How to right a wrong.

I am deeply saddened by the recent decision of the Supreme Court to overturn Roe V. Wade. If I were to leave the house, I would wear black, but I am too sad to be in public.  

Although it was a known possibility, it felt as a shocking as a slap across the face when the news broke. It was impossible for my eyes not to water, to not feel a sense of powerlessness and even humiliation at being so unheard and unvalued as a person able to make decisions about my body.

I am in mourning for myself, women around the country and the girls who are to follow behind us who will suffer at the hands of their individual states.

Soon, anger will set in and with it the energy to do something more than post on my blog (anonymously) or complain to my friends (two) or mope on the couch next to my husband.  

For now, I will feel the feelings and later prepare for the fight.

The Summer Day

By Mary Oliver

Who made the world?

Who made the swan, and the black bear?

Who made the grasshopper?

This grasshopper, I mean-

the one who has flung herself out of the grass,

the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,

who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-

who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.

Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.

Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.

I don’t exactly know how to pay attention, how to fall down

into the grass, how to kneel in the grass,

how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,

which is what I have been doing all day.

Tell me, what else should I have done?

Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?

Tell me, what is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?

Old Teachers

I waited for Daddy Longlegs in the car with the boys in the backseat. They giggled in a secret, quiet way as they conspired together on something. I have found it best to quietly observe than to turn around and disrupt their work. I readjusted the rear-view mirror and watched them with a raised eyebrow.

A sock hit my shoulder like a single musical note, followed by another, and a size 7 Croc landed on the dashboard and hysterical laughter rose in a crescendo from behind my seat.

By the time their father returned, the boys were irritated. There was nothing left to throw. No socks, no shoes and since they were strapped into their seats, throwing their pants was not an option. I had gathered a nice collection of everything they lobbed into the front seat.  

The trunk popped open.

“They couldn’t find the right stuff,” Daddy Longlegs huffed as he loaded stones into the back of our Honda-CRV.

He shut the trunk and slid into the driver’s seat.

“The guy in there,” he gestured towards the store with his thumb, “he was trying to match the stone to what I ordered until I said, it’s the cobblestone. And the guy laughed and said, ‘I’ll never forget it now. Cobblestone, cobblestone, cobblestone. That reminds me of my fourth-grade teacher, Mr. Cobble. I wonder where he is now. I’ve been thinking about good ol’ Mr. Cobble a lot lately. What a guy.’”

It made me think of some of my former teachers, like Mrs. Landrum who seemed ancient when I was a kindergartener, but I think she was only in her fifties and blessed with salt and pepper hair, and Mrs. Prince who tossed out Jolly Ranchers for the right answer or if we were having a hard day and Mrs. Ambler who read a chapter a day from classics like Where the Red Fern Grows and Summer of the Monkeys.

“Memory is more indelible than ink.” Anita Loos

I wonder who will leave a lasting impression like that for my sons from the memories and experiences that are unformed and undone and from the people they have yet to meet. Who pops up for you, Dear Reader, when you remember those formative characters from your youth like the unforgettable, Mr. Cobble?

A Book’s Cover

Can you judge a book by its cover? I try to reserve judgement but its there one way or another, either in the very back or in the very front of my mind. Time and time again, I have been wrong after making a quick decision about a person because of their clothes or the way they speak. Recently, I met someone with a feather sticking out of her hair and instantly thought she was crazy, only to find she was a very competent employee and natural leader.

It is human nature, I think, to make up stories about who is safe or unsafe in an effort to understand our world and to quickly categorize those with whom we come into contact. Of course, humans are not so simple and seem to defy categorization because we live a long time and have layers upon layers of experiences that create and transform our character.  

I write all this to explain that we are in the process of finding a new babysitter. Our current gal gave the standard three day notice due to some silly health condition (extreme pregnancy) which we knew would happen sooner or later.

I posted an ad on our neighborhood page and within a few hours had exactly one interested party, a 16-year-old who lives down the road who loves kids. We set a date for her to come over for a meet and greet. She arrived in a baby doll dress with big eyes and blond hair. The boys had hearts in their eyes as they ran to her and offered her lollipops and popsicles to stay and play.

And I found myself making a hasty assessment of her thinking, she is young, well put-together and has so much potential, she would not jeopardize her future by doing something foolish or negligent with my sons. I want to see the best in her and as a long-time social worker, I know that potential is limitless in all directions, for better or worse.   

As we finished our popsicles, I said, “The job is yours if you want it,” with a hope for the best.

Fear of the Bad Man

There is a fear that follows me like a shadow. It has been with me ever since I was small. To be honest, I am still small and some days it seems that only the fear has grown.

It’s the fear of The Bad Man. You know, the man with the baseball cap pulled down low over his eyes lurking in the bushes or the guy crouching down and waiting beside your car in a dark parking lot.

I am talking about the pervasive fear of the predatory man that is perpetuated every time I watch the news or listen to the radio. He is out there, waiting and watching for his opportunity to cause harm.

As an independent, childless woman, I kept the Bad Man at bay, aware and defensive. Now that I have children to protect, everywhere I look, the potential for an interaction with the Bad Man is there.

We can’t go for a walk without the thought that he might be around the corner or back to the car from a store without an extra scan to see if he is following us. I lace my keys between my fingers or carry a metal water bottle, just in case. Yesterday, I priced out pepper spray options that I ultimately decided against due to the absolute certainty that one or two curious little boys would spray themselves.  

This fear is a gift from my mother, creative in her protection, she created the idea of the Bad Man and with years of constant reinforcement, it remains with me. I suppose it keeps me alert and present, albeit paranoid, anxious and a little neurotic, and therefore I keep my sons a little safer in a world that feels so very dangerous some days.

Does anyone else struggle with this fear?  How do you face down your fears, real or imagined?

A Walk on the Wild Side

It is over 90 degrees in Tennessee and with the humidity, it feels like we are near the burning fires of Hell. The heat makes doing any kind of activity outdoors more difficult, but not impossible. And with two very active, young boys, time spent out of the house is an absolute requirement. We are creative in our plans, mindful of the sun, shade and always have lots of water on hand.

Today, we went for a hike in a lovely, forested park. The path was paved and surrounded by mature trees creating the perfect place for my wildings to run and burn off energy. It didn’t take long before they were slowing down and dripping with sweat.

“Carry me,” Baby Brother asked with upstretched arms.

“No, me,” Little Legs insisted as he shoved his brother aside.

“You are both big boys and can walk,” I explained, my hands were already full with their water bottle and abandoned hats.

“Maybe you should carry your brother?” I mistakenly suggested to Little Legs.

Little Legs took this as permission to grab his brother by the waist to start carrying him like a lumpy, sweaty sack of potatoes. Baby Brother fought him off only to get a double back slap-shove as he escaped and tried to run away.

They both cried and resumed their futile request for human transport before deciding it was easier to claim a mobility-impairing injury. Little Legs went down and Baby Brother in true monkey see, monkey do fashion, followed in the exact same way.

“My knee hurts,” Little Legs wailed

“Knee hurt,” Baby Brother cried.

“We can’t walk,” Little Legs explained as their spokesperson.

They both proceeded to go belly up for a rest on the pavement.   

In a surprise to no one, the heat brought out the crazy in both of them. They were only willing to move for the promise of orange push pops and blue Gatorade.  

As for me, I was glad we found a way to beat the heat, that they could walk unassisted (if it wasn’t for their double knee injuries), carry their own water bottles (if they put their minds to it) and we could spend the day together.

Hot and crazy, but together.