nedful things

Weekends are trying times when it snows, not only snows but dumps incessantly, drifts climbing higher and higher with the relentless wind that stings the face with icy pellets. Even the boy declines to go out in this weather. The drifts being much taller than he is, this is comforting. Even with the pylon orange winter coat I chose for its high visibility factor (the boy being hard to keep an eye on) I do not relish an afternoon spent shoveling through snowbanks looking for him. The first snow day is torturously long, the snow is still falling and the roads are not cleared. There is little escape. The children know only two games, tormenting each other and tormenting their mother. The day is endless for all of them. The second snow day brings finally some relief.

"Mom, Amanda says it is okay to come over to her house... is it okay with you"?

Okay? Okay? I am jubilant beyond words. I have a dream. One child only, one small and slender child, who takes up little room and is satisfied to play or watch TV and has no sibling counterpart to join him in timed raids on his mother's sanity.

"I suppose it is alright" I answer, trying to keep the enthusiasm out of my voice. "Is her mother home"?

"Yeah, and she said I can come over for a play date. Will you take me"?

Will I take you? I will fly you on gossamer wings, my daughter.

"Yes, I will take you over, but I have to get dressed first and dress the boy. Tell her it will be about half an hour. And take off that sundress and wear real clothes or you will have people calling the authorities on me, it is 14 degrees out there."

Half an hour in mother terms is an interminable length of time when it requires the cooperation of children to ready themselves for departure. Once I have managed to dress, I have to run down the boy and force pants on him, his predilection being for wearing as little as possible indoors. Once he sets foot in the house, off come the shoes, the socks and often, the pants. Not ever having been a boy, I cannot determine if this is normal behavior. However, not wishing to instill in him either an unhealthy shame of his body, nor feed a natural inclination towards exhibitionism, I insist he keeps his underwear on at all times. I am not a permissive mother, just one who has yet to find a therapist who gives group rates.

I instruct the boy as to where his shoes are and ask him to put them on. He is perfectly capable of this task, he just wants to avoid it as long as possible. While putting in my contact lenses I see that he has overlooked the shoes but found a stray plastic wand from one of the blinds and is swinging it about, emitting battle cries in Japanese. Suddenly he stops to ask me what seems a very logical question.

"Mom, do monkeys have sticks"?

Despite the cruelty of it, I do in fact launch into a description of termites and how certain primates use sticks as tools to extract termites from their mounds to eat them. I was kind and did not continue into a discourse on the difference between monkeys and apes nor the value of the opposable thumb. He likes the idea of anything that eats bugs, so he listens, but I feel his five year old brain is not retaining this useful information. For a moment later he is hitting himself in the head with the wand.

"Mom, ants eat off the ground, right?"

"That's right Matthew".

"Yeah", he grins. "I'm smart".

"Well", I said. "We'll see how long that lasts if you continue hitting yourself in the head with a stick".

This, of course, is followed by raucous laughter, but probably it is his own joke he finds so funny. These jokes of his are obviously hilarious, yet he never shares them with the rest of us.

I take the stick and hand him his shoes, which he has inexplicably placed in a plastic shopping bag instead of on his feet. I gather keys and pocketbook, smear on a little lipstick out of vanity and retrieve coats from the closet. I turn to see the still stocking-footed boy sitting on an chair swinging his legs and mumbling some strange language only he knows. Suddenly he stops and looks at me with an accusing, scowling glare.

"I dreamed you left me all alone".

"In two minutes I will be leaving you all alone, if you don't have your shoes on". I again push the shoes at him.

"I dreamed you left me all alone", he repeats, with an insistence that implies an apology from me is necessary.

"In the dream, did you have your shoes on"? I ask as I open the door to depart. I walk out of the house, showing my willingness to leave him.

A moment later a small boy, with anxious eyes and shod feet appears at the door. I sigh at the thought of the extensive effort it requires to win one small battle. The shoes are on the wrong feet but he is wearing them, and yet...

"Where's your coat"?

They say that pride goeth before a fall. I know this and hereby share what goeth during a fall.

Now walking is not really my gift. I don't do it very naturally. My left leg often requires much of my attention or it just forgets to come with me. With constant vigilance and a distaste for drawing attention to myself, I usually manage to appear somewhat normal. However occasionally, when things are going well, I forget to pay attention. It is of vital importance that I look straight down at the surface my feet don't seem to acknowledge, as this is the best way to make my brain aware of the fact that I am, in fact, walking on this surface. I eschew sneakers and other such "comfy" footwear, as the cushioning of the shoe only serves to further obstruct any attempts by my brain to understand the strange language that the nerves in my feet use to communicate their mysterious interpretation of the part of the world they are in contact with. It is absolutely necessary to constantly keep an eye on where these feet are wandering to. Under no circumstances and for no event or noise, for no stimuli either visual or aural may I turn my head. I forgot this.

A general rule of life of course, is never try to attend to more tasks at once than is reasonable. On a Saturday, dressing a small boy and making him wear shoes outdoors and ushering him to the car in the snow should be enough to do at any given time. However, I suffer from the same disorder most mothers do, I can't walk by something that is undone. So while trying to accomplish the aforementioned tasks, I noticed the full trash bag sitting on the kitchen floor and the broken cardboard box and the empty juice box carton and decided to take them out to the trash before we departed.

A light snow began to fall this afternoon. It soon became a fluffy covering on everything. When temperatures are this far below freezing, snow seems to have no water content at all. It looks like Hollywood snow, light and shiny, made of soapflakes. It sticks to nothing, it is blown about by every small breeze, the brush of an arm clears it completely from the car windows. It conceals however, the very real danger that lurks beneath it. Ice.

I headed out the door with trash bag in one hand, the old and torn cardboard box in another and was nearly down the stairs when the boy decided to follow me out. I turned my head, only briefly, to tell him to go back inside but I had already set my foot down off the stair, and not being aware at that moment, experienced the sudden confusion and panic that my feet flying out from underneath brings to my mind and my cardiovascular system.

It is true that as adrenaline pumps in a crisis, your mind and body speed up and time slows down. I am always amazed at the number of thoughts and escape plans I am able to consider, the options I am able to weigh, the decisions about falling I am able to make. However, in a situation of hands full, feet going out from under you in a forward direction, there is no chance to alter the angle or course of your descent. You are going down, and going down like a ton of bricks. My first thought was to make sure my head was upright, so as to avoid hitting it on the cement step. Had I not done that, I would be currently in a persistent vegetative state, unable to type and cursing the fact that I have not, in fact, made that "living will" and am unable to stop hasty family members from pulling the plug.

I have decided that should I ever become incapacitated in such a way, that I want any and all extraordinary measures taken to preserve whatever life may still flicker for as long as the state is willing to pay for it. I not only don't mind the thought of being a burden on society, I rather enjoy it. If I ever do enter a comatose state, the possiblity could also exist that I am just taking a break from consciousness and may return to it at some later time, if not cut short by court order.

So first I determined as I went down to finally codify my desires should I survive. A second thought was that the five year old boy was not going to be much help if I was unconscious in a moment. Now, my daughter at that age could have called any number of people. She knew the phone numbers of at least four relatives and could have called any of them or 911 or even WorldVision to sponsor a starving child in Africa. She often called me at work to give me the 800 number to do just that. But she is a girl, girls are naturally drawn to the phone. The boy is not that interested in the phone. He may occasionally get on the phone when I call and tell me, "hahaha, I am Batman" and then hang up, raucously laughing at his own joke. Conversation on the phone does not appeal to him the way it did and still does to her. Suddenly, it struck me why women get so invested in a man's promise to phone, why they get so angry and hurt when he doesn't, and why he is baffled by this reaction. A brilliantly illuminated revelation that would be completely useless if I came out of this with the IQ of a gourd.

I also had time to curse my cheap nature as I thought of ice melt at $1.99 a bag, considered and passed over during my last trip to the store. I compared the possible $250 copay for an inpatient stay at the hospital and decided it was not a wise choice. I also realized I have not willed my children to anyone and this may be because no one has expressed an interest in taking them, and I can't really blame them. One of them can't even call 911, of what possible use are they?

Finally I landed. Pretty hard landing too. I sat there for a moment, assessing my status and determining that: a.) I was still alive , b.) I was going to be able to move, c:) I was going to be in a lot of pain and d.) I still had to take the trash to the shed. That is all that one needs to know to motivate one, so I got up off the ground, minus a fraction of the skin that used to adorn my forearm, with reddened palms and a slight sense of the headache the whiplash was going to cause to bloom. And I also had a few things to add to my "To Do" list.

I make it look so easy.
Smoothing the edges of your bluntness
With practiced hands,
I stack the words neatly
turn them on end
and interleave
randomizing and
hiding (suspicion).
Concealing each in
the forgiveness
my sleight of hand
granted them,
(forgetfulness)
I choose Pretend.
It becomes so easy
for you
to shrug off
Responsibility.

The flicker of an idea
Came to me today
But like a utility
I neglected to pay
Was shut off momentarily

It sparked to life
Then faded to black
No amount of cajoling
Could lure it back
At least not voluntarily

I tried to retain it
Entertained a brief thought
That I could chase it
And it could be caught
Then marshalled militarily

But an idea lost
Like love gone sour
Disdains your wooing
Will nevermore flower
Not even temporarily

The chaos of the day
I truly lament
But an idea scorned
Will never relent
When it's placed secondarily

I let too many things
Get in the way
And now my blog
Will be empty today
Yet wait, not necessarily...

The room is dark.
I'm lying in bed.
I can't get up,
My sister said,
There are Cannibals under the bed.

My mother's gone out,
And left in her stead,
My sister to watch me,
And mess with my head,
With Cannibals under the bed.

I cannot scream,
I cannot shout,
I cannot move,
I can't get out.
I must stay still,
I must be quiet,
If I dont' want to be
A part of their diet.
I must stay here,
My sister said,
There are Cannibals under the bed.

It's probably a ruse.
To keep me in bed,
The reason I'm being,
So greatly misled,
About Cannibals under the bed.

I should tell mom,
The lies I am fed.
Not to mention the supper,
Of water and bread,
And of Cannibals under the bed.

I am sure it's a story,
To fill me with dread.
She thinks I am fooled,
By this ridiculous thread.
How would Cannibals get under my bed?

Sometimes at night,
I want just to show,
That my sister is wrong,
That there's nothing below,
To stick out perhaps,
Just one little toe...

But it's dark at night,
When they've turned out the light.
And who knows after all?
She may be right.

I am a turnip, I am wont to say,
And did not fall off yesterday,
From the truck that takes me round,
But keeps on chucking me to the ground.
I do assert that this is true,
And prove it by the black and blue.
I did not fall off just yesterday,
But once last night and once today.
The constant falling takes its toll,
I have yet to learn the "tuck and roll".
They assure me that there is an art,
To falling in a way that's smart.
To ease the sting of a sudden halt,
And of landing on my poor asphalt.
But a turnip I will always be,
Climbing back on in hopes I'll see,
What lies ahead and someday knowing,
Just where the heck this truck is going.

When my daughter was about four years old, she developed a need for a pet. I suppose this is a common desire, but apartment living does not accomodate most pets well, nor does a lifestyle that requires the human members of the family be away from home nearly all day. As a compromise, we decided upon a parakeet.

For a small pet, parakeets require a good outlay of cash to get them up and running. Although they seem to abound in frightening numbers at the pet store they charge a good price for them. When I was a kid, parakeets could be had for a song (pardon the pun) at the local Woolworths, now they are all "rare" and "exotic". Of course, a suitable cage is required and be prepared, the expertly trained teenage sales clerk will convince you that the most expensive and roomiest cage is the only humane and healthful one. This works well with most people, however, having been raised to be the cheapest woman on earth I settled for the cage that was less than a week's pay and actually larger than the bird itself. And of course one must invest in brightly colored toys and mirrors and ladders that will keep the bird amused and happy, the end result being that his cage is furnished more nicely than your living quarters.

A parakeet is a source of intense interest to a small child, for about a week. They soon find that this pet cannot really play with them and cannot be petted and generally prefers not to be handled by a small child. The sole care and nurturing of this pet soon fell to me completely. My general rule these days is not to get involved with any living creature I did not give birth to, but still, I end up with hangers-on. Animals have a sense of who is trustworthy as far as supplying their needs without taking too keen an interest. I find all animals gravitate towards me even when I tell them outright, "I have no time for you".

It wasn't long after we acquired our little bird friend that the girl decided a cat was much preferable. We had cats when I was a child, but my mother was not the type to have indoor litter boxes and so all cats had to be willing to spend a good deal of time outdoors. I was not anxious to have a box of cat waste in my tiny living space either, and this was one factor that led to the purchase of a parakeet. I pointed out to my daughter the grave danger a cat would pose to the bird and explained that as long as we had a bird, a cat was out of the question.

Children are not the innocent and warm-hearted creatures we like to think they are. I watched a plot hatching in the mind of this tiny bundle of ribbons and curls. A knowing look in those big blue eyes as that angelic face would look up at me and ask "Mom, when will the bird die"?

Soon it became clear that our bird was possessed by a sinister spirit from another world, sent to torment and possibly destroy us. "Mom, I don't like the way that bird looks at me". "Mom, that bird follows me with its eyes everywhere I go and he scares me". "Mom, that bird looks at me like he wants to bite me". Cute little Tweety's name had become "That Bird".

At least I was not concerned the morning I found the bird at the bottom of his cage, it was almost a relief. I knew she would finally be happy, the bird was dead and a way was open for the desired kitten. I was nearly ready to give the okay for such a pet. Imagine my surprise when I broke the news to her and it was met with heartfelt sobs, tears, and cries of "can we get another bird"? I honestly don't know what I was thinking when I said yes. I guess I was still new to this child-rearing thing, I didn't understand them yet. Probably best not to talk to them at all until they are 25 or so.

Someone was assigned the duty of purchasing a new bird. The new bird arrived, all fluffy and friendly. Much too fluffy. Much too friendly. Much too passive. The purchaser was quite pleased with himself, "This was the friendliest bird they had, it didn't even try to run away from me when I reached in for it". (In case you ever go to purchase a parakeet, remember, a bird who hasn't the strength to try to hop away from you is probably sick.)

"This bird is sick", I said. I was assured it was just friendly.

Of course, the girl was pleased as punch with the terminal bird who made no attempt to free himself from her grasp or bite her or even breathe more than absolutely necessary. It was too late now to return him, I could only hope he might recover from his "friendliness".

The next morning I found that the bird had indeed succumbed to a severe case of "friendliness" and was in permanent repose at the bottom of his cage. I did not have time to do much about it, so I covered the cage with a blanket and whisked the child out of the house before she could remember to inquire after her new pet.

I then tried what never works. I tried to replace the bird with an exact replica. I made the mistake of giving the plastic bag with the dead bird in it to the clerk first, before I looked over their more living specimens. All the blue parakeets looked like the one I had just brought in. I finally decided upon one healthy and young bird whose markings and hue seemed the closest to those I had in memory. I had only a lunch hour to do this in so I hurriedly chose and rushed home to place the bird in the cage.

Not long after we came home, the girl rushed into me crying "the bird is sick, he will die too"! She had noticed what I had hoped she wouldn't, the little black lines that very young birds have on their heads, generally a sign you have a young and healthy baby parakeet, but they did not exist on the ill-fated friendly bird and it takes a four year old to notice this. I forget what story I made up to explain this phenomenon, but it was accepted. I breathed a sigh of relief, I had gotten away with it. She was very happy with her beautiful new parakeet. For about a week. Then visions of kittens began once again to dance in her head.

"Mom, when will the bird die"?

There is no me that you can see with eyes
Nor one you can touch with hands
Nor reach with your words, such are lies
These my soul withstands

Morning
crept into the room. Stealthily
squeezed itself between
the slats in the blinds
Lay quietly
In the cracks in the floor before
Spreading long fingers that
Rippled up
and over
across the bed
warming and enticing her.
She threw the covers from her
Swung long legs to the floor

Afternoon
stretched long arms
Beckoned her
and called brightly
Follow me
Bask in me
Bring to me fresh
Hope, love. Look up but
not ahead
Wrap yourself in me
As I wrap round you,
Warm you. Give you
And I will Give me.
She danced in its warmth
Uncovered still

Sunset
Painted its name on the sky
Proclaiming dominion
It Seized the sun
Pulling it
below the horizon
so night could descend
Love became sorrow
Sorrow became affectation
Affectation became a cover


Night
Melancholy wind
sang softly
whispered
through tiny cracks
Its music
Inciting dreams
greeting their births
with cold hands
gripping them tightly
and shaking them out
She pulled the covers to her
Disappearing beneath them

Study Hall had always been Anna's favorite part of school. Twice a week she had an unstructured hour in which to live and write and think and be. She rarely did homework or studied during this time, it was unnecessary. Schoolwork required little of her attention span to be completed with fair grades. She settled into the desk with the top that looked like pink marble, opened her history book and a notebook and appeared to be dutifully taking notes should any inquisitive eyes look her way.
Her eyes looked down at the book's pages but her thoughts went elsewhere. Outside the sky was a dark grey and the rain beat against the windows and drenched the landscape. It was a day much to her liking.
"I like what you've written" came a voice from behind her.
Startled, Anna whipped her head around to see Creepy Caroline looking over her shoulder from the desk behind her. Everyone called her Creepy Caroline because they said she kept spiders as pets. No one talked to her but everyone talked about her. Caroline could not walk through the halls without someone insulting her or making a joke about her. She never spoke to anyone, she never answered their taunts, she always walked past without seeming to see them. Anna looked at her in surprise.
"Ummm, thanks" Anna stammered.
"Would you like to see mine? asked Caroline. She thrust a paper at Anna and waited expectantly for Anna to reach out and take it. Anna looked at the piece of paper in her hand. It was crumpled with a greasy stain on it and what looked like chocolate fingerprints on one side. She took it gingerly by a corner that appeared clean.
"Sure" Anna replied. "Do you write poetry too"?
"Uh huh" said Caroline. "I love to write poems, read it" she urged.
Anna began reading what she had been given and waves of envy washed over her. Caroline had done what she had tried to do and couldn't; capture the look and the feeling of that rainy day. Anna managed to say "that's really good" but she meant "how can Creepy Caroline write like that"?

For the rest of that semester, they had that study hall together. Caroline always offered something new that she had written and Anna was becoming eager to share as well. They sometimes talked about teachers and school studies but never about Caroline herself. After two months Anna didn't know any more about Caroline than she did that first day. But she never saw a pet spider and, aside from being a little messy and unkempt, Caroline didn't seem that odd. Real artists were always misunderstood she told herself, and this made her feel better about her own oddities as well.
But apart from that hour every week, they never talked or spent time together. Anna didn't say anything when she saw Caroline in the hall, she didn't sit near her at lunch. She had enough image problems without other kids seeing her with Caroline. And Caroline never approached her. She kept to herself just as always.

Still it was bound to happen one day and that day finally came. The whole seventh grade class was being shown a movie on drugs at the same time in the cafeteria. The students all sat at the long tables and were directed to seats by teachers, to avoid groups of friends forming that might disrupt the viewing. Anna realized with dread that she was seated at the same table as Caroline. She tried not to look up as Caroline took the seat opposite her. Thankfully, the lights went down in a moment or two and the movie began. Suddenly she felt something brushing her hand. She looked down and saw a piece of paper being pushed at her by Caroline. She grabbed it and hoped no one had seen it. She opened it quietly in her lap and read in the flickering light of the movie. Caroline had written a poem about someone on an LSD trip like the guy they showed in the movie. It was very powerful.
"What do you think"? whispered Caroline. She leaned forward as she said it.
Anna was concerned about this exchange, afraid someone might see it. She whispered back
"I will tell you later".
"What"? asked Caroline. She leaned further forward to hear what Anna was saying.
That was when it happened. She felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned to see Jenna Caffery, the most popular girl in school, looking at her disdainfully.
"Tell your friend over there to be quiet, would you?" Jenna demanded.
Anna remembered saying the only thing that came to her mouth in that panicked moment.
"She's not my friend".

Anna and Caroline never sat together at study hall again and Caroline never approached her. Anna noted over the next year and a half of junior high that Caroline seemed to isolate herself more and more and became more and more eccentric. Anna never saw her when she started high school, she didn't hear where she had gone, never knew if she had moved to another district, gone to a private school or simply disappeared off the face of the earth. She was no longer there to provide them with a source of amusement so no one ever talked about her or even considered her absence. She simply never existed for them really and so they did not even wonder where she had gone.

Anna looked at her profile in the class Yearbook. There was the picture that she had thought was the least hideous of the ones she had taken, the list of clubs she belonged to and her activities. The encapsulation of Anna, she thought. Under her picture was the Motto she had given the yearbook committee to put in her profile. She read "Do not defend yourself, defend those that cannot defend themselves". She finally felt as if she could close that book.

Diet
(v)
1. to deny oneself
2. to accept less than you want or need
3. to be reduced
from the Latin diaeta, way of living

You came hungry
tearing off litle pieces of me
to examine and taste
to catalogue the ingredients
to find out what I am made of
and what, if left out,
would make me more palatable
I hate myself for allowing you to consume me
in portions that are rightsized for you
and leave on the table that which
doesn't appeal to your appetite

within ten minutes after the bus had dropped her off at her aunt's house.

"Hello Mom?" the little voice piped. "Mom, I don't think it is fair, I have to lose snack and recess. Okay recess, but why snack? I don't think they should starve me. Amanda's cousin Johanna says it is illegal for them to take away your food and you know what else?"

"Okay, okay hang on... You did all your homework, why are you losing snack and recess?" I inquired.

"I forgot to bring in a body part."

"Huh?"

"I was supposed to bring in a body part but I forgot."

"You took all your body parts with you that I know of, was it supposed to be your body part or someone else's?"

"The teacher gave them out to everyone and we were supposed to cut them out and bring them in today."

"Okay honey, well if I see any body parts lying around or a sharp knife I will bring them home with me. I have to get back to work."