it’s ok to get wet. really.

it is funny how
people look at you oddly
standing in the rain

if you don’t hurry
because you’re just enjoying
the water falling.

if you do not have
a worried look on your face
or an umbrella

they will slow down and
stare at you as if to say,
“what is wrong with you?”

i just smile back and
step in another puddle
as they hurry on.

mud squishes between
my wet toes and the edges of
my mouth lift right up.

i’ll pick another
glistening flower and my
jeans will get darker.

eventually
soggy footprints lead a path
back to my doorstep.

people will still drive
by, dry, inside their warm cars.
my smile is warmer.

The not good enough truth.

I used to think that my intense desire to have children, to be a mother, was enough.

It’s not.

You have to have more than desire. You have to be more than needy.

I face a truth over and over again: I am not a good enough mother.

It’s in the details. I am not good enough in Situation A with Process B. I am not good enough at modeling Behavior XYZ. I do not respond to Tantrum of Intensity #524 with the proper level of Calming Voice Version #683.

It’s in the Overall. Good Mother = Someone Else. Me = Poser.

Yes, I love him. Love is not enough. It just isn’t.

Often, I tell myself maybe it is enough that I try and that I love him very much and that he is a happy boy most of the time.

“No, you are wrong,” I jab back. I am not a good enough mother and I need to prove it to myself with more than emotion.  I must prove it with logic, too.  So I make a list of reasons that indicate I am possibly a good parent.  I also make a list of reasons why I am clearly not a good parent. Inside my head I hold them next to one another.

The disparity is overwhelming.

One list is mocked by the other.

One list loses. The other list wins. One list shrinks into a corner, dwarfed by the other. The other list is tall and wide and heavy and has big, mean muscles. One list whimpers that it wants to be better, but it doesn’t know how. The other list looks down at me with a smirk on its face, triumphantly crushing me.

Standing in the hulking shadow of all the reasons why I am not a good parent, I can’t deny the truth born out by the comparison.

The Truth.  About how I’m not good enough.

I’ve been telling myself that truth in a million different ways my whole life.

This is just another version of that “truth.”

You know what really mind jacks me when I’m applying The Truth in this scenario nowadays?

I grieve my lost pregnancies, finding it impossible to let those babies go.

But in this past year and a half, I have had the thought countless times already that, somehow, it is good that I did not have them.

Because I would not have been a good enough mother to them.

And that is a terrible, painful thought to have.

The guilt is unbearable some days.

The Truth hurts.

Crazy crap a mother says out loud.

Just a sampling.

I said every one of these damn things out loud in the span of 3 days last week.
Not necessarily in this order.
Enjoy.

• Do NOT put that in your mouth.
• Don’t sit on the table.
• Stop yelling.
• Pee goes in the toilet.
• That’s not nice.
• The dog doesn’t like to be kicked.
• No matter how many times you scream, you’ll still have to take a nap.
• But that’s what you just asked me for.
• You pooped in your pants?
• STOP.SAYING.NO.
• Why did you put that in there?
• No, I won’t kiss your poo poo bum. (????)
• Hahaha. Ok, really, don’t honk Mommy’s boobies. Hahahahahaha.
• Seriously, you really did just ask me for this exact thing, why are screaming no when I give you what you wanted?
• That is NOT edible.
• You can’t fly!!!
• I have no idea what you’re talking about. Repeating doesn’t help.
• If you stand on that again I will take it away from you.
• No, we are not going in the car. We just got out of it.
• No, Daddy doesn’t drive a bus. He RIDES on it.
• You are being too loud.
• You need to go make a pee pee. Yes, you do! Then why are you dancing and holding your crotch?
• Get your fingers out of your mouth.
• Why did you spit on that?
• No, you may not spank my bum.
• You already flushed 3 times.
• Yes, you have to wash your hands.
• Please do not lick your hands.
• It’s ok to use the toilet in public, it won’t hurt you.
• No, that is a tampon. Give it back to Mommy, please.
• Do not fill up your mouth with milk and then let it drool out onto the floor on purpose.
• That is not dry.
• Don’t hit people with your head!
• What is that smell?
• I have no idea what you’re trying to say. I’m as frustrated as you are, REALLY.
• The dog also cannot fly. Really.
• It’s “WaNt the foRk,” dear. The N and the R really need to be pronounced.
• Some people don’t like it when you yell at them about their boobies.
• Say you’re sorry. You need to say, “Sorry for locking you out, Mommy.”
• That is NOT where you use your crayons.
• You are not supposed to ride on that.
• It’s not nice to smear your poop on the mirror.
• The ball will not come out from under the table no matter how loudly you scream at it.
• I will not respond to you if you don’t stop growling and screaming.
• Time out for 2 minutes for *insert an endless list of reasons*
• If you keep screaming, you’ll get another 2 minutes.
• I think you just said NO for the 239,785,349,823rd time. Stop it.
• Do NOT tell ME to stop it.
• Nice.
• Mommy needs a time out now.
• It is going to last MUCH LONGER THAN 2 MINUTES.
• And I am totally going to scream so I’ll get more time.

in your absence

here one minute
gone the next

did i take for granted
the time we had

there’s an empty spot
on this couch with me

the curve on my side
where your hand likes to be

a record skips in my head
instead of your laughter

there is music far away
it falls from your fingers

still i hear nothing
but the beating of my heart

the only way to stop
the ache in my chest

is to close my eyes
under the stars

and wait for the melody to fade

The moon on my face, your breath at my back.

Always the first to push off from the light
The fastest car, the quickest start
I see them in my rear-view.

I see you
Behind me.

so what is there to rush off to?
what is so important
that I have to be the first one
every time?

why do I have to make sure you are behind me?
why do I have to go first?

must get there.
what is so important?

the moon hangs heavy in the sky tonight
she hangs low
so low
a half moon, like a milky breast
so big, grazing the horizon
tempting, teasing, calling my attention.

against my better judgment
my eyes flick to her
the moon
the heavy, half bust in the sky
over and over again.

as the car pulses onward
every time faster than all of the
rest of you
i steal endless glances
of the moon
calling me to her.

urging me to go faster.

challenging me to get to her first.

instead of watching the things
i should be watching
instead of keeping my eyes on
what is most important

i am making sure I rush onward
i have to get there fast
beat you
beat them
get my prize.

that is what I’m doing, right?
rushing forward because I have something to gain.

or maybe
the truth is that
i am fleeing what lies behind.

the moon is just my scapegoat.
an easy target.
a pleasant distraction.

either way.
I’m fast.

Because I am kind, polite, and always helpful.

I’m here to help you all out with a bit of friendly information for bloggers and those who use social media applications for business or networking with others. This is also good information for halfwits who have access to a computer and whack at the keys in random order.

Having some type of contact information on your website and your social media pages is a good idea if you’re interested in interacting with the outside world. And I’m assuming that if you use things like Twitter, etc, then that is most likely the case. Especially if you send out @’s to people.

One might want to contact you about something – elaborate her feelings. Maybe relate to you something FYI. (By the way, since I’m being helpful today, FYI means “For Your Information.”) A person might want to do that privately, between you and her, out of respect for you. Because hey, that’s the decent thing to do, right?  So she looks for your email address.

But if you don’t leave your contact information anywhere, this becomes difficult.

It doesn’t have to be your personal email address – set up a business account, whatever.

I can’t find an email I need right now. And I can’t shut this.

So here I am! Lucky, lucky you.  You feel so lucky, don’t you?  Come on… tell me you do.

And by the way, I have a general rule of not calling out specific people on my website, but damn it, if you belittle my friends publicly? When you stand up in a public forum and go out of your way to put down someone I love – someone who is a damn fine person, both intelligent and compassionate? You’re pushing me.

This was brought to my attention yesterday:

And it is bullshit.

Because, hai! You can follow and unfollow whoever the hell you want on Twitter. But announcing it as a Tweet is about the most STUPID ASS THING you can do. You deserve an immediate STFU when you do that.

I was not happy. Leslie is a close friend.

photo credit: Angie

*cough*

So, anyway, she is a close friend and she doesn’t deserve that kind of treatment.

So. I checked out this Keyboard Whacker.  Here is her bio:

And you know, I have no problem with that, whatsoever.  I want to say that at the outset here.  I am not a Believer Basher or a Jesus Hater.  If you know me, you know that.  But, and here’s another FYI moment for you, know this:  Your Twitter Bio represents who you are, and everyone visiting your page will take it as that.  Because this is how you’re representing yourself in a nutshell.  So, hey, if you write it there, people are going to refer to it.  Doubt that not.

Ok.  Taking out the name, but I’m well aware you can easily find it. Just don’t see the need for it here.

So -

from @SarcasticMomLC

from @VDog

from Keyboard Whacker

Someone forgot the daily challenge they typed in their own bio. Rut-roh!

Oh, and this was the offending snatchiness.

As far as I can gather, he didn’t separate himself from sinners, either.

from @SarcasticMomLC

from @VDog

from Keyboard Whacker

from SarcasticMomLC

from Keyboard Whacker

Just for FYI.  You know, in other words, just for for your information.

Man, I think those might just be the most sincere apologies I’ve ever seen.

from Keyboard Whacker

Pioneer Woman Blog College? LMMFAO Oh, my.

from @VDog

from Keyboard Whacker

You might want to revisit the process.

from @VDog

from Keyboard Whacker

Wait. What the?  Hold on.  Okay. “you got did from my bio…” *scanning, scanning* Nope. Does not process.

from @VDog

That is, more or less, what unfolded.  It’s ridiculous, and yes it’s drama. Oooh, the gossipy drama.  Which, yeah. But I had to go there this time.  (Please to be scrolling back up and reviewing the Flinger Kissing photo and the part about she’s mah beesh forevah.)

And then the rest of that crap just left me needing to talk to this woman a little, but not really out there, or only in 140.  But I couldn’t nail down her damn email address.

And so here goes it, the open letter to Keyboard Whacker.

I definitely don’t hold Christians to a standard of perfection.  However, most “followers of Jesus” generally aim to be more like Him.  Is that not what you are challenged to do every day?  Enlighten me to your different way of following Him if that is not the case.  If you are announcing these things about your relationship with and to Jesus on your Twitter page, you might want to try harder to represent his ideals appropriately to the public as you use your account.  You make a very poor example for others if you can’t even filter yourself enough to avoid attacking other people for minding their own business and being themselves on their own turf.  Jesus’ aim is to deliver us from sin, not belittle us for it. I have high doubts that he would say to anyone “You cuss, I can’t hang with you because I don’t like foulness.” Instead, I’m thinking He would show that person love and compassion.  Do you think he would publicly humiliate a person for their sins?  Personally, I don’t.  So get a clue.  You’re not perfect, we get it.  But I’m calling bullshit on you this time, because it needs to be done.  Even your apology to Leslie (mrsflinger) is a cop out – you apologized “if you offended her” – you didn’t apologize for belittling her.  And you claimed she needed to know why you were unfollowing her – as if she needs to change who she is comfortable being so that she doesn’t lose followers.  Some things are more important to people in life than their number of Twitter followers – Leslie is secure in who she is, and she doesn’t need your “for FYI” comments.  But if you really feel the need in the future to connect with someone and let them know why you are unfollowing, I suggest you email them.  Most of us have really easy to find contact information on our websites.  And that’s probably the decent thing to do.  I’m thinking it’s likely what a modern day Jesus would do.  So your challenge continues – and yes it IS your mission, unless you were lying on your Twitter bio.  So I hope you’re better able to accomplish it today, tomorrow, and every day after, if that is what you find fulfilling.

Peace.

So that’s that.  And I feel better having gotten it out.

But I saved something delicious for you to end with.

There’s a Tweet Bot that auto-retweets certain user tweets – somehow I ended up on this list. (I know, I’m SO HONORED. Yeah.) Well.  It retweeted my earlier messages to Keyboard Whacker.

And? She actually talked back to it.

from Keyboard Whacker

from @SarcasticMomLC

The End.

Thoughts?

I am a rock under the stars.

It is dark and warm.  The cool water shimmers and swirls in front of me, calling me to fall into it.  I close my eyes and imagine my body breaking the surface and sinking like a rock, cutting through with no resistance.  The soft, surging liquid would swallow me, and I’d be gone. Just a rock with no choice in which way to fall.

There’s a slight breeze, but it doesn’t quite push off the way it feels as though the air is actually touching me. It’s the perfect kind of warm; it is the kind of warm a girl who grew up in the country can appreciate. The kind of warm that used to waft through my screened windows and call me out onto the front porch to stare at the moon and dream with my eyes open.

I’m sitting on the back deck at my parents’ house. It is not the house I grew up in. That is about 2 miles from here. It sits, full of memories and cobwebs. It sits empty, dark, and somber.

I have not driven past it on this visit home. I haven’t driven by and seen the room off the front porch where I would sit and wait for him. The place he would often come to for me. Where I would sometimes sit alone, disappointed.

I did drive past a road I used to turn right on almost every day, literally for years. That road took me to his home and his family, of which I was made to feel a part, so many times. It took me sometimes alone, and sometimes with him. It took me.

Like he had.

Every ounce of my heart was siphoned away, every piece of my soul seemed to have been drawn out. I would say it was painless, because, after all, I wanted it that way. But it would be more truthful just to say I must have enjoyed the pain. Or at least, that I endured it because I knew the prize was worth it.

I wanted it to be.

I’m sitting out here with a chorus of crickets and other nighttime crawlies singing me the sweet song of the country on a soft, close summer night. I feel comfortable here. I can stretch out my legs and breathe in the scent of flowers growing nearby. In this moment, no one needs me. I’m at peace. Just myself, in the dark, alone. Comfortable.

Over and over again I had put all of myself into him, willing him to be more and to somehow make me whole, as such. I piled upon him expectations and needs. I was not perfect. He was not perfect. We were not perfect. We were just us and us was foolish.

He-I lost me-him and we were both abandoned by the ending we thought was in store for us. I wanted promises, he needed freedom and choices. I needed validation and hope, he demanded space and what ifs. I was incapable of giving him what he needed while still finding my own answer. I was incapable of just letting go and being me – instead I wanted to draw myself from him, control him, manipulate his choices.

If I lay my head back and stare up into the sky, I see a black canvas for miles, dotted with brilliant, shiny specks of electricity and power from so far away. They gleam and sparkle; a new one seems to pop into the tapestry after every few beats of my heart. If I just stare this way for awhile, what I think I see and know changes over and over again.

I expect it to look a certain way, but I can’t control what unfolds before me. I have ideas about what is out there in my view, but it is flowing and changing constantly, right in front of me, and there is nothing I can do about it. Some of the changes are noticeable, some are imperceptible to me. I sense that.

It would be foolish of me to try to force the stars to stand out in the sky in a specific order. They would call me mad and lock me in padded rooms.

I’ll never really know if it was right to part ways. I think of him from time to time and I wonder who he is now. Is he still that same person who was my best friend, or is the man he has become someone different entirely? I don’t regret those years, or the ones that have followed. I’m not sure if life has turned out exactly how I’d hoped it would after I kissed him that last time and he turned away. What I do hope now, however, is that he is happy. Because I love him in some way still, and that’s been true since the day I walked away. I hope he is happy with the way the sky looks when he lays his head back.

I can close my eyes and the reams of paper that the story of my life stands starkly on flow through my mind. I can slow it down and inspect this and that. I can speed it up to avoid things. I can ponder over the way the ink fell and what the story might be like if it had been different. I can even look at the pages that lie ahead, waiting for the stab of the pen, with concern. I guess I can worry about those pages. I guess I can be afraid. I could try to control the pen that wants to flow on its own with fancy strokes and flourishes.

It would be silly.

The way the stars in the sky arrange themselves in a predictable and yet uncontrollable fashion is a beautiful thing. Every night they show up just the way they are supposed to, and they don’t need me to worry about it, or wonder if they are doing it right.

They end up where their paths intend them to, and that is that.

Like a stone falling into cool, deep waters, effortlessly.

Like me.

I will totally burn the bag. Try me.

The Blogher 09 Conference Weekend is over. I flew home on Sunday, to an empty house. My son was elsewhere, and I was going to have to fly the next day to get to him. My husband was still making his way across the country back to our home from his most recent gig.

Being in the house all alone after the Blogher09 weekend was seriously weird. My family wasn’t there, and yet? There were also no head-splitting squees to make my ears bleed, no free drinks being shoved into my hand, and no one at all was smacking my ass. There weren’t even oodles of women photographing themselves kissing one another.

I was really not at Blogher09 anymore. Wow.

I know some of you are waiting to hear what I thought about the conference. That will come, but not just yet. I have some things to process… I have a mixed bag of feelings. I will tell you that there were fabulous times and there were also definitely not so fabulous times. I’ll try to find time soon to talk a bit about it – bear with me as I’m away from home right now.

On Monday, I flew to where my son was being cared for while I was in Chicago. After getting myself situated, I sat on the airplane which would take me half of the way to see my son again, waiting for it to take off. I was relaxed, with my head back and eyes closed, just waiting.

That’s when it happened.

A female passenger in the row directly in front of mine let everyone know that she does not, in fact, have a brain in her head. Or perhaps just enough of one to drive her life-sustaining organs and physical movements.

But forget rational thought.

The hobag was spraying perfume. On an airplane. A lot of it.

Um. No.

As what seemed to be every molecule of perfume in a full bottle flew right up my nose, my eyes snapped open. I glowered at the back of her seat, thinking, “Really? No, really?” and “I wonder if they kick a person off a plane for strangling another passenger while intermittently beating them with their own bottle of perfume.” And when the mental answer I gave myself to the latter question was “Uh, probably.” I continued by asking myself, “So, do you think you could get away with just cramming it up her ass?”

I told me that this was, most likely, also a bad idea. I am such drag.

Yes. I am volatile inside my mind. As anyone who has can tell you, though, I’m just a peach when you meet me. *wink*

But there I sat, willing the back of her seat to explode, taking her head with it.

I’m sensitive to smelly things. As the perfume invaded my nasal membranes and infested my brain, the physical symptoms began.

First the intense disgust and nausea set in. And look, if my stomach is going to be doing the “oh baby, we might need immediate evacuation” dance, I better have at least had a full night of partying like it was 1999 (perhaps even in close proximity to a unicorn shaped confectionary item?) while drinking 7x my body weight in liquor and passing out in places other than my own hotel room. (Thereby worrying a large number of people who end up wondering if I am dead, kidnapped, or sitting in jail with a black eye and ripped fishnets.) *coughcoughbloghercough*

Not that I’ve ever been in such a situation, mind you. *COUGH* But, you know, I’m just sayin.

After about 10 minutes of feeling like I was going to puke the puke of outrageous proportions (while repeatedly, mentally ripping the skin off perfume bitch’s face and then making her eat it) the nausea subsided.

Then the sinus headache began.

Ohhhh, the glory of the in-flight sinus headache.

While I willed that to go away, the pressure in my head sang to my internal thoughts, driving them into ever more violent imaginings of how the perfume bitch needed to be punished.

I’m all better now, though, so I’ll just say that there’s a job waiting for her at a Perfume Counter in Hell, but if I ever see her on a flight again, I will grab her carry-on and restrict her access from it. Forever. Because I am going to burn it.

Possibly while she’s crammed inside of it.

Of course all of this and more is worth enduring to see my son again. As I wrote this, I was almost halfway there.

I’d be willing to snort 10 perfume factories and be beaten with a million raw fishheads just to get back to my boy.

I only want to cram him inside a suitcase every once in awhile.