Spin Me I Pulsate.

There's a thread at Blogging Baby that I refuse to continue reading.

The post was regarding some parents in MA suing their kids school because

wait for it....

GASP! They read a story about a prince who marries a prince to their children without warning.

Now personally, I don't get the big deal. The fact that anyone gets their panties in a knot about this shit is beyond me. It's none of my damn business, and quite frankly, it's obvious that the "nuclear" family wasn't doing anyone any favours, so I don't get it. Why is it impossible for people to just keep their damn attitudes to themselves, and NOT sue people??

What's the message these kids are getting? Don't respect the viewpoints of others. Don't respect gay and lesbian people, who might just be the parents of your friends. Don't accept reality. Because honey, this IS reality, regardless of what your mistranslated, irrelevant books say. And what part of PUBLIC SCHOOL is not a given here?

What's really got my goat lately is this constant whine of "we have to be tolerant of gays/lesbians/legion of things we don't like, why aren't you tolerant of us?"

For the same reason I'm not tolerant of Intelligent Design (snicker). Because it's ASININE and a waste of my time and energy. I'm not tolerant of the KKK, or any other hate group. So why in the hell should I be tolerant of your misguided and shortsighted opinion? Why should I tolerate something that does equal hatred? When does the line get drawn in the sand saying somethings are just wrong?

50 odd years ago people began to stand up and say out loud that hating people based on race was wrong. Many people didn't believe this, and wouldn't tolerate this. Likely many unintelligent people still believe this. The reality is that this isn't true. Period. We've established a society where everyone is equal. So would we sue the school for reading a book about interracial marriage? Doubtful. And in my mind, one and the same.

I'm a little peeved because I'm so sick of being asked to tolerate people being shortsighted, and basically stupid about piddly things like sexual preference. Do I care if Bobby has two daddies? Not really, so long as his daddies love him and take care of him. Is the secret fear maybe that gay families can do it better? That there is no monopoly on parenthood? Why do I now live in a world that requests that I be tolerant of even those beliefs that are dangerously wrong?

argh.

Posted by thordora at 4:07 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

I walked the roads for you today
because of you
some might say
in spite of you

sirens roared past and I
immediately felt you,
soft cold hands
wrapped tight around
food that is not food
my fingers
your life

and water came unbidden as I
saw you once again tube tied
to a bed in some room that
never was your room so
white so dripping in
frozen time I cannot begun to tell

those roads surrendered my
grief unto themselves
absorbing, breathing in
as the air escaped

let go

the aching sky mentions

let it all go

I see your dead eyes again. The sky has claimed them.
***********************************

Mommy, I miss you. My daughters miss what they don't have. My father misses his wife. Please come home.

We loved you.

Posted by thordora at 9:40 a.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

Tomorrow is April 27, 2006.

April 27, 1989, my mother lost her battle with Breast Cancer, after losing a breast, her hair, and most of my childhood.

So today, the day before, I wonder how I should feel, really. Usually on this day I do one of a few things:
Totally ignore the day
Act like an asshole all day
Get depressed as all hell
Honor my mother and her memory but remembering why I love her
Admittedly, that last one is the hardest. And it will be this year, since my father is still with us.

The deathday is a hard thing. Everyday I feel the loss, I feel the void where she isn't, I see the look in my daughters eyes that should be filled with their grandmother. But how should I be on this day? Should I prepare for it? Should I walk on glass everyday? Should I finally get over it, and move on with my life.

Well duh. Even I know that answer.

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

Quiet questing eyes shut closed by
some type of unknowing we cannot bear to hold.
Seconds removed from minutes, days which
danced away from us, the time we
didn't recognize as that we'd regret.

Your years were lived in those eyes, wise
old soul clothed in a child, pending, waiting
remembering.

I know you without knowing. I see
my children running through you, around you
imps on the air you sift through
words and thoughts theybring you closer.

Words become lessened with
speechless hurts.

You teach us well. We watch your eyes in sleep.

Posted by thordora at 9:25 a.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

Chiac.

Sounds like something you'd hock up from your lungs after a bender, doesn't it?

I live in the Acadian center of New Brunswick, or so they tell me. And with all this sad history of no one actually wanting them, comes something that would put fear and pain into the heart of any self respecting english major.

Chiac.

According to Wiki, Chiac is a mixture of Acadian French (which includes words from old french) and English. Chiac uses primarily French syntax with French-English vocabulary and phrase forms. It is often deprecated by both French and English speakers as an impure hybrid — either "bad" French or "bad" English. However, Chiac has been reclaimed in recent years by some Acadian groups as a living and evolving language, and part of their collective culture.The word itself is generally considered a derivation of the name Shediac a town near by. Some have also suggested that it is a derivative of the French word chier, meaning "to shit".

I of course, favour the last bit, considering how it sounds.

Ej vas driver mon truck à soir pis ça va êt'e right la fun. (I'm going to drive my truck tonight and it's going to be lots of fun.)

Proper french, courtesy of Babel Fish
Je vais conduire mon camion ce soir et ce va être un bon nombre d'amusement.

I don't think that I can truly convey the pain this "language" causes in writing. It's painful to hear, because it's like listening to someone speak both french AND english BADLY. And all the sentances, english or french, end with "LE".

"Hey, let's go to the store le."

I constantly make fun of this dialect, which has made me a NUMBER of friends, let me tell you. And yes, people keep trying to tell me it's a viable language form, in it's beginning phases. I ain't buying it. Poor grammer and poor sentence structure does NOT a language make. You know what it is? It's LAZINESS. Because when I ask people about it, they tell me "Oh, I can speak PERFECT french if I TRY."

Really? So when do they try? When the moon is full and in the third house? Because I rarely ever am treated to proper french. Actually, about as much as I am treated to proper english around here.

It's my biggest pet peeve. I don't really approve of laziness, except in vague, unformed ways. Language conveys who we are, how other's see us, how our social station is percieved. And quite frankly, I find it sounds terrible, and does make the speaker sound uneducated and rather stupid. I really don't understand why someone would want to speak like that. While I lasp into lazy forms of speech sometimes, I do what I can to catch myself, since I do want to present the best example for my children. I do not want their abilities to be underminded by how they speak to others. Sadly, it matters.

Now THAT statement won't make me any friends either.

Posted by thordora at 10:18 a.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

and because the post I WANT to write will take longer than the 10 mins I want to waste before I go the hell home on this Monday that actually went quickly, here are my oddly adorable daughters. And no, neither my husband nor I can figure out HOW they got so damn cute.

And can someone tell me why I'm hopelessly addicted to "cocktail peanuts"? Or why there are so many euphemisms for genitalia in that group of words?

Posted by thordora at 4:47 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

This THING. This thing has rooted it's way into my house, thanks to 9, 050 Shoppers Optimum Points.

It's pure evilness. But necessary evil. We have crap, office type carpet in the basement of horrors, and my MIL blew up the powerhead on the vacuum awhile back. (I couldn't get mad since she bought it for us in the first place) I told myself I'd never ever ever buy any kind of Swiffer.

That's sorta like when you said your kid will never ever ever watch TV or eat white bread. Best Laid. Plans.

I now have this, and the plain Swiffer. I am ashamed to admit that I totally dig them, especially the Carpet Flick. Even Vivian can use it, and it WORKS. All those annoying Vegetable Thins crumbs? GONE. The weird STUFF underneath where my Dad sits? GOODBYE!

It's like magic.

I feel bad about all the packaging though...sorta.

Posted by thordora at 1:37 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

I'm special! Someone picked me! (Blame Sisypus)

6 "Things" about me...hmmmmm

1. I am adopted, and have met my birth family. When I was 18, just after Christmas, someone from ParentFinders contacted me, and told me my family had been located 45 mins from my home. I spent the last semester of high school shuffled between my Dad and my birth mother. It was a bit rough, and I had a new found respect for kids in divorce families. I then fell in love, which my birth mother, on some level, seemed to resent, since I refused to spend the summer before university with her, as opposed to my then boyfriend (now husband). To make matters worse, that Christmas, she got really really sick, and every single moment of my childhood flashed back, especially when she snapped at me to stop hovering around the room while they waited for the ambulance. I didn't know what to do. But I knew I couldn't do that-I couldn't become emotionally invested in this relationship.

It sucks, because I have a half sister I never really had the chance to get to know. But I met all of my relatives, and decided I was much happier where I was raised. Ironically enough, my birth father died the same year as my adoptive mother. It's funny-even as a small child, I only ever wanted to know my mother, not my father. It's like something in me knew to not care. While I don't regret the meeting, it wasn't at all what I thought it was. 20 years of expectations are sometimes hard to fight against. Vivian was my biological grandparents first grandchild-my grandmother Joyce knew she was coming, but never got to know she was here. Joyce died of cancer 2 weeks after Vivian was born. So it's a mixed bag really.

2. I got married at 19. And not because I was pregnant. I don't really know why we got married so early. I say it was to help my husband get his student loan, since he was able to get the funding he needed if we were married. But I know I wouldn't have done it if I didn't want to. I regret that there was no romantic moment, instead we just decided to get married. My whole life is one long unromantic novel it seems. We know that everyone expected us to fail. It was 8 years on April 18th, so THERE!

3. I miss hitchhiking. When I was younger, I used to thumb everywhere. Even if it was just to the next town, there was this immense freedom in it, this wind that carried through my hair, made me feel so much myself. I was never really scared, except for 2 times, which were my fault for not listening to my hinky meter, and that I controlled and exited. I usually only met good people who passed on a little good karma my way. I'll always remember those people for reminding me that most strangers are inherently GOOD.

4. I cut off my split ends one by one. I don't know why. And lord yes, I know it's weird. that's what happens when you quit smoking.

5. I never wanted kids. EVER. I don't even really like children. Oh course, I totally dig mine, but it was never something that was in the cards so far as I knew. Both were accidents. ok, the first was an accident, the second a moment of retardedness. We love them to bits but honestly, if I could go back and not have them I would in a heartbeat. It's terrible and sad to admit, but it's true. This never gets in the way of raising them, but I oftimes wonder why I have two, and people I know who desperately want kids have none. Stupid genes and childbearing hips...

6. I constantly worry that I'm going crazy. Literally. While I'm waiting to be fully diagnosed, I'm quite sure that what I have is a bipolar disorder and not ADHD, and I'm scared that it's getting worse. Nothing frightens me more than the thought of going crazy and knowing it.

That's a few tidbits about me. And cause I'm curious, I am tagging:
Nicole
Nat
Carin
Liesl

Posted by thordora at 9:09 a.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

....your fearless leader has scared me in the past, but not nearly as much as he's currently scaring me. This CRAP with Iran needs to stop. I can't shake the continual image of a schoolyard bully. It's ok if he has a big stick, but no one else can. I support the removal of ALL nuclear weapons, not the removal of nuclear weapons from countries Georgie Porgie fells are bad people. Good luck fighting a three front war. And can I tell you how much I look forward to the possibility of nuclear fallout? (not that I believe Iran has missiles capable of reaching North America). Pissing off China and Russia. Wow. I know he wants a return to good ol'family values, but I didn't realize recreating the Cold War was part of that as well.

It's a little scary to think of. What is it that makes your president start wars, and wonder off to start new ones before finishing any?

Posted by thordora at 10:05 a.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

"Vivian, please stop licking the pine cone. Pine cones aren't for licking"

It's been one of those "toddlers are the bane of my existance and I wonder if the circus would take her for money" kind of weeks. Don't get me wrong, I love my kid to pieces, which is what I think infuriates me even more. Just like every other toddler in existance, she has not only located my buttons, but she has pushed them so hard that all the writing has worn off.

THAT kind of week. Kicking and screaming and yelling OH MY!

I know it a phase, and that it's necessary. I know that it's scary for her, but man, somedays, I really do want to stand her on the deck for an hour or so in the rain. She started grinding her teeth, mostly because I cannot abide that noise. And she stares at me while she does it.

More disturbingly, while playing, she said "Bunny is sad". I asked her why. She said "Bunny can't find his family." Again, I asked why.

"They died. They got hurt."

W.T.F???

Mostly, I'm assuming this is just something cobbled together from her cartoons, since she has this one Diego show where the Maiasaura looks for her family, but the part about being hurt and dying....while I usually don't pull punches about death, I've never connected those dots for her before, nor has anyone else in her life. It was kinda creepy, and worriesome. I'm sure it's nothing but..

and then, she can turn, and while having her hair washed and made into points, can blurt out,
"I HAVE HORNY HAIR!" So I'm sure she's perfectly normal, and I'm just extra special paranoid this week.

And it's still raining. It's been raining for about 5 days now. Sigh..

Posted by thordora at 9:01 a.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

It was supposed to be a band, but no matter what we did, it wouldn't line up, and it looked retarded.

Loosely translated, it means 'Separated only at death" in Latin.

Now I can't wait to do the half sleeve I want to incorporate this into...

Posted by thordora at 4:03 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

In the on going quest to teach Vivian the pertinant particulars of her life, I've been teaching her ours names, and our address, as well as her name, and age. (this is the ONLY thing a Bush has talked about that I agreed with-shortly after Katrina, Laura Bush did some interview talking about all the younger children who couldnt even say their names, and it freaked me out. I know all the kids were eventually reunited, but still. I want my kids to be able to identify themselves)

Vivian has known her own name for about 6 months now, in terms of being able to say it when asked. She's picked up everything else as well, so I'll likely move on to the phone number soon.

But here's the rub. This morning, my lovely, brilliant daughter called me by my first name when asking for something. The Dorf looked at me and asked, 'Doesn't that bother you?"

I thought about it. And no, it doesn't. Because I'm not "just" Mom, but I am the person linked into my name, my strange, unique (though less so lately) name that made me stick out like a sore thumb all through school. The name that no one could pronounce for ages. I LIKE my name. It's so much a part of me that hearing "Mommy" is sometimes very strange, whereas being addressed by my name is very odd.

And she's rightfully confused, since it's hard to explain the concept of a "name" and a "type/profession label" to a toddler. She knows that I'm both in one, and maybe that's what I need to learn. I need to intergrate both ME and MOMMY into one. It's weird though, because the Mommy in my head isn't the same as the me in my head. I feel like a new type of Mommy, trying to find my way through all the bad parenting advice, the "when you were a kids", and the guilt of having to work. Trying to intergrate tomorrow's tattoo appointment with my fear that my children aren't socialized enough, and wondering if Vivian is old enough to take to a movie. Feeling like I'm 15 going on 50 all the time.

I don't believe that there is a threshold into adulthood anymore, and I miss that. When I cried because my father got me running shoes (which I did need) for my sweet sixteen, it wasn't out of selfishness. It was because he didn't get it, and I figured my Mother would have. Sixteen is when you become a "woman" I thought. Sixteen should be special. Not practical. Sixteen should be observed. And it wasn't, and to this day I miss it. I believe there should be an age when it's made clear to you that you are growing up, that responsibilites are coming, and to appreciate the time you have.

And a time when you can start calling adults by their first names. That should be well older than 2.5. Of course, I can't bring myself to have Vivian call my friends by their proper names, although I feel that she should be addressing them correctly. By how do I handle my rather old school values in today's ever changing, coddle the young, be casual environment? I know that if we called Nat "Mrs. Thinger" that she's kill me. But it still feels wrong to have my children call her by her first name. Disrespectful.

And yeah, I know that it's an effort to stay young, and not be like our parents, but I don't believe that being respectful ever goes out of style. I just think my concept of respect is almost alien these days. And it's funny-we worry about our children growing up too fast, but we never seem to worry about adults NOT growing up. There's a disconnect, and I'd like to help my children bridge that gap.

So I'll continue to tell Vivian to call me Mommy. Cause she just isn't ready. Nor am I.

Posted by thordora at 9:56 a.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

During the spring of my 15th year, I tried to kill myself.

I remember the bottles. We had plenty of drugs left over from my mother's treatment, and in particular I remember grabbing a bottle of Entropen, a muscle relaxant. I'm spelling the name wrong. I also poured a few other pills in the bottle. It's likely luck that most of these drugs were not at 100% efficacy.

I waited until lunch. There was a park next to my school "St. Mary" not "St. Mary's". They told us why once, and I never understood. I suppose the didn't want to denote ownership, just memory. The park next to the school was city property, but we congregated there at lunch. It' was quite lovely actually, with a stream, and big open green spaces.

I was there with a few friends, who watched as a sat on a swing, swallowing pill after pill dry. To this day, I can't stand to do that.

They did nothing. They went on with their day. I suppose I was likely unapproachable, and being bigger than most kids, they maybe didn't want to get involved? I tell myself these things sometimes, so that I won't still feel that horrible shit feeling that no one cared.

Nothing happened that afternoon, so I figured the drugs were bad, and went on with my day. When I got home, I wandered off to the local rink to watch hockey. (Hey, it's what you did then).

Suddenly my feet went out from under me, and I could barely stand. I pulled myself up, went outside to sit down. I caught my breath and went home. I decided to do the dishes then. I kept falling down. What an odd feeling it was, your feet and legs refusing to listen to you. My father came home,and commented that I seemed sick, and I should go to bed.

Sick.

My ears had begun to ring as I fell into bed.

I slept and slept and slept. I wish I could say that I almost died, and I saw a light, and my mother, and everything was a nice moment and I can back revitalized and happy. Nothing proved my atheism wrong. Nothing gave me hope.

It was black, blacker than anything I've ever seen. I remember feeling like I was just hanging somewhere, suspended in some sort of limbo. Everything was black. There were no dreams, it was not a normal sleep. I firmly believe that I was dying, and yet not.

I woke up midway through the next day, to a glorious blue sky, and a ringing in my ears that took 2 days to disappear. I decided that for some reason, I hadn't died. But the black taught me lessons, along with the people close to me who did nothing. Although I'm sure even if my Dad had his suspicions, he wasn't able to do anything about it.

I learned that no matter what, I was alone with myself, and had myself to rely on.
I learned that at the end of it, no one cares and you need to force yourself to live for you.
I learned that I'm not scared of dying, but not in a hurry to see if there's something on the other side of that black. Part of me is very much afraid that the blackness is all there is.

I find it so odd that while my school paid so much attention to my anger issues, they didn't see this. That my friends didn't tell anyone. That my Dad thought me falling down everywhere was just the flu, or my kidneys. I find it very sad that no one seemed to do anything about it.

Contrast that to when my friend tried, and I was able to save her. We were to get together one night, and she didn't call. That wasn't odd, so I called her. She was slurred, and sleepy, and I eventually got it out of her that she had taken a bottle of pills, washed down with beer.

Ah, the side effects of coming out in a small town.

I called my brother, I called another friends Mom. We drove to get her, carried her out of the house, drove her to the hospital. I'll never forget having to half drag her down the stairs, or try to explain to my other friend's 6 year old sister what Isabelle had done, and why I was crying.

She was ok, but she hated me for the charcoal. If anything, I think this and the counselling helped her father accept who she was. She came out stronger for it.

I went on with my life, wondering where my saviour was.

Posted by thordora at 9:17 a.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

There is no dream
So wake up run your lips across your fingers till you find
Some scent of yourself that you can hold up high
To remind yourself that you didn't die
On a day that was so crappy whole and happy you're alive

And you seem so bruised and it's beautiful
As it's reflecting off from you as it shines
And you're in the bathroom carving holiday designs into yourself
Hoping no one will find you but they found you
And they took you
And you somehow survived

There is no dream
So wake up and if the holidays don't hollow out your eyes
Then press yourself against whatever you find
To be beautiful and trembling with life
Because I'm so happy you didn't die

Three Peaches: Neutral Milk Hotel

Posted by thordora at 4:08 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

I shall get a new tattoo this week.

The Savings Bond redemption has been made. Fuck the freezer. I want my stopped smoking, had a kid reward.

It's for the kids anyway really, but in a strange way for my mother as well.

Lips are sealed until I get it. The shrink was right. I need to live.

Posted by thordora at 10:23 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

I've learned to stuff your memories down between
cold coffee and flowers, adrift with
ambrosia and cakes. I figured
2 rolls of packing tape ought to do the trick.

But ah, there was the trick. Your voice
appeared behind me so sweetly, so
quickly I barely had time to
reconsider my gambit.

So outside you've broken and
there's grey hair falling everywhere it's on
my lap, in my mouth in my hands I could
paint the walls in darkness I swear.

Trying I'm trying to
keep you contsrained to one
tiny smart part of where my head is
alas I don't think I quite
manage to keep you there.

My heart you see it
burned out for you long ago, left
in a window so long it scarred the panes
blew out the glass and finally
fluttered out completely.

Only to come to rest between
the fingers of the very moments I
sought to forget.

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

I don't know either. I won't write for weeks and then something shitty will poor out of me that I won't revisit to edit for months. There is this aching void I need to fill with words again. I hate saying I write poetry. It sounds dorky, pompous and lame, mostly because I associate people who say they write poetry with bad ABAB poems about being sad, being alone and wishing they could be in love.

And golly gee whiz, didn't I just manage to do one JUST like that.

Do we lose profundity as we age? Remember when you were 14 or 15 and everything, all the worlds problems felt so real and close to you? When ideas were paramount, and you could change the world? I can so remember feeling vicerally excited reading Bertrand Russell once, feeling with it and involved. Now?

Now the most I can manage is either some rambling insipid post on here, or some rambling insipid comment on Blogging Baby or NicoleMart. Where did my brain go?

Was there some rock paper scissors contest I didn't know about that decided how much of my brain went to each kid? Did it leak out when my water broke? Or did I just lose the will to give a shit?

I'm voting door number 3 Bob.

Or did I cast that part of my brain aside for now, to lie in wait for when my children can do basic things like, oh I don't know, wipe their own ass or not "help" by dumping the mop water all over the kitchen floor before I've swept. (Didn't think I saw that did you Vivian..) Is it merely dormant?

I can say one thing, there is no relief quite like getting to the first birthday. Rosalyn is 13 months tomorrow, and thank your gods for that. You may have noticed that I don't really dig babies. And this year has been incredibly hard. But I've been reading books again, they've been sleeping in til 7-7:30, and I almost feel human again.

Only 3 weeks to get thru. Good thing this kid is cute.

Posted by thordora at 9:40 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

The month of April is terrible for me. I look forward to a month of sad posts. So I apologize in advance, but the month is usually full of introspection and thought, along with grief and sadness.

My shrink appointment yesterday was spent sobbing.

The utter depth of missing my mother really hit me this week, as did the shrink's words. She told me that I never really learned how to live, and that I've been so scared of life. I talked about how my anniversary is this month, mother's day the next, and that I never ever hope for anything good, because nothing good happens anyway. No one ever surprises me. No one ever makes me feel wanted and validated. At best, I'm briefly remembered the day before. It's only one step removed from my father having to be reminded of my birthday, and then asking me how much money it would take for me to go away.

What really got to me was the connection she helped me make-that my lack of hope in ever having someone do something good for me is linked with me hoping, and praying as a child that my mother would not die. My hope got me nothing. My mother's hope had to be crushed so that she would finally let go and end her pain. Hope only brings me pain.

And it's a terrible way to live, I know. But it's the only one I know how. Last year, on Mother's Day, when my husband hurried to buy a card about an hour before he gave it to me, as he Vivian were leaving for 2 weeks, was a horrible moment. The knowledge that you just aren't quite worth the effort.....on a day already filled with pain and anguish, and a terrible want to turn the world off, I sat doing housework, crying, as my father in law helped me.

They don't understand, and maybe I don't make it clear? Why does wanting to be made to feel special, wanting to have someone exert a little effort always come off as selfish and materialistic? What I hate most is that not having anything to hope for, never having a "happy" day, has led me to not care to do stuff for him either. And that can't be good. But these days make me sad and lonely and want to curl into a ball even further.

So bear with me if the next little while sounds like a bad goth girl blog. Lately I hurt like that little girl I can't let go of, and it's really fucking hard.

Posted by thordora at 12:00 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

Someone's Mom died last Thursday. As I did some random shopping that night, feeling good to be by myself buying milk and cheese, I saw flashing cherries and wondered who got hit this time. I went on with my night. I didn't want to be a ghoul.

Turns out, someone did get hit and die. Someone who works where I do, his ex-wife was jaywalking in a dark part of a very busy road and someone hit her. She had two young children, who thankfully still have their father and his girlfriend, a stable home.

Someone said at the wake, the little girl who is 7 or so kept saying, "Daddy, I want to go home now"

This April will mark 17 years since my mother died. My heart was breaking as I heard them talk. Because despite the time passed, the changes, the places, the person I was and now am, I still vividly remember being that tiny creature grabbing for my father's hand, hoping he'll hold me up, trying not to breath. Because I didn't want to take in any of the despair. Anymore would have drowned me.

April's are tough. What should be a glorious month of growth, of change and newness is instead forever cemented in my head as a rotten month. Not even my wedding anniversary changes that. While April 27 weighs in my mind so heavy, I have trouble remembering if I was married on April 16, 17 or 18. I can never remember. The Dorf becomes upset in a joking way about it, saying it's him that is supposed to forget. But how can something so seemingly small like my marriage compete with the day I lost my mother? But how can't I move past it.

Sometimes it's like I feel her, like I can see her around me, heavy in the air. I stop to wonder how much she'd love her grandkids, her granddaughters who likely wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for her dying. Funny the paths life can send you on sometimes. My father tells me he sees her in me, in subtle things, dirt swept into corners, threats that aren't threats I open chocolate chip cookies and start crying, smelling my mother in the butter and brown sugar. I so very much want her to be there, to see my daughters who are so much like me, and whose smiles I will kill to preserve. I wonder if she would be proud and happy for me, in my crap house, with the family I love so very, very much.

April, more than anything, makes me realize how much I can grasp the moment, how easy it is for me to stand in the moment and just be. Because I never took the time when she was here. Because I have nothing left of her, save a few pictures, a rosary, and a broken heart. Because only now, as a parent, can I understand how truly awful, terrifying and suffocating it must have been when the doctors finally said "Let go. There's nothing more we can do. We can't save you." How did she ever look in my eyes and not just crumble a little inside? How did she muster the strength?

I want my mother whole again. I would sacrifice everything I've ever had to go back, and have my mother not die of breast cancer at 42. I would give everything to finish out Grade 6 like everyone else, to not have done my speeches on Cancer and hospitals and living day to day in a numb zone and having an ulcer at 12. I would give up everything to spend one last day with my mother, one last day to sit and talk and be ourselves, to remember her touch and her voice. I want to give everything to go back to that warm happy house that turned so damn cold after everything changed. After her clothes disappeared, after the cereal went stale and the last of the guilt food was thrown away.

I remember begging to be the one that died, back when I thought her god was real.

Daddy, can we go home now too?

Posted by thordora at 2:56 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

We've reached a new plateau in my household. That plateau is called, "Loud", aka "Ear splitting screeches that amuse the toddler and thrill the almost toddler."

I woke up this morning with a preemptive headache. You see, my sweet Rosalyn, my little almost 13 month old bundle of joy has reached that place that all mothers dread. She has found her voice, and she likes it loud.

There are different types of screeches. There is the "I'm done eating, you might want to come get me before the noodles and tuna end up in my ears" screech. There's the "I want in/out of the bath, and you better get here now and do it." yell. And my personal favorite, "I just like the sound of me yelling and you whimpering" screech.

All will be fine like a winter night, quiet and placid when suddenly
BLAHAHAHAHAHAHAH! in your ear like a air raid siren. It's that loud. I know that everything you will read will say "don't react", but that's kind of like not reacting to poison ivy. Every single piece of my introverted quiet dna cringes and dies a little each time she howls. And what makes it worse is the HUGE evil grin she'll wear as she does it. She knows exactly what she's doing. And then she'll yell louder.

Vivian absolutely adores this game, until it's directed at her. At which point, she joins the parade and starts to yell "Rozie, stop YELLING!" It's like a sick, loud game of pingpong. And I'm the net.

I wish I could harness the power of this voice, use it to power the stove or something.

In the meantime, I'll maybe get someone to sew her up a Black Canary outfit.

Posted by thordora at 11:13 a.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken: