Kid Behavior

I'm a firm believer that no child wants to be a bad kid. If they are acting out, there's a good chance that the grown ups in charge have missed something and the kid is trying to tell you something.

The best way to gauge the needs of a child is to try your best to see things the way they do and see how you would feel if your needs were neglected.

Control

We all have a desire for control.  It's horrible when life spins out of control.  That's when people check out and escape. Putting on my big girl pants means I'm releasing control over situations I can't control and accepting the only thing I can control is my reaction and my mindset.  This comes from having full control of my life and knowing it's still not complete control.  There's freedom in this, but it's not freedom if you have absolutely no control.  Our children don't always get to choose what to eat, or wear or when to go to bed.  They don't always get to choose where they are going or who they will be with.  I get a little road ragey when I want the car ahead of me to drive like they had to get a license to do so.  I try to give my kids control where I can. My mom feels I give them too many choices, but I feel it's important to teach them that their opinions are valued and that I want to know what they think and feel.

Exhaustion

Children need much more sleep than adults do.  When we are asleep is when we grow and heal. It's when we recharge and reset from what was learned.  If you eat a large meal, your brain slows down and you get sleepy because your body needs the rest to process the work it's doing.  This is why multitasking means you get lots of less than stellar results.  Kids need rest. Dragging them from store to store and not making sure they are rested is begging for a melt down.

Hunger

We all have experienced hangry moments.  It's when hunger and anger merge and food makes us feel bad for our behavior later.  As adults, it's easy to be so driven by duty that we neglect our bellies, but we still know when we need to eat.  We have learned to listen to our bodies. Infants had a steady stream from their umbilical cord and don't experience hunger until birth.  It looks like rooting and mouthing their little fists, but it sounds like crying and anger.  They have little bellies.  Small frequent meals will help keep them calm.

Loneliness

No one likes to be lonely.  As adults, we crave company and connection.  I'm not dating right now because the people that want to connect usually want to connect in ways that I'm not interested in.  I want a mental and emotional connection, and often that means I can skip the rest unless I find someone whose juice is worth my squeeze.  For now that's just me.  My juice is worth my squeeze but I drew what loneliness is to me.  There's a vulnerability in standing alone and enjoying it.  My stick figures include a naked curly haired kid and a couple with clothes on.  She's wearing a bikini top (no nipples).  We all crave connection.  Our kids want us to see what they are doing and they want our involvement.  Humans need physical touch.

Boredom

My drawing is supposed to be a computer and a football, but you can see where my football took a turn.  Maybe my computer was offering porn.  I haven't decided, but you can.  I've never called myself an artist.  I craft words. My kids love being entertained.  It looks like Homestuck, or Minecraft or YouTube.  They are growing up in a world of globalization and computers in the classroom so learning is entertainment.  I was lucky enough to have a friend in high school point out that it's lucky when we can be our favorite company.  It's a blessing to be content when alone.  I can stand and watch a setting sun shimmering on ocean waves.  I can be present and feel the warmth of the sun and the breeze on the air and I can feel how wonderful living in the moment is.  It's a learned skill and not every child has learned it.  It doesn't help that I and other parents have used the television to keep them entertained so we can do laundry and dishes and be parents.

Love

We need to feel love and affection.  We need to feel valued.  We need to know that we are not cared for out of obligation but because we are deeply loved.  Kids need to know it from their family because the value we instill will help them see that they are enough on their own and they won't need to buy friendships or barter sex for affection.  Teach your children they are loved early and they will learn to love themselves, rather than seek someone else's love to fill the voids from a detached parent.

I love openly and freely.  I have no problem complimenting someone else.  If I see greatness in someone, I will call it out because I love what I see and want to honor that beauty.  Love is a gift that I enjoy giving.

What happens when we fail

When we can't give our children what they need, they will often react by acting out.  This can look like tears, or tantrums.  This can look like bad behavior and lying.  Why would someone lie?  They know that the truth isn't good enough for the person they're lying to.  They know that what they think or believe or feel should be shaded in someone else's approval before it's accepted.  How sad is that? I started this post by stating that no child wants to be bad, and I stand by it.  Getting your attention, whether through praise or a reprimand means that you are looking at what had been ignored.  When my boys act out, the first thing I look at is where I failed them, and I can usually spot it, but sometimes I have to ask and coax it out of them.

Meltdown vs. Tantrum

Being an autism mom means I have first hand experience of a meltdown and have had to learn the difference.  Most people see acting out as a tantrum, but a meltdown is a different beast.

A tantrum is usually about getting what is wanted.  The kid in question has probably had a tantrum that was rewarded in the past.  They will often act out as long as they are getting a reaction from you.  I don't react to my kid's tantrums.  Not anymore.  I will step over a crying child and keep walking.  They are aware of their personal safety and their audience.

A meltdown means there is so much going on that the kid has lost control.  Meltdowns mean they might end up hurting themselves.  Meltdowns mean they can't adjust to the situation and for my boys, I need to be their anchor, and hold them quietly until the moment passes.

Vision Boarding

I don't actually have a vision board yet, but I'm working on one.  I'm in the exploring phases and trying to figure out what a meaningful life looks like to me. I've been walking through that in the last year.  It looks like setting and reaching goals, beach trips, strolling through museums, and dating myself. It looks like patience with my kids, that reaches far past my own exhaustion.  It looks like being inspired and inspiring others.  It looks like examining what I feel I should do, compared to what I am actually doing, and deciding how to shift my shoulds into actuals so that I'm happy with what I'm getting done and feeling productive about it. It looks like deep love and great hugs.  I could use more hugs, quite honestly.

I'm thinking of what a good life is to me.  I'm imagining what makes life worth living. I want to know what will matter on my deathbed and what I will be remembered for, and is it what I want to be remembered for?  It's reframing my relationship with money.  I want to control my wealth, and I don't want the pursuit of it to control me.  I want to do and give and be. I want to embody leadership, and be the person that helps others grow.  I want a life so creative that my expectancy doesn't know what it means to have a dream too big. If it's a dream, size doesn't matter, does it?

I believe in acting like I love myself.  That means I speak like I love myself.  Mainly I write like I love myself.  It takes more courage to say it, and even more to do it.  At the end of the day, I'm proud of the fact that I really do move, eat, speak, and act like I love myself.  I'm proud of the person I am because it's become important to me to see that I can do epic stuff daily.

I'm Nicer Than I Want To Be

I like to say I'm not a nice person, but I really am, and I will try my best to own that.  I like to think I'm mean to others in an effort to put myself first, but telling someone they have a really cute kid that I really can't see because my contact lenses are misbehaving doesn't make the cruelty cut, does it?  It presents itself as a kindness because in reality, it could have been an ugly kid and I would have lied if it really was an ugly kid.  It's not a stretch to imagine I would have been lying. I'm not a fan of the way newborns look.  They look like they have been beaten up by a uterus for a day and swimming in their own pee for several months. They're swollen and wrinkled and boring, except when they cry.  Give them a few weeks and they start to look kinda cute, but there's a good chance that the features you had to grow into will be a curse on your children too. They are to mine. They are cute only because they are little and new and there's something magical about the innocence and purity of never having committed any offense (except the cries of a miniature dictator that can't wait for you to wake up on your own).

I haven't been on a date with anyone other than my sons in months.  I can't tell you when my last date was because it wasn't worth remembering.  I stopped dating when I deleted my dating profiles. I've had other offers but I wasn't interested. I shared lunch with someone at work, but spent the time talking about my ex, and later realized I was trying to sabotage the date because I haven't talked about him as much before or since that lunch date.

Dating means I often get frustrated and feel angry because I'm more than a body with a smile.  There is usually a man that isn't ugly, though he's rarely beautiful, and he wants to get to know me.  It's about the third response from him that suggests he wants to get me to his place, half naked, and drinks involved.  It's a pool or jacuzzi I just have to see.  It's a movie where we sit in silence and he wants to see how far his hands can roam. It's a home cooked meal I should taste.  It's a bar around the corner from his house and a safe place to crash if I can't drive.  It's a back rub that would melt away my stress.  There's a knowing excitement when I say I don't really drink.  They tease out that I do drink on occasion but can't handle my liquor and it means I'm a cheap date and it won't be too expensive to loosen me up.  So I go out alone or with my sons and find peace in solitude because I'd rather be alone than on defense all night. I'd rather listen to the thoughts in my mind than be irritated with the crap that most men see as insightful banter.

I realized today that I really am a nice person, even if I don't want to be at times.  Well, it was when a woman told me that blocking stupid men is what any woman would do that I realized I'm nicer than I think I am. When someone treats me like I'm desperate and lonely, I want to tell them they aren't beautiful enough to be a jerk, but I don't. I just block them.  When the guitarist / skater kept reminding me of Beavis and Butthead, I didn't tell him I couldn't date an idiot, I just told him we weren't a good fit, and later I told him I wanted more than he was willing to offer, even though I knew I didn't want any of what he had.  I almost gave him a pity date but realized I owed more to myself than I did to him.

What it comes down to is that I will take a lot before I ever dish it out because I know what it means to hurt and I don't enjoy hurting others.  Even when I attacked the ex, I wasn't happy that I hurt him.  I was excited that I finally defended myself.  I later felt pity because he had never had my abuse and I wasn't sure he could handle it.  (Emasculating him was always unintentional, even just now.) I may have wanted to throat punch him for the times I was expected to cook for him, clean up after him, then be his groupie, but I never expressed anything but love for him and irritation at the housework.  I never directed my rage at him when he made me angry.  It often looked like taking it out on the kids or animals.  It looked like hiding in books. Now it looks like I need a timeout and I sit alone and focus on breathing and slow movements until I calm down enough because I can usually remember that I want to be the mom my kids deserve which is not the mom I usually feel like being.

I say I want to be fierce and angry and I want to direct my rage outside of myself, but I rarely do.  When I do attack, I aim to hurt and dig intentionally.  It's a surgical strike and I won't waste words.  I won't call names without aiming at weaknesses, and I will have spent long enough taking insults to observe weaknesses and I will use what was left at my disposal.  When I'm done, I will replay the situation in my mind, and hope that the guilt will be drowned out by the exhilaration of defending myself. For the most part, it's far easier to let it go.

I call on that baby duck.  A momma duck is insane.  She will go after you if you approach her babies.  A baby duck is so busy learning to swim, they don't care about the water sliding off of their back.  I'm a baby duck.

I can listen and it might bother me for a few hours, or even a day, but I melt into the peace that comes when I realize I don't have to live in the hate that was thrown at me. I'm not drowning in anger and trying to bail it out on others. I can choose my reaction and to be able to love openly and freely and unconditionally, in spite of the microaggressions and assaults at my expense is a gift.  I might want to be mean but at my core I know being nice and having that be who I am and what I express daily is a gift.

I'm snarky, and I have moments I'm not proud of, but I can be proud of being nice in spite of the mean that looks like funny to me.  Inside my head is all kinds of fun.

Pride

I don't think of pride often. Not specifically.  Last night that envelope was pushed and so here I am, exploring meanings and pushing them into shape. First I should say I grew up in a Christian household.  My parents tried really hard to instill in us the fear of a wrathful God.  Getting tattoos and being gay will send us to hell. I'm tatted up.  I want more ink one day.  I decided loving gay people was better than being hateful.  I believe you get out of your faith what you put into it, and it's important to see what faith means to you, and not what others tell you it means.  The United States was based on a separation of church and state, and I'm still working out a separation of church and my parents.  I'll have to let you know how it goes once I get there.

Before hitting Junior High, I had a huge crush on one of my sister's friends, only to see him grow into a drool worthy specimen of masculinity that likes other boys.  It can be hard to be aware of what sex for him would look like and still be attracted to him, but I manage. He loves his body as much as I do and I appreciate his work outs and selfie moments.  Yes, I still see Crossfit as God's gift to me.

When I was in high school, I had a few really great guy friends that would sit and talk about cute boys with me because they liked the same boys that I did.  These men grew up to have stories about the first time they got their asses handed to them for loving someone of the same sex, or being far more feminine than I am.  It wasn't a big part of who we were together but I know their existence was full of more heartache, grace and empowerment than I have ever known and their ability to walk in love is a strength deserving of admiration. Around this time I used to joke and say, "that's gay, but not like jailhouse raping gay . . . you know, plan your wedding gay.  The good gay." (No, I'm not proud of that.)  I didn't understand then how offensive I was being.  There's no good or bad gay.  There is a mix of pain and sorrow and grace and beauty and my ignorance in a time when "gay" was being used as an insult only normalized those that were behaving badly in "innocent" hetero fun by othering my friends.  We were laughing at the expense of those who have to fight family and friends to love and be who they feel comfortable being.

I have a confession to make.  When my sister came out of her closet, I must have been in high school or just out of it.  (My old kicks in and the years blur at times.)  I had to really look at what that meant to me, because I was under the false impression that who she loved had something to do with me.  I went through the shock that looked like disgust.  I thought silly things: was she getting off in giving me a bath when I was a kid?  Never mind the fact that she is my sister, and we're talking lesbian love, and not incest.  At the end of the day, and after I saw her go through lesbian and gender normative relationships, I realised all I wanted for my sister was for her to be loved like a coffee mug.

I later went through my own curious phase.  It lasted long enough to know I don't like kissing girls because they are too soft.  As exciting as porn might have looked, because boobs are awesome, I like mine enough to not want to touch anyone else's.  Then breastfeeding happened and touching them can be annoying instead of arousing.

I have a cousin that came to the states from Thailand when he was in middle school or high school.  (Again with blurring years.) As normal as it is to see Thai Lady boys, he is the only transgendered, gay person on that side of my family.  He's fiercely beautiful and still othered for who he is.  It's not normal in our family and while he's loved beyond words by his brother, he's also teased by that same brother.  He's still beautiful and fierce, and brave to me.  He will help me with my makeup, dance in 8 inch heels, tell me I deserve better, and still cut a bitch for looking at him wrong.  He's diva and beautiful and I love him madly.

When my boys were little, they each went through a nail polish phase.  I didn't mind and indulged in it.  Their Dad was angry about that, but how he feels is no longer my problem. I tell my boys I will always love them, no matter who they love. All I want is for them to be happy and know love. Male or female, I want my sons to be loved deeply and treated well.

For the LGBT community, pride isn't frivolous or silly.  It's not just rainbows and unicorns.  It's what survivors have when they didn't have someone to pave the way for them. As a black woman, I have in my bloodline a heritage that knows oppression and struggle.  My bloodline knows segregation and living in fear, but I don't.  I know emotional and financial abuse.  Having full control of my own finances is so liberating. I've never lived in fear that I might not survive the night because of my looks or how I walk and talk, or who I love. Even my parents, a black man and Thai woman knew oppression for being a mixed couple that I didn't, having married a white man.  I've never lived through being called names and being attacked and accepting that this was normal.  I don't mean when I was teased in elementary school.  For a while when I was in the second grade, I was teased and called slave girl and told to go back to Africa. I changed schools and went to a school with fewer hispanic kids and more black kids but I didn't have the same hair and I didn't talk the way they did, so my best friends had fair skin and hair textured closer to mine, but several shades lighter.  Schools changed again and I was teased for having liver lips, and Chewbacca hair.  But I didn't have to live in fear.  Not really.

Last night I was back to school shopping with Kid2 and Kid3.  Kid2 wanted a pair of Pride sunglasses from Target.  I had no problem with it.  I probably wouldn't have bothered with an explanation but their aunt was with us and started to explain what it's about.  She told them that Pride means accepting the fact that people can love whomever they love and we are going to be okay with that.  It's a great explanation for my 13 year old autistic child and my 9 year old, but then I remembered they're my boys, and there's a deeper meaning they should understand.

My explanation started in the store but finished on the way home and sounded more like:

You know your Auntie that dates women? And my cousin that dresses like a woman sometimes and dates men?  Pride means they can do this and we support them.  Some people don't like that and wearing something that says you're proud means you are okay with standing up for something that might get you hurt because people that don't like things tend to make their opinions known in unfriendly ways.  You know I'll love you no matter who you love, but what you may not know is that not everyone is as accepting of that as I am.

I walked away from our car ride discussion realising it's not enough to be able to have fun at a gay club.  I should be expressing my Pride.  I don't walk through what it means to me enough to teach my boys what Pride means.  What I want them to know is that for some people, gender is a fluid idea that isn't fully realized.  There are people that were born as boys but grow up to become women.  There are girls born who later become men, and the truly free present themselves as "they."

I was born a woman.  I live as a woman. It is how I feel comfortable, and even then, I have moments when living in my skin itches and pulls and I want to peel away the layers of weight and disgust but I can't.  It pulls uncomfortably like skin that has been burned and dried out by the heat of an unforgiving sun. My Pride is about accepting those that are comfortable in their skin, even if it means I am going to ruffle feathers and disgust people. It's knowing what may not be accepted and knowing that what I know to be right is more important than being accepted. My Pride means I won't flinch over which bathroom is being used.  As a Mom, I will always fear a bathroom that has my kids in it without an adult I know and trust. I won't get angry at seeing two men kissing.  I won't tell you how to live your life because frankly I'm still trying to figure out how to live mine.

The Coffee Mug

I think lovesick puppies are cute, but I'd rather be your coffee mug. I can handle hot passion and sit and wait as you watch me cool off.

Trust me to carry your morning Joe, afternoon tea, late night cocoa or that Hot Toddy.

I would be happy to be your first thought each morning.

I can sit alongside you when you are lost in a book.

Coffee might come from magic beans but it's nothing without me to deliver it to you.

You can hold me with both hands and I'll warm you up while I bask in your worship.

Expect great things from me and I won't disappoint you.

Hold me carefully each day.

Bathe me gently.

Love me tenderly.

Let me be your coffee mug.

Taking a Step

My walk has been a topic of conversation today.  I don't do it on purpose.  Not anymore. That strut that I step out in has become part of me.  I don't even think about it.  I found a video of a pink elephant that was walking like I do and had to share it on Facebook to laugh, because that is how I walk.  And I'm great at laughing at myself.

This morning at the grocery store, when picking up sugar snap peas (my go to snack - raw and undipped) the checker asked if I'm a model. She saw something in the way I walk.  It's with purpose (food and time are great motivators).  I look up and ahead.  I don't worry about where my feet fall, and smile at others because I'm usually playing a great song in my ears.  I don't worry about whether or not I can walk in heels.  I do, and I don't think about it because I trust my body.  I learned months ago that my muscles make up for my insecurity and that's when my calves hurt.  If I step out in confidence, it happens and others stare.  Or look away.  It's a toss up and I don't care anymore.

At work today, one of the women I sit with asked if I know I walk like a model.  I took it as a compliment and had a question to ask elsewhere.  I came back to giggling looks and knew she was asking someone else for an opinion on the way I walk and I laughed it off.

I was a t.v. extra.  It's a rite of passage in my city.  I acted on stage in high school.  I'm a bit of a ham.  I've never once modeled.  I'm not a model, nor do I care to be.

I don't walk like a model.

I walk like a mom.

I walk like I know great heartache can help me appreciate greater love.

I walk like I love silliness and frivolity because laughter is healing.

I walk like I'm inspired by sunshine and warm breezes with birdsong and honeysuckle on the wind.

I walk like smiles are free and hugs are healing.

I walk like it's an honor to be an inspiration to friends and strangers.

I walk in confidence because I know I will be okay.

I walk fearlessly because it feels better to be fiercely brave.

I walk like there's no turning back and the past isn't where I live anymore.

I walk like I'm stepping in gratitude.

I walk like there is beauty in everything I look at.

I walk as if I'm made of magic and stardust and there is something beyond belief holding me up and keeping me going.

I walk in the knowledge that I'm not different from any other person and anyone can walk like I do.

Righting a Wrong

Confessions

I have a confession to make.

Kinda.  Sorta.  Not really.  Not right now.

In the last year or so I've been really big on authenticity.  I've been embracing my truth and interpretation because to deny or normalize what is uniquely me into what I think might be accepted means I'm not okay with myself. When I'm wrong, I quickly admit it and do my best to address it immediately.

On Friday I made a mistake at work.  It was big enough to tie my stomach in knots and make my clumsiness much more pronounced.  I even broke my coffee mug.  I was holding it until I wasn't and it tumbled out of my right hand and somersaulted out of reach after jumping through my left hand before shattering spectacularly on the concrete floor. Try to imagine the echoes I can't forget.  It was loud and probably applause worthy but certainly epic. I knew I had to own up to it and walked around the inside perimeter of the building trying to figure out how to fix it and decide if explaining what I did was something to do in person or by email.  I decided to do it in person because I'm not big on hiding.  Not lately.  By the end of my run on sentence it wasn't a big deal.  It was even nothing that required more than a notation.  I worried about nothing.  The fact that I worried means that I cared, and my first concern was that I was creating more work for someone else to fix.

Confession is rarely for the benefit of the person we're confessing to.  When I confess something I've done it has gotten to the point where what I have done is making me uncomfortable.  I'm not happy or at ease with what I have done, and removing the guilt and shame looks like telling on myself.  I need you to know what I've done and the weight of what is on my shoulders needs to be explained so that you can see what I did.  At the end of the confession, the confessor has a heavy burden lifted, without concern for the new weight sitting on the shoulders of the person they've confessed to.

It's like admitting to a lover that you strayed while you were still unofficial.  You unburden your conscience but with little regard to the person you say you love.  They now have to carry your actions they might have been okay living blissfully ignorant of.

Forgiveness

When we offer forgiveness, it's a gift we give ourselves.  We don't have to tell a person we forgive them.  If they've done something wrong, they will have to find a way to make it better.  If they confess, giving your forgiveness means they still have to accept it and let it ease the disquiet of their actions.  In giving forgiveness, you release them from the responsibility of your feelings.  In forgiving, you give something to yourself so that you feel peace about a situation.  There is no reason you need to make someone feel better about how they treated you.  They will have to find a way to feel better about what they did or failed to do.  Forgiveness is something we sometimes need to repeatedly offer for a single offense.  Sometimes a single situation has a myriad set of reactions that become unreleased offenses.  For me, this looked like my ex leaving, and every single way my life changed for the worse become an unreleased offense until I realized this was the greatest gift beyond our kids he could've given me.

What I'm still learning is that when I do something wrong, and I've confessed and been forgiven, the hardest thing to do is to accept my own forgiveness for breaking a commitment to being the person I want to be.  I have to forgive myself for something I did when I didn't stand up straighter for my beliefs.

When I was just out of high school I had a friend that was one of my favorite people.  We hung out together.  We drank together.  One night at a party, I was very nearly gang raped in my own bedroom.  A guy I was seeing left me alone to grab this friend, who burst through the door, yanked me off my bed and ended the party for me while I sat and shivered on a couch between him and other friends.  A while later he was angry with his girlfriend and I stood between him and her with his fists raised in anger.  I knew he was hitting her and I repeatedly chose our friendship over what I knew was right.  Over 8 years ago I decided I couldn't condone that and I completely severed the friendship.  I still haven't forgiven myself for what I did in accepting him and not telling her to leave him sooner than I did, then walking away to not be involved.  It's enough to leave a sad look on my face that makes others ask if I'm okay.  I wasn't okay and that in itself is perfectly appropriate.

Apologies

I'm trying to teach my boys that an apology isn't enough.  There are some things I really am sorry for and when I do something wrong, I try to apologize. I apologize to my sons a few times a week at minimum. Sometimes I apologize to the air I'm breathing because there are times my rage is so much stronger than the debt I feel to the person I'm angry with.  Being angry has nothing to do with right or wrong.  What I feel doesn't legitimize what I do because of feelings. You know what feels right to you instinctively and human brains are usually good at deciding the rest. There is no reason to feel other than how you feel or to apologize or explain it.

When I say I'm sorry, and I really mean it, I will go into the ways I felt I've wronged someone and I will tell them what it made me feel about myself.  I will tell my kids I'm sorry I yelled. I lost it and my reaction is not your fault. I will do better next time because nothing means more to me than you do. (Even a fight that leaves another broken dish on the floor.) I will try to correct the committed offense and ensure it won't happen again because being the mother I want them to have means fewer therapy costs. Anything less and I'm breathing air and it's meaningless.

Body Image

I like to think my body image is healthy.  At the end of the day it comes down to knowing that not many people complain. I walk with confidence - usually.  I know my ethnicities intrigue and my curves entice.  I've been told these things since I was a little girl and it was really creepy.  It's not about conceit.  Knowing you are a face and a body and often nothing more doesn't feel good and I'm as self deprecating as the next person.  I attack other areas I have no control over. I will still think of my nose as large and flat and it will always make me think of peanut butter the way it spreads across my face.  It's adorable on my kids but it will always keep me just shy of beautiful when cute is the attainable title. My eyes will always be a dull brown that is nearly black when I've always wanted them lighter.  I have my Dad's cleft chin and my resting bitch face looks just like his everyday face when he's not fake smiling and a little creeptackular.  It's not pretty and it might be why I smile so much. It might also just be that I'm really happy most of the time lately.  I often hear from old friends that I didn't smile this much when I was happily married. When it's not my face but the rest of my body, I'm quite happy. When I was a little girl, many of my family pictures included me in the front, rounding out my belly, sticking it as far as I could.  I can't tell you why I did this because I have no clue.  I do know that I've never been one to suck in my stomach.  I might turn a certain way because there is artistry in angles, but I don't suck it in.

I was always fairly active as a child.  When I wasn't sitting in a sunny window, collecting bits of trash and calling them treasures, I was outside.  I rode bikes, tried skateboarding, played pickle and kickball with the neighborhood kids. . . Play was active.  I got older and my mom started sticking me in ballet, tap dance, jazz, Hawaiian dance, swimming, and gymnastics.  I got to junior high and joined Drill Team.  In high school there was more dance with theater and I also did karate.  Aside from my larger than average bra size, I was always fairly thin.

When I left high school, I worked in a lingerie store where I learned the average bra size was a 34B.  In high school I was wearing a 36DDD and couldn't even find my size in Victoria's Secret.  My relationships averaged a year and a half each and I never had complaints about my looks, but contentment often meant I got softer and larger because I ate the way my ex's ate and I was less active when we were hanging out the way we did. At my largest, my bra size was 40F.  (The complaint was I was too nice and too needy.) After the long term before the marriage I wasn't in relationships as much as hook ups.  There might have been one or two special boys at that time, but no one worth keeping.  Again, I didn't have complaints about my looks.  I also learned that what you looked like was less important than your willingness.  Most men are easy to read and easy in general.  Maybe that's why I'm not easily flattered and more interested in the boys that make me think.

Motherhood happened and I remembered my first endeavor after Kid1 was born.  I put on a pair of jeans, felt leaky everywhere because that is what childbirth does to a mother's body and went to the grocery store.  My hair was a mess, I was exhausted, and some poor boy was still hitting on me in line when I was still having a hard time walking. My ex didn't complain about my looks until I heard from his current one that I'm physically unattractive.  Since I wouldn't date her, I will assume we just have a difference of opinions.

My whole life, the only man to complain that I could and should lose weight is my Dad.  He means well.  I realized when he was taking me home from the hospital after visiting my infant who stayed a total of 10 days in the NICU that I had to just let it go and accept that I will never be thin enough for him, but no one else complains.

Really, I know what I look like.  I can see my stretch marks and extra skin and the parts that sag.  I know the random places where a gray hair will show up and even found one on top of my head.  (It was soft gray and I was so excited that I have a gray hair and no one will yank it out because I've earned it and I'm keeping it.)  I stand and judge the first tattoo I ever got because it was a jailhouse tat done badly and I want to one day repair it.  I'm waiting for the meaning to materialize and then I will have a concept to bring to the artist.

I also know what my body is capable of.  I have carried and birthed seven children.  I have hiked through dangerous terrain. I have danced and walked and kicked and punched. I can still roundhouse kick at chest level but I couldn't guarantee the power behind it. I was able to do my right and left splits until Kid3.  I'm flexible enough to bend over and reach my toes without stretching.  I have gone farther than I thought I could and I have done it with laughter and through sorrow.  I know what it is to run along wet and dry sand.  I know what it feels like to push past exhaustion into feeling like you have limitless energy.  My body knows pleasure beyond words and what it really means to be able to do nothing but feel because good and bad, it always comes in waves. I can survive pain that is emotional until it's also physical.  My body amazes me.

I have moments of insecurity at a beach when I'm first exposed in a bikini.  Then some random guy won't be able to look away and my confidence is back because I know no one else looks as closely as I do and in spite of my flaws, I'm still amazing to me.

It's not enough though, is it?  It's not enough to love my body for what it looks and feels like and what it can do.  I have young men and women in my life and I owe it to them to pass on what has been internalized through so many heartaches. I need them to know they are so much more than the pleasure that can be found in their bodies because that would make it easier to see the fallacies in being told that they can never find better than the one that makes them feel bad about themselves.  There's a push to end childhood obesity, but it's really not just about eating too much and being inactive.  It's about what we do to cope when life does the unexpected and we can't appreciate the change.  It's about not teaching our children that comfort tastes like sweet or savory textures.  It's about a healthy image of normal.  We don't all look like what we see on television.  If the only naked bodies I was ever exposed to were in porn, I would never know what a woman's body should look like.  You can't look at porn or magazines or actors and call that your normal.  Its beauty is in its rarity.  I was lucky that I often saw my mom in different states of undress.  I know what a normal woman is supposed to look like.  My mom is solid.  She has never been slender to me because she has always had Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle Legs.  She's always been strong and powerful and to want her to fit into the ideal of what society would push would take away the beauty I grew up internalizing and her beauty looks like strength and independence.  When she was slender in the idealized way, it was before motherhood forced her body through maturity and to love the body of a young girl and only that image would be to rob us of the pleasure found in a mature body.

It's not about learning an ideal and shaming all else.  It's about finding beauty in what we have and loving the way it feels and knowing we are far more than an image.  It's knowing I'm not average but that is what is beautiful.  It's knowing that the reason a man is in porn isn't because he has a pretty face, but because he has an abnormal size or endurance.  It's teaching our boys what normal is so dysfunction can be addressed and not stigmatized or feared.  It's teaching them that actors are paid to do what they do and that doesn't make it pleasurable.  My son is fascinated with porn right now.  We have many talks and I openly discuss the violence and try my best to humanize the actors in a way that he can see there really isn't pleasure in violence.  I don't want him to grow up thinking that what he sees is normal in relationships because that is a rare snowflake that likes that flavor of kink and you should either run or hold on, but never take it for granted.

Welcome Distractions, or My Latest Crush

I prefer a good crush.  This has been decided.  I have yet to be convinced otherwise.  They're safe.  There are too many ready excuses why I'm not ready for a real relationship.  I think the biggest thing is my paranoia.  I'm low maintenance and easy going and that is so easily manipulated.  Most people that know me have noticed that I'm fairly resilient and adaptable to adverse situations and uncontrollable change.  That is an abuser's fantasy and I'm aware of that. I won't demand to see someone's phone, or insist they tell me every detail.  (Okay, so I would check my ex's phone, but it never occurred to me to look at any texts other than the ones from his sister that hated me. I might have seen the affair if I had.) I don't even need to be in constant communication or contact because I really love my time alone. I can be intense and passionate and dialing it back is always a challenge and not always a welcome one. A freefall into love means I'm giving it my all at 110% no matter what the return, or if there is one at all.  At the same time, I'm afraid of welcoming someone into my life that will eventually want to play house and I'll have to trust someone with my kids and that's the last thing I want right now.  I like silly crushes and superficial connections. I like playing it safe. My latest crush has very solidly placed me in his friend zone.  It was somewhere between a crush and almost a thing, but never really a thing.  I once joked that he keeps dumping me but we're not together. It feels like cooling off is leading to a final answer and while there is a little sadness because I always want what I want, I can accept it for what it is and appreciate it for what it was.  There was no leading on.  His honesty is new.  There isn't something to read into because his words have always matched his actions.  I think he was always flattered, somewhat curious, but he was always clear that I'm not the one.  I was never the right one for him. I won't explain his reasons but I will say I understand them and would never hold them against him. Maybe this moment is setting doves free.  I'm releasing what I have so carefully kept to myself.

There were a few moments when that friendship was a blurry dance but it's firmly back in place again and I'm okay with that.  Or I will be. It's where I keep all of the ones I refuse to let go of.  It's a good place to be.  I did consider a real and lasting relationship with him for a little while.  He's pretty amazing.  If being with him when I didn't have my kids could ever be enough, he would be the one. My kids have a way of creating radical change and I wouldn't want to change him.  I enjoy so much about him that shifting who he is would be a disservice to him and his eventual Miss Right.  He could only ever be Mr. Right Now but he's so great I would want more for him.  There isn't a time limit on Right Now, is there? Besides, it's not that serious. When I'm having a rough day, I'm not trying to hand it to him to fix for me.  We don't get into deep discussions about our dreams and our histories. We haven't actually gone out on a date. I'm very open and transparent and he's incredibly private.  I'm more into escaping into who he is and what he looks forward to each day than trying to fit him into me and my life. It's enough that on a rough day, a memory of a conversation or his shy smile can make me smile.

On a tangential side note, I'm listening to a playlist that includes Radiohead's Creep, Self-Esteem and She's Got Issues by the Offspring as well as Dramarama's Anything, Anything.  We won't analyze that, but I will leave it right here for me to notice and you to laugh at.  Go ahead.  It's a freebie.

What kind of man could catch my eye and hold my attention?

He's amazing and special.

There's something transcendent about his hugs.  To be wrapped in his solid arms and held against his body with that amazing scent that is so masculine and sexy . . . I will not admit or deny that there is occasionally drool involved. Bald men with healthy tans and hard muscles has always been a thing - my thing because I'm not above being shallow, but he has been a special treat.  His eyes are dark brown and so expressive.  There's a quiet calm in the way he slouches in a chair and it's almost like watching a wild animal that is bored between kills.  Lithe.  He has a beautiful lithe body. When he talks about astronomy, physics and geology, there's passionate excitement. I don't know if he's into Potter, but he'd be a Hufflepuff and that's not a bad thing.  I've always been a little more Ravenclaw but I can see that in him too.  He's well read and like a sponge, he not only absorbs what he's read, he can expand on it and watching him express what has blended together and mellowed into certainty for him is a special pleasure.  His eyes will tell you when he's unsure or insecure and there's a soft vulnerability in his gaze with lifted brows and full lips.  I could coddle him in those moments.

He's the strong and silent type but there's a vulnerability about him that brings out my protective side. In many ways he's so open, guileless and innocent. In other ways he's closed off and unmovable. Manchild isn't a dirty word if that's what would define him.  I rarely have this much patience or kindness for men since I realized my role as a wife was more important to me than being my ex's wife was. There's something about him that speaks to that part of me that needs to give and offer and not expect anything in return.  He brings out selflessness in me, and it's not about my vulnerability.  It's not that he needs to catch or protect me.  I want him to continue to be who he is, and whether or not he can offer me anything more than a smile is irrelevant.

He's beautiful.  I think most would say he's cute or a looker, (I may or may not have shared a glimpse of a profile picture with a select handful of women and maybe a gay man) but that's just based on his face.  There's a whole package and the thought of it is often my happy place.  Like, Peter Pan better find Tink because I'm ready to fly now.  There is solid muscle that looks amazing in a t-shirt and jeans. He has a runner's body and the lines from his broad shoulders to his hips are what Greek sculptors were commissioned to master. I love the body hair that covers his arms and peeks out of his soft and faded t-shirts.  He's so active that his skin is always warm and slightly dewy. (Perks of a fast metabolism.) His hands are warm and calloused and rough and manly. His chest is perfect. My hands are soft and sensitive and there is so much pleasure in what my fingertips and palms have felt.  I love the way his muscles strain to stretch across his chest and the thin flesh over his sternum throbs with his pulse and his stomach is flat and firm and fun to touch.  There is so much peace in wrapping my arms around him and just fitting. His kisses are deep and passionate and I imagine his hip girdle could make angels cry.  I wouldn't know.

For the first time in my life, I've been alone with a guy and kissed him and we've started something doesn't mean he needs to finish it.  We've kept our clothes on at all times and there's a purity in it that is worth holding on to. Some people call that respect or taking it slow, but it's so alien and I totally dig it.  I'm used to manipulation and aggression and guilt to go further than I want to, but there isn't a rush and I love that feeling. I really just enjoy sitting with him and talking to him.

I'm not into the idea of sweating.  I will sweat.  I just don't enjoy it unless I'm walking somewhere to see something beautiful or pulling weeds.  Exercise that doesn't look like fun isn't something I do.  He's so committed to being active and eating well.  He's mindful of what he's eating at all times and it's a choice I admire.  It's a lifestyle for him and has been since at least his teens and it's beyond admirable.  I thought being gluten free was a pain for me, but to stay off of sugar for nearly 20 years puts him on a meta human level, right? Dr. Xavier around, anyone?

I think the greatest pleasure I feel from him is in that sapiosexual itch he scratches.  He's so smart, and curious, and creative.  I've had conversations with him where I was dumbstruck by the ideas and thoughts he explains and I did mention he's gorgeous, right? He once told me about reading Einstein's autobiography and a lot of that conversation is a blur because I was struck by how intelligent he is and the rest of it was my slack jawed glory.  I'm sure it was comic relief because I could feel how stiff my smile was.  I must have been amusing to watch. More than once I've been lost in watching him talk.  He writes, and draws, and composes music and as public as my writing is, his craft is so much more private. I write to get it out of me, but he has ambition I've never felt before. I try to write daily and exhaustion often wins, but he is so dedicated to his craft that he's doing something creative every single day.  I was honored in hearing his music and he kept trying to explain away what he felt was wrong, but I was just lost in his ability and the way his music made me feel.  It really is something amazing when sounds aren't processed with meanings in lyrics. For a moment I thought about linking to the many posts he's made an appearance in, but it's easy.  He's been the one that makes me smile and has been inspiring posts since I first saw his smile at the end of May. He's been my muse.

He likes to stick to his routines because his goals are bigger than instant gratification.  He down plays friendships and relationships, but when people are leaving his everyday life, he takes a moment to honor their friendship by being present and communicating the value he places in them with an offering of his time.  He's deeply introspective and polite, often brushing off the possibility that anyone could offend him because of the thick skin that all artists layer on as protection. I think his transparency is far more genuine than the personas most people affect. He carefully sticks to his diet and exercise because he wants the results he's working toward.  Aside from physically pushing himself, he takes really good care of himself.  He could use more sleep and he could be more gentle on himself, but then that would shift who he is. He's passionate about politics because he knows what is right and wants his ideals to influence society because as much as he sees himself as solitary, he's also passionately interested in the good he sees in the world and wants to make it better because he can't ignore the bad that is all around.

I've always been up front that I want someone that can hold a conversation and he has to be eye candy, but we're just friends and it's not that serious even if he is beautiful because beautiful is never enough. At the same time, this post almost didn't happen for fear of a reaction that would make him hide from me and I can't have that influence the freedom in my writing, right? In theory. 

See me.

I'm into selfies.  It's never about makeup or an outfit. My selfies are about any given moment and how I feel in it.  I look through my Facebook or Instagram and I can tell you about that moment, because that was what I was capturing.  This was on Mother's Day.  I was with family at my Mom's house and the dog was ours for many years, but I gave him to my niece.  He was so happy to see me that he wanted to jump up my dress.  There was surprise and silliness and tons of happiness.  I was in the early happy stages of online dating and joking about the many dates I had that week.  That week, I had a couple of morning or lunch dates with different dinner dates.  It was a happy moment of attention and I loved it at the time.

I was in front of my bestie's car.  He drives enough horses to make me a little jealous and I love my car.  We hadn't seen each other in a really long time and we were hanging out at a barcade for drinks, laughter, reminiscing and ego boosting.  I was with friends I have known over two decades and at one point I asked one of them to stand out of my line of sight because there was a beautiful boy in front of me with a southern drawl and I was feeling silly and boy crazy, but not at all on the prowl.

This was Monday at the Mondrian on Sunset Strip.  I've lived in Los Angeles my whole life.  Specifically, I've had four addresses and they were all in Los Angeles County.  I have always wanted to party on Sunset Strip but never had an excuse or company.  It was a 20th Anniversary showing of Romeo and Juliet poolside with cocktails.  I was there with friends and excited for the opportunity to listen to the Q&A with casting director David Rubin and the opportunity to be with the woman behind GenArt.  (She's full of amazing, if you wondered.)  It was a great night before my week turned.

This was yesterday.  I was having a moment of loving what I was looking at.  We can ignore the fact that I was looking at myself.

Life happens.  There is no need for excuses or explanations.  It is what we've made it and the power of it all is in our interpretations because perspective is a chosen way to look at life. Today was a much better day, but there was a moment once I parked my car before meeting a friend for dinner when my thoughts were serious and intense and while I wasn't overwhelmed, those ideas needed full credence and I was giving those thoughts my full attention.

I posted this to my Instagram and Facebook:

"I glanced in the rear view mirror and caught myself sifting through thoughts deep enough to drown in.  Not hiding this moment became the moment I choose to share."

So many are used to my happy moments that one picture prompted phone calls and text messages.  I promise I'm okay, but clearly not good at thinking and smiling at the same time.  This was a moment of standing proudly in who I am framed by what I was feeling.  I was feeling a moment of sadness.  It's been a rough week but mainly I was thinking back a couple of decades and not proud of the woman and friend I was.  I was feeling the weight of free falling through situations I can't control.  I was taking a moment to stand in the strength of defending myself yesterday because I chose to not be yelled at and hang up the phone and answer when and how - on my terms when I was ready.

I will not listen to you yell at me because I am not your child.  

This is not a discussion.  

In those two sentences I felt taller, and the rage that flowed around me became ripples that broke around but not on top of me.  Those two sentences were years in coming and I was the only one to celebrate them when they came.  And my moment was full of many other thoughts in several directions because I can't shut that part of my brain off.  There may have been some angst and longing in there as well.

Night has fallen and I get to marvel at what it feels like to be loved so deeply that others want to know what has stolen my smile.  This is what it feels like when others take notice and want to help get that smile firmly back in place.

Bottled Bruises

I'd bottle the bad and toss it out to sea if it meant that through my eyes, all that can be seen is shaded with the freedom of interpretation. Actions wouldn't be the feigned responsibility of reciprocity but the intentionally unconditional offer of first fruits and selfless grandeur.

I would wake up daily. I would see what is to be seen and I would stop drifting casually and aimlessly. I've stopped waiting for life to happen as my life is a daily choice and open expectation. I expect responsibility for my choices.

These old scars are being packed in a glass bottle and I'll cork it up and wax it down and live out what I breathe in. I will be what I am being.

I get what it means to see that I am.

Small Pleasures

My week has been a rough one since Monday evening. Even today, the calls and texts kept coming and at one point I had to step away from my desk to walk off my anger.  At another point, there was no time to choose my reaction after a call and I was again a victim to anger that wasn't mine, but it broke over and around me and I sat in stunned silence.  The tears came without warning but I was sitting in my corner without an audience and grateful for the time of day when others around me had left for the day.  I blinked away those tears because the timing still wasn't right. At one point today I stepped into the tail of familiar scent.  Immediately the smell was a trail to a name that became a soothing repeated track that echoed through my mind like an anchor holding me still in choppy waters.

Tonight there was a call to my sister.  I whined to her.  We talked.  I complained some more.  She understood.  She felt like home.  I made her laugh.  It was terrific.

There was retail therapy and deep discounts.  My Victoria's Secret matching set came with 4 extra panties and was $26 on my shiny black and gold card.  Dinner also came with a discount and a Scooby Snack and a familiar face that I was really happy to see.

Sometimes I feel like I need the catharsis of a deep cry.  It still has not yet come. Last night the plan was to go out on my front porch with the rushing sounds of flowing water from the pond I built and let run over with plants, and cry silently under moonlight out of sight of my kids.  I received a random text message instead and my snark demon came out.

It never fails when I'm at a more vulnerable point and I'm emotionally bottomed out, a random person from my online dating phase will get lonely and bored, and he won't realize I was passing on his offer, even if I tell him directly so I become mean and friendly, drawing him in before cutting him down. I haven't decided why I haven't blocked him yet, but I'm leaning toward how fun he is to mess with.

He seems to sense my low points and in my passive aggressive way, I become someone I don't like later. I justify it when I remember he thought I would be okay as his top one of three. He thought I would like to be told what to do because he didn't listen to what I said and for a while I feel like he deserves to be treated this way because he doesn't listen to me while he's busy looking at my selfies that were sent months ago.

I stop short of asking what he thinks this will get him and instead tell him all about my man crush and he is surprised that I'm still quite smitten since the last time he reached out and I haven't gotten bored because this discussion has been had about several others in the short time I've known him since early May and it's been longer than normal for me, but he forgets I was a faithful wife for a decade and a half and I can stay focused intently. Intensely. Too deeply. Too much. But he's safe to me.

A day goes by and I remember his heartache and his need to control his romantic life when I'm just focused on controlling my reactions. I feel remorse and it looks like shame in who I have let him shape me into. The aggressor with teeth tastes blood in the water and he's an injured mammal flailing and I enjoy the taste of fear but he doesn't know I want to hurt him.

It's evil and vile and somehow it feels good. Does that make me bad?

My Self

There's an elaborate covering.  It's my protection.  What you see, is who you see, and who I am is the woman I've created.  There's nothing organic in what I present.  It was burned away during the refining and the smell still haunts me but the wind is cleaning what was and what is still wears proud singe marks but you need an expert eye to see what is hidden. I don't know what healed looks like but it's close to what I feel on days unlike today. I moisturize then shade layers of shadow on my eyes.  I line my upper lids in black and mascara on my magic because the goal is to conjure a glance that might lead to more.  My lips are rarely lined, but usually smeared in red.  I pucker a pop with "O" rounded lips and imagine others would think of love or sex or death and want my lips to be a parting gift before sweet surrender into nothing.  Sex brings life but can also leave death in brokenness and the balance is struck with intention past lust.

I've been told I have great legs and a terrific rack.  I've been told I have a great body but I'm not offering it so every thought that bounds out of my brain is torn to nothing by what the lustful imaginations directed at my body are thinking at the same time. I grew up in the 80's where it was safe to walk to and from school when I was in the 3rd grade.  It was safe to stop in polite acquiescence for the man in the red car that was lost and thought I might know where he wanted to go while he held his rigid cock in his hand and I slowly backed away from what I couldn't understand.  Street harassment is nothing to aggressive teens that believe their hands belong on my ass and an inept electives teacher with an overhanging belly laughed that boys will be boys and there were no options for me because all through the 8th grade I would remain a victim to what was found as sexy on my body and I just wanted to get lost in a book.  The books I read told me that romance starts like aggression and maybe touching places that were uncomfortable would lead to excitement and angst and eventually love.  Leather and lace and bodice ripping romance started as violence and maybe this was the way to the happiness that comes in 300 pages and ends with marriage and a baby. I eventually named my butt, scrawling "my name's butt" on the bottom of a phys-ed t-shirt. I laughed at their aggression, acting as though it was invited.  It took my authority back in a way that became their disinterest. It was perceived that I was asking for it, and by that point I didn't care anymore.

I strut to the beat that is blaring in my ears.  One foot directly in front of the other, swaying slightly and stepping confidently.  I walk swiftly.  I glide slowly.  Chin up and shoulders back, I am ready for what is coming, even if it's just ice cream that I have no intention of finishing.

I sing loudly to stop the thoughts that bounce and roam into the corners of quiet that I want to claim as my own.  There is no respite from the world I can't control and the bell I can't unring is resounding in ways I wasn't prepared for. There was a shift and the future once planned has unraveled and is now mapping slowly before me.  I can choose the paths that I want to take, but to take them means I have to commit to a choice that is elusive when I keep changing my mind.  How do I avoid the paths I already took? How does the familiar become the chains of control I once handed over to someone else to map a destiny I didn't want? How do I share who I am and still keep who I am to myself? I choose being alone.  I choose me.  Over and over the songs on repeat are love songs I sing to myself because I get who I am.  I think.

In the quiet and calm when words flow from my mind through racing fingertips, I piece together what I feel, as I can't just think it.  I process out who I claim to be.  I bounce it off the walls of my being like unfinished spaghetti that isn't al dente and won't stick to the wall.  What gives my life meaning and in what actions do I place merit? How do I believe life should be?  I don't follow politics because I'm still deciding what I think is best for me and my children.  I know what I think I know and I feel what should be the same for all, and I share those thoughts when it's safe.  But who I am says I can't force or change what I believe to force and reframe anyone else. My ideals are still pliant and malleable under my shifting perceptions.

Is it ever safe to be who I am? Who I think I am and who I feel I am are fledgling through the faith of my existence.  I'm fragile and breakable, but strong enough to hold it together long enough to fall quietly and completely when I don't have an audience.  How amazing would it be to find the one that thinks I'm smarter than I am pretty and be okay with my measurements of both?

I step outside for the warmth of a summer night and a few teardrops will make an appearance before a deep and shaky breath banish them away.  I'm having a night I hope to forget and never revisit. Moist cheeks shine under the reflected glow of a moon hiding in the shadow of the earth it worships in a monthly dance of adoration.  The earth doesn't see the beauty the moon sees.  The earth can't feel the warmth of the sun, but the moon knows.  The moon dances slowly and sullenly through phases blamed on the moon, but the moon wouldn't affect much of anything without the forces of the sun and the earth.  The moon is a rock.  The moon has to be strong and constant. She has no choice and her will is only to exist.

The rage of the afternoon and the fall of late night will cushion racing thoughts with exhaustion and the quiet of acceptance will fall on graceless limbs.  The dawn will come and morning dew will wash away any signs of sorrow.  The birds will worship the sun in song and California Poppies will race Morning Glories to open their petals in gratitude for another day to shine and I will put on my covering and brace for a new day and another goodbye as my sons go back to their Dad.

I'll think of the earth with its beautiful browns and perfect shape.  Its graceful path and predictable orbit will bring the peace of fulfilled expectation.  It's a celestial body so used to existing it will never see how strong and resilient it is.  It dances through life, circling a sun because it's what has always been done, but never noticing the clouds that love being around it, or the waters that push and pull and give life to a moving mass of rock that is solid and molten and perfect in imperfection.  I'll wonder at which points my intensity is too much and marvel that it's a question the earth will never consider.

I'll meander and rest through the week until custody shifts back and spend my time alone figuring out again what it means to be my self.

Man of my dreams

He said he was the man of my dreams. He kept talking long after I had heard enough.

I proved him wrong by trying to swipe left.

It would have worked if it was really a dream.

Poker Face

I don't have a poker face, but I could probably really use one.  Without that mask, I feel like I owe apologies because so rarely is my joy overtaken by my rage, but there it is.  A series of injustices against my littles and passive aggression directed at me have had me in a rage most of today.  I've had moments of distraction, but I've been lost to the underlying thoughts that won't let me focus today. When I was younger, my smile was my mask.  At some point that was shattered. There's transparency and honesty and a vulnerability that tends to make others uncomfortable.   Something in life cracked open and exposed my squishy parts and I have a hard time hiding it now. My smiles are genuine for the most part.  The uglier parts that beg for release are rarely hidden. It doesn't take a lot of trust, but just enough and I share more than would make the average person comfortable. I've seen my forced smile in a mirror and it looks a lot like constipation.

As a war Vet with PTSD, Dad was well aware of his rage and kept control of it at all times.  His threats were softly spoken and much more terrifying in some ways.  In one conversation, when I must have been in my teens, he started describing the realities of war.  I don't remember it, but he remembered the look on my face and never brought it up again.

I can't hide much.  I don't try to.  Often when really great teachers are explaining their artistry they can tell when it's not making sense to me.  Really good food is honored through my silly facial expressions and odd vocal sounds.  If I care about someone, they can see it in the way I look at them.  I can't mask my tenderness.  Babies and puppies can always see how open and inviting my expression is because I love the ones I can give back and it shows all over my face.

For the longest time, I loved Lady Gaga's song, Poker Face.  It's all about bluffing love so she can clean out some poor guy's bank.  I was never in love with the idea of using someone for his money.  It's not who I am, but the idea of being able to fake and hide behind an elaborate facade was what I was interested in.  So often I'm so transparent that it's my emotions that are abused.

Today I felt rage.  In my helplessness to protect my littles from behavior I no longer find acceptable, I feel I've fallen short because I can't fix every pain and every hurt.  Last night I could only hold my son as he cried in my arms and fell asleep exhausted, only comforted by my proximity.  I can only assure my other son that I won't do what has already been done to him. I can hope they listen to my words and witness my example and hope that I'm holding myself to a standard worthy of the sons I hope to raise.

I'm having a day.  It's been a rough day most of today and I feel as though I've been pushed and pulled by my emotions and rage because I have been.  It was a rough night and a blessed morning, followed by moments of rage and I'm having a hard time seeing beyond that, but in about an hour, I'll be home with my sons.  There will be messes and laughter and snuggles and somehow it will all settle and make sense.  My little one will want to help me cook on the barbecue grill and I'll be patient through it and tomorrow will be better.  It always gets better.

Museum Day

My museum experience up until last year was to go to the museums that were part of a school field trip.  I remembered museums as long days and being told to be quiet and remain still.  It was great to get out of class, but at the same time, I was often bored. As an adult, it wasn't a priority.  I had kids that were hard to get out of the house and as far as I know, my ex was never into museums.  At the end of the day I'm okay going alone, and museums are occasionally far more interactive. I'm not artistically inclined, and have at times been almost proud of the fact that I can't draw a straight line with a ruler.  What I see in my mind is never what my hands create.  When I was studying literature, we often discussed the same Greek Mythology that inspired some of the artwork I saw yesterday.  We discussed art pieces but they were in the textbooks we read, and it was more about the philosophies that inspired the artists.

To visit a museum and to see the art was an amazing experience for me.  It was the personified history of each piece that felt like wonder.  It's became an extension of my love of literature.  Literature is less about amazing words and prose and more about what was able to accidentally survive people.  Really early literature was written by someone who could actually write because being literate is not something that is guaranteed by birth.  If you can read and write, you have been blessed by life in a way that many people across the world still cannot grasp.  Literature and art has to survive naughty children, angry scorned lovers, thieving rogues, hostile political takeovers and censorship carried out through destruction.  Not all literature is amazing beyond the mystery of its survival.  Of course my opinion is highly subjective.  I can't appreciate Moby Dick and I finally got through it after several attempts a few years back and I saw it as an epic disappointment.

I'm appreciating things differently lately.  I don't have a musical ear. I like music.  I sing loudly, but I couldn't tell you if it's off key.  I took vocal lessons as a child and imagined being a singer for a while (I was the youngest of the Secret Rendezvous but that's a story for another post), but it's not a skill as much as joy.  When I was listening to a friend's musical score, composed into late night hours and experienced by me here, I realized it's sometimes just about what something makes me feel.

Yesterday I visited the Getty Villa, made a quick stop at a beach where I got wet but the pretty rocks were worth it, and then visited the Getty Center before stopping at home and visiting Co Labs Gallery in Highland Park.  I'm sharing my observations.

img_0781

This first piece was the first to make me feel something.  I tend to walk quickly through each room and some pieces will call out to me and demand my attention.  This was one of them.  I stopped and almost immediately could feel the burn at the bridge of my nose telling me I should have brought tissues.  I blinked away tears, but I was so surprised at what I felt.  I read the description, and to paraphrase from memory, this is a picture of a father paying the ransom for his daughters.  I was moved.

The many interpretations of mothers and nursing children were beautiful to me.  I nursed my boys and it was by far my favorite part of their infancy. There is calm in the snuggle and their is a sleepiness that falls over you when you are feeding your child.  It wasn't easy with my first born, but it was worth the pain of his rejection for the first 4 months because that's how long it took to get him to latch on.  This piece included the picture of a missing father and that was what made it special.  So much of motherhood is the support needed from the other parent.

Furniture is different and beautiful when it can make it into a museum.  I love huge mirrors gilded in gold leaf with ornate moulding.  I sometimes imagine knocking out my ceiling to make room for this. I love couches that could double as a bed, and feathers on beds are what magic is made of.  Also, I'm so grateful that I don't have to dust anything there.

I admit that odd, excited noises came out of me when I saw the books.  Books!  They were beautiful and hand drawn with rich colors.  They were enclosed in glass and I could imagine the smell of old paper and slight mildew.  This made me happy.

I loved the pieces that were carved into stone.  It surprised me to find a little black boy amongst the art that was mainly Greek or Roman.  I was surprised at how many statues were missing penises.  I wondered if there is any correlation between missing statuary penisses and missing straight men walking through the museum without a companion.

Museum rules about not touching the artwork are just as solidly in place as when I was a little girl.  This was different.  This is a piece that we were invited to touch.  You could feel the difference between what she held and her skin.  Her body was smooth, but the cloth had a rougher texture to it. Now I wonder what her hair felt like, as I didn't think of it then.

As I shared on Instagram and Facebook:

To catch a bathing Venus and touch exposed marble flesh with murmured prayers of her gift of love to flow through all I touch with giving expectancy . . . Such a beautiful morning to be me.

The water features were beautiful and tranquil.  The plan is to go back when we aren't suffering through a drought and might enjoy the sound of flowing water.

These were things that made me want to create.  I loved the mosaic tiles and jewelry.  I loved the glass.  I loved the displays that teach you where the pigments came from and how they were used and for just long enough, I felt like I could create and it doesn't have to be good as long as it makes me feel something.

On my way to the Getty Center, the ocean called to me.  I happened to slip into a parking spot along PCH and walked out to find so many rocks begging to be picked through.  I started my day in jeans and a tank top with tennis shoes.  I keep flip flops and water shoes in the car.  I thought I was prepared.  In my search for pretty rocks I ended up thighs deep in the ocean and laughed it off.  I also had a purchase from American Apparel to return in my car and decided to make it an exchange instead.  They don't carry larger sizes so I walked out in a skirt shorter than I have worn in at least a decade.  I was so self conscious, if dry at first.  I could feel the back of my skirt flapping against my butt, and it was well above the tattoo on my thigh.  I don't feel that a mom needs to cover up for the sake of being a mom, I just got comfortable in sweats and never got used to mini skirts again.

Co Labs gallery was full of woman forward artistry and angsty pieces I would have been embarrassed to explain to my kids. Visit them! You'll love it. A few pieces called out to the deeper parts of me I acknowledge but rarely voice. I almost bought a pocket sized pencil drawing of a man's face. The artist called it, "Drawing UH Hipster, " and signed it SD. It was a perfect drawing. He was cute and for a bit I imagined keeping him in my pocket. I could pull him out when I wanted a smile. Then I realized how badly that reflects on my love life and decided on pencils instead.

By the end of the day I realized walking half of nearly 9 miles in flip flops was dumb, and my feet hate me.  Jumping from 2 miles a day to what I did yesterday means I feel it more than remember it.  I don't have to own the fact I'm rocking a mini skirt, I just need to be at peace with not being in wet jeans. And extra clothes in the car doesn't mean I'm a whore if it's the ocean making me wet.

Anticipation

It's Friday and the rush of a work week winds slowly into talks about a diet, a drink, a plan . . . Life marches and evolves once we leave and their excitement and joy becomes irritating noise when my eyes watch the clock and my longing wraps around me like a cloak.  I'm shrouded and cloistered from their excitement as mine coils within me. Like burning embers and a gentle breeze, heat rises in my cheeks and my pulse quickens.  Agitated fingers tap a beat, a rhythm, a slap tap tap that can't remain still as the day melts into early twilight filtering through blinded windows, soothing the heat of a relentless summer sun with drifting clouds racing through cooler air as the bright blue sky betrays the sun, inking the clouds in darker blues, and pink hues that blend and blur a yellowed tinge of remembered glory.

I'm losing focus as my mind slips from duty to pleasure in the last tasks of a full work week and the joy of what will come tugs and pulls me deeper into thought and thoughtless sensations flood my belly and raise goosebumps on willing skin that begs for a touch and a moment of stolen pleasure on sensitive finger tips and arms that long to hold him.

The moment arrives and I stand to feel a lump slide and stall in my throat, swallowing hard the nervous energy gilded with the fear of rejection.  That beast lives under my skin and she waits for moments to strike me into memories of a rejected love and she slaps me with what was past and it takes a moment to remind myself that stolen moments are just moments and the only promise for tomorrow is my carefully laid resentment if I expect more than is willingly given. Within a few steps, my anxiety has made me forget my purse and keys and my clumsy steps remind me that I wasn't always so confident, and memories of a shy smile and large brown eyes sometimes uncertain and deeply contemplative ground me in my own fragility.

The moment approaches and I take a minute to breathe deeply to calm myself, knowing that I will again smell his unique blend of sexy masculinity and it will surround me, staying on the hand that holds his.  I take a moment and release the doubt that floods me because I am living in this moment and nothing matters outside of it.  I'm ready and anticipation gives way to the arrival.

Gratitude

My day started early and I was able to slowly flow into full steam. I started to just sit and think of what I was grateful for. At the end of the day I was grateful to be too busy to write what I was grateful for. At the end of the day, there is peace in the sigh of fulfilled exhaustion.

An ocean front view of a fading sun was met with joy and I sang along with my favorite pier performer for a full set.

I watched the sun fall softly behind the mountains without a murmured protest from the many people around me. There's no sorrow when we know it'll return tomorrow. We love the sun for it's warmth and light and life giving energy. We take for granted it's consistence because only the clouds are fickle.

A sliver of moonlight stood timidly. Every night it's always in silent worship to the beauty of a fading sun. Unworthy in daylight, but magnificent alone. She is aglow in the warmth of the love from an absent sun.  I feel like a moon tonight and my sun is all of the beauty and wonder that filters through my day.

When we were playful.

When you're little and playing with a puppy, playtime can become painful. We downplay the scratches that came with laughter because puppies don't know any better. We still do it in relationships because love can infantilize a grown ass man. Imagine that?

What's the Score?

Several times a week I will say out loud that I should watch more movies or television but I get home and I start writing or picking up after my boys. I still haven't watched more than a few YouTube videos but I did experience something movie related.  This afternoon I had a moment where there was space to just be.  I was listening to a score for something I have never seen, but in the soft melody that tickled at something light and playful, I was able to just experience what I was being pulled into.  I had no idea what the dialogue would have been or what I would have seen or heard to hand feed what the director had in mind.  I had a melody and in what I heard, I was able to just feel.

We never pay much attention to the musical score of a movie or television show.  Unless you are into films and production, most of us don't notice because it's not meant to be noticed.  The power of a score is in its ability to make you feel without telling you anything.  I really felt that today and it was incredible.  The beauty of it was in the simplicity of just being open to what I felt and not having to overthink anything.

Sometimes our extrasensory perception speaks to us in a way that a musical score would.  It's that physical reaction that doesn't match the rest of what we feel.  It's when you talk to someone that says nice things and looks beautiful, and yet you feel prickly tingles at the base of your skull or your calves tense like your body is ready to run.

At other times, it's the soundtrack of our past that loops through a new experience.  Without trying to, we often will subconsciously refer to something in our past to make connections in our present and predict our future.  This is why we find comfort in relationships that remind us of our opposite gendered parent.  This is why we have a hard time trusting when we see a behavior we experienced from a previously broken heart.

We rely on lessons that we've learned or have been told.  We imagine the many intricate deceptions that flower out of a missed call or ignored text.  We don't think about what we are doing to ourselves, but the score of our history colors and decorates our present and future unless we are aware and can shift our perspective into something new and experience each moment as a new possibility.

I'm in the process of selecting a new score for myself.

In relationships, I'm not looking to create a future and a long life together.  Each moment is a gift and I won't burden it with what should be or what has been because I'm enjoying what is, without worrying about what could be.  That's what unconditional love is about.  It's not about planned resentments when I realize the pedestal I prepared for someone else was only made for me. It's about a moment that may or may not lead to another moment, and appreciating all that was offered in that moment, without searching for the promise of something more.

In life I'm relying on my gut instinct more than I did before.  There is something about a physical reaction that is worth listening to.  When I first met my latest crush, there were definite butterfly moments.  Or indigestion. But the idea of running into him gave me a physical reaction and once I got past the shock, it was a feeling I now look forward to. (I'm not used to feeling like a teenager anymore.)

You wouldn't know by watching me walk or talk, but I am often assaulted by doubt and insecurities.  The ideas of low self worth will randomly surprise me from time to time.  Depression will creep up on me if I'm not cautious about the thoughts I allow to roam unbidden through my mind.  Silencing doubt and insecurities and that voice that chimes in the nonsense of not being enough is sometimes a challenge, but when it's quiet and instead I can hear my intra-personal cheering section, I feel stronger and confident.

I'm creating a score that builds in urgency and excitement. It's a trail of light footsteps that lead me through a forest on a path dotted with small animals and dewy moss covered rocks.  It's sunshine that filters through the trees, warming the coldest recesses of my heart and making me stretch in sweet resistant pain.

What are you listening to when you can no longer hear the words or see the frames?