holiday tears and swears.

This frickin' thing. Makes me cuss and cry. Every single year.

Miss M and I put up our tree on Monday. I so love doing the Christmas tree. Okay, wait. No. No, I do NOT actually love "doing" the tree. Actually, I cuss a lot and sweat a lot and every year I sit on the floor with pieces of it in my hands and go, "How the hell did I do this last year?" and "Why the hell are there so many goddamn CORDS?!" I've had the same fake tree for going on 12 years now. You'd think, at year 12, I'd be putting up this MF'er easy as cake. You'd think that, at this point, I could do it blindfolded, drunk, and with one hand tied behind me. But no. Every year: a lot of sweat, cussing, and tears. A lot of tensely barked words that send a 7 year old running to the bedroom to cry a lot and yell from behind a closed door that I'm a bad mommy, and Santa Claus is NOT going to bring me any presents this year because I said the SH word five times.

But then it's up, and I'm so proud of me. For the 12th year in a row!

But then we have to decorate it.

Tiny baby fingers turned into snowmen on a blue
ball. 

Wasn't sure how that would go this year. Last year when I put it up, things were pretty sad. C and I were down to not only buying our own Christmas presents but wrapping them as well. The wrapping was a farce, because not only does sweet little Miss M love to unwrap her own presents, she loves to watch other people unwrap theirs. I was decorating and wrapping for the child, not for the spirit of the season - Baby had to have her Christmas. This year, I'm less stressed out (...for the moment), and I'm in slightly more of a holiday spirit (...for the moment). So I want the apartment to look Christmas-y. I wanted to have the tree up. 

Santa don't care about your excuses, Amy. Plus,
he hears you said the SH word five times.

So loved.

I have this thing for Christmas ornaments. I love them with all of me, to the deepest parts of my heart. Except for the few filler balls and some strategically placed fake roses for glitz and glamour, every single ornament on my tree has an important memory or meaning attached to it. Some have been going on trees literally since I was born - they have been with me my whole life. As I pull out each ornament from the box, I think about the year that ornament came into my life. I think about the person who gave it to me. I think about how that year felt, the circumstances I was in or my family was in, the good things and the bad things about that Christmas. There are decades and decades of memories on my tree, and every year at this time, I remember every single memory. 

Crucifix made from Israeli wood.
Just like the Romans did it.
(ooooh. Too soon? Sorry, bad joke. Terrible timing.)

Memories are important to me. And sometimes, as I pull certain ornaments out, I smile. And other times, as certain ornaments come out, I get teary-eyed. Just depends on my mood, the ornament, and the memories attached, but I always think about the person that goes with that ornament. Like, I have a thing for Buddhas and for crucifixes; these are all over my home. One of my most precious ornaments came from my friend Carol - it's a crucifix made from wood from Israel. Another is from my brother and sister-in-law - Miss M's first Christmas - who can believe she was ever that tiny?! Another is of me, C, and M on our first Christmas together. There are ornaments that are from Christmases with just C and me, before M. There's one ornament I was given the Christmas C and I reconciled after I left for 7 months. Bittersweet memory.

So I wasn't sure what would happen this year as each one came out. I mean, I know me pretty well, so I was aware I'd cry. I just didn't realize...I didn't realize what a cry fest decorating the tree would be this year. I had to stop and just sit with ornaments in my hands and on my lap, weeping over their memories. Buckets and buckets of tears until I was practically dehydrated. Miss M running back and forth to bring me tissues, saying things like, "Mom! STOP crying! It's JUST an ornament!! Santa will bring you MORE!!"

Happier times.

But it's okay now. The tree is up, and its lights and colors make me happy and feel peaceful in the dark nights of the encroaching winter, so I'm good...until I have to go pull out the house decorations this weekend and hang out with those memories for awhile.

Oh my god, Internet. That was ridiculously hard. I am haunted by Christmas memories. 

I mean, I even still put up all the extreme fisherman ornaments C has been given
over the years. And nobody in this house fishes.

7.

Dear little Miss M,

First of all, you are no longer that little. But you are still Miss M, and you will always be Miss M. When you were first born, I started calling you Miss M, or sometimes just "ma'm." You seemed like such an old soul in a tiny little body, and needed something far more formal than the name we'd given you.

Still does this, but in bigger PJs.

You were indignant and angry from the start. I remember every night you'd cry from 6 pm-8 pm. Every single night. Two hours straight. Angry, balled up fists in the air. Mad at only god knows what, for god knows what reason. And you hated sleep; you didn't want to miss a thing (you are still like this). The moment you took your first step, I felt a rush of relief - you were free, FREE! But also a deep sadness...the first step is the beginning of the end of babyhood...toddlerdom...childhood. It's been 7 years, and in another mere 9 you'll be driving. It goes so, so fast.  

You are a strong-willed, determined little girl. You like girly things like cheerleading, make up, nail polish, dancing, One Direction, Nick (and Joe) Jonas, sparkles, the color pink, Disney princesses, Disney's anti-princesses, and you'd really really like to go on a date with a boy except I can tell: you don't even know what that really means or entails. But you also like boy things like skateboards and scooters, Star Wars, soccer, Sunday night football (which you understand so much better than I do - thank your father, he's just made you cool with all the jocks), worms and roly poly bugs, all things gross, and fart jokes. 

Loves to party. With sparkles.

You are a becoming a mini-me, but with a lot of good balance from your dad's genetics. You are highly imaginative and in your own head a lot (me); yet you're a total social butterfly who can't say no to a good party (your dad). You love stories and music and creativity (me); yet you're analytical enough to be one of the best mathematicians in your class (your dad). You're disorganized (me), but you can clean like nobody's business when necessary (your dad). You're all emotions (me) but really logical (your dad) (emotions + logic = bless you, my darling...you got a looooong, crazy road ahead of you trying to marry those two character traits). You are stubborn (me) but not unreasonable (your dad). You have an illogical issue with shoes and clothes (that's all me...and you got nothing from your dad to counteract that, sorry).

Yesterday, I completely lost it with you. In public. I am sorry, sweet girl. When things like that happen, where afterwards I am filled with guilt and What-The-Heck-Is-WRONG-With-You-Amy?! thoughts, I always hope it becomes a memory that gets buried deep deep down in the recesses of your brain. And I'm sorry I've taught you cuss words. I'd honestly intended to wait until you were at least 10. (I'm sure by now you get it: mommy's got a temper, and now you know why you do, too.) 

....and/or she'll be running her own small country.

Sometimes, because you are such an old soul and also very tall for your age, I forget: you are only 6 (now 7), just a baby. And I am having a hard life, and so are you. You cry a lot and ask why daddy can't come over for a sandwich, and why we can't be together as a family anymore. You asked, for your birthday this year, if you and I could spend the night at daddy's house, and all three of us sleep in the same bed like we did a long time ago. You are sad when you're with daddy because you miss me and worry I'm lonely without you. You are sad when you're with me because you miss daddy and worry he's lonely without you. 

Your tender heart breaks mine a lot; I have tremendous amounts of guilt about what I did this summer. But I also did it because I deeply felt that, in the long run, it would be the very best thing for all three of us and I never ever do anything without weighing all the possible best/worst case scenarios and being prepared to accept any and all consequences that follow every choice I make. I feel like it's really important you know that...on the first birthday you've had not waking up in a house that has both me and daddy.

Cheerleader. For dolphins.

At night, you like me to make up stories for you in which you are rescued or whisked away by Harry Styles of One Direction until you giggle yourself silly. Then I draw pictures on your back and sing You Are My Sunshine or The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow or Somewhere Over the Rainbow until you fall asleep. And after you are asleep, I stare at your profile, and I can still see the little face from the ultrasound images 7 years ago. Isn't that amazing? From a side angle in the dark, you are still a mysterious part of me. I remember I couldn't believe you were actually inside of me. And even now, years later, I can still feel the surreal, freakish sensation of having your tiny feet swipe at my insides when you were finally big enough to make your presence known. I watch you sleep and think about how small you once were, how your entire body fit perfectly on my chest, and I remember how we'd defy all the What Not To Do parenting articles and risk it just to lie together, napping...me on the sofa, you on my chest. Really, it was the only way you could sleep. You have been sleeping on top of me ever since, often with a foot in my face.

But mostly I just look at your sweet sleeping self a lot of nights and think the same thing I thought when you were lying in the bassinet next to me in the hospital: I can't believe my body made you, and that you picked me to be your mommy. You are the happiest and saddest and most exciting and silliest and angriest and scariest and hardest and best thing I have ever done, and ever will do. 

My most favorite thing ever.

Happy 7th year on Earth, little Miss M. I'm so lucky I get to be YOUR mommy. You are my favorite, my most favorite little girl, on the WHOLE planet. There is no other little girl I love more than you, no other little girl I ever want to hug and kiss and fight and laugh and sing and cry and watch movies and dance and take nature hikes with. 

I hope you are growing up with more happy moments than sad (but I think some sadness is good for you, too - so you can appreciate the happy), and more than anything else that you know how tremendously loved you are. Every single night before you fall asleep, after I sing You Are My Sunshine to you, I say: "You are my very best blessing." I made a conscious choice when you were 2 hours old to do that, to make sure those are almost always the last words you hear before you fall asleep, no matter what kind of day you or I or we have had. It's the most important thing to me that you know you are a blessing, that you are worthy of love, that you are perfect just as you are...because one day you will encounter people who will make you question that, and doubt yourself. Which is why my biggest wish for you, every day, is that as you grow up you'll encounter far more of the OTHER kind of people, the ones who will see who you really are and love even the darkest parts of you.

I send prayers to the Universe, on a consistent basis, that you are one day in a home of your very own, one that you'll fill up with things that bring you peace and happiness and inspire moments of creative abandon full of wild recklessness. I write daily requests to Whatever is listening, that you'll find something to do with your life that brings you joy and makes you feel good, and that you'll be surrounded with people who help you and support you through the gloomiest bits while bringing your life a little weirdness, a lot of extraordinary, and great gigantic gobs of blessings and love. 

You are the all the very best parts of me and your daddy wrapped up in one beautiful place, in one growing and magnificently magical child, and more than that, you are my very best blessing of all. I love you, sweet girl. Happy birthday. 

Love,
Mommy
October 30, 2015

Miss M likes zombie eyes.

My very best blessing. Thank you, Universe.

an abyss of memories (aka: wherein i overshare)

Source: PM-Forever Arts, deviantart.com

postscript edit: a friend sent me a link to a wiki on melancholia. according that, i am not depressed. what i am is longing. i have a bittersweet longing. and according to what i was compelled to write about today, that bittersweet longing is for...my dad. and a dead deer. (which officially makes me the strangest person i know.)

it's raining today. i'm adulting about 50% better than i have been. meaning, i am washing towels and clothes right now, my kitchen and bathroom are clean and my bed has been made. but i'm avoiding looking at my bank account because, though i'm sure i have plenty of money to pay the bills i need to pay, it will mean miss m and i will probably be eating rice-a-roni till i get paid at the end of the week because we went out for dinner too many times in august instead of me cooking (please nobody tell c...it'll be one more example of how i'm not doing It right). 

but mostly: it's raining today, and rain brings out all the melancholy i can usually push far to the back of me. lately i'm like this: i can be happy happy joy joy (sunny days) everything's awesome! omg i LOVE life! *cue broadway dance number here...WITH tap dancing* and then suddenly the next day is a grey, cold, rainy day and i am plunged back into depths of melancholy and bleh, singing sad and mournful songs and dressing all in black. yes, even black lipstick. total goth. 

(what i'm most worried about right now: i heard - or maybe read somewhere - that october in georgia is going to be a DOOZY in terms of number of gloomy, rainy days. you guys! if this is true...how the holy hell in halloween am i going to get through october???? jesus god, i'm going to have to invest in a TON of black mourning clothes. maybe even just a full burqa or something. ululating included.) 

did i ever tell you my maternal grandmother had electric shock treatments? she had at least a couple of nervous breakdowns back in the 50s before we really knew about talk therapy and careful medication, and they stuck her in a hospital and gave her electric shock treatments. probably talk therapy and careful medication would have been better for her - she was reaching out for help, and the shock treatments had the opposite affect on her. they made her very quiet and sad and negative and then she wanted to take a lot of naps whenever stressed out. electric shock treatment seems to be for people who are already very quiet and sad and negative and want to take a lot of naps whenever stressed out; shocks them out of that. but if you're literally, you know, violently screaming for help, then maybe you need some calming medication and a thoughtful, wise ear to talk into instead...not brain trauma. but i don't know. i'm not a mental health professional. (you're welcome, society.)

and did i ever tell you that my dad also struggled with issues of melancholy? from what i've been told, his seemed far worse than mine. he struggled with alcohol dependence, which didn't help. i joke a lot, here and elsewhere, about drinking wine and margaritas and beer and etc, but i'm actually very cognizant of how much alcohol goes into me, why and when, and that's because of my dad. and i will be very forthright and tell you i'm pretty certain i do abuse alcohol on certain days, in certain situations, and under certain circumstances. and i will say that i am aware that when stressed and frustrated and/or angry and/or sad, alcohol is actually not the first thing you should reach out to. hug your kid. run on a treadmill. buy a new wardrobe. write it out. lie quietly and watch a crapload of indie films on netflix. eat an entire quart of salted caramel gelato and a whole chocolate cake by yourself while watching a crapload of indie films on netflix. (i do all of those when i don't think a glass of wine would fix my problem. any other ideas?) 

so my dad's thing was beer. my dad drank an awful lot of beer, and he was not that concerned with quality (pabst blue ribbon and budweiser were his go to's). and he struggled with depression. possibly because alcohol is a depressant and alcohol always makes depression worse, so if you're sad and you start to drink then it just makes your sad even sadder...is my theory. which is why, on days like today, i absolutely avoid it and just eat an entire batch of brownies instead. (i'm more of a celebratory social occasion and a stress drinker, actually.) 

and also we had guns. because my dad grew up in the pocono mountains of pennsylvania and they do two things for fun up there: (1) drink beer and (2) shoot bambi (and thumper and cute little flower and probably sweet friend owl, too). i still remember, when i was 4, my dad's 12-point buck kill (or whatever number...they assign them numbers, like penis inches). my grandfather, dad, and uncle hung it upside down in the garage, then split open its guts which spilled out from its soft, white tummy onto newspapers laid below it. and i remember standing in the door that led from my grandparents' living room into the garage, just staring at this gentle deer, blood and guts everywhere, completely fascinated and horrified all at once. later, they'd cut the head off that deer, send it to a taxidermist, and give it to my dad since it was his kill, and sometimes i'd sit on the floor with it, stroking its still-silky fur, looking into its now-glass eyes, and wondering about what its life had been like before my father and his dad and brother had stopped it. 

for years after, the deer head would move around the country with us, and in each new house my dad would attempt to hang it proudly above the fireplace in the new living room and my mom would give him a cold stare and it would end up in a guest bedroom or an office or the garage. but i can still smell my grandparents' garage when it hung from the ceiling, and i remember how cold it was that afternoon and i could see my breath in the air as i stood watching the deer from the doorway, and i could smell the wild still on its body, and i could smell its blood. that dead deer is such a huge childhood memory for me; it's one of my most vivid, actually. in fact, right now, i'm smelling those smells as i'm typing this. i'm pretty certain mental health professionals call that Trauma. 

at any rate, i have no idea why i'm not a vegetarian now. i do think about going lacto-ovo at least, and one day complete vegan. throughout college i didn't eat animal meat, but i also didn't get enough protein in general and i think i got anemia or something. so later, i went back to animal flesh but only chickens, fish, and pigs. because fish, i reasoned, don't have feelings and chickens have weird feet. and pigs because...bacon. but NO COWS. because cows have gentle eyes. and to this day i refuse to eat a baby animal. animals are our FRIENDS. stop shooting them. and NO, ted nugent, i do NOT actually care about deer being like forest rats. go read The Yearling and get over yourself.

where was i? right...alcohol, beer, depression, guns. so i grew up with guns. mostly rifles, stored in a gun cabinet with a glass door on it that stood in a hallway. and i remember my dad would sometimes take the guns out to clean them, and i don't know if it's because i've always had a really healthy sense of self-preservation and/or the memory of what can happen to a body (deer or human) from one of those guns' bullets, but the guns terrified me. and my dad terrified me as well - he'd talk to my brother and me about what he was doing as he cleaned them, and he'd describe in great detail the atrocities that can happen to children who decide to touch instruments such as these. and so i've never had a desire to shoot a gun. i have some friends who are having love affairs with them, and i think they're absolutely nuts. guns are bad news. unless you're a soldier or a cop or you live 500 miles from a grocery store and so you HAVE to shoot your own meat, why have them? 

and they can put dangerous ideas in one's head.

my dad had a moment - several moments, actually - when he wasn't doing well at Life. he was drinking way too much, and he was struggling at work. alcohol changed my dad's personality a bit; mainly, it kind of eliminated his social filter, and his superiors at work were growing agitated with him because he was a bit too open with them about their jackassery. if i've learned nothing else from my father's struggles, i've learned that jackasses don't really like to be told they are jackasses, even if it will help them stop being jackasses and become more successful. you can lead a jackass to water, but you cannot make him (or her) drink.

and he'd either been already laid off or was about to be. and he was struggling. and one day, my mom caught him in their bathroom sitting on the edge of the tub holding one of his pistols. she asked what he was doing, and he said just cleaning it, got up and put it back wherever he kept it. but after he walked out, my mom found two bullets in the bathroom sink. and no gun cleaning supplies anywhere.

i think my dad was...pondering, is what i'm saying. my father had demons; we all do. it's why i don't judge others for their poor choices. life is tricky, and some days you do think about sitting on the edge of a tub, considering options. it's what you do next that counts, and my dad was far too responsible to choose the wrong option. but that story lets me know how big his struggles really were, and it makes me wish i'd given him more hugs that lasted a really long time. 

things you learn as you age; when my dad was alive i was just a self-centered girl who didn't really get how big and overwhelming life can become.

i know somebody - probably my mom - is going to read this blog entry and try to commit me to a hospital for observation or something. so let me be clear: i am NOT writing this to suggest I'M going to go sit on a tub holding a pistol in my hands, pondering. i have far too much schoolwork to do still, too many hands to hold, a class from heaven this year to enjoy, and miss m is my entire world and i want to see her win her Golden Globe and/or Oscar one day because every day i'm more and more certain her dramatic nature is leading her down that very path. what i'm saying is: i am melancholy by nature, that i think it may be hereditary, and because of the big life change i made this summer, that melancholy has taken over a bit lately and i've noticed. if you read here regularly, i'm sure you have as well. but i've noticed to the point where i now think i want to go talk to somebody about it. i don't expect every day to be rainbows and unicorns and splashing dolphins in the sunlight zone, but i would like to stay out of the abyss permanently...maybe just hang in the twilight zone now and then, an occasional little dip down into the midnight zone during rainy octobers. but the abyss is bad. very, very bad. 

or! i could just bake some chocolate chip cookies and down them with a few margaritas after buying a couple of new outfits and watching a few indie films. i don't know.

also, i'm sorry for not using capitals at the beginning of my sentences or consistently...the shift key was just a bit too much for me today. i'm anti-shift key right now.

the memories of stuffed dogs.

The real Luff Pup Pup is not a puppet.
He's also bigger and dirtier.
And his eyes are gone because
a little beloved dog of ours chewed them off,
along with his ears & tongue. 
The real Luff Pup Pup is a hideous mess.
The irony of that in connection to MY mess
is not lost on me.
Messes = Real.

Holy moly, Internet. I had a DAY yesterday. Every time one of these occurs, I have to remind myself what sweet friend Becky, who's been there/done this, told me: this is normal, all the feelings are normal, this too shall pass.

So my P.O.S. washer has broken. It's either clogged or the shipping rod the installer guys forgot to remove (despite the fact there was a very large red sticker on it that read REMOVE BEFORE INSTALLING) did, in fact, break the drum. Normally, this would just be an inconvenience and I'd schedule a time for them to come out and look at it, tell me it's unfixable, and then I'd schedule a time to go to HH Gregg and tell them their illiterate goons broke my $600 washer and they need to give me a new one and then I'd schedule a time to be home for the arrival and (proper) installation of new said washer. 

However, I'm going back to work next week and - non-teacher people don't understand this because they simply don't have this problem - I can't just...LEAVE. I have to ask for permission. And then I have to find someone to watch the children so they don't kill themselves or burn down the building. Next week, there are no children just teachers sitting through endless meetings of overwhelming information. But some of the meetings contain critical overwhelming information I can't afford to miss (I'm a leader this year, remember?). 

At any rate, the nice GE lady I spoke to had a mom who was a teacher and she made a big note telling them to make me their last stop. But I know they aren't going to be able to fix it; I know I'm going to need a new washer and it's going to...because...well, this is just me overthinking things and worrying them to death and this is partly why I end up in tremendous, emotionally overwrought situations like yesterday. Situations in which, literally I take to my bed and pull the covers over my head. Situations in which, literally I lay there just focusing on taking one breath after another and practicing every single self-soothing technique I can think up.

But I'm better now. All better. Until the next time the washer breaks I suppose.

In the midst of this, my uncle called. My dad's brother. He went to a family reunion and got both my landline and mobile phone numbers. He called the landline first and I hung up on him, because the only people who ever call that number are trying to sell me something or begging for money. It is for emergency purposes only, in case my mobile is broken or the Zombie Apocalypse has begun and the satellites are all down. Also, my cable/internet company gave it to me for 1 penny per month, and that's actually why I have it.

Then he called my mobile. I saw it was the same number I hung up on from the landline and it was from Pennsylvania, so I decided to answer it. It was a shock; a happy shock, but a big surprise. I haven't spoken to my dad's brother for years and years.

The thing about talking to my Uncle Joe is that I can hear my dad in his voice. His voice is different than my dad's, but I can hear my dad; his speech patterns and way in which he speaks. In addition, the Samson men are all TALKERS. I mean, seriously. Don't sit down with one unless you've had a bathroom break and some free time. I couldn't even tell you what Uncle Joe and I spoke about yesterday, but he did a lot of the talking. (For the record, in person, I'm not much of a talker, but when I'm behind a screen typing? I can really feel the Samson DNA gurgling.)

When I saw him last in person, I just drank him in, because I can see my dad in his face, particularly around the eyes. And I miss my dad horribly, reader(s). I don't know if I can convey how deeply I miss my dad, but I deeply, deeply miss my dad. Most of the time I'm living my life, just going along happily (or, you know, under the covers carefully breathing), and then suddenly BAM. Something will happen or a memory will pop up or I'll smell a smell or...something. Someone who was closely connected to him will call for no real reason. Things like that. And then the inability to pick up a phone and call my dad or meet him for dinner or drinks or whatever will hit me. And then the longing pain takes over. If you've lost someone very loved and dear to you I know you understand this. 

And so. Yesterday was a bad day. Not just because the washer broke; just because...I just woke up feeling sad for no reason. And discontent. And scared. And just basically like: what the hell am I doing? Just really, really, really all-around-weird. And THEN the washer broke. 

And then my Uncle Joe called. 

Uncle Joey, who was a long-haired hippy when I was little, who I was terrified of because of his shaggy beard. Uncle Joey, who had a big loud laugh and still sort of does, though the years have worn it down. Uncle Joey, who gave me Luff Pup Pup for my 2nd Christmas, a big stuffed dog I still have who's the very personification of what the old Skin Horse told the Velveteen Rabbit would happen to you when you were loved by a child so much you became real. I slept with Luff Pup Pup (whose brand name in 1974 was Love Pup, but I couldn't say that, thus he became what I could say: Luff Pup Pup and remained this forever) until I was about 21. And even after I officially stopped sleeping with him, sometimes when I was most afraid and alone-feeling, I would pull him out and sleep with him because the love inside of him was, and is, really Real and it seeps out of him. 

Yesterday, when Uncle Joe called, I felt like my dad was checking on me. It felt like my dad was there, somewhere, and when I feel his presence around me it's always comforting but also very very sad because I long for him to really BE there. And so I sat talking to Uncle Joey on the phone hiding the tears streaming down my face, because (a) his call was so out of the blue and I did worry that maybe something else is going on and he's just connecting because of that but also (b) it felt like my dad was there. Swirling issues of longing and hope and loss. 

Which is one big reason why I left my apartment and took Miss M to spend the evening with my brother and his family. We swam and ate hot dogs and cupcakes and maybe there were some beers involved, just to take off the edge. For the adults, not the children of course. Children don't even know what "an edge" is, and half the time are the cause of them. 

And as I drove home from that, it occurred to me that, the next time I have the overwhelming need to lie under the covers carefully breathing away inexplicable pain, I should do THAT instead: go make contact with my people, the tribe to which I've been born...or maybe the tribes I've cultivated and continue to cultivate. Which is the whole point of why humans create tribes, I think.

Or I can go find Luff Pup Pup at my former house, pull him from his storage spot, bring him home, and then weep into his tattered, worn, beloved stuff body. Beds are just not as comforting. You know?

the memory of homes.

It's 1:00 AM, the last night in my house. I have resolved to write something that is not about this very sad life upheaval I am experiencing. 

But tonight will not be that writing. 

Tonight (rather, this morning), I'm going to write about saying good-bye, about memories. 

I just finished sifting through memories. Literally. Sifting. Through tons of memories. I've packed up my glasses and dishes and towels and utensils and clothes and other important things one must have to basically operate a household and life, but then I remembered that one cabinet in the dining room I meant to go through but forgot to. And so I sat and pulled out...stuff. Stuff that has been sitting in this cabinet for almost 7 years, if not more. 

And what I found were memories. Mostly in the form of pictures, but also other memories. Memories I haven't remembered for a very long time.

I found tons of love notes from my very first boyfriend, Sam Harder, who also gave me my very first kiss (in the back of my dad's car...WHILE MY DAD WAS DRIVING) (Sam Harder lacked important social skills and suaveness, but I'm going to forgive him because he was 14 and he wrote me those notes that were folded up intricately like origami, and at the end of his love notes he always--seriously, every single one and I have about 25--signed off: LOVE, SAM HARDER. He was also a semi-orphan; I say semi- because his mother was still alive. She just didn't want him. At the age of 10, he'd been dumped by her into the foster care system and was living in a home with other boys who'd also been dumped into the system by their parents. I remember one time Sam came to our house for dinner and my brother and I argued about something trivial and Sam quietly let us know we shouldn't argue like that about such trivial things because at least we had each other...some people didn't have anybody. I remember that. 

At the time, I was too busy being stupid and 14 to really get what Sam was saying, and also I'd already decided to break up with Sam because he'd--HORRORS--kissed me on the lips in the back of my dad's car WHILE MY DAD WAS DRIVING and who the hell DOES crap like that?? But now, as a 43 year old mother who's leaving her marriage with a very sad-yet-not-sad 6 year old in tow, I get it: don't argue about trivial things so much; be thankful there's someone there who cares enough to talk to you.)

And I found love emails and poetry from a New Jersey boy who'd loved me a lot...I was in Arizona, he was in New York. His name was Vincent, and he made movies. He wrote scripts, got his friends to act in them, and shot them all over Manhattan and Hoboken. He loved that I wrote, and I still have a book about writing he gave me one Christmas, in which he wrote a sweet note, encouraging me to follow my dreams and hone my talents. I remember, to get to where he worked, he took the train from Hoboken into New York City, right into one of the World Trade Centers. I visited Vincent once, and he took me to the top of the World Trade Center--when I went back to New York City years later, I stood for a long time, staring from my hotel room's window at the two bright spotlights that shine where the towers stood and I remembered standing at the very top of them. And I wondered: how many memories are up there now, in that spot in the sky, of people standing at the top of the World Trade Center in awe, or just of people working there. And dying.

Tonight I thought about Vincent, and hoped, for the billionth time, he didn't take the train into Manhattan on September 11, 2001. (On September 12, 2001, I emailed Vincent at the last email address I had for him...and got no response. And so I hope you are out there still and okay, Vincent Rodriguez. I hope.)

I found postcards from Holland my dad sent me when he went there on a business trip (it rained...THE WHOLE TIME). I found a letter my family wrote me when I was 12, away at Girl Scout Horse Camp for a week (my mom wrote that they saw Star Trek III without me and planned to see GREMLINS next, my dad wrote he was sad to only have my brother to yell at, and my brother called me a butthead. Such was my family in the 1980s). I found my autographed Skid Row and Ricky Martin posters--two slightly separate eras, two very different Amys. I found a postcard from my old friend Kirstie, from Danville, Kentucky, who used to write plays in the backyard with me and then we'd coerce my little brother and his friends into acting in them with us...she wrote that she missed watching GENERAL HOSPITAL with me. 

I found an essay I wrote about my mom, in which I noted that some moms do really great things like find the cure for cancer or run their own business and make lots of money...not my mom. Nope, mine was just an ordinary, plain old mom. And those are probably the best kinds of moms to have. (Seriously, who wants an exciting mom? CIA operative mom? Psh. Always snooping into your private business. NASA rocket scientist mom? No way! Always talking programming code. Just give me a mom who reads books, cleans haphazardly, takes an excruciatingly long time in stores, and watches a lot of Lifetime TV. Just give me one of those...their homemade birthday cakes and spaghetti taste better anyway.)

I found a poem I wrote for my mom, about two little angels who were friends in Heaven. God tells one of the angels: you have an assignment on Earth--get down there! The other little angel begs God to go with her friend but God says nope. I need you here. The little angel is sad, sad, sad. Then, one day God says: you have an assignment on Earth--get down there! The little angel is hopeful that she'll maybe see her friend somewhere. To her great surprise, when she gets down there? Her little angel friend turns out to be her mother--God moved mountains and oceans and all the stuff that God likes to move, JUST so those two little angel friends could be together again...as mother and daughter. (Even as a child, I got it: the Universe is just one gigantic Trickster.)

And I found an essay I wrote when we had to leave one of my childhood homes--all about how houses become homes when memories seep into their walls, corners, floors. I have always been sentimental about homes, it appears. 

So it explains why, after taping the last box and then getting Miss M to sleep, I just...sat. I sat by the window and listened to the cacophony going on outside. I've never been sure what these tree frogs do all night throughout June, but I suspect there's a gigantic tree frog orgy going on in the bushes out there. They become particularly randy after a big rainstorm, which we had earlier. Seriously, it was so loud if you'd been sitting and chatting with me, we'd have had to shout at one another. Get a room, tree frogs.

I sat for a very long time in my living room, just remembering all the things that have happened there, the people who've visited that space. The good energy, the sad energy. This house saw me get my master's degree. It watched C and me get really unhappy and briefly separated, then make up and get married. It's where C and I got incredibly unhappy and separated for 7 months, then made up and got pregnant. This house is where my sweet old cat Tasha died in my arms. This was the house I walked a 3 day old Miss M around, showing her every single thing, overstimulating her beyond belief and freaking myself out that I'd not had her home 10 minutes and had already broken her--were there newborn infant psychotherapists? This is where Miss M and I sat for long, long periods...first with her growing inside of me, then nursing from me, then rocking, then crawling, then walking and talking and throwing lots and lots of indignant temper tantrums because demands for more "yawyee-pops" were denied.

This is where many Fourth of July barbecues were had. And where friends came and laughed...and sometimes cried. This is the house that some Caucasian crackheads broke into and robbed, teaching me police officers have really macabre senses of humor about stuff like that and other Caucasians will automatically assume, when you tell them you were robbed, that the thieves were black or Mexican. This is the house C and I painted together. This is the house I chose light fixtures for. This is the house we ripped up the carpeting in and replaced with wood floors and now I never want to live with carpet ever again. This is the house I fell in love with. My very first house. 

It sounds like I'm more heartbroken over leaving the house, I know. But really what I'm heartbroken about right now are the memories I'm leaving behind me. Houses are just wood and plaster and brick or stone that will  one day either be torn down or lost to ruins. Memories are what make leaving the wood and bricks and stone very hard. You hope the people who buy the wood and bricks and stone are gentle with their memories, and you wonder what kinds of memories they will add. For C and me, I know I'll come back and visit this house a lot. But I'll be a visitor now, and so I hope the memories don't forget me.

Before C went to bed, he gave me a long hug. We both stood in our house, the house we built together, and cried for a long, long time. "We had a good run," he said. "We tried very hard," I said. 

And so now, I guess, that's part of this house's memories, too. I find memories both comforting and haunting, all at once. 

breathe...and release.

Hiya, Internet. How are things? I've been maintaining. Maintaining, as in: swinging between being very very busy and on top of things...to being absolutely fucking paralyzed and taking naps as a defense mechanism. My sweet friend Becky tells me this is completely normal. That I will have up days and down days. And some days I will feel sideways, which I think means: surreal. Grey. Out of body. Ish. (At least, that was me at 3 PM yesterday.)

Mostly, what I'm doing right now is scheduling a lot of things: movers, cable, internet, insurance. I did get a new phone when C and I separated that account. And since it's turning out to just be that kind of year, I went to the dark side. The dark side of an apple.

That's right, World Wide Web: I'm an iPhone user now. Crap, it's heaven. I used to enjoy making fun of iPhone/Apple geeks so much. Seriously, you don't even know. But now I get it: THIS shit is why they stand in line, in the rain or snow or crammed together like dead sardines in tin cans in an Apple store, wallowing in pools of their own urine and excrement, for days on end, waiting to buy the newest iPhone update. (I will never, ever understand the Apple watch, though. Sorry. I think it's just one step closer to Apple implanting microbes in our brains.) (And don't you tell me that hasn't crossed your minds, too, you Apple geeks! You know they're working on a prototype, and don't even act like you're not cool with it...be honest: You. Can't. Wait.)

And Miss M is hanging out there with me, on the Apple dark side. Mostly because she's in love with Siri. Who couldn't friggin' care less about what Miss M has to say. They spend a lot of time arguing, and it goes like this:

M: Will you be my friend?
Siri: That's nice. I'd like to be your friend.
M: Will you have a slumber party with me?
Siri: I've never really thought about it.
M: Do you like me? 
Siri: Of course I'm your friend.
M: Will you play with me?
Siri: OK. Playing your music. <starts playing You Belong to Me by Carly Simon>
M: NOOOO!!!! Not THAT kind of playing!!!
Siri: I'm not sure I understand.
M: I MEANT come to my house!
Siri: I don't understand "I meant come to my house." But I could search the web for it.
M: You're not listening to me!
Siri: My apologies.
M: You're FIRED!!
Siri: After all I've done for you?
M: Yes! YOU'RE FIRED, SIRI!
Siri: I'm doing my best.
M: Okay, I'm sorry, Siri.
Siri: No need to apologize.
M: You apologize too!
Siri: Is that so?

....so on, and so forth. FOREVER. (Apple, you are diabolical.)

I am also spending a lot of time with memories. Another sweet friend of mine once told me that, when you are faced with the letting go of something or someone very very dear and precious to you, this is what you should do: take the memory, embrace it, love it, and then....release and let go. It's this last part I'm having a hard time with. Last night, for instance, I sat in M's room, sobbing, with the memories of all the rocking we did in that one corner when she was a baby. And I realized, today, that next week I'd be taking my last shower in this bathroom. And the other night I sat on the porch in tears, knowing how much I'll miss sitting on it with coffee in the morning and listening to the tree frogs at night. 

This is the hardest part for me, saying good-bye. Even when the good-bye is for the best. Good-byes are my nemesis. Change is not my favorite. It's part of life, but it is not my favorite. 

Side story: once, when I was nine, my mother made my bed. She changed the way the bedspread went on. And did the pillows all wrong. And she changed how I lined up my stuffed animals. So I wrote her an angry, HOW DARE YOU, MOTHER!!! note with a lot of misspellings and bad grammar, and a set of THIS IS HOW YOU MAKE MY BED snobby instructions. Which she still has somewhere, I think, saving it to embarrass me when we are somewhere important with important people some day. At any rate, after that, she never made my bed again, ever. And then I had Miss M, who writes me scathing, irate notes like this all the time, about everything, except she's only 6. No, seriously: EVERYTHING. Take note, dear reader(s): whoever said 'Karma's a bitch' was a mother. I promise.

I'm not sure how I'll coordinate everything next week. Things will become ludicrously busy on the 16th when the cable/internet people come all at once. And I'll have no furniture in the apartment on the 16th because the movers don't come til the 19th. By the 20th, I'll be on my own, though. Which, I'm assuming, is when all the real fun begins.

This weekend, C and I are telling Miss M what is about to happen. We will make it positive and fun (you get to have TWO bedrooms! and TWO kitchens! and TWO bathrooms! and there's a POOL!), but I am worried about her because she's a lot like me in regards to sentimentality and letting go. I have a child psychologist lined up if I need her. (I sense I will need her.)

Speaking of psychologically traumatic hot messes, on a happy note? I'm going to be slightly distracted from my own because I'll be reviewing the show EXTANT starting July 1. It's a show on CBS (Wednesdays 10/9 Central) starring Halle Berry, who plays Molly, an astronaut who comes back to Earth mysteriously pregnant after a 13 month mission in outer space (gah! I hate when that happens!). At any rate, not only does Molly not remember how she got a baby in her womb or who did it, but also she and her husband John have struggled with getting pregnant for years and years...so nope! John ain't the baby daddy. However, John's a smarty pants scientist who just went ahead and created their own kid, Ethan. And Molly and John love him to pieces. Except Ethan is AI (artificial intelligence). He looks real and feels real and sounds real...but he's not actually human. (But theeeennn, if it looks like a duck and walks like a duck and quacks like a duck...does it really matter if it's a cow? In the grand scheme of things.) I've watched some clips from last season, and am currently trying to lay hands on full episodes so I won't sound like a hack. (I'm actually okay sounding like a hack--I do it all the time here, but on threeifbyspace's website, I promise to be professional, with only slight moments of brief hackery.) It looks like a fascinating story, actually, with moments that will have me in tears. Which I like. I like being in tears. Tears are my trademark. I shed them all the time.

So, look for some things about that show next month--I'll mostly post my thoughts about it on threeifbyspace.net, but I may go into further detail here about some episodes if it's very, very well-written and well-done. (Though, I will admit: after the DIG roller coaster, all future TV shows have some big shoes to fill for this Southern Yankee gal.) I will tell you up front: Jeffrey Dean Morgan is a new cast member for Season 2. Jeffrey Dean Morgan was in P.S. I LOVE YOU with Hilary Swank, and that's...listen, Internet: Jeffrey Dean Morgan is most delightful. I'll most definitely be writing here about any Jeffrey Dean Morgan moments on EXTANT that cause me to reach for my smelling salts. While in tears.

Otherwise, I'll be here. In Georgia. Packing. Moving. Mourning. Taking deep belly breaths. Breathing in, letting go. Questioning every thought, word, movement and then second guessing myself after every single decision. Spending a lot of time trying to create memories in a new home that doesn't look or feel like my old home (creating memories is harder to do in an apartment, I learned last time--it does not belong to you...I think that's why).

....Do I sound conflicted? Kind of all over the place? I think I sound conflicted and all over the place about what's about to happen. I'm told this is also normal. That any feeling I have, actually, is normal. Right now, Internet, I'm just very very sad. I don't know if you've ever done this or not. If you have, then you know: this is a very, very, deeply, immensely hard and sad thing to do. If you haven't, then now you that, too. This is why I always say kindness is important...somebody honked their horn at me really mean yesterday morning, and it sent me into a fit of tears. Be kind to each other--we're all dealing with difficult things.

Maybe not as hard as an alien impregnating you. But still very, very difficult.

perils of memoir.

Before I begin, may I do a quick, do-gooder, feel-good plug? My friend Angie is desperately trying to raise money to send a sweet, handsome, good mannered young man to a private school. He's being bullied at his current school, and he has a life story that'll break your heart if you knew all the details. You may not have the money to donate, but if you could, that would be fantabulous. If you can't, would you consider sharing this link with people you know, or people you know who might be able to donate? You'll earn 10,000 good Karma points, I promise.

Okay, now on to my thoughts about perils of memoir:

Sooo...you know how, a few days ago, I wrote a piece here about my experience of going to Presbyterian Sunday school? And you know how, a few days ago, in the piece I wrote about Presbyterian Sunday school, I sort of threw my own mother under the bus for making me go to Presbyterian Sunday school? Yes. Well, here is why we don't write about our parents until AFTER they are dead:

guilty.com

Obviously, my memory is faulty. In my mother's defense, I DO remember her teaching a Sunday school class at this church. And I remember it because she taught her students either about Passover or Moses taking his people out Egypt or something, and I remember that because my mother (the original hands-on teacher) baked unleavened bread at home so the children could taste the same kind of food God's People wandering the desert might have eaten. And I remember the unleavened bread because it. was. gross. (and possibly gluten-free; god bless you gluten-free people, I really don't know how you do it).

In MY defense, I would like to say: I do remember my mom being at home at least once or twice and my dad dropping my brother and me off, curbside, and then peeling away into a Sunday sunrise for 45 minutes to an hour. It's times like these I wish my dad were here still, so we could take this matter to family court. Because I do remember this happening. But okay okay, mom, I do admit: I probably used a bit of too much artistic license when I made grossly overstated claims that it happened every single Sunday. I mean, obviously, my mom was dropping us off and peeling off into her Sunday school classroom.

My teacher DID have dark, bouffant hair, and the room was dark wood-paneled. And the teacher was the opposite of happy with me when she uncovered my Sunday school truancy. And the whole bathroom bit with the old lady was an actual, true thing that really, really happened. (Freakin' old ladies in bathrooms, honestly.)

I also feel like I need to say, in my mom's defense and because I know she's probably worried about it, I do not shirk organized religion today because of Presbyterian Sunday school or anything my mom did. I shirk organized religion today simply because it doesn't work for me, who I am right now or where I'm at. If I can find an organized religion that teaches love, goodwill to all humanity, and doesn't think it has aaaaallll the answers and is the foremost final and only correct version of the Divine Infinity; if I can find an organized religion that doesn't have sects of followers that are nuttier than a jar of peanut butter; and if I can find an organized religion that doesn't try to guilt trip its followers into constantly giving them a huge chunk of whatever little money they earn at whatever jobs they do, then I will concede. I will join the this organized religion, and I will be happy and shut up about it.

THAT'S why I don't do organized religion--I have a healthy sense of Something Bigger than me out there (which I call God for convenience's sake...Mom! Success!), but I think the peaceful religions are still pretty judge-y and the not-so peaceful ones, well. I mean helloooo: ISIS. That's what happens when you don't have all your shit together and under control, Organized Religion.

But getting back to my original point: herein lies the peril of memoir. Memories are faulty, and sometimes the actual event may need a little storytelling magic to make it more fun for a reader. But then feelings can get hurt, and I think I hurt my mom's, and I didn't intend for that to happen. I'm sorry, and I love you, Mom.

Wait--can I tell everyone how fabulous my mom is? Let me tell you a story about how deep my mother's love runs:

So I had this dog growing up. Her name was Sassy. Sassy was my childhood companion, my doggy best friend, and I grieve her passing to this day. I was also wholly responsible for her existence on the planet, because we owned her mother, a temperamental Lhasa Apso named Muffin who peed on EVERYthing. Muffin went into heat (I guess because, maybe, back in the 70's spaying or neutering your animals wasn't a thing? My parents made sure her daughter, Sassy, who we kept, got spayed and spayed GOOD) and a stray French poodle we called Pierre knocked her up. I was told NOT to let Muffin out of the house when Pierre was sniffing around, but it was not explained why to me. Thus, being a curious 8 year old, I did it anyway...this is how I continue to get into all of my scrapes and misfortunes at 43, by the way: explain it to me, or I'm doing it anyway.

At any rate, X weeks later, voila! Puppies. Sassy was the runt of the litter and the feistiest, so we gave Muffin away to some gay hairdressers (who left her alone and she promptly peed all over their designer couch) and kept Sassy.

One day, years and years later, Sassy got old. Her eyes had cataracts. She was tired all the time. Her memory was shot--she'd go outside, forget to pee/poop, and come inside and do it. She was a mess, and felt icky, and it was clearly time for someone to make a hard decision. (Years later, I'd have my own animal, a cat named Tasha, who would be in the same predicament, and I would be unable to make this hard decision...and so God would make it for me, and when God makes decisions like this for you, let me just say: God can be a bit of dick about it. And that's only because I was such a dick not to make the hard decision and do the right thing for Tasha...sort of the Universe's hands-on teaching method: "Don't do this again, okay? This hurts. She's hurting, and so now you are, too." That kind of thing.)

I couldn't bear to let Sassy go, I didn't want to say good-bye. Good-byes are very very hard for me; they always have been, they always will be.

We were traveling to see family that Christmas so my mom told me we were putting Sassy in a boarding kennel as always and to come say good-bye to her. I'd never been asked to say good-bye any of the other times we'd put her in a kennel while we went on vacation, so I was suspicious. I said good-bye and that was that.

Here's where my mother's sacrifice and love comes out: coming home, my mom knew what would happen. The Truth would be revealed. However, while at our relatives' house, she got sick with the flu. I mean SICK. Vomiting, diarrhea, temperature...all of it. My mom, who has an incredibly low pain threshold, came home anyway, even though she was begged to stay and fly back when she felt better. It was bad weather, and our flight got delayed by hours. My mom laid in an airport, sick beyond belief, and then flew home in misery because she didn't want me to find out about what had actually happened to my beloved friend, my childhood companion, without her being able to comfort me and explain it.

So that's my mom. Sunday school sleeper inner (in my head), unleavened breads/hands-on teacher, secret keeper (not really--she's as bad at that as I am), self-sacrificer. Who thinks I should go to church on Sundays. And will write guilt-trip inducing corrections on your birthday card if you cross her. But I also got my incredibly ironic and macabre sense of humor from her, and so thanks mom!

Be careful when penning memoir, Internet. There are WAY too many fact checkers out there. And they will put it on a home-made Hallmark card, they will put it right there, don't you make them!

presbyterian sunday school.

This is it: the Presbyterian church I successfully avoided
for weeks in my pre-teens.

I have one story for you tonight, and the only reason I'm telling it is because it popped into my head last night because I'd written the last couple of times about not being told about special Hebrew names or the red heifer that signals the start of Armageddon. They did not teach us about either of those interesting facts in Presbyterian Sunday school.

So I thought of a story about Presbyterian Sunday school to give you one layer of why I'm just a cultural Christian, a Christian by birth only (big fan of Jesus, leary of 90% of his followers):

So I hated getting up on Sunday for Sunday school. This is when I'm entering my teen years--no longer a girl, not quite a woman. It simply didn't make sense to me that, the ONE day there is hard evidence the Lord God wants everybody to rest, people have to get up early and go somewhere. That's not cool. If God says rest, then you should be, you know...SLEEPING IN.

My mom and dad disagreed with God. Particularly my mom, because I feel like my dad probably didn't really care either way. He only went to church on Christmas Eve or when my mom guilt tripped him into it. So listen to this fresh piece of hypocritical Christianity bullshit:

Every Sunday, my dad would make my little brother and me get up early so we could go to Presbyterian Sunday school (side note: I don't know if I'm supposed to capitalize "school" or not...I probably should, but I started out lowercasing it, so I'm staying with that). Early every Sunday morning, we'd be unceremoniously yanked out of our beds by my father's loud and demanding voice to get a move on it. We'd have to dress, put on our Sunday best, and then sulk in the back of his car as he drove us to the church.

Meanwhile, guess where my mom was? My mom, the one who demanded this torture occur each Sunday? Oh, you don't know her but I bet you already know the answer: in bed. Fast asleep. Obeying God.

So my dad would dump us, unceremoniously, on the curb on the side of the church. Then he'd peel off into the sunrise. I don't know where he went, what he did. If we'd lived somewhere with bars, he'd have found a place to commune with The Holy Spirit (and buy it beers). We did not have bars, so I bet he found a nice quiet coffee shop somewhere and read the newspaper for 45 minutes to an hour.

I did not enjoy Sunday school. I had a nervous, insecure teacher with bouffant, dark hair and the room was dark wood-paneled and stuffy in the spring/summer, cold in the winter/fall. I remember loving to hear Jesus' stories--what a consummate, innate storyteller, that guy. Other than that, I remember spending a lot of time doing worksheets. Key word in that compound word being WORK. WORKsheets. WORK. Again: the opposite of one of the most important Ten Commandments, second only to not coveting someone's ass (Kim Kardashian's excluded).

I don't know why or how this occurred to me, but one day after my dad had dropped us off and peeled off down the road, I looked across the street and realized: that's a gas station over there. Gas stations sell candy. And soda. And comic books (I always needed good reading material, and I'd read anything when I was a 7th grader...I remember I spent a lot of time at the school library checking out all of the biographies, then moved on to all of the plays, then moved on to the dictionaries. Literally, I ALWAYS had a book in my hands).

See the side of the church? That's where my pain began.
Every Sunday morning.

So the next Sunday, I brought my allowance with me, and my allowance was just enough money to buy 1 soda, 1 candy bar, and 1 comic book (I liked Archie comics the best). When my dad's car was well out of eyesight, I sneaked across the street and bought my paraphernalia. Then, I sneaked back into the church and found the safest spot I could think of: the women's restroom. In a stall. Locked. Sitting on the commode.

For the next 45 minutes, in this locked stall of the ladies' bathroom, sitting on a toilet fully dressed, I would eat my candy, drink my soda, and blissfully and happily read my comic book. I was RESTING, y'all. Obeying God's word. That's all that was. And it worked beautifully, for many many weeks.

Until it all began to unravel.

The foil to my Beautifully Working Plan started the one Sunday I was blissfully chewing and reading away, and an old lady came into the bathroom. She used the facilities, washed her hands, and then...didn't leave. I froze. I stopped chewing, I quietly closed my comic book on my lap and waited. The old lady stood and stood and stood by the sink for the longest time. (What is she DOING?? I thought. Old ladies are soooo weird, I thought.) Finally, after what felt like millennium, she knocked softly on my stall door and said, "Honey? Y'all all right in there?" Oh God. Oh Jesus.

"Um, yes," I answered weakly.

"You just havin' some trouble, sweet pea?" she asked. I said I was and I'd be okay, I just needed to be alone. Then, bless it, she left.

The nail in my coffin came the following Sunday. Unbeknownst to me, my mom suddenly decided she felt like going to a church service. Now I see that Old Bathroom Lady probably said something to Big Hair Bouffant Sunday School Teacher Lady, who maybe said something to my mom. I HAD to go to Sunday school that Sunday. NO secret gas station visit, NO candy, NO soda, NO comic book. Sunday school. During which Bouffant Hair Sunday school teacher was strangely cool towards me.

After the church service, my mom had a conversation with nervous, insecure, clearly seething Bouffant Hair Sunday School Lady. In front of me, the Sunday school teacher praised my tremendous and obvious love for Jesus' storytelling abilities, then inquired about my health. Was I okay? Today, this Sunday, was the first time she'd seen me in weeks. My mother glanced over at me with disappointed disdain and let me know: we'd need to talk.

Jesus Christ. I mean, seriously. WHAT is an almost-teenage girl supposed to do when confronted with such obvious hypocrisy to the word of God? I think I handled the whole situation with aplomb, and quite maturely for my age.

At any rate, my toilet/candy/soda/comic book days concluded and I was recaptured, an inmate in the prison of dark wood-paneling and WORKsheets again. Bouffant hair. We tried to amuse ourselves; the boys would pass gas just to offend the teacher. The girls would sit sulking and make bitchy faces at her. We were such assholes.

If I ever start a religion, all the pre-teenagers and teenagers will get to sleep in late on the Sabbath. When they do go to church, there will be tubs of soda, candy, and comic books. The way to win people to your deity is through their hearts, NOT worksheets and dark wood paneled rooms. Abraham, Moses, Jesus, Buddha, Ghandi, and Mother Teresa all agree with me; I'm sure I could go to Google and find tons of evidence.

The End.

six.

I'll write about my magical, ghostly trip to the beach last weekend later (if I can find time to breathe between Halloween and birthday festivities). First, I need to talk about Miss M. Because she is six today. Six! SIX. A mere four years from one whole decade here on Earth. I've been here for four decades, and I still remember when I turned my first decade old. Where do the decades go?

I remember lying in the hospital room after Miss M was yanked from my body, and staring at her--how can a person's body make something so incredibly amazing? And yet so alien-like and freakish? All at once? Yes, yes, Biologists--I KNOW the scientific process; but sleeping babies are all about magic. 

I remember watching her tiny body sleep, thinking: she will never be any more perfect than she is right now--she has never had a bug bite, a scratch, a pimple; she has never had anything tragic happen to her (well, unless being ripped from the liquid warmth of a safe womb counts), there's not a single thing in her world right now to mar her perfection. I remember thinking: here is a human being who's a completely clean slate, existing in the most perfect state of being humans ever get to exist in. (I do sometimes think most of our navel gazing as adults is a dull, pathetic attempt to go back to this state of perfect perfection, to recapture the precise moments in which we were absolutely Okay. Before, you know, our parents' and their parents' and all of our ancestral baggage laid claim to our innate wellness, and the boxing match of wills with the Universe began.)

I remember strapping her baby body into the car seat and climbing in next to her and realizing: Wow. They just...GIVE these things to you. No instruction manuals, no stickers, no warning labels. Just: Here ya go. Try not to have Child Services called or anything. (So far, so good! Fingers crossed.) 

I remember standing in her bedroom one night, holding her soft, sweet, little body cradled on my shoulder, and I remember watching us sway together in a mirror, with a soft nightlight illuminating the room around us...it didn't really feel real then, and I remember thinking: One day, I won't be able to do this with her anymore, and I should burn this moment into my brain forever and ever and hold onto it as tight as I possibly can. And I did. And it is still there. As if it we just did that yesterday.

And then one year passed, and two, and three, and now here we are. At age six. Six! As each year comes and goes, someone will invariably say to me: Oh, I love this age! This was my favorite age. Enjoy her at this age. They grow up so fast and this age will never come again. And then I will spend that whole year going: Wow. You know, I really do miss that one age that one person told me three years ago not to miss...but this age? pssh. Let's go age (X)! I am soooo very over YOU, age (X), and all your ridiculous issues. (Each age has its unique challenges, is what I think I'm trying to say...and you will never appreciate how easy those challenges were until you're looking at them in the muddied rear view mirror of Life's macho, over-the-top, gas guzzling monster truck.)

Miss M can practically read now. I started typing this right before she fell asleep, and she was using her phonics skills to try to sound out what I was typing. Before I know it, I won't be able to get away with things like spelling out the location of her hidden birthday gifts in front of her. 

And she's in love! With strangers and little boys in her class alike. You guys! This is so different from four years ago, when she was mostly concerned with Yo Gabba Gabba and  getting enough yaw-yee bops (lollipops) at her birthday party. In four years from now, when she is 10, will I be longing for the days when she just obsessed over little boys who wanted nothing to do with girls, boy bands from Britain, and Frozen ice princesses? (Probably.)

I think childhood is magical. I wish I'd known, when I was growing up, that I was partaking in this very strange, delicious bit of sorcery called Childhood. And this makes me wish more children were like Peter Pan, who totally understood what odd blackness is afoot when a body and mind begin to get bigger and older. Instead, I was like I think a lot of children are, including my own Miss M: I kept thinking older would better and wiser and I'd have more freedom. When I was six, I couldn't wait to be ten. When I was ten, I thought 16 was when it all started to come together. When I was 16, I was certain 21 was when the magic finally happened. When I was 21, it hadn't sunk in yet that this is IT. There IS no older or wiser or freedom. Just one more year and then another year after that and one more after that.

Year 21 seems to be where Childhood goes to die.

(This may be one reason why some people are driven to have children, but now we're going down a philosophical path that's less about M and more about her Mommy so let's backtrack to the most important part of this essay, shall we?)

Miss M is my most very favorite human on the entire planet. I cannot think of anyone who makes me happier, angrier, more in love, more frustrated, more joyous, more scared, more amazed, and more complete than little Miss M. I remember feeling sort of restless and without form for a good 30 or so years...and then, one day, staring down at a plus sign on a pregnancy stick feeling blown away. It wasn't until a doctor showed me her shadowy form and beating, tiny heart on an ultrasound that I truly believed she was in there. And when I believed that, I felt a huge surge, a tremendous rush of relief, and sort of deep, visceral knowledge: I can plant my feet now. This is why I had to go through THAT tunnel to scale THAT bridge to rock climb THAT cliff. So I could plant my feet, right HERE. With you, dear Child.

I remember sitting very still with her inside of me, before I could feel her move around, knowing that this is what God is like: you can't see, feel, or hear God...but God is in there, somewhere. And then I remember the feeling of her tiny feet swiping around my insides, and knowing: this is what God is like: you can't see or hear or talk to God...but occasionally there will be a swipe, a little something to let you know, Hey there, hello out there--yes! It's ME, I'm really in here.

And then out she came--six years ago. Sucking maniacally on her fingers, hungry from the start. Screaming and shaking balled up fists at the world angrily, on cue, every night from 6:30 pm to 8:00 pm when she finally gave out and let go of whatever chapped her little buns every single day. Curly-haired in ways that make her scream like she's being tortured by the Spanish Inquisition when we comb hair. Demanding and indignant, yet kind-hearted and silly. A lover of jokes about farts and stinky feet, terrified of the dark and the Big Bad Wolf, a princess-wannabe, and a budding Oscar/Emmy/Golden Globe winning actress. A reader and a writer with really bad handwriting. Dances like Seinfeld's Elaine, but not with wolves (or dogs, because those terrify her, too). A reluctant swimmer-turned-mermaid. A singer of inappropriately adult songs because her mother refused to listen to kid song CDs on long car rides when she was a baby. An advanced cusser, curator of swears, because her mother also couldn't get a handle on her road rage issues on morning car rides early in M's life. A night owl and grumpy morning person (like her mother); overly opinionated and bossy (like her father). 

She loves princesses and the color pink in ways that make me nervous, so thank god for a sporty dad who's turned her onto soccer and insists she play outside in the dirt as much as possible. She has a musician's soul, but if you could see the song playlist she's demanded I create on my Spotify account for her so we can listen to HER songs in the car, I feel confident in saying you'll agree with me when I contend that Iggy Azalea is simply not a good influence for a six year old's developing psyche or brain. Lourde, maybe. But definitely not Iggy. Don't even get me started on Miley Cyrus.

She would stamp her feet and scowl at you for agreeing with me about that, and try to manipulate you by saying something morose and sad like, "Well then. I guess that proves YOU don't love me EITHER!!!!" before flouncing off to slam her bedroom door. Later, she'll come out and insist on watching STAR WARS or Minecraft or something boy-ish, and will act like she doesn't know she has two X chromosomes because she'll giggle relentlessly about fart jokes. This will make you wonder: (a) where did the angry girly girl go? Not that I miss her, but seriously--where is she? and (b) should I be worried? is this early hormonal surges...or bipolar? 

And then, if you are very sad and crying, or you stub your toe or get a case of really bad cramps, Miss M The Future Psychotherapist and Nurse will swoop in to salve  your wounds with back rubs and shushes: "It's okay...don't worry...breathe...just breathe...it will be okay...you'll be okay, I promise..." Because this is what she hears all the time herself...no, seriously, like 50 times a day, because every day something makes her sob with inconsolable abandon, or she insist she has a mortal flesh wound somewhere. 

Are you getting that she's exhausting? But it's a good exhausting. It's a "I wish I didn't have a job where I have to spend all day with 25 other people's kids so I could really focus on your amazingness" kind of exhausting. But that's okay, because I think most children exhaust their parents, if most children are doing their jobs correctly. 

But more than any of that, I think she's grand. Just darling and very, very grand. I think, one day, she'll take her inappropriate song lyrics-loving, giggling soccer star princess self to far flung places and teach the natives how to fart and belch in ways that will send them into peals of ridiculous laughter, especially if they do so while in a bathtub. And I think she'll be a big, massive super star one day, and also that if she actually does become an Oscar winning actress, she'll also become an Oscar winning screenwriter/director/producer at the same time, because if there's one thing in the world Miss M can't stand, it's to be told what to do, and she's too opinionated to let other people have the final say anyway. 

I think my little Miss M's got transcendent, iridescent, impossibly large fairy wings, finely threaded with the purest of pink glitter-dust, hidden under her mud-soaked soccer uniform, and my biggest wish, each year as she inches closer to Year 21, each moment we pass other people's Favorite, Most Enjoyable Ages of Childhood, is that one morning she'll wake up to realize the Big Bad Wolf knows all about her hidden, impossibly large, iridescently pink glitter fairy wings; that the existence of these wings actually strike terror deep within him and he is afraid of her, far more than she could ever imagine being afraid of him. My heart wants her heart to know this makes her more powerful than she knows, much more capable than she realizes, that she is able to weave certain kinds of alchemy in the world that would marvel Merlin.


In fact, one day, when she DOES realize all of that, I hope I'm there to see her peel off the soccer uniform, unfurl her pink glitter fairy wings; I hope I'm allowed to witness her flights to as many wild and majestic places of terrifying splendors as she can find. Because I know she will conquer these places, and that these places will be better for having experienced her and she will be stronger for having experienced them. And I pray I will not be too exhausted and can marvel at her artistically adept ability to weave wonder at everything and inside everyone she touches, even when she stamps her feet with all her completely indignant, over-the-top, opinionated, control freak demands along the way.

But for today? I'm just trying to keep all the Frozen- and One Direction-themed shit hidden, because she's also pretty wily at figuring out my game plans. 

I love you, Sweet Melissa. My entire life got better when you came out of me six years ago.