Now from the other side...
Looking out a pane of glass on a beautiful day
a glorious sky of sunshine after so many months of rain
Mount Hood pointing up like a disco star --
all happy on the bright blue dance floor
and i'm stuck inside
The side of life where i get enough of sleep,
but roil like an animal in a cage
while All Day passes... me scribing, schlepping, running scripts, kissing ass...
I am not complaining, i swear i am not, it's just that there's never been a phrase more fitting for life than "the grass is always greener..."
When i have "promises to keep... and miles to go before i sleep..."
Robert Frost, you simple sucker, your lament hits home.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Sunday, February 24, 2008
O Petulance -- a.k.a. the night shift
O petulance
i really must cast thee out.
I'll replace you with cartwheels;
careening and spinning about.
No more will i slather
no more will i spit
while i wish for my bed
and the babe who is in it.
O petulance --
you sad and sorry beast,
you're gone with the dawn;
i won't miss you in the least.
O petulance, your name is The Night Shift, and i just don't wanna be with you anymore.
No more do i wanna hear my baby say "mama, you were mad when you woke up this morning," ... a morning i don't really remember because i was thankfully, blissfully sleeping a full night for the first night in six... neglecting my child's requests, throwing Joe's O's into her hands because i just need five more minutes, no, five more DAYS of sleep to make up for what i'd lost that week.
When i willingly signed on to work the morning show a year and a half ago, i thought it would give me a way to cheat day care, and a way for my child to think that i was never away from her. But petulant mother, she knows. She knows when she wakes in the middle of the night, mumbling "mama" in her sleep and fumbling for me in the dark, and all she feels is a cold white sheet. (Yes, she still sleeps with me -- don't we all need a warm body to hold in the night?)
She knows when i cannot stand even myself anymore, lo, about five in the afternoon, when i have been up for 17 hours and only slept for four the night before and thus am short with her in her every request...
"Mama come here so i can show you what I did with my dollhouse."
"No baby, i can't come running every time you want to show me something silly." So she silently sulks, shuts her door, and when i come in later to apologize, she just shouts "give me some privacy!"
Now where did she get such anger, such moodiness, such petulance? No need to search for the answer -- just refer to the alternate title of this diatribe. For the child-reason alone i have fought and won the battle to work Normal Hours. As if there were such a thing in the broadcasting world -- where four months out of the year we cannot take time off, in the name of "ratings." For which, even if we "win", we get no financial incentive (another topic for another seething blog). But it's closer to normalcy. At least creeping that way, before i succumb to the terrible future of many journalists, who give up their dreams of sleuthing to work in PR -- just for more of the normalcy.
A testament to my lack of care, my total check-out because of this shift:
My kid got a portable DVD player from her grandparents for Christmas, and i didn't even protest. I took it as a small gift from heaven, her being able to watch a movie in my bed at six p.m., while i took early leave of the day. Now i am all up for limiting kids' tv watching and reading a pile of books instead, so this little deviation has bothered me, and will be no more. Now it's just a question of how to convince the little one that the nightly DVD is not necessary...
Alas, there are adjustments ahead as she learns that mama is not the shortsighted, desperate individual who has lived in her home for the past 17 months. But maybe she got some sight of who i really am, when i started talking about the new shift, and then proceeded to do cartwheels in the yard.
When i landed in the grass, o petulance, your ass got the boot.
i really must cast thee out.
I'll replace you with cartwheels;
careening and spinning about.
No more will i slather
no more will i spit
while i wish for my bed
and the babe who is in it.
O petulance --
you sad and sorry beast,
you're gone with the dawn;
i won't miss you in the least.
O petulance, your name is The Night Shift, and i just don't wanna be with you anymore.
No more do i wanna hear my baby say "mama, you were mad when you woke up this morning," ... a morning i don't really remember because i was thankfully, blissfully sleeping a full night for the first night in six... neglecting my child's requests, throwing Joe's O's into her hands because i just need five more minutes, no, five more DAYS of sleep to make up for what i'd lost that week.
When i willingly signed on to work the morning show a year and a half ago, i thought it would give me a way to cheat day care, and a way for my child to think that i was never away from her. But petulant mother, she knows. She knows when she wakes in the middle of the night, mumbling "mama" in her sleep and fumbling for me in the dark, and all she feels is a cold white sheet. (Yes, she still sleeps with me -- don't we all need a warm body to hold in the night?)
She knows when i cannot stand even myself anymore, lo, about five in the afternoon, when i have been up for 17 hours and only slept for four the night before and thus am short with her in her every request...
"Mama come here so i can show you what I did with my dollhouse."
"No baby, i can't come running every time you want to show me something silly." So she silently sulks, shuts her door, and when i come in later to apologize, she just shouts "give me some privacy!"
Now where did she get such anger, such moodiness, such petulance? No need to search for the answer -- just refer to the alternate title of this diatribe. For the child-reason alone i have fought and won the battle to work Normal Hours. As if there were such a thing in the broadcasting world -- where four months out of the year we cannot take time off, in the name of "ratings." For which, even if we "win", we get no financial incentive (another topic for another seething blog). But it's closer to normalcy. At least creeping that way, before i succumb to the terrible future of many journalists, who give up their dreams of sleuthing to work in PR -- just for more of the normalcy.
A testament to my lack of care, my total check-out because of this shift:
My kid got a portable DVD player from her grandparents for Christmas, and i didn't even protest. I took it as a small gift from heaven, her being able to watch a movie in my bed at six p.m., while i took early leave of the day. Now i am all up for limiting kids' tv watching and reading a pile of books instead, so this little deviation has bothered me, and will be no more. Now it's just a question of how to convince the little one that the nightly DVD is not necessary...
Alas, there are adjustments ahead as she learns that mama is not the shortsighted, desperate individual who has lived in her home for the past 17 months. But maybe she got some sight of who i really am, when i started talking about the new shift, and then proceeded to do cartwheels in the yard.
When i landed in the grass, o petulance, your ass got the boot.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
The conscientious objector file: Bananas & War
The picture of me and the girl on the left side of this blog page -- and the caption that goes with it -- need some 'splainin... cuz it's a funny story.
Besides the small and sad attempts at civil disobedience we tried back when we lived in the Black Hills, the day in that picture was her first "real" protest. Hundreds, no, thousands of people shouting in the streets against the Iraqi conflict -- and the threat of another one in Iran... (though for the most part this form of civilized Oregonian demonstration is similar to a charismatic preacher, emoting familiar quotes to the choir).
In close imitation of those around her -- the little one is squeaking out a monologue of "No more more!"... close enough to "no more war" to solidify her place in conscientious objectordom.
She adds a little more to the slogan a couple days later.
My artist friend has drawn a cartoon of a child, and asks the babe to give her a caption.
"So what is this kid saying?" Posie asks.
"No more war," the babe responds.
"Is she saying anything else?" Posie is pushing for something more -- though I am already amazed at my daughter's memory of the protest (which she now calls "the 'test"). Posie's got this subtle way of pulling the creativity out of you -- like something that comes out in the toilet, that you had no idea you ate.
"No more bananas," she says. "No more war, no more bananas." A satisfied smile creeps across Posie's face.
"I guess she doesn't like bananas."
Besides the small and sad attempts at civil disobedience we tried back when we lived in the Black Hills, the day in that picture was her first "real" protest. Hundreds, no, thousands of people shouting in the streets against the Iraqi conflict -- and the threat of another one in Iran... (though for the most part this form of civilized Oregonian demonstration is similar to a charismatic preacher, emoting familiar quotes to the choir).
In close imitation of those around her -- the little one is squeaking out a monologue of "No more more!"... close enough to "no more war" to solidify her place in conscientious objectordom.
She adds a little more to the slogan a couple days later.
My artist friend has drawn a cartoon of a child, and asks the babe to give her a caption.
"So what is this kid saying?" Posie asks.
"No more war," the babe responds.
"Is she saying anything else?" Posie is pushing for something more -- though I am already amazed at my daughter's memory of the protest (which she now calls "the 'test"). Posie's got this subtle way of pulling the creativity out of you -- like something that comes out in the toilet, that you had no idea you ate.
"No more bananas," she says. "No more war, no more bananas." A satisfied smile creeps across Posie's face.
"I guess she doesn't like bananas."
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Pretty Pink Bows
The beautiful preschool blondes are lined up in a row. All four of them are wearing bows in their hair today -- including mine. I know no one but me notices that my blonde has a couple spots on her shirt, and that under that pretty bow is a small nest of fuzzy hair that never seems to get combed out all the way. Maybe the other moms look at their own cute little blonde and think the same thing... though I doubt it.
On this day it is my job to help out at the preschool, so i am sweeping the floors, tidying things... helping the kids decorate their Valentines cupcakes...
Four hours prior i was writing about murder and mayhem and shouting "fuck!" a thousand times when my work computer locks up... or whatever the current headache happens to be.
Headaches, however, are an indulgence i don't have time to pay heed to. Where the other mothers wake with their happy children in homes that they own, kiss their working husbands goodbye and cruise lazily to the school, I spend my overnights working -- scribing useless scripts for the masses. Then i rush to get the kid to school. Then i do anything i can to stay up for the rest of the day -- a perpetual mishmash of meltdowns and sloppy mothering.
But i look at the four pretty blondes and find that on the outside -- there is no difference between her and the others. She plays happily with the other kids, crows from the top of the slide like the rest... and knows next to nothing of the cross i bear to make sure her pretty hair looks pretty. I have to work so much harder than the West Hills perfect families that populate the school, but i do it and i do it and i do. Question is, will she know how hard i work, and should i tell her?
On this day it is my job to help out at the preschool, so i am sweeping the floors, tidying things... helping the kids decorate their Valentines cupcakes...
Four hours prior i was writing about murder and mayhem and shouting "fuck!" a thousand times when my work computer locks up... or whatever the current headache happens to be.
Headaches, however, are an indulgence i don't have time to pay heed to. Where the other mothers wake with their happy children in homes that they own, kiss their working husbands goodbye and cruise lazily to the school, I spend my overnights working -- scribing useless scripts for the masses. Then i rush to get the kid to school. Then i do anything i can to stay up for the rest of the day -- a perpetual mishmash of meltdowns and sloppy mothering.
But i look at the four pretty blondes and find that on the outside -- there is no difference between her and the others. She plays happily with the other kids, crows from the top of the slide like the rest... and knows next to nothing of the cross i bear to make sure her pretty hair looks pretty. I have to work so much harder than the West Hills perfect families that populate the school, but i do it and i do it and i do. Question is, will she know how hard i work, and should i tell her?
don't bring on the minivan
Two days ago I laid down the debit card and committed to four weeks of indoor soccer for the four-year old.
But don't you ever effing call me a soccer mom.
But don't you ever effing call me a soccer mom.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Squeeze It
She is in a particularly hangy mood -- hands all over my body, all twenty teeth in view as she makes that face that looks kinda desperate, kinda frustrated, kinda sugar-fueled. At some point her hands wander from my chest, down to my belly -- where she gives the fat a tweak.
"Don't do that baby."
"Why nnnot," she utters, lunging at me again.
"Because."
Because, I am about to say, I don't like to be reminded that my stomach is not as flat as I would like it to be. That I could stand to do a few sit-ups instead of sitting in front of a computer. That I am just plain fat.
} Insert the sound of a record scratching to a stop right here.
If I say any of the things that I am thinking at this moment, my crusade to raise the righteous babe up right may crumble. Even if I didn't have a fairly normal body -- kept fairly fit from yoga and lugging her around on the bike on trips to the store, I should say nothing of the sort. I should not plant the thought in her mind that our bodies are something to be commented upon in disgust -- whether those bodies are big or small, too light, too dark; too something, not enough something else. I may have those weak thoughts, but no use spreadin' them around. And it doesn't exactly feel good to have your fat tweaked by the sharp little nails of a four year old, but at the same time, she's not doing it to highlight the fact that said fat is present, or ugly.
So go 'head. Squeeze it.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
mama's lil trip
i promise i'll be better
when i come down from the sky
bedding down with budding demigods
never got me so high
as watching you breathe
and baby kisses on my face
but sometimes baby dear
i just gotta leave this place
i gotta be a big kid
and make love like the rest
i'm more than your mom
though that's what i do best.
when i come down from the sky
bedding down with budding demigods
never got me so high
as watching you breathe
and baby kisses on my face
but sometimes baby dear
i just gotta leave this place
i gotta be a big kid
and make love like the rest
i'm more than your mom
though that's what i do best.
Kryptonite
I am wrenching on a door with a screwdriver, drill, and whatever tools I've slopped together from a dusty box in the laundry room -- carving out enough pineboard to eventually dislodge the handle from its stuck spot. I am sweating a little, cursing under my breath, and getting splinters in my knees as the wood comes out in microbits. She is quiet as a churchmouse, sitting on a stool across the hall, watching my folly.
"Mama, are there any Supermans around?"
She, of course, is hoping someone will come save us from this predicament -- terrible in its tired moment, but overall, not that big a deal. At least that's what I decide at that precise moment -- where before I was cursing her and me and the whole world for the fact that this four year old hellion decided to lock my bedroom door with no one in it -- only my phone, car keys, and wallet taking up space behind the pile of pine. But she utters those adorable words and I realize this is a teachable moment -- one of those times I could show her how weak I am by continuing to curse her, and wishing for Someone Else to come save us...
Or I could show her that her tool-sorry mama can do anything. And when she grows up, that she can do anything too. I don't think this moment of frustration and despair is my Kryptonite. It better not be, else all the worse things to come are gonna be damn hard.
So I tell her "no, no Supermans are coming today, love... but it's ok because we can do this ourselves." No Supermans show up, but the door gets opened eventually, and ugly-ly.
She tells me a little mouse locked the door.
"Mama, are there any Supermans around?"
She, of course, is hoping someone will come save us from this predicament -- terrible in its tired moment, but overall, not that big a deal. At least that's what I decide at that precise moment -- where before I was cursing her and me and the whole world for the fact that this four year old hellion decided to lock my bedroom door with no one in it -- only my phone, car keys, and wallet taking up space behind the pile of pine. But she utters those adorable words and I realize this is a teachable moment -- one of those times I could show her how weak I am by continuing to curse her, and wishing for Someone Else to come save us...
Or I could show her that her tool-sorry mama can do anything. And when she grows up, that she can do anything too. I don't think this moment of frustration and despair is my Kryptonite. It better not be, else all the worse things to come are gonna be damn hard.
So I tell her "no, no Supermans are coming today, love... but it's ok because we can do this ourselves." No Supermans show up, but the door gets opened eventually, and ugly-ly.
She tells me a little mouse locked the door.
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