Twelve

I was sitting in the basement of my childhood home,

on a folding chair, leaning over the large

woodbox. I thought the woodbox made the perfect desk.

The fire in the woodstove to my left, crackling,

keeping me warm. I must have been inspired.

I was twelve years old when I wrote my first poem.

"What Is Time?"

Time is a clock that never stops.

For some, time is fast, they never even rest.

For some, time is slow, which is always a bore.

For me, time is an adventure.

It's a time to live.

It's a time to be happy.

It's a time to explore places where I've never gone before.

To me, time makes my life more to live for.

Because it won't stop for me.

It won't stop for you.

It won't stop for anyone.

So never waste time because time needs you.

It needs you to fill the minutes with life.

That's why time is what it is.

It's a silly little poem, but I love it just the same.

I love it because it was simply how I was feeling.

- In that moment, at the fabulously hopeful age of twelve.

Unrevised, unchanged, I still think it rocks.

My God-daughter just turned twelve.

I've been thinking of her quite often.

Does she share the same hope and

excitement for her future?

She's amazing, smart and beautiful.

I hope she knows.

A moment for me

Some days you're just holding on for dear life - trying to keep

the tears from falling, for no apparant reason.

Then...

Dad came home from work and

promptly snuck back out the door to run some errands.

He returned early enough to let me

sneak out the door myself.

Our cute lil Bug was none the wiser.

I haven't had much time to myself lately.

Hmmmm. How could I make the best of this time

all alone returning a movie at the grocery store?

Wander the aisles in search of a great deal, that's how!

A lazy ten minutes later I'm walking to my car carrying

broccoli, Quorn nuggets, Puffs (with lotion), and a

roll of paper towels. I'm such a wild chic.

Through the green lit stoplight I drive, making a last second

(yet carefully maneuvered)

right turn

to the liquor store.

Inside, I find my favorite bottles

of cheap red wine. Although I have

heard from various educated sources that

"the bigger the bottle, the better the wine",

I stick to the basic, classic bottle for two.

I buy three bottles.

Insatiable...

Vampire...

and... I just can't recall.

Now I'm back on Main.

Here's the stop sign at 8th.

I almost turn left, just two blocks from home...

Instead I break away, drive straight - a few blocks downtown,

seeing the people walking, some stores open,

some restaurants closed. It's off-season.

(I didn't know what that meant until I moved here.)

To my left is our kick-ass, one screen, small town movie theater.

Every town should have one. - or maybe not?

It's 7:31 pm. People are still buying tickets outside.

I lock the door, jump out mid-dial. Dad needs to

answer because Mom needs a break. As I hand the money over

he answers the phone.

I have enough cash for the ticket, popcorn and small drink.

Total is $10.00...I have exactly twenty cents left over.

I sit down in the perfect seat, noone blocking my view.

Away I go, it's not my life for a couple of hours.

I'm transported into the past, into someone

else's drama. I need this. I've been craving this.

It's so simple. But, it's so rare.

Two hours later I'm walking out of this

cool little theater and onto the bricked sidewalks.

Into crisp air that's kissing my cheeks.

I'm a bit disoriented, my bearings are momentarily lost.

I'm still in that other world.
A world that, before my daughter and husband,

would have included me seriously considering an escape.

Starting over.

Now I will drive home and "hope"fully share

my brief reprieve with the father of my daughter.

I hope he'll be happy that I got to break out of

routine. It's the small adventures now.

Will I be content?

November 5th, 2008

Spying the fresh white
through glass, it's evident I'm
surrounded by flakes.


I thank God that this election is over.

A deep, dark, sickeningly sweet secret, - revealed.

I want to eat ALL of the Halloween candy.

There, I said it.

I love candy. I love sugar.

When I was a child,

I committed some awfully

terrible sugar sins.

The pure cane sugar,

the powdered sugar,

the brown sugar,

the boxed jello,

I ate it straight.

All of it.

Can you even imagine?

I poured it into

sandwich bags and

cut a small hole in the corners.

Maybe I dropped a little water

into the bag to solidify it some, but

I squeezed it into my mouth,

frosting style.

Disgusting.

A school fundraiser?

Bad idea. I was more likely to

eat the candy than sell it.

No self control

Nada

None

If you think you have a

sweet tooth, you've got

nothing on me.

Quote

I can't let my previous post sit at the top of the page.

I want to send positive out into the world.

I'm not feeling original tonight;

therefore, I'll leave this:

"I intend to live forever.

So far, so good."

-Steven Wright

Feeling Squashed

Apart from my funky attitude lately

concerning the changes in the weather,

and changes in the landscape, I'm finding

myself with many a craving.

Today I pulled out the crockpot

and made a delicious butternut squash

soup. It was my first attempt at squash,

but it must be an easy food. The hints

of cinnamon and nutmeg made me

wish (almost) that snow was falling outside

my window.

So, until I make peace with the dropping leaves

and cold mornings, I'll turn to my crockpot for

the contentment I'm struggling to find.

....I just read this again and almost imploded.

I'm

a

housewife.

I need some new adventures.

and I need them yesterday.

Fifteen Steps

I walked around the corner.
The baby gate had been left open.
There you were.
Your small left hand was moving
slowly along the wall.
You wobbled just a touch
as your foot reached for the
next step. Your right hand
was gripping your pink
blankie. All the way to the
top you walked, just like a big girl.
You turned around and saw
your amazed audience.
You laughed at us.
We stood there silently,
watching our baby
grow up before our eyes.

I forgot who "I will never forget"

I have these old journals.
They have traveled from
house to house,
digs to digs,
casa to casa.

I looked over a few of them this morning.
Some of the funniest shit I've ever read.

I started writing in them when
I was 10 years old.

Oh, for the love of puberty.

I wrote of first loves, lost loves,
unrequited loves. I'm sure it
was therapeutic although it reads
quite pathetic.

I wrote of parents who were
so unfair. Of siblings, who were cruel.

I wrote of birthday wishes, of
Christmas gifts, and how my day went
at school.

I have been keeping a journal off
and on for years.
My writing has improved
somewhat since the 1980's.
My punctuation has taken a nose dive.

In the future, I'll be quoting some of my favorite,
and some of my least favorite entries.

the scary part

This weekend I sat on the floor
in a mountain of baby clothes.
The closet has been more than
overflowing for months now.
I sat sorting tiny socks, onesies
and some of my favorite
little outfits that it seems like
our lil Bug wore just yesterday.
I tried holding them up to my nose,
searching for that new baby smell.
No luck. Everything was clean.

I also sat there in the middle of
all of this and was reminded of
the lack of sleep, the 3 am feedings,
and the inconsolable crying that
sometimes made me melt down.

I thought of the hospital.

My heart started racing at the thought of that
moment - the moment things got really scary.
I'm so thankful that I'm here to
watch you grow lil Bug.


I remember picking you up from your crib in those
first weeks and coming so close to blacking out.
My head would start on fire and everything would get
so dark. I'd hold you over the crib until it passed,
just in case. I'd walk five feet to the rocking
chair and be so exhausted when I sat down,
wondering if I'd ever be strong again.
And Dad, how he must have worried.

Those first months went by so fast.
But those moments in the early days,
they seemed so long.

Thank you for my health.
Thank you for the health
of my family.
Thank you for the love
and the prayers during
those first few weeks.