Keep your eyes steady

It's been awhile, I know. But spring is here and I gotta get this garden going, blog or no blog. That said, you're probably not going to like what I've got to say. Let's talk parenting for just a second. I am fully aware of the difficulties of raising children at every stage of the game. My ten-year-old is morphing into a moody teenager as we speak. Her grumpy factor is up 900000 percent and her attitude, well, she is the only person on earth who can boil my blood in 5 seconds flat. Really boil. More so than than any unfaithful man or colicky baby ever has (or useless "tech support" operators from Bangladesh). I even said something to her about it. Yeah, that worked.

"Anna, your attitude sucks this week. If you're gonna act like this all week, you might as well stay in your room and make everybody a little happier."

"Whatever. Maybe I will stay in my room, it's the only warm room in the house anyway. It's not like you and Lucian are gonna go have some Happy Fest with Legos."

Then she slouched off grumbling under her breath. Something that sounded alarmingly like "What a b*tch. And she wonders where I get it from."

I, of course, followed her skinny ass into the bathroom. She wasn't going to get the last word. Not on my watch.

"Girl, lemme tell you something," she rolled her eyes and set down the toothpaste.

"What."

"What you're doing isn't anything new, and you better watch yourself. I invented this sh*t that you've been trying to pull lately."

"Yeah, I know, that's what Papa told me, Miss Sass."

Thanks, Dad, thanks a ton. I stormed off one way, she stormed off the other. It is Friday and we are both still fully engaged in fight mode. Lucian plays aimlessly with his Legos and makes small requests for milk and apples with peanut butter.

Now, to my point. I will not let this girl off the hook because the respect battle is one worth waging and raging until the end of time. I will also not feed her a line of bullsh*t or ice cream and fries every night. I know where she is at all times, I know who her friends are, I can smell a lie and I know when her heart is broken, even before she does. I remind her that I'm human yet I act like Superman.

We fish, we sled, we swim, we go to weird art shows and cafes, we play chess, we fight a lot, we love each other on Friday afternoon and hate each other on Saturday morning.

I know this kid because I pay attention to her and her brother. They are my study in human nature and compassion. Nobody's perfect, but don't kid yourself. Ruffling their hair and saying "I love you" is the easy part.

If you're not getting your hands dirty, you're not doing your job.

Hearts on Ice

There is purity everywhere, or most places, so I've been told. In a water droplet, there is light, in a word there is enlightenment, in a look there is love.

And so on and so forth, enough to make me gag.

I am beginning to wonder, however, if this is true. The water that drips off my roof is filled with tar from old shingles (half of them fell off with the snow), my words are harsh and straight, and my look, well, only the kids get to see the love. I feel like they're the only ones I can trust with such a look.

Which leads me to the rather endearing conversation, one of many in the quiet moments of the morning, with the Sisco kid.

"You're my ice queen, baby, you were right."

"You know what, man, you know how you're gonna die? You're gonna choke on an ice cube. It'll come right out of my mouth and into your throat and you'll deserve it...d**chebag."

In between spurts of giggling and crying he didn't lose a beat.

"You know how you're gonna die? An ingrown horn. It's going to get infected, maybe the other one, too."

I'm not even safe in my own bed, people. Sarcasm and its glossy green armor is everywhere. So, when to let our guard down...you're asking the wrong girl. I try to take my cues from the many, open-hearted children in my life. They are not the innocent Shirley Temples of the world by any stretch. My son is devious, my daughter's mouth is undistilled venom, my teenage nephews have been lost to "sexting", and even my infant niece laughs with glee at an adult's sneer.

And yet, and yet. They have no guile, no walls and no regrets. In their presence, I know when my feet stink, my swearing is extensive and my eyes are baggy.

I also know when my dress looks nice, my smile is beautiful and I am the only person alive who can make "me laugh like that."

Thank you children, for your big hearts and honest eyes. I am sure that by the time you understand this blog you will be wearing that nasty armor.

Keep your horns clean!

Snarky love

I know what you're thinking, "Where's the jaded blog about how love sucks and Valentine's Day is a pile of Hallmark horsesh*t."

You got it, folks.

Singles' Awareness Day is, in short, a personal nightmare every year. Even for screaming hippie liberals with multi-colored children, the vast echo of singletude can be heard for miles in the human heart. Fortunately, today was Monday and I was naturally miserable anyway and so the sting of VD was a little less, well, sting-y.

But still...the red and pink displays that greet me in the front of the supermarket, the rampant FTD commercials (which I of course have renamed STD) on TV and the sickening heart-bedecked ads for overpriced "lover" meals at local eateries are all sly bitter reminders of my many failed attempts at L-O-V-E.

Several relationships, one marriage and two baby daddies later (and four days from my 34th birthday) I have learned not to expect any magic on this historically bloody, syrupy blip on the Roman calendar.

And, of course, this is the year that I find myself with an equally jaded companion who "gets" my cynicism and may even like me more for it. What can two souls do, who have no respect for the great American day of love?

We make fun of each other and the L.L. Bean-wearing, middle-aged quartet swilling themselves in wine at the table next door. And bemoan our lust/love foibles that got us here in the first place.

"That's us babe," he says shooting a glance to the other table. "Except that guy has more hair than I do."

"Nope, not us, not me anyway," I say, laughing. "I'm not cutting my hair that short. That means I've given up. And I will have my real teeth at that age. I would be devastated without my real teeth."

"That reminds me, did you know that females prefer longer, thicker penises?"

I practically choke on my pasta. Penne, ironically.

"I'm serious. Men with smaller penises are slowly becoming extinct."

"Thank god."

"That's awful. Can you imagine? I feel bad for the poor guy. Goes through life alone, unlaid..."

"Tough world," I say. "Not my problem."

Which reminds me, I need to update my spam filter. Someone named Shanea Obdulia keeps sending me email trying to entice me to make my penis bigger. 100% satisfaction. The spam for hydrocodone from Mr. Guang Li offers the same satisfaction.

Oddly, they are both correct.

Happy VD...

Buried

How the hell is everyone else doing it? Just curious. I'm sitting here, looking at the goddamn snow (and at a giant spruce tree that might finally decide to fall on my house, maybe today) and wondering if I should even bother getting out of bed.

Of course, I will. I need to grab another cup of coffee and at some point a shower is in order, but still...STILL...this winter is like a bad mountain ballad. I'm just waiting for a lady with a silver dagger to come and drive it through my heart. No roses wrapped around briers this time of year.

Back to my original question, how are you doing it? Is it a day-to-day gig where you take the winter one moment at a time and try to resist the urge to light fire to your own socks because your feet are so cold? I'm finding very small pockets of joy here and there; last night I ate my fill of oysters and went to bed warm. That was nice. And the glass of brandy I had on Thursday helped move the evening along. And who doesn't look forward to a scorching shower in the middle of the day?

In a winter like this, it really is the little things. It has to be. Everyone I talk to is broke (or broken) and depressed, or both. Oil is going like water through a sieve, food has lost its taste, a vacation means taking Valium before noon.

You get the point.

I have no real lesson to offer here. This too shall pass, that's what my mother says all the time.
Actually, she was telling me about her financial woes and I tried to comfort her with that same line.

"Don't worry, Ma, this too shall pass." I nearly choked on the words.

"Oh, f*ck that. Maybe in a couple of years but by then I won't care."

"Woooow."

Then it was her turn.

"Only six more weeks of winter according to Punksatawny Phil...and Long Island Chuck."

"Who the f*ck is Long Island Chuck?"

"The backup groundhog. Low budget."

"Oh, in case I shoot the other mofo in the head for seeing his shadow?"

"Exactly."

Good luck, folks. Steelers are gonna win, btw.

One in a million

I covered a meeting last night, the topic was "Is Berkshire County sick?" Intriguing, right? From my neutral journalist's perspective my immediate reaction was "Of course it's sick, look around you." At which point, I sat in wait to hear statistics and ideas and health care jargon while attempting to snap some kind of action shot.

The attending crowd, a polite, fairly graying bunch mostly topping 50, nodded and tsked and shook their heads as one doctor after the other presented some pretty alarming statistics about our quaint little "resort" community. I think "last resort" might be the most appropriate term.

I attempted to remain calm and neutral while the numbers were presented, yet each percentage rattled in my head. Each percentage was an affront to my dignity. Inside, the journalist melted and spilled out of the mold. I was no longer neutral. I was a number, several numbers, at which people shook their heads, myself included.

15% of children under age 18 live in poverty here--my own children are among them.
10,000 require mental health services every year--I am one of them
11% of households are single parent--check

And on and on, for every topic--cancer, teen suicide, smoking, stress, access to nutrition, income inequality, there we were, my little family of three. I eventually stopped writing and just listened, every now and then hiding behind my camera for warmth.

"How the hell am I gonna crawl out of this hole," I thought.

The ride home was somber. I was thinking about a conversation I had earlier in the day. For once, someone was asking ME questions about MY life.

"This is weird," I'd said. "I'm always the one asking the questions." Nervous laughter.

He shook his head and put pulled at his beard a little.

"I'm really sorry that you're struggling this much," he said. "And you're so young."

I was grateful for the acknowledgment of the struggle, but could've done without the tailspin of thoughts that followed. I'm so busy making sure that our little heads stay above the water that I forget that I'm actually swimming, hard, for months at a time.

However, I find hope in the fact that eventually, most of us jump in the same boat. We reach for the ones who are struggling and the stronger ones row us to shore. Yes, my little family is a census-taker's wet dream and a social service agency's worst nightmare. But I don't see that, not really, when I look at myself and the kids.

I see the only person in her whole family who went to college and finished and then went to grad school. I see a little boy with the mind of a mad genius. I see a young woman, who, by her mere existence, breaks racial and social barriers every day with gusto and a great hat. I see a woman who makes the right choices every day and sticks by them. I see a fierce mother who will do anything to make sure her children are healthy and happy and warm. I still see a future for us.

Percentages have their place, just not at my kitchen table.

Where you are

In my mind, I've been doing a lot of nagging lately, half of which comes out of my mouth. It's petty stuff, mostly, about leaving socks on the table, Legos on the floor, exploded yogurts in the lunchbox. Yet, when you combine these endless little nuisances (not caused by me) with the increasing stress of a job that thinks it can squeeze blood from a stone, a lover who thinks sleeping is a hobby akin to being a concert pianist and getting buried in snow every 5 seconds, you've got a bomb.

And there is nothing on earth more frightening than a Mom Bomb.

This is completely unrelated to the bathroom by the way.

Mom Bomb takes a lot of B vitamins and Kava Kava and chamomile tea and has recently begun exploring the use of Malbec as a sleep aid. So far, nothing has worked. With each sock that Mom Bomb flicks off of the table, with each shower argument she has, with each slam of the door she is seconds closer to putting a handkerchief on the end of a stick and heading off into the frozen, 3 p.m. sunset.

So, it was in this mindset that I was conducting an interview with a man, a leader really, who works with African-American youth and adults in the community. He has twin boys, he was a stay at home dad, he is funny, he is real. And we were talking about how communities these days tend to hold up their hands like surgeons, like somehow no one, despite being neighbors and classmates and parents, really feels like they are part of something larger than the scope of their living room. That's when he laughed ironically.

"Don't act like you don't live here," he said.

Brilliant.

I explained this phrase to the kids and I've been using that one all week, especially with the preteen who thinks that Cinderella lives in the kitchen.

"Anna, can you please put those dishes in the sink?"
"WHAT?! But I put them in the sink this morning!"
"Lucian, can you please put your dirty skivs in the hamper?"
"Why? I don't want to, they're not dirty."

"Um, guys, what'd I tell you in the car."
"We know, we know, don't act like you don't live here."

Seems to be working so far. I haven't stepped on a Lego all week, and the laundry basket is overflowing.

Resolving joy

I warned you that there were some resolutions brewing. But these are not for the weak of heart (or stomach or brain or, um, lowers). These resolutions are for those out there who are so goddamn sick of denying themselves the things that bring them the most joy so that they can "be happier" or "be healthier."

The irony of resolutions is wax dripping from a messy candle. Oh, and it does eventually harden for easy removal.

My inspiration for my resolutions, or, I should say, for my attitude towards resolutions, has been building over the last several weeks as I have fretted over virtually everything I could; money, food, family, the holidays, mothering, work, gaining weight, losing weight, losing hope, trust, health, bills, college funds...you name it, I've been nearly paralyzed worrying about it.

Until one magic yoga class on Christmas Eve. I was sitting there in a suspended lunge, my back leg shaking shamelessly, my mind unable to focus, when our instructor broke through my thoughts with, "Think about your practice. Why are you here today? You are doing a good thing for yourself."

And here I thought I was being selfish by spending $15 for a drop in and some sanity. Guess what, not selfish. I am now calling it self care. If it's going to make me saner and able to breathe easier, then, man, I'm gonna do it. Without guilt.

Of course, the yoga was just the beginning. I did read my poetry on New Year's Eve. Yes, there were other writers there, yes I was nervous, but then, there were naked women dancing and languishing in their ample frames, and that's when resolution #2 hit me. My body is not a nuisance shroud that I will eventually shed, god willing. It's awesome. It's strong. It is DIRECTLY CONNECTED to my priceless little brain, therefore, it is of use to me.

Sound like a bad essay in Cosmo? Maybe, but the truth rings clear. I've been nit-picking my poor self to death about this flaw or that. What for?! What friggin' for? So what, I've had two kids, so what I don't work out every day, so what, I LOVE cheese and bread and food and wine and dancing and nakedness and rare European perfumes and expensive cigarettes. If I sit around and wait until I'm perfect to really be able to enjoy these things, I'm gonna turn to dust. Literally. This is the shape I got, and I better start liking it now and giving it some non-Puritan attention.

You see where I'm going with all this. Resolutions should be about pleasure, not denial. Why wouldn't you try and enjoy life? Especially now, since things are so sparse and difficult. Why not people watch, eat bread, work a little, take a nap on Sunday, go for a walk at night, drink a little too much wine, fall in love with strangers or friends?

I'm going for it. I'm sure you'll read about it in the news.