life

Tunnel Vision

Approaching the luminescent tunnel, I falter at the entrance. The darkness. The light. The vulnerability. The close presence of the body next to me. I watch the tunnel lapse into darkness, as the far end gently radiates traceable evidence of light. The glow pulses, in matching heartbeat, growing larger, brighter. Waves of single inconsequential bulbs twinkling, undulating in mass toward the two of us. Inviting us to its experience. I step onto the conveyor walkway and begin my naturally brazen stride. A hand discretely grasps mine, stopping my feet. And I stand. Corrected. Coerced, to simply slow down and give myself to the breaking light.

For six years, this person has been woven into my fast paced life. Seen but unseen. Loved for what they are, not who. A constant apparition bending to the will of others in sacrifice of itself. A juxtaposition of a being craving to reveal itself, all while living suppressed until the most impactful moments. Today, he has pulled back a glorious section of his shade.

His hand is wrapped in mine, as we glide with the crawling belt. Part of me is screaming, for the leisure of traveling two miles per hour, surrounded by twinkling light, feels perverse. Wasteful.

Malcolm planned our first trip in solitude to the Smithsonian Natural History Museum ending at the National Art Gallery. At each exhibit, I wrestled with my natural inclination for speed in order hit every display, but he was there to quiet me. And in quiet I remained, while he jabbered on, on revealing hidden gems of himself and restricting us to the only interesting sections of the museums: rocks, bugs, and Van Gogh. He forced me to pause, and not only glance at, but find the camouflaged bugs, note their coloring and later compare them to an artist’s shadings at the art gallery. It was this hidden little man, who stopped at each exhibit, read, inquired, supposed, listened, and saw the beauty and value that forced me to ask myself: Have I become so callous, that I am missing the beauty? Why so fast?

Time is such a precious commodity when you are a parent. Time for activities. Time for homework. Time for dinner. Time for school. Time for work. Time to workout. Time for lust. Time for quiet. Time to clean. Time to potty train. Time to correct. Time for Kid 1, 2, or 3. There used to be so much time… to just contemplate. Where has all that time gone? And why I am forcing others to relinquish their precious time?

On our sixth ride through the tunnel of light, I look down at our intertwined fingers, a rare and extraordinary gesture from my middle son. Rubbing my thumb on the back of his hand, calm and fulfilled, it hits me. I yell at Malcolm on the daily to hurry up, come on, not now, because I am just trying to get to the next thing on the list, and his poignant, meandering thoughtfulness gets squashed in my wake. I must take the time, to go slow with him, for time is all he wants.

And why not slow down to see the world like him? For it truly is, that much more beautiful.

July 8, 2018 1

Dinner at the OK Corral

My thumbs hook loosely in my belt loops, legs slightly bent with my knees outward, as I mosey up to the corral. Eyes swoop across the scene intensely, scanning the cold chestnut wood table, the white IKEA dinner plates, multicolored face wipers, drinks, utensils, three tiny outlaws prepared for battle in their designated cells, my fellow lawman poised for another defeat, and God forgive me… food.

With each step forward I mutter inaudibly to myself, thick western accent. Tonight, I will not be manipulated into saying how many bites they have to eat of each article of nutrition. STEP. Tonight, I will not give five-minute warnings. You do not eat, You do not eat. No Bloody extra time! STEP. Tonight, I will not beg and bribe with dessert. STEP. Tonight, I will not threaten irrationally their future diminished ability to grow. STEP. Tonight, I will not turn into my parents and remind them of the starving children around the world.

Reaching my place of order, my hands firmly grasp the corners as I slide into place, and utter one last… Tonight, I will not allow them to get under my skin and force me lose my temper.

Coolly my partner gives a nod. We got this! Tonight, we enjoy dinner!

“Alright,” I broker cheerfully and possibly, slightly irritating, “Let’s get passing those plates! Malcolm, how about a gravy burger?”

“Noooooo,” he drawls out, shaking his head and silently contorting his face at Wheels. The mutiny begins.

“Ok great! Here you go. One. Wheels?”

“Yes, please. Just one,” he replies in a tone reminiscent of witnessing the slow death of his favorite stuffed animal through the tortuous pulling of a snagged string, until all is lost.

“Ok. Great!,” my voice higher, squeakier, “Just one. Fantastic. Here you go.” His head has lowered to the table in despair. I ignore and my lips go dry from the plastered smile. “Let’s get those tatters and green beans passing. Alrighty. Here’s Stewie’s! Please pass it down, but DON’T help him.”

The unspoken and known law of dinner: Don’t touch Stewie’s plate, fork, or spoon; otherwise, refusal is immediate.

The daily debriefing about school, friends, work commences. My lips are moving, head nodding, but I am not consciously hearing the replies. All my senses have been hijacked for one purpose. An obsession I am trying desperately break, but these past years have only trained, created, nurtured this inescapable addiction to WHO is eating and WHO is NOT!

My peripheral angels betray me and spotlight their progress. Stewie is chowing. Whew. Wheels is eating, kind of. His fork is moving, his knife is almost sawing but he can’t take his eyes off of Malcolm.

Re-positioning toward David, who is answering one of my inquiries, I see Malcolm hasn’t touched his plate. As usual. Making goofy faces and talking Minion or Boss Baby quietly to Wheels, who can’t stop laughing, has become his sole aspiration. I feel a hot flash rising from the base of my spine. The child never eats until the rest of us are finished and then we all have to wait, and wait.

Chill, chill. They are kids. It is no big deal. Enjoy their company.

“I done. I, I feeeneshed,” Stewie declares, pushing his plate away as Wheels’ arm springs back dropping Stewie’s fork.

“What did you do?” I interrogate, panicky, “Did you touch him?”

“I was helping,” Wheels replies shrugging innocently, but the Smize in his eyes and brief flick to Malcolm reveals his intent to detonate Stewie.

My head shakes, and my shoulder tense. I feel the inner roar rising…

“I no need, I no want help,” Stewie says with a gesture equating to a snap. “No thank you,” he finishes catching my eye.

David places his hand on my arm and mouths Almost there. He’s right. It’s almost over. Another dinner, almost done. Twenty-five minutes of shear tension, resulting in two out of three kids plates, half to fully eaten, with no banishments is not bad. David finishes and I jump up triumphantly, “Let’s clean up! Bring those plates over!”

With that, the proverbial bullets begin to fly!

Malcolm looses his grip and pounces on his untouched, cold plate, fully covering its contents screaming, “NO, NO, I am so hungry no!!!! You can’t do it. NO, it’s not fair. How can… NOOOO!” He dramatically melts from his chair to the floor. Rolling, screaming, begging. Stewie walks up to him, assuming he is playing and drives both knees into the middle of Malcolm’s back. Angry, he tosses Stewie aside. Now both are crying, but hugging, saying sorry. Wheels defends his brother denouncing, “Mom, really should just work on making food you like.”

Having succumb to too many shots from all angles so quickly, David ushers the boys upstairs, and I know all are about to get an earful. All I can do is clear, for the exhaustion of preparing and enduring dinner is more than I can handle this Friday.

Retreating, I reclaim a moment to myself and call my mom for wisdom.

“Ma, this is really important. When did you and dad start enjoying dinner with us kids?”

“Oh,” she hesitated, “I’d say when everyone moved out.”

February 3, 2018 2

Forget Me Not

Pealing into the drop off zone, my heart speeding faster than the spinning wheels, my eyes scanned for Wheels. Surging to stop outside the Swim Center, my foot hit the ground the same second I threw the car in park. The headlights flooded the steamed glass windows, making in difficult to see his little body posted up in a typical metal chair to the side of the receptionist. But even through the denseness of the fog, I could see his shoulders heaving uncontrollably and his head down on the round gray table, face covered, pressed in his hands.

Publicly broken.

My hand reached for the cold handle and I paused a millisecond to prepare. This was about to get worse.

Swinging open, my face was slammed with the stickiness of the pool, just harsh enough to scold, as the receptionist’s eyes met mine and flicked to Wheels, deepening my humiliation.

“Sweetie? Honey? I am here,” croaked from my lips.

“OH MOMMY!” he screamed in a truly scared, childish tone not utilized since entering school. He didn’t jump up, crushing me. But slowly rose from his chair, took two steps forward and stopped. His face was blotched pink and red, but his eyes were dark from rubbing. I put my hand on his shoulder and whispered “I’m sorry baby.”

And with those words, his fearful wound burst exposing the rawness of emotions. He wrapped his arms tight and low around my waist. Squeezing, as the fresh tears streaked his pale skin, eroding the previous red evidence of pain and depositing new. I just held him as people passed, staring, judging, while he sobbed. Loudly mind you, Wheels is always all in, all the time. Especially when hurting. Something to watch.

And then he said it. In between heaving sobs at midlevel roar, “Mommy? Mommy, how could you forget me? I was so scared. How could you forget me?”

The weight of his arms around my waist shrunk my soul. Holding my ground, yet still lessened. My smallness was noted by him, the people witnessing, myself. I could only think of one thing to do. I buried my nose into his soft, blonde hair and breathed him in. An action I did everyday when he was an infant, toddler even, to escape my tiredness or fearfulness of screwing him up. I breathed him in, to be reminded of his preciousness and escape the week.

All week, I had fallen into isolation. I spent the week void of other adult contact. I spent the week running for others, planning for others, playing for others, cooking for others, cleaning for others. I spent the week making promises to myself, for myself, and breaking them for others. I spent the week so consumed with whats next, I woke each morning around 3 AM, restless. And by midweek, if I had a moment, I did nothing but stare out my front window and watch the cars go by. Curious as to where they were going so quickly, so importantly. Did they see me as they passed? I didn’t really see them either, so, we’re even.

And even when all my boys were home, and as the madness and noise swirled in chaos around me, I would glance out that window and wonder. If I left, just for a day or two, could I get some sleep? Some peace? Could I watch TV all day and rest? I am so tired.

A guilty knot grew in my throat, hard and full of wallowing self-pity. I breathed him in one more time, deep, so his innocence filled my gaps, desperate to make me feel stronger. The only tear I would allow stained his hair and once again he begged, “Mommy, how could you forget me?”

Pulling back, dropping to a knee, I held his face, “Baby, I didn’t forget you. I dropped you off, and went home to eat. I just… I hadn’t eaten all day. I was hungry… I know I had never left before, I… I didn’t know practice changed… I just, wanted to eat… I am sorry, I would never forget you.”

Hugging again, my mind wholeheartedly affirmed I would never forget you, but I have to stop forgetting me too.

November 12, 2017 0

Raw Emotion

In a worn red stadium seat, inside a mid-size arena, my hands rung with utter impatience and concern. My sons, Wheels, 8, and Malcolm, my 6 year old in the middle, sat between my English husband and their Kentucky bred Momma. Of the four of us, I was the only one who knew what was to come. The neon spotlights illuminated the bright white square at center floor, yet untouched. The black ropes glistened with fresh polish as the padded posts rose powerfully from each corner, prepared for their impending assault.

“Mom? Mom!? Is that what I think… MOM!?” squealed Malcolm, each word elevating to a higher pitch and frightening delight.

“What is it? Dude, what is,” Wheels so innocently queried.

“Yes sweetie, yes… It’s a wrastlin’ ring,” I sputtered in perfect Kentucky drawl.

Malcolm erupted in hoots, matching the seasoned onlookers yell for yell. Wheels stared puzzled at the ring, slowly drew himself into his hoodie, allowing only a vision slit to assess the situation safely, from inside.

Holy Crap! Jesus Sam, what were you thinking? You are so going to pay for this! One is going to practice what he sees on Stewie and the other will have nightmares for weeks.

The videos began recapping the previous week’s drama with Smackdown, and I felt an inner twerk. A spark rumbling at the base of my voice box. A silent choke, preparing its extrication. I held it down, along with visions of familiar basements packed with faces unseen for 20 years and once again, became completely immersed in this new drama; for Raw was #undersiege by Smackdown and it was, the most important thing I’d heard all day.

I glanced to my right and noticed the boys felt the same. Malcolm stood speechless, his small body shifting foot to foot, hands in prayer with murmurs of Why? Why would they do that? Wheels face was at least slightly exposed, his fingers twizzling his bottom lip anxiously. I knew the story-lines would be his weakness. Can’t drag that kid away from books or TV.

A warm up wrestling match entered the ring, providing the opportunity to reiterate the notions of fake, professionals, practice, theater, and entertainment. Malcolm heard, but with each intricate flip-fighting sequence of Cedric, his jumping and shrieking blocked out half. Wheels, with his delicate soul and kind spirit, listened intently, wincing at each slap. Worried the wrestlers were actually in pain. I encouraged him to watch their feet when they hit… he figured it out and was more at ease.

“Thirty seconds until Raw goes live!” boomed the slick announcer.

Malcolm lost it, counting down with the flashing numbers. 10, 9, 8, my pulse quickened, 7, 6, flashes of light, bumpin’ music, 5, 4, I could feel the natural inclination to rise to my feet and go nuts, 2, 1! But I didn’t. I kept it cool for Wheels and let my husband and Malcolm do their thing.

The lights downed, Medal music pounded our chests, and out struts Raw General Manager Kurt Angle. Playing cool, I explained to the boys who he was and how I used to watch him along with The Undertaker, Stone Cold, Goldberg, Sting, Ric Flair, and The Rock when I was a teenager (I left out the WWE/WCW rivalry for it makes no difference now). David locked eyes with me and mouthed Who are you?

I rolled my eyes, turning back to Wheels. I got this. I am knowledgeable. I am playing into Wheels’ love for story details and he can deal with Malcolm’s…

The lights suddenly extinguished on Angle, the glow of purple filled the arena and Welcome to the Queendom blared from every crevasse… meaning only one magnanimous fact… Stephanie McMahon was here!!!!

Cool, evaporated, and I unleashed a barrage of “There she is… AHH” and “Bow Down People” and “You better be worried, Kurt” like nobody else in our row. While she berated Angle, I laughed wickedly and told Wheels to “suck it up, its live TV! Live a little, my boy!” My 16 year old self had emerged for all to see and frankly, it felt good!

With threats accomplished, Stephanie traipsed, elegant and confident, upstage in her leather pants, high heels, and Peggy Bundy size ponytail. I looked to both my sons and breathlessly declared, “We should totally do this again!” Wheels nodded with shocked smiles while Malcolm agreed, “Yes MOMMA! The knee-pads make you happy!”

Oh It’s True, It’s Damn True!

November 3, 2017 0

Men, Home Depot, and An Aisle Too Far

The fall air has yet to truly set in, leaving everyone slick, sticky with moisture. Humidity and high temperatures attempt to deceive the growing lateness of the year, leaving many to wonder if Fall will ever grace us with her magnificent presence. As the fall equinox passes, its a lateness that begins to nag at the masculine minds of men everywhere, and all thought turns to pilgrimage and winterization. In short, aeration and fall seeding.

Pulling through my spot, brood entail, the orange edifice consumes my car in a strange highlighter glow. There is something cosmically attractive for all men, no matter their age, and Home Depot. The men in my car are all a quiver with lists, suggestions, and aisles we can’t miss. My husband wants seed, hay, to look at paint, and tape. Malcolm, my son in the middle, wants lighting and ceiling fans. I want to browse carpet. Stewie only wants the car cart, and Wheels desires the Halloween displays.

I close my eyes and visualize our map. Still griping the wheels, I turn to my husband, smiling from ear to ear totally pumped to DO THIS!

“Alright men, GO!”

The automatic doors burst open, too slowly as Wheels slips his slender body through the gap at first availability, and is in hot pursuit of a car cart. His dad grabs Malcolm and surveys the other direction for this coveted apparatus and I peal Stewie from his five point harness thinking, If we don’t get this car cart, it is game over!

“Over here! I have one, I have one!” Wheels elates. Stewie inspects the vehicle, and agrees it is legit by sliding in. Game ON!

After our quick greeting, and an even quicker reminder to ask questions in a quiet tone, we breezed past the paint, designating the boys to grab the look books of each color, and raced off to carpet. Like rookies, we made the critical mistake of unleashing the baby. Entanglement in blinds and ruckus laughter ensued, leaving us no choice but to snap a photo of the carpet tag and move on to lighting.

As strangely usual, complete silence fell. Who knew blazing iridescent lights and swirling fans of brazen colors could have such a calming effect? Moving slowly, savoring the peace , I plotted our next move while even my husband only muttered “Oh, that one is nice.”

The aisle ended and Malcolm yelled aghast, “Hey no! Go back! Where was the fan with the outer space blades and Earth bulb? No MOOOOOOM!”

But I was off. I had the wherewithal to search for that gaudy fan upon our immediate arrival and prayed its absence would go unnoticed. With no such luck, I was pushing that car cart like at Daytona, heading straight for the finish at Halloween.

I sent my husband to acquire the seeding necessities, while the four of us beheld all that was Halloween. Each year, the kids want to stare, touch, and get as close as possible to the Halloween decor; Even though, it truly scares the BeGeezus out of them. I pushed Stewie slowly in the car cart, watching the other two dare each other at each display; a howling dog skeleton, a skeleton of a dinosaur hatching, a dancing hand, blood covered corpse. I snickered at their fear and reached for a cute bear playing peek-a-boo, which turned into a rabid animal. Aww… too cute.

My husband returned seed-torious, just as I remembered the tape! We have to get that tape. Slow motion setting in, I said the ominous “I’ll be right back” and hastily strode towards the other end of the warehouse.

Instantly, Stewie let loose the scream of a banshee that reverberated off every metal surface. Faster, faster. With a grab of my shoulders, Wheels and Malcolm shouted BOO!

“You guys left your dad!?”

“Yes, we want to help too.”

Oh no! Faster. faster. We found the tape in Christmas and sprinted back to Halloween. A crowd was gathered around my husband, who was now holding the Exorcist inspired Stewie. I slowed surveying the scene. A group of older women were patting my husband on the back, providing comfort in his turmoil, wiping Stewie’s tears and whispering kind words. Their husband’s waited patiently, grinning in the background. Stewie rested his splotched face on his dad’s chest and fully calmed as we reunited.

The ladies furrowed looks to David and left.

“Wow, what happened,” I asked.

“Oh…Stewie threw his truck and made direct contact with my head.”

“Oh my gosh , what did you do?”

“I picked it up off the ground, along with my self-esteem. Luckily those ladies jumped in. They made jokes and talked Stewie down. Wasn’t that nice?” The sweat on his brow, mixed with the relief in his eyes and the subtle warmth from ghoulish lighted displays made me realize, they took sympathy and…

Yes, it was truly nice. But only happens for a Man, in Home Depot.

October 13, 2017 0

Mom-dern Vignettes

hopefully hilarious life outtakes and mom fails

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