So I went to the Eye Dr. today to pick up some more contacts. My prescription was expired so I found myself 15 minutes later in a dark room having some nurse shoot puffs of air into my pupils. Next comes the Dr. who is quite perky and oddly nervous for a Dr.... but what the hay. She starts off, I mean the first thing out of her mouth is...."so, have you started wearing reading glasses yet?"
Long pause.
"Um...you mean the glasses they give you when you go see movies like Avatar?"
Nervous laughter, "No, no! You know! Reading glasses! You are of a certain age for them."
Again. I can't understand. "You mean, like, the glasses I walked in with? What do you mean my age?" as I took over the nervous role and slyly glanced down to see what gravity was doing to the girls these days.
I really couldn't believe I was sitting in a medical chair being counseled about my ancient corneas. Reading glasses? Like, my Grandmother????
Then I started in with the questions...So does everyone need reading glasses at some point? yes. What about me? yes. Do women have to get reading glasses before men? No, every one's the same. What if I eat more carrots? Or better yet, grow my own organic carrots and juice them in high quantities? Everyone has to wear reading glasses around this point in their life.
Luckily, I didn't need them today. But maybe because I kept talking and talking and she kept examining and examining she did find something funky. Turns out I have a freckle inside my left eye. Kinda cool. Okay mostly weird. Proving once again my Anglican ancestry knows no bounds. They took a bunch of pictures. Called in the head Dr's to get opinions. Telling me not to worry and yet doing everything possible to make a sane person freak. The words melanoma were throw around. And for a brief 20 minutes of my life I went into the death zone.
The first thing I always do in the death zone is imagine my funeral. Sometimes there are hundreds, thousands of people in attendance. Crying. Singing songs I've written. People I've known all my life and those I've just met squeezing themselves into some church I don't belong too because I brought them a sour cream pound cake when their baby was born and they've never forgotten my thoughtfulness...
Or, the Mary Tyler Moore Party funeral. Where nobody shows up but a few people because everyone else figures hundreds of others "were much closer to her" and nobody would notice if they went to the movies instead.
But then the shenanigans turned to my kids. My kids. My little tiny just starting out in life kids. What the hell? They already had to deal with a Mom wearing reading glasses to the school play and now she dies on them??
Both my Grand Mother's are still alive. Both are 93. Ninety three. These woman are the strongest, funniest, shrewdest and most colorful women I have ever known. Momo (my Mom's Mom) taught me how to walk like a lady (with my toes pointing out..?) and dance the Sottish in her blue bedroom one day and shoot a rabit bobcat comin' down the hill the next. Emmadean (my Dad's Mom) could cook a meal for 40 by the age of 4 and hasn't stopped since. Now they are alone. Both sitting in very old houses, filled with possessions of loved ones that have died, nearly all their friend's gone and too tired, blind, forgetful and sad to do much but just pass the days.
The Dr's made up their mind that I was fine. Just fine. We'll just monitor things. And schlooop! I'm back from the death zone. Thinking about how long I have to exchange something at Target before picking my son up.
Here I am in the middle. Not young like my kids. Not old like my Grandmothers. Just middling. So much behind me. So much to go. So much to see.
Better get the glasses.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Bag the Bear
Who is responsible for bringing Build A Bear Workshop into our lives?
I just....I just don't think I can say anymore today.
Monday, January 11, 2010
The Guilt Factor
Today I almost took a bite out of Short Stack's cheek.
She wakes up from her nap all flushed, troll doll hair swirling up like the top of a Dairy Queen soft serve cone. She doesn't talk much when she gets up, like her Mama. And unlike my son, she'll climb onto my lap, put her head against my boobie (her word, not mine) and just be. Who needs a kitten? She's so warm and squishy and her cheeks are all chunky and smooth and before I know it- I've almost bitten her. It's like I can't get close enough or near enough to her. I want to just roll her into a ball and stuff her into my shirt and then I realize that I didn't even like that when I was pregnant and I calm down.
I've heard authors use the phrase 'I loved them so much I wanted to devour them.' And of course that's what I'm getting at here. But really, why aren't there words or phrases or even great works of art that sufficiently describe HOW that love feels? I want so badly to be eloquent and original enough to explain- I don't even know to who- how it feels to love your children. And why I've made certain choices.
I put my life/art on hold for three years to be with these amazing creatures full time. And all the time I justified it as something I was doing for them. The fact of the matter is, it's been for me. I never in a million years saw myself as a stay home Mom. Even writing that gives me the willies. But when it comes down to it, I just couldn't leave them. I think I am the only Mom who sent their son to preschool and never left the classroom. Or if I did, I would crane my head around some bush on the playground and watch for some sign that I shouldn't go. I am convinced my cell phone will die right when Sasha the gerbil becomes rabid and attacks only my child. Lately Grand Slam has started to turn to me when I drop him off and say, "Mommy I'm ready for you to go now."
I guess I'm writing about this because of the guilt. They say you can't escape the Mom guilt. It wakes me up sometimes. If you work, you feel you should be at home with them. If you're at home, you feel you should be doing something for yourself. But often when I'm home with them I'm checking my iphone compulsively. And I've canceled countless artist dates with myself because I thought the kids "needed me too much to go." Of course the answer lies somewhere in the middle. Or is it?
Personally, I've always felt balance to be overrated. I mean what brilliant art or thoughts or acts of courage came out of coloring within the lines? So, bring it guilt. I ain't skeered a you. And I'm gonna keep loving the guts outta my kids too while I'm at it. Shamelessly. Endlessly. I'm destined to be the Mom that wears big hats and sings too loudly.
And if you see my daughter and she's missing an ear- you'll know why.
Mindless Mommy
She wakes up from her nap all flushed, troll doll hair swirling up like the top of a Dairy Queen soft serve cone. She doesn't talk much when she gets up, like her Mama. And unlike my son, she'll climb onto my lap, put her head against my boobie (her word, not mine) and just be. Who needs a kitten? She's so warm and squishy and her cheeks are all chunky and smooth and before I know it- I've almost bitten her. It's like I can't get close enough or near enough to her. I want to just roll her into a ball and stuff her into my shirt and then I realize that I didn't even like that when I was pregnant and I calm down.
I've heard authors use the phrase 'I loved them so much I wanted to devour them.' And of course that's what I'm getting at here. But really, why aren't there words or phrases or even great works of art that sufficiently describe HOW that love feels? I want so badly to be eloquent and original enough to explain- I don't even know to who- how it feels to love your children. And why I've made certain choices.
I put my life/art on hold for three years to be with these amazing creatures full time. And all the time I justified it as something I was doing for them. The fact of the matter is, it's been for me. I never in a million years saw myself as a stay home Mom. Even writing that gives me the willies. But when it comes down to it, I just couldn't leave them. I think I am the only Mom who sent their son to preschool and never left the classroom. Or if I did, I would crane my head around some bush on the playground and watch for some sign that I shouldn't go. I am convinced my cell phone will die right when Sasha the gerbil becomes rabid and attacks only my child. Lately Grand Slam has started to turn to me when I drop him off and say, "Mommy I'm ready for you to go now."
I guess I'm writing about this because of the guilt. They say you can't escape the Mom guilt. It wakes me up sometimes. If you work, you feel you should be at home with them. If you're at home, you feel you should be doing something for yourself. But often when I'm home with them I'm checking my iphone compulsively. And I've canceled countless artist dates with myself because I thought the kids "needed me too much to go." Of course the answer lies somewhere in the middle. Or is it?
Personally, I've always felt balance to be overrated. I mean what brilliant art or thoughts or acts of courage came out of coloring within the lines? So, bring it guilt. I ain't skeered a you. And I'm gonna keep loving the guts outta my kids too while I'm at it. Shamelessly. Endlessly. I'm destined to be the Mom that wears big hats and sings too loudly.
And if you see my daughter and she's missing an ear- you'll know why.
Mindless Mommy
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
SafePlace
Today I went and taught a music class to preschool and infant kids at SafePlace Austin. SafePlace is shelter for abused mothers and their children. I brought Short Stack along not quite knowing what to expect. She found her first 'play with Barbie' experience and subsequently didn't have any use for me or my culture ploy.
Of course I'm lucky. Of course these kids are a joy. The teachers, mindbogglingly inspiring.
Today I am reminded of the words of the immortal Gena Rowlands- there is always someone prettier and always someone not quite as pretty as you. To which I add- there is always someone more fortunate and someone not as fortunate as you.
Get over your artisitic blocks if you have any today. Girl, you got it pretty good.
Of course I'm lucky. Of course these kids are a joy. The teachers, mindbogglingly inspiring.
Today I am reminded of the words of the immortal Gena Rowlands- there is always someone prettier and always someone not quite as pretty as you. To which I add- there is always someone more fortunate and someone not as fortunate as you.
Get over your artisitic blocks if you have any today. Girl, you got it pretty good.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Stalking Surrogate Grandparents
Today is the day.
I have been slinking about the neighborhood looking for some likely candidates for my little scheme. Surrogate Grandparents. Ah. It sounds beautiful doesn't it? Like a dream. Let's just savor that one more time....Surrogate Grandparents. Surrogate Grandparents.
We need more help. I need more time in the studio, time to write, time to feel like the girly girl that I am. My parents are great but mainly like to sail into town, take the kids somewhere Italian, try and snap a picture of the kids in between mouthfuls, and split. And, babysitters are expensive. Swapping with other families' kids is fun and all but I need someone who adores my kids, wants to play and spoil them endlessly and hopefully model some kind of cleanliness that has eluded Burnt Toast and myself.
My requirements include:
1. Live within walking distance
2. Smell sufficiently like Grandparents (sweet and mothy)
3. Able to talk about weird childhood memories
4. Be a Republican - let's face it...they have money, good health care and cook a fine brisket.
I think I have found them! Just catty corner behind us, in our alley, live two fabulous little retired folks. They let my kids play in their perfectly manicured beds of impatiens. Put up Christmas lights covering the entire roof. Drive matching Lexuses with one being a convertible! And keep a garage so clean and organized I could have my 3rd C-section right on the garage floor, which would be fabulous as they have a second fridge out there (of course) filled with Diet Coke and I could waddle home at the end of the day.
The only snafu I can find is that they already have two grandchildren. Damnit it all to hell. I've seen them out pushing these children with their shiny trikes and push bars, building a new bike with a pink banana seat, sanding down a dresser for a little girl princess room. (This last one killed me. I watched through my own garage windows with binoculars, biting my nails the whole time, just imagining he was doing that for Short Stack! Or, let's get real, me.)
But, they seem to like us. They joke about how our kids can never behead too many of their roses or wail enough dirt bombs against their freshly scrubbed garage door or scream loud enough to stop the ball game on cable. (Put "watches lots of football on TV" on the list)
So, I'm taking a deep breath. Armed with my homemade vanilla caramels and most pathetic smile - I'm going in. Keep you posted....
Mindless Mommy
I have been slinking about the neighborhood looking for some likely candidates for my little scheme. Surrogate Grandparents. Ah. It sounds beautiful doesn't it? Like a dream. Let's just savor that one more time....Surrogate Grandparents. Surrogate Grandparents.
We need more help. I need more time in the studio, time to write, time to feel like the girly girl that I am. My parents are great but mainly like to sail into town, take the kids somewhere Italian, try and snap a picture of the kids in between mouthfuls, and split. And, babysitters are expensive. Swapping with other families' kids is fun and all but I need someone who adores my kids, wants to play and spoil them endlessly and hopefully model some kind of cleanliness that has eluded Burnt Toast and myself.
My requirements include:
1. Live within walking distance
2. Smell sufficiently like Grandparents (sweet and mothy)
3. Able to talk about weird childhood memories
4. Be a Republican - let's face it...they have money, good health care and cook a fine brisket.
I think I have found them! Just catty corner behind us, in our alley, live two fabulous little retired folks. They let my kids play in their perfectly manicured beds of impatiens. Put up Christmas lights covering the entire roof. Drive matching Lexuses with one being a convertible! And keep a garage so clean and organized I could have my 3rd C-section right on the garage floor, which would be fabulous as they have a second fridge out there (of course) filled with Diet Coke and I could waddle home at the end of the day.
The only snafu I can find is that they already have two grandchildren. Damnit it all to hell. I've seen them out pushing these children with their shiny trikes and push bars, building a new bike with a pink banana seat, sanding down a dresser for a little girl princess room. (This last one killed me. I watched through my own garage windows with binoculars, biting my nails the whole time, just imagining he was doing that for Short Stack! Or, let's get real, me.)
But, they seem to like us. They joke about how our kids can never behead too many of their roses or wail enough dirt bombs against their freshly scrubbed garage door or scream loud enough to stop the ball game on cable. (Put "watches lots of football on TV" on the list)
So, I'm taking a deep breath. Armed with my homemade vanilla caramels and most pathetic smile - I'm going in. Keep you posted....
Mindless Mommy
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
After 15 years....
....of being a single Mom, Lorrie Moore has written an amazing new book. I am reading it now. It's wonderful. I heard an interview with her the other day. The radio host was grilling her about taking 15 years to write anything new. I think she had written some magazine articles but no books. She replied that she was a single Mom raising a boy on her own. The host kept at it until Ms. Moore finally said, "Well, I was busy."
I was busy.
I understand. I often wonder if I am busy because I have to be or busy to avoid doing the thing I love most - writing songs. One the one hand, the dishes have to get done. If someone threw up, the laundry has to get started. I find that I go to the freakin' grocery store at least every other day if not every day. The crazy thing is, my house is still an unorganized mess, laundry never gets folded and put away and there is always something I have forgotten at the store. I guess my point is, if I am not doing my art, then why isn't my life pristine and shiny? Why is my house the only one in the neighborhood with popsicle stains on the front porch and 2 diaper genies by the backdoor waiting for Godot? (It's been, like, 6 months they've been waiting.)
But Lorrie Moore is an inspiration. What the hell is 15 years in the scheme of things? Get busy, woman. Or Mother. Or whatever hat you are wearing today.
Did I mention that I am recording new material this week? Stay tuned..
Mindless Mommy
I was busy.
I understand. I often wonder if I am busy because I have to be or busy to avoid doing the thing I love most - writing songs. One the one hand, the dishes have to get done. If someone threw up, the laundry has to get started. I find that I go to the freakin' grocery store at least every other day if not every day. The crazy thing is, my house is still an unorganized mess, laundry never gets folded and put away and there is always something I have forgotten at the store. I guess my point is, if I am not doing my art, then why isn't my life pristine and shiny? Why is my house the only one in the neighborhood with popsicle stains on the front porch and 2 diaper genies by the backdoor waiting for Godot? (It's been, like, 6 months they've been waiting.)
But Lorrie Moore is an inspiration. What the hell is 15 years in the scheme of things? Get busy, woman. Or Mother. Or whatever hat you are wearing today.
Did I mention that I am recording new material this week? Stay tuned..
Mindless Mommy
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Hmmmmm
So my last blog was in 2008. Good Lord, it's worse than I thought. My attention span, I mean. Obviously. But to hell with linear storylines...here I am today. And that's important.
My kids are Grand Slam, age 3, and Short Stack, age 2. (Yes, we all have diner nicknames - mine is Sunny Side Up and my hubby's is Burnt Toast if you must know.) I have somehow made it through 3 years of Motherhood. I realize now how uninteresting it might have become had I blogged you all the details of Motherhood so far. Let's just say, there have been a lot of bodily fluids in our household. Runny noses, tears of joy, shrieks of happiness when I got my period, Short Stacks knack for midnight vomiting....you get the pic.
So let's jump ahead to something, hopefully, a little more global.
I am, or was, or damnit still am - an artist. I have been a songwriter for 12 or so years and have been an actress nearly all my life. I teach very young children and their parents music. I make a mean Christmas cookie. I still got it. My question is - why do I think I'm lost? Am I really? I'm strictly speaking about being an artist here - I think I've proven at least to myself that I kick ass at being a Mom. No one can change a 12 wipe diap like me. And do other Mothers feel like they have fallen into a swirling black hole only they can see? Or is it just Mothers who happen to be artists as well?
I want to seek you out...all you Mothers foggy or no. For all I know I am the only one that fell down the rabbit hole. I'm off to find you and get your story. If nothing else - I'll sleep better at night. Until someone wets the bed.
Signing off for now,
the mindless mommy
My kids are Grand Slam, age 3, and Short Stack, age 2. (Yes, we all have diner nicknames - mine is Sunny Side Up and my hubby's is Burnt Toast if you must know.) I have somehow made it through 3 years of Motherhood. I realize now how uninteresting it might have become had I blogged you all the details of Motherhood so far. Let's just say, there have been a lot of bodily fluids in our household. Runny noses, tears of joy, shrieks of happiness when I got my period, Short Stacks knack for midnight vomiting....you get the pic.
So let's jump ahead to something, hopefully, a little more global.
I am, or was, or damnit still am - an artist. I have been a songwriter for 12 or so years and have been an actress nearly all my life. I teach very young children and their parents music. I make a mean Christmas cookie. I still got it. My question is - why do I think I'm lost? Am I really? I'm strictly speaking about being an artist here - I think I've proven at least to myself that I kick ass at being a Mom. No one can change a 12 wipe diap like me. And do other Mothers feel like they have fallen into a swirling black hole only they can see? Or is it just Mothers who happen to be artists as well?
I want to seek you out...all you Mothers foggy or no. For all I know I am the only one that fell down the rabbit hole. I'm off to find you and get your story. If nothing else - I'll sleep better at night. Until someone wets the bed.
Signing off for now,
the mindless mommy
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