Fiction I wrote for Creative Writing

The Long Road Home

The man he feared for so long was no longer. Memories of the old man invaded from time to time, more often than usual lately. Flashes of his father ripped through reality, invading his life, his space, refusing to just let him be. Even as he loaded his truck, Jason remembered a vacation. He was eight and they were supposed to go to Disney World. Something he said, something he did must have set the old man off, he wasn't sure now. But he was sure it was his fault, it always was. At least, that's what his father always told him. That day the old man had yelled and yelled about something, some chore that wasn't done, some secret wrong doing that wasn't discovered until just as they were leaving. Whatever it was, Jason had screwed things up once again. Instead of leaving for vacation, they spent the night in the emergency room having his broken arm set. "Damn kids," his father told the doctor, "I never have understood the attraction to tree climbing." He never did apologize for breaking my arm, Jason thought as he slammed the door.

Now he was dead. The call had come the day before. Jason remembered how big and scary the old man seemed growing up. He spent most of his youth hiding from him. As a man, he spent most of his days trying not to be like him, but more and more afraid of becoming him every day. He was supposed to go to see this man be laid to rest; the people there would be talking about him, this great man who would be missed. All Jason could say is that he was glad the old man was finally dead. The funeral would be on a Wednesday.

This was supposed to be his weekend with his son. His ex wasn't very happy about his call saying he would have to be out of town instead. To her it must have seemed like another way of running away. Their relationship wasn't always so rocky. Before, it was young and fun, intense and passionate. Theirs was the kind of love people envied, other couples struggled to attain it. When he left, she cried. She begged him to stay, begged him not to walk out on their family. She didn't understand what he feared more than anything was that he would be his father. He never wanted kids. He had always thought to spare a child of growing up with a father like he had grown up with. When she told him she was pregnant, he knew he had to go. He figured an absent father couldn't hit.

He knew he had broken her heart; he had broken his own in the process. Some days he thought of her less than others. He loved her, she was home to him. He hated himself for letting his fear overpower his love for her and his son. Now though, his weekends with his son were precious. He would go to pick him up from the little ranch house they had once been so happy to buy. She would walk him out, always looking more beautiful than he remembered. Kyle always ran ahead, his cotton-white curls bouncing around his head like a halo. He would take a running leap into Jason's waiting arms, clapping his pudgy little hands together like two-year-olds do. She would smile softly, sweetly like the young girl he once knew so well, and they would exchange niceties before Jason drove off. That was how he spent every other weekend. The ones not spent that way were spent wishing he knew how to be a better man.

The sun was setting as he drove away. The hours ticked by like the dotted lines that separated the highway lanes. He smoked to pass the time. He listened to music between cigarettes. He thought when he had nothing else to do. He thought about the old magnolia tree he used to climb in their backyard, he thought about his first kiss with the little blond haired girl who lived next door when he was eight, he thought about all of the times he had wiped tears from his mother's eyes.

His mother, she had been his saving grace more times than he could count. She told him when to hide, she warned him when she knew it would be bad. When she died, he thought the old man would finally kill him. He had no protection anymore. He was ten when she was gone, it was the first time he had ever hated anyone. He didn't even hate the old man for the beatings, not yet. But he hated her for leaving, hated her for taking the pills. Her note said she was sorry, said it was too much. He remembered thinking, as he looked down on her in the coffin how peaceful she looked, like she had laid down for an afternoon nap. Jason couldn't even take deep breaths or hold his arms too close to his sides on account of his sore ribs. His hand grazed lightly over ghosts of the bruises as he remembered. That was the moment he hated her, he envied her peace. He hated her for leaving him.

Thinking about her was too much and he was thankful for the bright light of the midnight diner that broke the monotony of the long, black road he'd been driving for so long. He put out a half-smoked cigarette as he stepped out of his old truck. Standing felt good, like an old friend you just met after years apart.

Inside the diner he sat in a daze, calculating in his mind how much longer he had to drive. He stared at the swirls of cream floating in his coffee. As if on instinct, his hand wondered to his breastbone, to find that old medallion, as it always did when his mind was blank.

The activity around him did not serve to break his daze. The truckers driving in from the dark, abandoned highway sat road-weary enjoying mediocre coffee and cigarettes.

"You know," he said to the woman he noticed standing next to him, "this was the only thing he ever gave me. It's supposed to be for protection. Damn thing never worked to protect me from him, though."

The woman, who he did not know, muttered something he did not hear. "I'm not sure why I've kept it all these years," he continued on. "Nostalgia, maybe. No, that can't be it. I think it's because getting this piece of metal was the single most important event in my life. It's the only time I ever felt like he actually loved me."

"Sir," the gum-smacking waitress next to him said, yanking him back to reality, "that's great and all, but all I needed to know is if you wanted more coffee."

"Oh," he answered her quietly, "no thank you."

He began making his way down the black highway once more. The road signs were few and he drove the roads from memory, though he wasn't sure how. It was almost half of his life ago since he had made the trip. All those years ago, when he was driving away instead of toward, he was only seventeen then. Jason left right after high school, and he'd only stayed that long because the old man said he couldn't finish. He was always telling Jason how stupid he was. So, Jason had stayed, finished school, and then he left. Since then, he hadn't been back. He had never had a reason to go back. As he drove, Jason couldn't think of one single reason why he was going back now. The only reason he was going back was because of his father's death, but his father's life had never been a reason to go back - so why should his death be?

Most sons would go their father's funeral out of love, but that wasn't the case for Jason. What he felt for the old man definitely wasn't love. He never could figure out quite what it was he did feel, but love was not it. As he drove, he smoked; as he smoked, he contemplated why he was making this trip. After miles of possible reasons, he finally realized it was out of obligation. As if a son was ordered by some cosmic rule to be at his father's funeral. Surely that was a rule, wasn't it?

The long, black highway eventually turned into familiar streets and signs, gliding past old landmarks and buildings he'd known from boyhood, past the First Baptist Church, the library, and the city hall. The sun was just peeking over the horizon when he pulled into the driveway of the old farmhouse he grew up in. Not much had changed. The trim was more dingy, the paint more chipped, but the house still seemed the same. Jason really didn't feel any of those home feelings, only a sense of ambivalence, which was strange for seeing your childhood home for the first time in fifteen years. For a minute, he tried really hard to feel something, but it just wasn't there.

He walked across the front lawn, the grass moist and shiny from the morning dew, to the front door. He started to knock, then chuckled to himself wondering who he thought would answer the door. He wasn't sure if he would even be able to get in. He tried the handle and it easily gave under his hand, granting him entrance. He stood in the doorway listening to the quiet. Part of him expected to hear the violent sounds of the old man moving about, glass breaking, something banging, the familiar sounds he had heard so many times before. There were no sounds, and he felt relieved.

The house had not been touched as of yet. No one had gone through his things, no cleaning or carrying away. The house smelled of old, dank cigarettes. The smell made him look with disgust at the old burns on his arms from the old man's cigarettes. Jason was sure all of the junk that cluttered the closets and attic was left untouched, probably since his mother had put it there all those years ago. He scanned his line of vision for any remnants of her, something that might be left after all of these years. There wasn't anything. He couldn't even smell her anymore, like he always could right up until the day he left this place.

Memories once again invaded Jason's mind, memories of the years he had spent here. He could see down the hallway into the kitchen. Those were the walls Jason had been thrown against. That kitchen was the same as the night the old man had poured boiling water over his hand. He looked up the stairs that loomed in front of him. They looked smaller than he remembered. Jason had "fallen" down these stairs a few times. As he climbed them now, he wondered how much the old man had changed his old bedroom. The door to the room was shut. The hallway had not been painted in all of those years, and residual paint hung in peeling tatters as they tried to remain at their post. Jason reached out and touched the knob to the door, and as he opened it he was surprised the room he sought refuge in so often had not been changed. Jason's old chair was still in the corner, as was the stereo he had paid for himself with money he'd earned doing yard work around the neighborhood, and the old Van Halen posters still hung next to his Reggie Jackson memorabilia. His tattered old bed he'd slept in all those years had never been replaced, it was the same one he'd wet as a kid, and the same still his feet hung off of before he left home. His old desk and bookshelves still stood in place in a corner. Jason wasn't sure if the old man left everything because he was sentimental or lazy. He walked over to the closet. He paused with his hand on the door and looked in the mirror that hung on the front of it. The man staring back at him didn't seem much different than the boy who had walked away all of those years ago. His shoulders were broader, his eyes a little wiser, but only a little.

There was no point to this reminiscing, this time travel he was doing in his mind. He had left this place to escape him, so he didn't have to hide in his own house. He didn't have any of those warm-fuzzy childhood memories you always hear about, his memories were material better suited for some after-school special, or better yet an R-rated movie. Disgusted with himself for trying to pretend his life had been normal, he left for the funeral. Maybe the sooner he went, the sooner the old man would go into the ground.

The cars were already lining up for the processional when he got there. Unsure of what to expect, Jason pulled into a parking space close to the door and swallowed the lump forming in his throat as he went in. Inside, people huddled together, comforting each other through their difficult time. One lady looked up from the shoulder she had been crying into. Before Jason could avert his eyes, he had caught her attention. He recognized her from church years ago. Now she was coming toward him with a tear-streaked face. With a broken voice she whispered to him, ..My you turned out so handsome... She took his hesitant hand into hers. ..I am so sorry for your loss,.. she went on, ..Your dad was such an inspirational man. I always loved to see him sitting in the deacons' row during church service... Jason thought he muttered some response, probably ..Thank you...

Flowers and plants lined any available wall space, ornate and fragrant. Jason could feel the eyes of so many people on him who thought the old man was a hero, none of these people really knew his father for the monster he was. They knew the deacon who was in church on Sunday, not the man who beat his kid on Sunday afternoon. Jason tried not to let his astonishment show as he made his way to the guest book. He stood there, pen in hand, staring for what seemed like hours at the space waiting anxiously for his name. He couldn't decide what should go there. What words do you write for a man you hated, a man who stole everything from you? Countless people had put their names down ahead of him, but surely none who held such disdain for the old man. Without signing the book, he put the pen down in exasperation and made his way toward the open casket.

He knew he had to make himself go, or he wouldn't ever. Before he realized what he had done, Jason was standing in front of the coffin. The sight of the old man in death shocked him to the core of his being. He had expected rage. He had fantasized about spitting in his face, laughing to the horror of onlookers, maybe even dancing on the bastard's grave. But now, as he stood looking down on his body, he couldn't do any of those things. Maybe death made you smaller, the old man seemed so much smaller than Jason remembered. He looked for some hint of the anger and hatred he was sure the old man spent every day of his life boiling in. What he saw baffled him. There was no anger to be found, only fear tucked behind an apathetic smirk. Jason searched deep within to bring up his own anger, he wanted to let his father know how much he still hated him after all of these years. He searched until his mind was spent, and finally realized there was no anger left. Finally, after all of these years, Jason felt nothing for this man who terrorized him, this man who personally orchestrated the hell of his childhood. He couldn't even feel sorry for him.

Jason turned to leave. He had no penance to pay, this day of atonement was not his. He was not his father, he never had been and never could be. There was no reason for him to see this man buried, no pretense he had to hide behind. So he left once again. Only, this time, he wouldn't look back, not ever. His journey wasn't over by any means, he was only setting out to travel the long road home.

Honoring another one...

Today is the day I became a mother. It was October 24, 2000. At 1:52 in the afternoon. My screaming baby girl made her entrance. She was big. In so so many ways. I remember the first moments she spent in my arms as if they were yesterday. I studied her face and wondered how any mother could part with their flesh and blood; I wondered how mine could part with me. And I promised her that I would always protect her. Now I know that is a promise I will not be able to keep but I would give anything if I could.

She came into this world changing it. I have no doubt she will continue to do so. i owe her more than I probably owe any other person in my life. She brought me to my journey in life. With strength and beauty.

In celebration of

I've had a lot going on and I haven't been able to sit down and write this blog. But my baby boy celebrated his third birthday last week. It is hard to believe it has been three years since he made his grand entrance into my world. He brought with him peace and healing to my soul. I feel as if in many ways I owe him my life for the gifts he gave to me.

I hope one day he will truly understand what his life means to me. I hope he will make himself proud. My wish for him is happiness, in whatever form that takes. Tall orders for a three year old I know.

I hope that he won't grow too fast. The three years I've known him seem like a blink of an eye. The morning he was born the sun was pouring through my living room windows. I remember feeling like the whole scene was so surreal. Outside cars raced by on the busy highway that went in front of our house. I thought to myself how life was so normal out there. And in the peace and safety of my home I stood leaning against my husband bringing my son into the world. And when he was here he waited for me to talk to him before he drew in his first breaths. My son. My life.

This was the first day.

I can take Miss Cleo

Ok, seriously, this blog is so not about tooting my own horn. I believe we all have God-given gifts and how we choose to use them and display them determines how we they develop, or not. So, that's my disclaimer. I will now proceed with telling you about the coolest fucking thing to happen to me today.

I have been priveledged to experience some pretty cool stuff. One such "stuff" is sometimes I know things before they happen. Sometimes. :)

So today I was taking my oldest to ballet. She takes it from a huge ballet company locally through a baptist church. When you go in the church you have to walk up a very large staircase then at the top go left and down a small staircase to get to her room. I was following her up the stairs with my baby on my hip. As soon as I was on the stairs I had what I can only describe as a vision of a baby (I first thought my baby) falling down the stairs because she had been playing at the top. (She's a new crawler.) I shook it off and kept going upstairs. Once at the top, I instinctively looked to my left toward the other staircase. I am not shitting you about what happened next.

Teetering at the top of the small staircase was a baby. She had crawled over while her mom was tending to tying her sister's ballet shoes. She was about to put her arm down on the first step when it registered to me and I managed to get out, "Oh! Oh! Oh! Baby! Baby!" Her mom said OH MY GOD! and grabbed her up before she could fall. I stll can't believe how it happened. I had chills for probably ten minutes after. All I can say is I am thankful I saw what I did so I actually did't have to see what I could have.

God made sex and it was good

So today during my normal internet surfing I found this. Yep, it's a Christian sex shop. I know, it's a little ironic. The name of the shop is Book 22, after Song of Solomon, the 22nd book of the Christian bible. For those who may not know, this is the raciest and sexiest book of the bible. And if you are familiar with just how to read this book, it's quite the work of erotica.

Anyhoo, the purpose of this little shop is to offer sex toys to people who might be morally opposed to porn or nude people. Which I think is a good thing. More orgasms in the world surely cannot hurt anything.

My point is that I am very glad to see this actually. I grew up in the Christian religion, and trust me when I say it is very sexually repressed. I know this might come as quite a surprise to you. But you must trust me on this one.

I know you must be wondering what exactly a Christian sex shop would sell. I know I was. Well, there are massage oils, lubes, candles, and the like. There are also cock rings and crochless panties. His and hers vibrating underwear. I was pleasantly surprised to see "aids" like vibrating bullets, including the little tongue one. I know, I know. Get to the good stuff right?

Ok. I'm getting there.

Yes, they actually do sell dildos. Nice, fancy vibrating ones too. The kinds with twirly goodness with nice clit hitters attached. Yep, they stock the good stuff. Pretty much the only stuff I didn't find are double dongs, strap-ons, or whips 'n chains type stuff. I figure all of that is probably because those lines of pleasure imply things the church is explicitly against. But, eh, can't have everything right?

Oh yes, and I forgot to mention one last thing. They were smart enough to know that many christians struggle with the issue of sexuality and especially sex toys or 'spicing up' their sex life. I mean, when was the last time you heard of a sermon on sex that wasn't teeming with negativity? To help with this issue, there is this. I actually think there is a pretty healthy view of sex presented here, outside of the whole guilt thing. You know what I mean, only sex in marriage, gays are bad, etc.

Ok, so. Just wanted to share what I found. Sex is good. Sex toys are great. Even the church agrees. Finally.

School Days

So, obviously we made it through the first day of school, and amazingly the first week as well. Pretty much every day the damn school has done something to piss me off enough that I want to homeschool. Mostly, it's the line I have to go through in order to drop off and pick up my kid. The amount of cars surrounding the school and the neighboring church is outrageous. I have to get there a half hour before school lets out so that my kid only spends ten minutes or so out in three digit heat instead of a half hour or more. Three grades, K5 - 2, and the damn school has 1,193 students. So, yeah.

In other, yet still related, news...my five year old brought home her first homework assignment yesterday. Yes, homework in kindergarten. Did we ever have homework that young, besides trying to remember not to pick our nose? Anyway, she had to trace and then draw L's and l's, 3 lines of each. I am not shitting you when I say we didn't even get halfway through putting her name on the first line before she sighs really big and says, "I hate studying." I'm sitting there thinking how much I dread this for the next 12 years. The next five minutes go something like this:

She's written: Kie

Me - Kierstyn, what comes next in your name?
Her - I don't know.
Me - Yes you do.
Her - But I'm so tired.

She writes: r

Repeat that for s, then t, then y, then n. Bang your head against the wall half a dozen times and you'll understand exactly how I felt. I dread term paper days.

Letting Go

So tonight we completed my daughter's kindergarten registration. She met her teacher and saw her cubby hole. We got lost finding her class. In a school that houses only three grades, we got lost.

We got home and I was going through the papers I'd been given to bring home. Included was a school menu. I thought that might be fun for my girl, to go to the cafeteria and get a tray. It will make her feel big.

And then I realized I won't be there for the first time in her life to show her what to do. And I cried. I'm still crying. Will anybody tell her how to do it? Will they make sure she doesn't get lost or feel stupid or alone? How can I know for sure?

There are many people who say parenting gets easier as your children get older. They are more self-sufficieint. They can think for themselves and tell you when they are sick. But that doesn't mean life is easier. Older means you have to let go. That's not easy at all.

And nobody told me about this part.

Ooooo, boobies...

There are quite a few people all up in arms over a magazine cover. No, I'm not talking about Forbidden's playboy cover. Moms all over the country are pissed at what arrived in their mailboxes last month. Here's what I'm talking about:



A few highlights from the article featured in Associated Press. I've added some commentary in red.

One mom of a 13-year-old boy shredded her copy because "A breast is a breast - it's a sexual thing. He didn't need to see that."

Um, no. Actually a breast is not a sexual thing. I mean, I know men really really like them and all. Well, there are quite a few women who do as well. But if the intended function of breasts were to be sexual objects, I highly doubt they'd come equipped with these nifty mammory glands.

One woman said, "I'm totally supportive of it - I just don't like the flashing"

Unless it's spring break

She goes on to say, "I don't want my son or husband to accidentally see a breast they didn't want to see."

And which breasts fall into this category?

See, the issue to me is not over public breastfeeding. Well, not really. I see how this particular magazine cover got into this area of debate. I mean, it is a breast and all. But the article the picture is supposed to draw attention to is about extended breastfeeding. But people saw this and thought, Oh God! A breast!

Now I don't go out of my way to nurse my kids in the public eye. But I don't smother them with blankets, hide in corners, or make them eat in the bathroom. If you'd like to eat in the corner stall of the bathroom, feel free. But I'll pass.

Here's what I don't get though. This is a parenting magazine. The readers of this magazine are mostly mothers, oodles of whom have probably breastfed at some point in their life. What would they rather be staring at them on that magazine? This?



I mean there's just as much breast showing there. I don't see anybody crying gross over those shots.

Minor annoyances

What annoys me most: is unappropriate use of the english language, and of course grammatical errors. I do'nt mean those oopsies we all make, I mean the ones pounded into our heads in elemantery school over and over; and over. Say for instanse i tell you, I really like reading you're blog. But, although I like it so much, my blog could kick it's butt. I can let these thing slip once or twice, but after awhile, alot of them just get anoying. And come on? Theres this realy neato newfangled thing called spellcheck. Please use it.

Wanna know what else annoys me? I REALLY HATE IT WHEN PEOPLE TYPE IN ALL CAPS AS IF CHAT HAS NOT BEEN AROUND LONG ENOUGH NOW FOR PEOPLE TO KNOW THIS IS RUDE AND IDIOTIC. I really hate that.

Another thing that bugs the bejezzus our of me is the WaY KiDS aRe CaPiTaLiZiNG RaNDoM LeTTeRS NoW. EVeN THiS iS MaKiNG Me WaNT To PuT a GuN To My HeAD BeCAuSe I KeEP HaViNG To BaCKSPaCe (i KeEP FoRGeTTiNG) aND HaVe No iDea iF i aM eVeN DoiNG THiS RiGHT. iS THeRe a RiGHT WaY To Do THiS? Sheesh enough of that, anybody got a bullet? Or a bottle? just break it over my head. I got on my own nerves typing that. I swear, that took like ten minutes.

I can think of no better way to end this blog than punctuation! I mean, I'm quite sure you noticed my frequent misuse of punctuation in the first paragraph! But the specific kind of puncuation I'm talking about is exclamations! I mean an exclamation point tells the reader to say everything a certain way! And, seriously, if you say everything like this, I simply cannot be bothered reading your shit because if I were to ever meet you I'd bitch slap you upon sight! Seriously!

Me talk the English language good and you should to. I'm just sayin.

Things I want my daughters to know

What annoys me most: is unappropriate use of the english language, and of course grammatical errors. I do'nt mean those oopsies we all make, I mean the ones pounded into our heads in elemantery school over and over; and over. Say for instanse i tell you, I really like reading you're blog. But, although I like it so much, my blog could kick it's ass. I can let these thing slip once or twice, but after awhile, alot of them just get anoying. And come on? Theres this realy neato newfangled thing called spellcheck. Please use it.

Wanna know what else annoys me? I REALLY HATE IT WHEN PEOPLE TYPE IN ALL CAPS AS IF CHAT HAS NOT BEEN AROUND LONG ENOUGH NOW FOR PEOPLE TO KNOW THIS IS RUDE AND IDIOTIC. I really hate that shit.

Another thing that bugs the bejezzus our of me is the WaY KiDS aRe CaPiTaLiZiNG RaNDoM LeTTeRS NoW. SHiT eVeN THiS iS MaKiNG Me WaNT To PuT a GuN To My HeAD BeCAuSe I KeEP HaViNG To BaCKSPaCe (i KeEP FoRGeTTiNG) aND HaVe No iDea iF i aM eVeN DoiNG THiS RiGHT. iS THeRe a RiGHT WaY To Do THiS? Sheesh enough of that shit, anybody got a bullet? Or a bottle? just break it over my head. Damn I got on my own nerves typing that. I swear, that took like ten minutes.

I can think of no better way to end this blog than punctuation! I mean, I'm quite sure you noticed my frequent misuse of punctuation in the first paragraph! But the specific kind of puncuation I'm talking about is exclamations! I mean an exclamation point tells the reader to say everything a certain way! And, seriously, if you say everything like this, I simply cannot be bothered reading your shit because if I were to ever meet you I'd bitch slap you upon sight! Seriously!

Me talk the English language good and you should to. I'm just sayin.

How vain can one society?

The FDA has approved the use of a "pearly" pigment that can now be used in any medication to make it have a irradescent sheen. No, I'm not kidding.

The substance is made from minerals and can be added to any drug, though it cannot make up more than three percent of the drug's weight. Don't worry though, the substance carries "no toxic potential when ingested at levels estimated by the agency."

We don't have enough in our bodies? We need to add more minerals, more metals? Does nobody see the problem here? I mean do we really need Tylenol setting off airport metal detectors?

I just cannot help but take issue with this whole thing.

I mean, as if pharmaceutical companies aren't rich enough. We are giving them permission to add something absolutely not necessary and you bet your ass they will mark up prices for it. I mean, somebody has to pay for the sparklies! I don't think they are having trouble selling their products. Last time I checked we were pumping everybody full of every pill we can think of. Kids are hyper, learning deficit, depressed, and anxious and we have pills for it. Hell, we have pills for adults who are those things too. We have pills to make sex good, fix the fact that you've taken crappy care of yourself, oh yeah, and to keep your legs from tingling. Pills are used to fix everything, even things they weren't intended for. Is it really so important that they look pretty too?

I can see it now, Jane Doe, suicidal over the fact that her boyfriend cheated on her (again), dances around the room in her fuzzy pink robe with an apple martini and mascara pooled around her eyes thicker than a drag queen tearfully singing "I Feel Pretty" and popping her pretty, shiny, little pink pill. Marvelous.

I hope they super childproof this shit, my five year old loves shiny things.

Protesters are idiots

This week the capital city of Mississippi is being inendated with pro-lifers and pro-choicers both representing their sides of the debate. True to our right-winged form, most of the pro-choicers are from out of town. But my story isn't about the issue. That's really not something I want to get into. Rather I'd like to tell you a little about the protesters.

There is only one abortion clinic in Mississippi. It happens to be in downtown Jackson. I was down there yesterday. People wearing propaganda t-shirts pushing strollers with their kids in them littered the sidewalks. And apparently I had arrived as the day was winding down for them, and they were still everywhere.

Some of the pro-lifers had decided earlier that day to protest a few buildings down from the clinic in front of the new age bookstore. Because we all know the new age movement is doubling the number of abortions. And earlier in the week they had burned a copy of the Koran on the sidewalk. Whew! I am so glad because the number of Islamic people getting abortions has skyrocketed.

Oh and they also were blaming abortion on the immoral nature of the gays and lesbians. Now, I'm not sure how many people realize what any gay couple might have to go through to be parents. They might have to adopt, which in this state means either a foreign adoption or a single person adoption. A gay couple cannot adopt a child together in Mississippi. Lesbian couples have the option of artificial insemination. For those that don't know about this process, it is invasive, expensive, and not a 100 percent sure thing. The last option also belongs to lesbians, and that is obtaining donor sperm from a willing male. Now, I ask you, how likely is it that there are ANY homosexual people walking into that clinic needing abortions. Unless it is a lesbian who was raped, and in that case, you'd better move out of her way and let her in.

I cannot say how livid it makes me for people to stand against something and throw all kinds of other things in the mix. If you're against abortion, fine. If you're against religions other than your own, fine. If you're against homosexuality, fine. That is the beauty of America. We have the freedom to hold those opinions. Bigots make the world go 'round. But don't go protest abortion by taking a stand against the new age movement, other-than-Christian religions, or homosexuals. Seriously. You just look like a dumbass.

Friend Divorce

For some reason I've had a particular ex-friend on my mind all day today. Now I know saying ex-friend sound petty. Very petty. In a high school way. But the truth is that she was very special to me and I was very hurt by the way she abruptly ended our friendship. She and I used to work together. Over the months and years we came to realize we shared a lot in common. We laughed. We cried. We shared things.

I probably knew more about her than anyone in her life. I think she probably knew more about me. There was a certain level of, um, closeness I had not attained with any female friend before. Then one day it just stopped. We were chatting online as we often did after work one night and what began as a regular, friendly chat quickly got ugly. She plainly stated she did not think I was her friend. From there I was told I was a whore, acted like a whore, and was a bad influence. Her only chance for saving her marriage was friend-divorcing me. And that was that. The only friendship I've had since my early high school years that ended with such finality, not to mention name calling.

I guess she's on my mind so much b/c I spent the day close to where we worked and driving home I passed her house. There are days like today I truly miss her friendship and presence in her life. What I found out though was that her dumping me was probably a good thing. Her husband was and is abusive and he didn't like her being my friend. Well, I guess he was okay with it to a certain degree but past that he had to be involved. And neither of us were very big on him butting in. So he pretty much told her she had to move on. Oh and he also told her she was fat (she so wasn't), out of fashion (not that either and even if she was, who cares?!), and a sinner. Yeah, the church thing. She told me that night that she was going back to chuch with her husband and focusing on her family. Now I would have no problem with her picking the church life if she'd done it for any reason besides show. But she didn't. And neither did he.

So, what pisses me off?

Is it him, her over the top husband? No, that's not any of my business. Is it the fact that she dumped me flat on my butt and left my head spinning? Nah, I've had a few years to get over that. What pisses me off is women like her who let men live their lives for them. Women who hand their lives, decisions, waking and sleeping moments over to a man. This is societal, we think men should be revered all because they have an extra piece of equipment. When, in reality, we have more equipment and ours is way cooler anyway. I think the fact that our equipment is generally hidden and not so visible (i.e. Rock out with your cock out) is the reason you generally don't hear of cunt envy.

And that's what pisses me off. She handed her life to him. At least when I handed my life over to a man I was smart enough to take it back.

Sugar and Spice and Everything Nice

So my parents still live in the same neighborhood I grew up in. It's a strange neighborhood. Half houses, half trailer park. Half uppity, half um not uppity. Growing up the street I lived on divided the neighborhood. The streets before ours were uppity, ours was fairly neutral, and the back part of the neighborhood was less than classy. This really doesn't have a lot to do with my story, other than to iterate the fact that I grew up in lower-middle class America. Woo. Hoo.

Anyway, there is a house, and by house I mean single-wide trailer, that has been next to my parent's house, and by house I mean double-wide trailer, since I was a little girl. I'm amazed this trailer still has a floor. But it does and people still live there. Over the years many people have lived there and occasionally my parents will befriend them. This happened last year. A family lived there and my parents got to know the mom. I'm not sure how many kids she had, three maybe four small children. Her son was older and engaged. He lived there as well with his fiance and her kids. He did yardwork for my mom and dad. They seemed like a nice little family; and still kept in contact with my parents after moving down the street into a double wide, cause really how long can a gajillion people live in a single wide trailer. Now this is where the story gets twisted.

A few weeks ago we noticed they had cleared out. I'm talking one weekend my kids were playing with her kids and that week they were gone. No sight of them anywhere. But all of their stuff was strewn all over the place. My mom said she moved but left all of their stuff. Then a week or so later her older son moved into that trailer with his fiance and kids. My mom asked him what happened.

Turns out his nice lady and her nice husband got caught having sex with a nice little 14-year-old mentally retarded girl. Lovely.

So, the nice husband was taken to a nice jail cell. And the nice lady was told she had 24 hours to leave the state or she would be arrested. Can anyone say WHAT THE HELL??!! They let her walk away with kids in her care. I imagine those kids having to leave all of their toys and no telling what else, crying, all because mommy and daddy are child molesters. Of course, let's not even think about the trauma of the authorities who don't care enough about them and send them off with their predator mama. I guess it's because she's a woman, a mom, surely her kids are better with her than in the system. Surely. Nevermind she was banging a little girl with her husband, a mentally retarded little girl at that.

Because we all know all predators are men. Seriously. You've got to be kidding me.

My near death experience

A few summers ago, okay like eight summers ago, me and a friend were visiting some her her friends in South Mississippi. There had been a tornado go through this city the previous week (interestingly enough this was one of the cities majorly affected by Katrina) and we were amazed by all the damage. We had gone to eat at a Mexican restaurant and were all bored, so we decided to go home and drink.

Our timing was impeccable as it looked like a storm started brewing just as we were headed back home. So, we're going down the interstate and the lightening starts. Off in the distance we see a cell tower get struck by lightening, complete with sparks flying everywhere. Amazed, we all three lean into the windshield (single cab Ford Ranger) to "whoa'' the cell tower. At that exact moment my friend's windshield is struck by lightening. Now, I'm not quite sure how to describe this but imagine a camera flash magnified about ten times and about six inches from your face. And the sound, hmmm, a few times louder than the kind of thunder than shakes things. My two friends who were sitting on the outside (I was in the middle) said they could feel the electricity course through the vehicle. Yeah I'm glad I don't have that to add to my trauma.

So, we're all temporarily blinded and screaming and apparently swerving all over the road because when we finally could see we had gone from the far left lane to almost running off the right shoulder. Great. Escape death once, shame on death. Eh, nevermind.

Anyway, we hadn't realized when the lightening struck that it actually didn't hit the windshield, but her driver's side wiper blade, completely eliminating it from existance. Now, this is not good since we are on a major interstate and rain is now coming down in sheets. So we're all trying to navigate, scared shitless, to the nearest exit. We make it off the interstate and to a gas station. We run, literally screaming, through the rain as if acid is falling from the sky to melt our skin. Once inside the gas station/truck stop, we just all kind of have nervous breakdowns. I'd left my cigarettes in the truck but wasn't about to go back out and get them, so I bought a new pack and a lighter. (I'd left my ID out in the truck and was only barely 18 but I looked about 15. The guy asked me if I had my ID and had just witnessed my breakdown. So I start crying again going, "Are you KIDDING me?!" "Um, yeah", he says. "I was - Don't worry about the ID." LMAO)

So the friend we were visiting called her parents to tell them what happened and asked them to come get us. Know what they did?! They LAUGHED at us. I am not kidding. They thought we were making it up. Thank the goddess there was a truck driver sitting close by to us who heard us rehashing the experience over and over like the traumatized teenage girls we were and offered to look at my friend's truck. He checked the electrical and switched the passenger wiper blade to the driver's side so she could see to drive. And we made it home safe.

Now, the following week when my friend reported the incident to her insurance company, the agent wouldn't believe her about what happened. He had to come see it himself, as he had just never heard such a story. Never mind the wiper shrapnel embedded in her hood.

It's been eight years and there still isn't a thunderstorm that I don't think about that night. Wonder if there's a word for phobia of lightening?

Hi, my name is Candice, and I'm a bigot

Recovering that is.

See I've grown up in the South. Never been very far out of it actually. My entire family stems from here. What I am going to share with you is only to give some insight...oh hell, I guess into how twisted life can be down here.

Children come into this world pure. They have no prejudices, no baggage. They are like white t-shirts for us to put our paint covered hand prints all over. Scary thing when you get right down to it.

So, it was when I was still one of these cute little Hanes' V-necks waiting for my first handprints, that my ideas of sociably acceptable race relations began to be formed. I was sitting around with my mom and dad (I was an only child) watching Star Search. The act going on stage was a couple performing a dance routine. The girl was a young petite blonde and her dance partner was a strapping young stallion - a black stallion. Now, I wasn't worried at all about their difference in race, only watching their routine of song and dance in amazement and envy. My parents however, saw this as an opportunity to explain to me why people of different races should not date. I was confused, since dating relationships didn't seem any different than friendships in my six-year-old mind. And I was very good friends with a girl at school who was black.

So I ask:

Me ~ What about Tina? Can I be friends with Jane?
Role Models ~ Of course honey, you can be friends with anyone you choose.
Me ~ Really? Can Jane spend the night?
Role Models ~ Um, no. And don't use her hairbrush. (I'm not kidding.)
Me ~ Why? That doesn't make sense.
Role Models ~ Because we said so now watch the TV.

My grandfather, although I've always adored him, is the true patriarch in my family. I can remember as a kid hanging on every word he said. One day he swore to me he could show me the passage in the bible that stated white people were to be revered above other races. No. I. Am. Not. Kidding. I guess gramps doesn't know Jesus wasn't white.

I've wondered how I'd achieve setting my little v-necks on a different path. I didn't want them ever having to question whether I was teaching them something that made sense or not. Most importantly I don't want them to have to undo anything I teach them. I want to raise them to see all people as equal. When my daughter began to ask me about race I decided to teach her that people are like colors in a crayon box. All colors, all shades. She asked me then what color we are. I told her peach. But she got that confused and for about three years called us 'cheap' instead of peach. Damn that was funny too.

Racial slurs were common place growing up in my family, sadly they still fly at times. That's how it is here. Of course, in these politically correct times racial slurs are less common in the general public. But, I'd be ashamed to tell you how often people will say something sideways to me about other races. I heard just yesterday from a complete stranger in a fast food resturant that the manager probably wouldn't do anything about an employee's attitude problem because there were "the same kind" meaning of the same race. I felt physically sick at her comment, so much so I could only walk away.

I'm proud to say I no longer look at people and notice their race. I do not introduce people as my 'black friend' any more than my 'gay friend', my 'baptist friend', my 'psychic friend', my 'fetish friend', etcetera, etcetera. I am a recovered bigot, which I'm fairly sure isn't like a recovering alcoholic. You know, once an alcoholic always an alcoholic. I don't see myself falling off the bandwagon and leading a rally. But I own my past because it is part of who I am and reminds me of who I never want to become.

The sweetest memory

My heart beats in my ears, echoing the beats as they get closer together. My breath speeds, shallow and and fluttering beneath my chest. Words surface but will not enter my mouth, instead linger in my throat.

A hand brushed against mine sends electricity into my body and fire into my cheeks. My body feels more alive, as if every moment before this one it has been void of life.

We move closer together, close enough that the heat of our bodies combines in a red energy between us. Though my mind had been racing only seconds before, I cannot seem to recall a single thought now. I can feel hot breath against my face, then, closer still, on my lips. They tingle with anticipation of the moment. Finally our lips meet. A surge of energy reaches down the pathway deep inside connecting our lips to all things sensual.

My body arches as if any space between us must be consumed. We are more intertwined than we will ever be again, for this moment comes only once. It is a moment to be savored, treasured and tasted like a fine wine. It cannot last forever, such rapture sustained for too long would seem like euphoria but be insanity in disguise. And so it passes and becomes a sweet memory. That of a first kiss.

Wave your flags

This week is Pride Week. Events around the country are being held celebrating pride in the freedom to choose a queer lifestyle. These events celebrate the diversity that is life, love, and family. Feather boas, rainbows, and leather abound. Stereotypes are played out in grandiose ways, but there are much more than just stereotypes. Moms, dads, college kids, accountants, doctors, lawyers, and regular people everywhere get out and support gay rights, strides in the movement, and the promise of equality. This happens this week in particular because it was June 27, 1969, that the first of a series of riots began at the Stonewall Inn, a gay bar in Greenwich Village. The patrons were sick of being picked on and they started a revolution. They paved the way for the generations to follow. That's how things get done, that's how change comes about.

As I was contemplating on how to write this blog, I felt torn. I wasn't sure how to convey my thoughts and true pride for the queer community. I cannot honestly say that I have overcome that deficit. I can only say what pride means to me.

Honoring pride week means honoring love, without limitations and expectations. I told a friend the other day my thoughts on unconditional love and trust. We come into this world possessing both of those qualities. The trust fades and we cannot ever recover it, at least not while this world contains people who take advantage of that trust. But the love, while it fades, is not something forever lost. Unconditional love is something we can relearn after the innocence of childhood fades. We can learn to see human beings as what they are and love them where they are at. One day we'll get it. That will be second nature.

Honoring pride week also means honoring families. Families come in all forms, they always have. No one questions whether grandparents raising their grandchild is a family or not. I cannot see how anyone can question two women or men who love each other, and the kids they are raising, as a family. I have never been as proud of serving a family in birth as last year when I served a lesbian couple. They were so much in love and had so much love to give to a child. I knew they would only make our world better by parenting their beautiful son together.

Finally, honoring pride week to me means honoring change. My generation, and the ones just before and after, have been ones to foster great change. We ask questions and do not accept injustices. We incite riots and revolutions. We are evolution in progress. That is certainly something to be proud of.

I am glad the ones before us did not back down. I look forward to the day when little children have to ask their mommies and daddies why we remember Stonewall because equality is commonplace in our world.

Rape not my Cunt

Got your attention? Good. That's what I was going for.

Let me begin by explaining that my title is taken from a book called Cunt by Inga Muscio. Absolutely every woman should read this book. It is hands down the most powerful book I have ever had in my possession. As a matter of fact, every man who loves a woman should read it too. The book is about the power of not only the word cunt, but more importantly the power of being an owner of one. Seriously, buy it. Read it. Give it to your friends, sisters, mothers, wives and daughters.

Long ago cunts were revered. They were mysterious and sacred. Cunts were cherished by their owners and worshipped by their lovers. The temples (of the Goddess) were filled with women. The world, spiritually and physically, was one of feminism. Women were revered for their ability to give life and nurture. They were desired for their eroticism and respected for their...well they were just respected. The time before our world was one filled with patriarchs was a beautiful one. Or so I'm told.

I wonder how we went from a world like that to one where cunts are far from worshipped. The word itself has come to mean something negative, an insult to be spat at its intended target. Such a beautiful word turned into something so ugly. Originally, the word was a derivative of words synonymous with royalty and even the Goddess, like bathing a woman in purple silk.

It is time we stop raping our cunts. They are raped by the patriarchial bias in our society. They are raped by role expectations. They are raped by people who have forgotten how beautiful our cunts actually are. Then there's the saddest of all. They are raped, quite literally, in dark alleyways, in cars, in beds and against walls. They bleed blood from their trauma and cry tears from their heartbreak.

We must own the word and its power. We must own our cunts and their power. Inga says in her book, "All cunts belong to every woman." I can think of no reason we should not protect them as we do our own children.

I'd like to offer these words in dedication to all cunts that have been abused in one way or another, and hope that they can begin to offer beauty and healing.

Encyclopedias, notebook paper, and a big ass bug

Today I was reminded of a funny story and thought I'd share. When my ex-husband and I were married we lived in a tiny little rental house. Now, he was a paramedic and so I came home most nights alone since he worked graveyard (well, really he worked about 95 percent of the time but that's beside the point). So anyhoo, back to the story.

Most people who have known me a while may notice that I tend to turn on lights in a room before I enter. Yes, this is because I am afraid of the dark. So, I get the door open and the light on inside, then I take a step in the house. It took literally no more than a step for me to realize something was amiss. Hovering above me on the ceiling was a praying mantis.

Now, anyone who knows me at all knows I really do not like bugs of any kind for any reason. So this praying mantis posed quite a problem for me. In order to enter my own house I had to walk under him. Eyeing my enemy, I took a flying leap toward my cordless phone about four feet away from me. I dialed my then husband's pager and waited. And waited. And waited. Finally he answered.

Here's the conversation that followed:

Me - Honey! Come home quick! There's a praying mantis on the ceiling!

Him - And?

Me - You have to come get it!

Him - Now I can leave work and come kill a praying mantis for you.

Me - Well shit! What am I supposed to do?! I can't stay here with a bug crawling around above me!

Him - Get a broom and sweep it down then kill it. Sheesh.

Me - Ok, hold on.

So I grab a broom and sweep. Miss. Scream. Sweep again. Miss. Scream. Sweep again. Miss. Scream. Sweep again. Well, you get it.

Me - Gotta go honey, I can't get this damn bug.

Him - You're an idiot.

Finally after a couple of more sweeps and misses I managed to flick the mother of all praying mantises down to my kitchen floor. Oh shit! I had not thought about him crawling toward me! So, while he was still in shock from being flung through the air I threw a piece of stray notebook paper on top of him. See, I had a plan. On the bookshelf right next to me was the set of encyclopedias I'd had since I was ten. I picked up a couple of them, probably volumns N and O. Then I realized I wanted to make sure I finished to job and grabbed G and H for good measure. Then I stood back, perfected my aim, and dropped the books on the notebook paper. Unphased by the minor earthquake I'd created, I stepped over the book pile and fixed my Ramen noodles (code for dinner when you are young).

The next morning I was awakened by a conversation that went something like this:

Him - Candice, why is there a stack of encyclopedias on the kitchen floor?

Me - I killed the bug.

Him - Awww shit.

A Poem

A Survivor Is

One who has been through hell and lives to tell about it.
One who has walked over fiery coals and has blackened feet to prove it.
One who has fought wild animals and wears the scars as banners.
One who has been beaten down too many times to count and still stands on their own two feet.
One who soars like an eagle in spite of clipped wings.
One who dances the dance of life to the music of years gone by.
One who refuses to just exist but instead insists..

Insists on fighting to see another day.
Insists on clawing their way back out of hell.
Insists on flapping their wings until they can finally take off.
Insists on living and breathing and dancing and laughing and one day...

One day when they look back and see the flames of hell,
One day when they look down at their blackened feet,
One day when they examine their body for the fights they've wone,
One day when they see their wonderfully sturdy legs,
One day when they soar high above the world,
One day when they dance like never before...

That day...they realize...I am a SURVIVOR.

May 2001

A little fiction

This is a short story I wrote for my final in Creative Writing a couple of semesters back. I'd love some feedback, comments, kudos, general love! LOL Seriously, let me know what you think!

The Long Goodbye

My husband was on his deathbed. He had cancer. The battle was one he had been fighting for months. Finally, tonight his fight would end. I had met him after my first year in college. We spent the entire summer together. The painful separation, after returning to college, drew me back to the love of my life. We had been inseparable ever since. I had hardly touched him in months because of the cancer. I was afraid to touch him, as if the cancer would crawl from his body into mine. This night, as we sat waiting for his death, I began to long to touch him. The uncertainty of when death would come was heart wrenching. His last breath could be seconds, minutes, or even hours away. Still, I knew it would be this night, and I waited with uncertain dread and anguish.

As I looked at him now, my sweet John, I was reminded of the day we'd met. I had just finished my freshman year at NYU and was spending the summer on the beach in Florida with some friends. Our first night in Florida, the only bathroom in our tiny rental house broke and we pooled our money to call a handyman. I think I must have forgotten my name when I opened the door and he was standing there in jeans and a t-shirt, tan, with a crooked smile, and muscles that showed beneath his shirt.

"Hi there" he said, "Did someone call for a handyman?"

I stuttered my reply and invited him in. The other girls were at the beach and I laughed inside thinking my mother would have a stroke if she knew I was alone with a boy.

The thought of that evening made me laugh inside all over again. The feeling of a laugh rising up inside of me felt foreign, like being somewhere for the first time. I had not laughed in so long and felt guilty over the impulse. As I sat there looking at him, I was astonished at how little he looked like himself these days. His body, once strong and able, now looked small and frail, like a withered flower wasting away in the summer's heat.

Our years together had been good, John's and mine. Our marriage was not without trials, but well worth the effort we had put into it. We made sacrifices for each other, and when our children came along, we made sacrifices for them. We were pleased with our lives, even through tough spots, as long as we were together.

I had left him that first summer, headed back to school. I got about as far as my dorm room. The loneliness I felt that night as I lay in bed overwhelmed the silence around me. Thoughts of John and our summer together flashed through my head. We had been blissfully happy then. Like most couples, we began consumed with the passion that was each other, we couldn't be in the same room without touching each other, a hand, a cheek, a simple brush of skin on skin to feel the electricity that passed between. But this particular night, the longest night of my life, I laid in my cold bed in the solitude and silence and longed to be back in Florida.

And back I was, the very next day. Leave it to the whims of a nineteen year old girl, my daddy would rant later when he found out I'd left NYU behind. But I didn't care what anybody thought. I knew I had found the love of my life and I couldn't let us be separated by anything.

Looking at my frail, sweet John, I noticed a faint smile on his lips. I wondered if our souls were linked so deeply after all of these years that he was remembering the same sweet time as me. I bent closer to his ear and spoke, "Remember John, the day I came back to Florida. You were so happy you cried. I've never regretted that day, never regretted coming back to you."

How could I regret the moment that changed the course of my entire life? John and I had gotten married a short month after that. We didn't tell anyone about our secret life, not until a few months later when my period was late. I probably could have gone on forever without telling anyone, mainly out of fear of my Daddy. But when we found out our little Ashley was on the way John said to me, "My sweet Emma, we can't just start a new life. You'd never forgive yourself for keeping grandchildren from your parents. Come now darling, it's time to face the music." And so face the music we did, together. That road trip back home to Alabama was torture. Fear doesn't mix well with an untimely Fall heat wave and morning sickness that couldn't tell time. I'll never forget how mad Daddy was the day we told him and Mama everything. I don't know how long it took for him to be alright, but by the time the baby was here all was forgotten.

Ashley came into the world on a stormy Sunday morning. It was just about sunrise when she made her appearance. Her mass of dark curls and deep chocolate eyes captured everyone around her, including my daddy.

Thinking of the birth of a child always made me feel warm inside. As if my body glowed at the remembrance of bringing forth life. I sighed deeply and once again turned my attention to John. He seemed to be struggling a little more to breathe. Each breath he took was short, raspy like a limb scraping over the tin roof of a shed on a windy day. His skin was pale and seemed to hang off of his wasted frame. Remembering our years together only made me long to touch him more, yet I still refrained.

Rather than feel my guilt over my fear of him, I went back to remembering. Our second child, Jesse was born in the summer of 1973. His beautiful blond halo put him in sharp contrast to his sister, and with him our family was complete.

John and I weathered more than a few storms over the years following. We struggled many times to make ends meet in the beginning with John's work being seasonal and me at home with the kids. John was so proud to start his own contracting company in the eighties, and I was proud of him. Life for our little family seemed to be perfect. We all thought so.

By 1991, both of the kids were gone. Ashley was a senior in college, and Jesse had just left starting his freshman year. John and I were happy to spend some time getting to know each other alone again. For a while, the house was quiet. We no longer had idle conversation to fill the silences, there were no more cheer leading practices, football games, or Saturday gatherings of neighborhood kids around our house.

As I sat reminiscent of the years past, I realized that our life was flashing before me. This is what happens when you die, I thought to myself. Even though I knew it was John who was dying, not me, a part of me, perhaps the biggest part, was dying as well. The peaceful look crossing over my sweet John's face told me he was replaying our life as well. His breathing was slower now, shallow and soft. I knew he would not be with me much longer.

We had not known of John's cancer for long. Only a few short months. In the beginning, when we were just starting all of John's therapies, he would whisper to me as we lay in bed at night, "It's been good, right Em? Our life's been good." Each time I'd respond, while choking back a sob in my throat, "I wouldn't change any of it, John." We prayed for John's therapies to work, we even prayed for a miraculous disappearing of the cancer. But our miracle was not to be. The cancer had invaded too much of his body, and John declined faster than any of us would have thought.

After a few weeks in the hospital, John wanted to come home. The doctors said keeping him comfortable was all that was left. So I took him home, my sweet John, and set up a bed for him in our study that overlooked our gardens. He's always loved the study, especially in the summer when all of the flowers were in bloom.

The children had said their goodbyes to John. Ashley had come last week with her husband and their two children. She laid her head in her daddy's lap and cried while he stroked her hair. They had gone home that day, promising to visit again this week, since they were only a few hours away. Jesse called everyday for the past few months. He had visited some for a while, but his wife was very pregnant with their second child, making her unable to travel much. They had promised to visit next month after the new baby arrived.

Despite all of the plans, all of us knew John would not live to see them. None of us were fooled into thinking our miracle would suddenly appear. All of us had made peace with John's dying, including John.

I did not realize I was crying until I felt a tear fall on my hand. I looked at John and was overwhelmed by the emotion of loving him and sharing life with him and losing him. I grabbed his hand, crying. I spoke in broken sobs, "Don't...leave...me..." I leaned my head over on his chest. He was so thin I could hear his heart beat as it thread the blood through his body. My body trembled with the grief I felt rising up inside of me. A peace I cannot describe entered the room and I felt a stillness wash over me. I felt John's hand come to rest on my head.

"I love you," I whispered into the hush of the night and I heard John sigh as his heart fell silent and his body relaxed beneath me.

Take a cha-cha-cha-chance

So today is my birthday! It was 28 years ago today that I shot into this world, as it has been told to me very much like my first daughter was born. I must say I have never been good with birthdays, at least not mine. I am not a spotlight person and let's face it, birthdays are all about spotlight. I've gotten better about that though and today is all about ME!

Today I will celebrate my life. I will celebrate the things I have accomplished, the people who love me, the people who I love, and the life I have left ahead of me. I am a wife, mother, lover, friend, counselor, sister, daughter, woman, temple, goddess. I am a revolutionist, a survivor, and a feminist. I am all of these things.

I possess and make the most of my ability to give and sustain life. I love with everything I have in me and have been guilty of trusting so much it hurts. Each day I am a new person and I am never the same as the day before. I am proud of the woman I am and the woman I have yet to become. I am a lifelong student of life and am thankful I am able to teach some along the way.

Even as I'm typing this the clock above me is chiming midnight, announcing the beginning of my day. So I'm going to celebrate it! I will celebrate all of these things I am and all of the people I love who happen to love me back. Just for today. Well, maybe not just for today. But it's a damn good start!

Sing with me!
na na nananana
You say it's your birthday
It's my birthday too, yeah
They say it's your birthday
We're gonna have a good time
I'm glad it's your birthday
Happy birthday to you

Yes we're going to a party party
Yes we're going to a party party
Yes we're going to a party party.

I would like you to dance
Take a cha-cha-cha-chance
I would like you to dance

When we say I Love You

The phrase 'I love you' is a popular one. We use it everyday, over and over. Sometimes we say it out of habit, at certain times of the day or in response to someone because it's a ritual that requires no thought. Sometimes we say it because of timing, such as ending a phone call or a loved one leaving for work. There are really special times that we say it because we feel the love so deeply it must be expressed. Those are my favorite 'I love you's.'

I read somewhere not too long ago that when we say 'I love you' what we really mean is 'I love the way I feel when you are around me.' That struck a chord inside of me. I had an epiphany of love and what it meant to be truly loved by another human being.

I've spent alot of time in my life feeling more or less replaceable. I'm not trying to throw a pity party or anything, I'm just stating a fact. I mean, my mom and dad could adopt another kid. My friends could always make another friend. My husband could remarry. Any woman (or man, I'm not sexist) could raise my children. My roles in life can easily be filled in my absence. That is true. It is undisputable.

Here's the epiphany:

When I love someone, I do love the way I feel when they are around me. That feeling I have is unique for each person I love. No one can ever duplicate it for another person. That makes each person on this earth unreplaceable to someone.

I have so many people who are unreplaceable to me, and I am truly thankful for those who find me unreplaceable in their own lives.

Motherhood

I've had something on my mind this week to write about, but seeing as Mother's Day is almost here I thought motherhood might be a more appropriate subject. Today I am feeling my motherhood in a large way, so I thought I might take some time to sit in that...feel what motherhood means to me.

Before I was a mommy I never knew what love was, not really. I had loved, I had even been in love. I really thought I had loved another human with every fiber of my being. When I held my daughter for the first time though, nothing on this earth could have prepared me. I never expected to fall in love with her on sight. Looking into her eyes, I felt as if I'd known her forever. I still think that sometimes, as if our souls are intertwined in a way I simply cannot understand. I feel that with all of my children really, but it didn't take me by storm like with her.

Being adopted, I've always needed the biological mother daughter link. Abandonment issues much? Yeah that would be an understatement. And as I sat in that bed holding my daughter, I felt an enormous need to protect her swell inside of me like a lioness protecting her cub. I realize how cliche that seems, but it's true. I've never known a love like that I feel for my children.

I am more than a little proud of being a mom. I'm proud of everything that goes along with it. My pregnancies, the labors, two natural and gentle homebirths, the first not so natural or gentle birth that changed my life in a huge way for the better, and nursing my babies for better or worse. I'm proud of the happiness, silliness, tears, shouts, love, forgiveness, grace, and hope. I'm proud of all of the kisses, scraped knees, countless 'firsts', t-ball games, ballet recitals, 'watch me mom!'s, belly laughs, baby smiles, and hugs.

Tonight, though, I am feeling a little selfish, and maybe even a little slighted. There are times we (moms) truly need things we do not get. There are many needs that go unmet and probably unspoken for that matter. I am feeling that tonight. Those feelings are kind of like at a normal job when you might blurt out, 'I need a vacation!' or idly wonder why the hell you do this job anyway. I suppose I've wondered once or twice why I do this. I know I've sighed with exasperation I NEED A BREAK! See I don't get to leave the room when the baby cries and I'm the one everyone calls to fix everything. I'm the mechanic, the janitor, the mediator, and the counselor. Oh yeah, I'm also the cafeteria at this particular point in time.

I won't lie and say that at the end of the day when the oldest has thrown a fit, the son has been pure boy except when he was sleeping, and the baby has cried for a reason I can't quite figure out I don't have those 'why the hell am I doing this again?' thoughts. All it takes though is my daughter saying 'mom you're so beautiful' or my son laying his head on me with a 'mom you know what - I love you' or the baby stopping nursing to look up at me with a gummy smile. That's it and I'm gone - I fall in love all over again.

Cancer Walk

Tonight I attended the cancer walk in honor of my beautiful mom. She has been cancer free for almost four years so these walks are a big deal to us, just like the countless other families there and at walks just like it all over the country. I always cry at these walks, emotional with the realization that I could be one of the not so lucky people there to celebrate the life of a loved one 'in memory of' them rather than 'in honor of' them.

Tonight as I watched my mom walk with all of the other survivors, holding hands with a fellow survivor, all of their faces lit up with the victory they are all so proud of, I cried. I hugged her after she'd walked the entire circle as a survivor and I cried. She chuckled in my ear and said, "It's ok baby". I know, I told her, but the thing is that it could just as easy not be ok. She just doesn't get it. I can never ever express how glad I am it's ok.

Pledge of Allegiance

I heard my 5 year old daughter earnestly recite the following while playing school today:

I pledge allegiance to the Flag
of the Ninety States of America,
and to the puglic for Richard stands:
one Nature under God, individual,
With Liberty and Justice for all.

Priceless I tell you, just priceless!

The Importance of Birth in Our World

I was reading a post this morning on a spiritual forum. The poster was talking about the current negative state of our world and said something interesting: war cannot be ended by war. Now, I personally am extremely supportive of our troops and of the concept of freedom. I do not say OUR freedom because we are not free anymore, anyone who thinks we are is sadly deceived. Anyway, I digress. Without debating the morality of war, I have plenty of thoughts about, or at least around, her statement I'd like to get out.

I believe what she says. War cannot be ended by war. Just like in parenting, you cannot teach a child not to hit by hitting them, aka spanking. In examining the state of the world, though, I am inclined to agree that our negativity and negative energies play a large part in the violence and negative events. But, I believe that our negative energies begin much earlier in life.

A labor assistant I used to work with loved the saying "Peace on earth begins with birth." Even though I have never had much for hokey little rhyming sayings such as that one, I happen to deeply agree with it. We talk about a world without violence and war, without crime where people's rights ar truly respected. How can we ever expect this to happen, though, when we begin so many lives with violence?

Babies across the globe are violently pulled from their mother's womb without reason. They are brought into the world by force and on days they did not choose. We schedule our babies birthdays around convenience, like we are planning a party or something. We treat our new lives as if they have no consciousness, as if they are unaware.

Now, I know there will always be situations where babies have to be born by force. I understand that fully. But, the cold, hard truth is that the majority of babies this is happening to is happening out of convenience or fear instead of necessity. I believe with everything that is in me that until babies are treated with respect not only after birth, but before and during, then our current state of affairs will not begin to turn around. Until the majority of births are gentle and the minority are not, then there will never be a different world. Imagine a world where babies are birthed by confident women in secret places without cold instruments surrounding them and even touching them. Imagine babies who aren't pulled on as they enter the world, who do not breathe blood from their entranceways being cut through surgery or episiotomies. Imagine a world where each baby is immediately held by his or her mother, to smell her and breathe her in.

I know what you're going to say. We're talking about babies, who cannot do anything for themselves. How could a baby change the world? But, babies are only babies for fleeting moments in time. These babies will grow up and be our country's leaders - our world's leaders. If we continue to teach violence and the violation of their rights at birth, how can we ever expect them not to carry this into adulthood? Peace on Earth really does begin with birth.

Announcing the arrival of...

Kylie Joan
8 lbs. 1 oz.
21 inches long

Born 3/19/06 @ 11:30 am CST.

Her entrance into this world was a quick one - 2 pushes after 6 hours of active labor and she shot into the midwife's lap! We are both doing fine and the whole family is ecstatic to have her here.