I didn't tell him of my long history with Yoko. It was between she and I, after all.

Walking into the exhibit is a sign. Take pictures, Touch things, it exhorts. You make the art.
I parted the black velvet curtains and entered.

"John?" a voice floats out. "Yoko?", another voice responds. "John", the voice calls again - sweeter. "Yoko", the other voice responds, and sounds deeply content.

Pictures of each of them, John and Yoko as children are blown up and one the walls. Their voices surround you as they call to each other from 30 years ago.

A shift happens inside me. I know the tone of these voices. These are voices in love. These are the voices that call from the bed when you wake and wonder where the man has gone, so you call out. He mimics the tone because he doesn't realize that you are looking for him...and then crawls back into the warm bed and slides up next you you. You say his name again, happy for him to return. And He says your name, folding his arms around you.

Oh.

I move into the next gallery, where the exhibit that John met Yoko is re-created. I hammer a nail into the wall, and climb the ladder to see the word printed in tiny font on the paper.




Yes.



We move to the next installation, where the bed is revealed. The bed where they staged their protest in Montreal after their wedding. Their voices roll from the bed and ceilings - talking about peace and love. Laughing. You see John cuddling Yoko from one side of the bed. I lay down with Emily and hold her.



The exhibit moves you to New York, which became their cultural home for the rest of their lives together. The piano on which Imagine was composed is there. It asks you to sit and play.



Oh.

The hall opens and invites you to leave your own mark. I laugh when I see the sign the museum has put up "Please don't use stamps on the walls". Which have been roundly ignored and laughed at by the people seeing this exhibit. The stamps are everywhere. I ignore the stamp and use my thumb as a marker. I will leave my thumbprint. My unique and distinct stamp. One and only. I wonder if Yoko will see what has been done to the walls and laugh the same way I did.








And then we are at the end. Yoko invites us to make a wish and leave it in the wish trees.



My wish? For Bravery and Strength. Compassion and Persistence. The ability to do what is right and not just what is easy. Courage to Love and be Loved. And forgiveness.


I understand Yoko. I understand it all. Thank you for being brave enough to love and be loved regardless of opinions or what was easy. Thank you for reminding me that these rich feelings of life are not convenient or neat, and that pain is as much a part of this tapestry as the joy.

Yes.