Letter to my Nephew's "mother"

First, thank you for giving him life, for chosing to let him grow inside of you. However, that in itself, does not make you his mother. Now, everyday, chose again to let him live. Find in yourself the mother's love you've yet to know. The love to put your child's needs ahead of your own desires.

He was ripped from you because you made him an addict before he took his first breath, nursed back to a soulful life by others, and now, now that he can feed, and dress, and wipe himself you want him back? He hasn't even slept at your house, not once, and you want to put him to bed? He barely knows the sound of your voice, because you haven't called, and now you want the privilage of soothing and scolding him?



You gave him life (thank you dearly), but you are not his mother. His mother got up every four hours for years to deliver medicine needed to heal the damage, you caused, to his lungs. His mother worked tirelessly with Occupational Therapists so that he would develop normally, inspite of what your drugs did to him. She loved him even though he, like all children, was a vacuum sucking in her energy, time, love, and giving nothing back. She loved him even though he wasn't hers. Now he is smart, now he can breathe, now he has the opportunity to be ANYTHING. If you want to be his mother leave him where he is. To take him back would be to suffocate him, to place him in a box, to hand him a warrant for his arrest. He's old enough now to know it. If you take him back you will prove that you were never really his mother. Just a woman that gave him a life you planned to use to your own benefit, exactly as your mother did to you. She wronged you.

You ARE beautiful, you ARE intelligent. She condemned you to be just another mom on wellfare, and your daughters will be the same. Your son has the chance to BE something. If you want to be his mother get out of his way, and work to overcome the injustice your mother did to you so that your daughters have a chance to live. You are your daughers only chance. Your son, he has had a village around him his entire life.

From this mother to you, leave him where he has the best chance at the best life and he will love you for it. Take him back, whatever your reason, and when he is grown he will know what you stole from him, and he will hate you for it. His life isn't a social security number, a paycheck, it doesn't belong to you. Just as my children's lives do not belong to me. Some day they will be men (if I succeed), other wives husbands. We are guardians of their futures, and nothing more. Some of us have the luxury to be best suited to be both guardian and teacher. Some of us are best suited as guardian to let some one else be the teacher. That has nothing to do with money, or class, or education. That has to do with LOVE. A mother knows which one she is, and puts her love of her child, her duty as the guardian of his future, ahead of her desire to be his teacher. What exactly do think he'll learn from you, what makes you best suited to teach him to be someone elses husband? The only men, only husbands you've ever encountered were actors on sitcoms. Your daughter's do not know their fathers. You do not know their fathers. Your son's father has been there with him his entire life. Tell me how you'd be better at teaching him to be a man/husband?

WOMAN

I am wearing a bear skin. My shoulders sag beneath the weight of it. The space filled with tight lips, and stern intolerance. I wonder if my mother gave me this. An Heirloom of motherhood?

I see other mothers light, and knowing. As if they were made for this cloak. They carry it with straight up spines. Soft faces, and warm words. I am awkward among them. Quazimoto.

This is my mother's legacy.

I hated her. I hated her fishing. Making me stick hook through worm guts. I hated her roofing our house where everyone could see her dirty, and working like a man. Nawed dirty nails. I hated her, telling me not to care what anyone else thought. I hated her yelling at men in charge. Loud mouth didn't know her place. I hated her not wearing make up. I hated her being hard, not tolerating excuses. I hated her.

I am her.

I watched my mother, Quazi-femella. I know that it takes a stong back to carry such a cloak.

I am glad I am her.

My strong back, precious heirloom.

emergence

It’s been a long while living like infant pines huddled in the snow. Words that won’t come to me, always my mind left to slumber alone. And I am in that twighlight place, that purgatory. I am not living and I am not dead. The revelry and misery of life ricochet off me and I am immune to feeling. I reflect fondly on the girl who pledged to live deliberately enough to make Thoreau blush. But, now she has become me.

I’m not sure who is right, me or her? I know the path that brought me here would be treacherous to most. I thrive on treacherous journeys. They, gratefully so, remind me I'm alive. Each adventure has its consequences. This last one was bumpy enough to leave me numb for a while, and concussed. I can’t honestly say when this adventure started? 1998? 2000? 2004? 2006? 2007? Each of those a dark ring in my flesh marking some significant event.

For the last three months I haven’t had an address. Living, albeit unofficially. My entire life in storage, waiting to be unpacked, rediscovered. It may take an anthropologist to put it all back together and let me know who the hell I am again. And ya know I may reject the findings, and scream “put it all back in boxes.”

The idea of the big house with the white picket fence has always left me claustrophobic, like the idea of being buried alive. Funny I have two kids and a dog. In typical idealistic fashion I thought 10 weeks of 4 people living in one hotel room would be nothing more than an adventure. The potpourri of shit, dust, and dirty sheets changed my mind after about 6 weeks. I was surprised when the laughter of my children became torturous. Some days I hoped that my husband would stay late, just so I wouldn’t have to cooperate with yet another human. One less person’s breath to breathe. Many days I hoped I’d awake to find I had evaporated somewhere between the fake seams of the paneling.

Now we have our house, and I still feel like I’m putting out a stranger’s belongings. Relics of someone else’s life. An Amnesia patient. There is one thing that is familiar. I still love things raw. Don’t insult me by feeding me some pre-packaged bullshit. Just hand me everything still palpitating, and let me figure it out myself.

Only when I am running on the hilly dirt roads by my house can I both escape and find myself. I am at home running through the trees, feet in direct contact with the earth (excepting my soles) like all other primal beasts. This is the only thing of late that is familiar to me. Give me the unexplored, the unpaved, the raw… Keep the pavement, the neatly cut trails, those safe paths for yourself. I am not comfortable there.

I’m not sure what has left me numb. I’m not sure I care just as long as I still have my moments of liberation. Maybe it’s more that I don’t quite belong in this life of mine. I am an awkward leading woman in the play I’ve written for myself. Whether I like it or not, my role requires a bit of the white picket fence life. Honestly, as much as I resist it, some part of me seeks it. While I’d be happy in a trailer in the woods, the mother in me, the little girl that went without, wants to provide for my sons. The yard stick; do they have what their friends have? Me, endlessly repulsed by the confinement, of a typical life is fished into the lukewarm water by this question. Aren’t we all?

We are all on a quest to define ourselves with our belongings. To reflect our inner selves outward with the car we drive, the clothes we wear, the house we live in. We wear them like trophies, or shameful reminders of our failures. It’s all just stuff. This journey to acquire things that define us, or show status keeps us from really knowing ourselves. It over powers us, makes us unrightly proud, or unjustly steals us of our dignity. Yet, it can all be stolen away in a second. Make believe happy. Manufactured bliss. The only things we own, are our memories, our productions, our thoughts. Only the intangibles belong to us, the rest is BULLSHIT that distracts us from what makes us happy. I am definitely not immune… and I think I know now what was making numb. I was almost reformed.

This crazy adventure has come to a close at the foot of our 10 year anniversary. I can't help but remember the day that I "KNEW" what I wanted for my life. Casey and I stopped at the bait shop, he picked up a 40oz bud for himself and a 22oz bud lite for me, some worms. We went to Hawthorne park (a swampy lake). I sat barefoot on the bridge next to him. We sat, talked and threw worms into the water. I thought to myself, I can handle this. This can be my life. It's the pursuit of "stuff" that complicates our lives. I didn't NEED much then and I don't NEED much now. There is a fine difference between the pursuit of happiness and the pursuit of possessions. They are not to be confused without dire consequences. Do not become possessed by the misconception that to have not is to be not. I think those dirt roads have led me back to myself finally!

Last night I asked Casey if he remembered that day. "How could I forget?"

I think I might be boring. I was exciting, once. I think. Ove the last two years I have allowed the voices of my babies to crowd out the screaming girl inside of me. I think she’s lost her voice, and a little pissy about it. I have been roaming aimlessly, little red running hood looking for my head. It’s motherhood, not the kids. She’s a bitch, making me put them first, making me leave the person in me behind. I’ve tried so hard. I made it so long. And now I am nothing, but a skin suit that makes dinner, helps with homework, and carries out judgments of time-out. Some days their tiny sweet voices scrape against the inside of my skull like a spoon.

a brick and I'm drowning

okay so I am sick of being chipper. I'm tired of staring at strangers and wondering, "I wonder if he'd be happy to hear me brag about myself? or am I asking too much?" Marriage sucks ass sometimes. It's hard to love someone you sacrifice so much for. When is it that the sacrifices are legitimately too much and you have the right to pull back approval of your spouse? NEVER. You should always communicate and draw boundaries. It's been a hard go for us lately. Lots of sacrifices. Sacrifices do not entitle anyone to bitterness. Yet I find myself in a victims role because of someone elses bitterness. HOw the hell did I get here, and how do I get out? I want joy. I want a joyous household. That's really what I want. Is that asking too much? I want a joyous household, I want to get my masters, and continue training, while being supportive of my kids (I'll sleep when I'm dead)... is that asking too much? I want all of that and someone to ride the crazy train with me who will laugh with me, cry with me, and rejoice with me. is that asking too much? If it is, I think I'd rather travel alone.

"The talk"

(In the car on the way to track)
ME: Boys do you want to have babies when you grow up?
WILLEM: yes because kids wike to pet dogs, and I wike dogs.
COOPER: Not really. I used to but, not anymore.
ME: Why not?
COOPER: Well, right now it's pretty much disgusting to me.
ME: Why?
COOPER: Well, it's the sex. That idea grosses me out.
ME: *giggling*
COOPER: It gives me the eebby jeebies really. I used to want kids until I found how they happen.
ME: *still giggling* Someday you won't feel that way about it, but honestly that's how I felt about when I was your age. And yet I have not one but TWO kids.
COOPER: *smiles smoothly* Yeah, maybe.
(Willem remained oblivious throughout the entire conversation! I think he went to his happy place)

Preview Chitown '08

The promised second entry. As I completed my morning run, it is Tuesday after all, my mind wandered to the Marathon, of course. I know that I'm not in the best shape I'll ever be in, but I'm in the best shape I've ever been in. The recent change from Top 100 to Elite has taken me back to another race. A high school race. The race that got me a scholarship to college.
Don't be mistaken, the change to Elite doesn't mean that I'm suddenly amazing. It means I've been given a place on the line next some women that already are amazing, an opportunity to prove myself. An opportunity of a life time. It's a cruxt moment, granted to me by a generous race director.

In 8th grade I won the largest Invitational meet of the year, the Rensselear Invitational. There were some 200 odd girls in that meet. It was wonderful. 9th grade I place 40 something. After that I was the only girl on the team so we didn't go, until my Senior year. About two weeks before the meet I told my coach I really, really wanted to run it even though it wasn't on the schedule. For the next two weeks he begged the AD to get us added, and the AD begged the Invite's coordinator to add us. The Thursday before the meet we got word that it was a go.

Saturday morning we arrived to find long row of neat boxes evenly divided by straight, fat, white lines looking very geometric and official. We walked this line to it's end to find our box; skinny, orange, uneven lines, an asymmetrical after-thought. The number was cockeyed. I liked that.
I led from the gun, won by over 30 seconds, and my future college coach just happened to be there recruiting. He kept asking, "who is that?" and no one could answer because we hadn't been to that invite in the two past years. Even if we had I would've sucked. It wasn't a PR, but it was what I had hoped it would be, a cruxt moment utilized perfectly.

I had a feeling about that race. I just knew that I had to be there. Going into it everything felt like it was just taking care of itself the way it was supposed to. I made that opportunity for myself. This time the opportunity has been presented to me. This time there are no boxes painted in rows. If there were, mine would be the lopsided misfit on the end, the after-thought (it feels better when it's the result of someone else's command). I have a feeling about this race. I have a really good feeling about it. So while I know someday I'll run faster, on race day I'll run the fastest I ever have. Somehow I know it.