love

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

missing Home

I am
Home.
amongst the forest of
our childhood.
sitting at the base of the tree
at the base of our hill,
inhaling
the
past and present
brings me whole
again.

My sons charge
slipping on the dry, barren slate bed
defending our mountain
slashing at predators,
intruders
with their
practical sword-walking sticks.
their laughter rises
with the trees
mingling, mixing,
cunningly
deceiving my perception,
as to whether the
happiness ringing out is
theirs
or ours
absorbed, preserved
from decades
gone by.

gathering My soldiers,
and commanding
true freedom
awaits
at the top of the Mountain,
we rush the hill.

steepness soon stifles
bravery,
and encouragement
a necessity.
the same roots
we used to lunge for,
they do.
the same slate crevasse
we overcame,
they maneuver around.
the same encouragement
whispered
to usher this little sister,
she gives to them.

as hard, burnt umber ground
succumbs
to green moss
and lush ferns,
we stand
firm, at the summit.
silence except for
breaths.
this was our happiness.
no pain, no worries, no fear,
no anger.
just us and woods.
Connected.

the forest’s constancy
provides hope,
proof
of brotherly love
in silent challenging
escapades.
Surveying the treetops,
and the boy’s proud smiles,
my heart throbs,
aches,
muscling
the loneliness
of the forest
into my heart.

For nothing
can
relinquish
the crushing
sensation
of truly missing your
Home.

September 22, 2017 0

Elusory

Elusory

My Love.
a term of endearment
for the common
and
uncommon.
A notion, whim
claimed to be held
by many
but
understood by too few.
an overused declaration
which embodies
my eternal devotion
to you.

My Love,
resides in your gaze sensed
across the room.
the warmth emanating
from your bright, loving eyes
gives me peace
when feeling the most
chaotic.
I look to you,
and
your glance
feeds my embattled mind,
reminding me that
I
am not alone.

My Love,
blossoms with each instant
you teach our sons to
be
men.
gently, respectfully guiding them
to be aware,
kind.
your fatherly education
fills my glaring
motherly gaps

and allows me perspective
into the quieter, subtler world of
discipline.
our little men respond
with awe,
an awe reserved only
for daddy.

My Love,
is nothing less than
trust.
as a flower awaits the knowing
sustenance
of the morning sun,
I turn to you
for my survival,
protection,
passion.
You are my light,
the hope
of bright days and
starry nights
and a boundless future,
for we
manifest an unwavering
force.

And as I lovingly
draw you to my
breast,
I breathe in your
vitality
and spirit.
secure in our place in
this world
together,
I exhale relief
in the uncommonness
of
our Love.

July 21, 2017 0

End of the Beginning

Next to one another, my husband lying flat on the canvas lounge, one leg on the ground, eyes fixed forward and I, sitting with my legs to him, elbows on knees, head down in shame, eyes closed. How did it come to this? Exhausted, verbally spent, foggy. So much has been said, yet nothing truly of consequence nor significance. I love him. He loves me. But the last twelve hours have tested our companionship, civility, and ability to come together as a team.

Twisting my body, I lean back into my chair, carefully place my legs outward and fix my eyes on the mountainous cottony clouds. They come into view and pass so peacefully, smoothly. No notion of harm. No sound of threat, yet their sheer presence implies impending duress.

His voice laments, “Dear God, Sam, how did we get here?”

In my usually stall, I inhale deeply and hold …

We woke the family up at 4:30 AM to make our 7:30 flight to Charlotte and connect to Turks and Caicos. Running through Wheels, Malcolm, and Stewie’s rooms, I stuffed their charged electronics in their backpacks, reminded them about headphones, a change of clothes and books. I snuck a secret toy into each bag, grabbed Stewie, husband, and left for vacation.

Easy. Efficient. Mom-Awesome.

Too, of all of the above.

Attempting to check bags, both were too heavy. Great. Rearranged and took out the stuffed skunk Wheels had to have, .5 pounds under. Boom done.

While in the security line, NSA approaches and kindly suggested, “The line here is too long. Terminal B is faster, go down there. They have five lanes, A only has two.” Practically coercing us out of line, we proceed to B.

Terminal B’s line was astronomically long. I looked at my husband and he mouthed, “Bastard.” The line began to move, and so did Stewie. His nearly two year old body quickly began rejecting the confining line, rejecting my husband, rejecting me, and rejecting life. He was throwing his head backward, to the side, onto the ground whining. College kids stared, either irritated by the child or fearful of their future.

Progressing forward we’re now second, when the inevitable slow motion walk of another TSA member swaggers forward and slowly pulls the cloth tape, blocking us in the corral and coldly announcing, “K9 sweep” and leaves. After five rounds of “why can’t I touch the dog mom?” and 10 minutes for the dog to sweep the entire line, we were released and asked for tickets.

My husband hands her the pile, completely organized of course, with each family member’s ticket tucked neatly into their passport on the page with their pictures. She scans them, allows Wheels, Malcolm and I to pass, and denies entry to Stewie and my husband. “This baby needs a ticket too. This,” she enunciated while waving the incorrect boarding pass wildly, “is not enough. Go back and get it.”

Our eyes lock. Stewie is full on preforming an Exorcist move in my husbands arms, as the despair on his face turns to rage. When angry, his face doesn’t furrow, wrinkle, it goes unnaturally lax, with big wide eyes and the only tightness is in his lips.

I did the only thing I could think of. While kicking my shoes off, I waved to him and said “See ya later” as Malcolm chimed “Alligator”.

Yep, that made it worse.

Eventually, we all met at the gate (even though it turned out we did have the correct ticket). And the next 9 hours did not improve; Stewie was enamored with the planes and bolted frequently across the terminal enthusiastically screaming at the top of his lungs, despite clear instruction Wheels resolutely believed the motorized walkway was for riding and openly chastised all walkers, no one charged their devices, only one headphone was packed, Stewie headbutted my husband just to headbutt, each boy argued constantly over the other’s secret toy and books, no inflight entertainment, no purchase of my superstitious five trash magazines, and Stewie threw an epic tantrum while wiping his face across the germ infested terminal carpet and licking the seats. Most of these events occurred prior to touchdown in Charlotte and just continued with no one napping from 4:30 AM to 5 PM.

Worse than childish behavior made by children, are those made by adults.

My husband and I barked unhelpful comments all day. To the kids. To each other. And to each other again. It was inevitable, highly stressful and highly unusual. Embarrassing. Mostly my doing.

“Sam? Sam?” he cautiously whispered through the warm sea air. I exhaled my breath and turned my sore neck from the calming clouds to meet his weary gaze. A juvenile smile crept across his face, as belly laughs heaved his shoulders creating the warmth I love about him, but hadn’t seen all day. Gasping for air, his classic sly smile inquired, “Honey, how did we get here?”

“Careful love,” with the same smile, “It’s that look that got us into this mess in the first place.”

July 7, 2017 0

Summer’s Invocation

Standing at the brick edifice,
my skin prickles with
anticipation, nausea, joy,
Fear.
Nose breathes deep in,
Mouth forces air out.
feeling stiff,
my chin stretches
to the brilliant blue
early summer sky,
and my thoughts
Escape.

Please, to whomever available,
Don’t let anyone
Break a leg.
or fall down a crevice,
or get eaten by
an anaconda.

May we all have
lazy early mornings,
in PJs
with cartoons,
and days on days
where stopping
laughing
is the hardest
feat.

Give me sense,
to give them freedom,
to be kids.
allow myself to
slack
on math and reading,
Just a tad,
and breathe in their vibrant,
Boundless curiosity.

Tell those boys,
any bickering, any tattle-telling,
any smack,
will find them in Jail,
a scary one!
And remind their hearts
that along with the annoyance,
brotherly love is
Fairer
than
Loneliness.

Provide them time,
to envelope themselves in boredom
and yearn
for the structure
and wonder
of school.

Let my tired voice
rest,
silencing the desire to order
them here to
there.
Give me strength
to enjoy my kids,
to loosen up,
take a joke as a
joke,
and not worry about
where we should
be.

Keep me from
Wine;
especially when whining and frustration,
isolates me into
Solitude.
those notions will
pass.
Besides,
summer defines
friends banding Together,
awash in colorful
Mojitos.

Force me,
to carve time
for myself
to gain the clarity needed
for their and my
survival.

And as the final bell tolls
and the shrill squeals of summer
resonate through the school grounds,
Please,
let my thoughts remain
Mine.
never allow negativity to project
on my family,
nor allow the boys to notice,
that sometimes
Mommy feels this way.

June 9, 2017 1

Tales From the Crypt: Life with Stewie

From the window of Wheels’ violin lesson, a struggling mother wrestled her son to the ground outside the storefront. The boy was nearly two, blonde, bullishly stout and filled with determination. His blue fire truck shirt twisted, exposing his belly, as she picked him up, and tried to calm him through whispers and shushes; but his mind and mouth only shouted “Car! Cool car! CAAAAAR!” His body tensed with all its might, and then went dead weight, forcing her to place his heavy load down. With that, life restored, he sprinted for known kid heaven and parent hell, 5 and Below.

Unrelenting to his demands, she raced after him, scooped him up at heaven’s gate and carried him over shoulder away, car-less. The battle resumed. Her second son, unfazed, used to the ordeal, was sent in to assess the release of another sibling’s lesson as she continued to deflect and endure the writhing demon.

Employees from the upscale hair salon, nail salon, 5 and Below, and JoAnn Fabrics, emerged checking to see if a child was endangered. She sheepishly smiled and kept repeating, “He’s two. Wants a car. No way!” with equal over my dead body determination.

Finally broken, the boy oozed from her arms, still yelling “caaaaar” but too tired to pursue. He melted face first over her shoes, nose smashed on the nasty gum riddled concrete of the portico. Her hands flew to cover her face and her shoulders began trembling.

As her hands pulled away, my out of body experience over, it is me… and I cannot stop laughing. Cry or laugh, this time laugh. It was all I could do.

To add salt in the wound, a woman approached and disclosed, “Eighteen months to two years is the worst. It’ll get better. Hang in there.” As she was the third person this week to utter that exact line to me, she confirmed my knowledge that I looked like a total amateur. Fantastic.

How have Stewie and I created such toxic, public interactions?

Ok, ok. So I resent him a little. I am sorry, but I do. Before he came along, life was easy. The older boys played on their own together, everyone was potty trained, evenings were bliss for the first time in 5 years, dinner was almost enjoyable (almost), everyone was in school! Instantly, we were back at the starting gates with way more afternoon activities, homework, stress. Bonding took a backseat and he became the purse I grabbed on the way out the door to… something. Perhaps that is what is missing…

So, I made a concerted effort to be more Stewie present.

The result culminated at Malcolm, my son in the middle’s, preschool graduation. Stewie, uninterested and unimpressed, mean mugged kids on the playground, took off in any direction Malcolm was not, wolfed lunch, and bee lined for the playground again, alone. He toddled from the picnic tables through the woods, looking over his shoulder to determine if more speed was necessary. Stopping at the fenced entrance, he eyed me, challenging me to stop him. If I did, screams would reverberate through the graduation. If not, possible limb reorientation from a fall down the windy slide. I stared.

His soft, fine blonde hair, covered his forehead and eyes wide, yet squinting his thoughts. Mouth, as always, turned slightly down in a frown, body defiant, but still.

Like a rising gasp of air, I saw my exact image. He is me. All my wonder and horror. My independence. My determination and stubbornness. My Blackburn-ness. My boy.

And that is why we struggle. It is hard enough to struggle with knowing yourself, but knowing your child, who is all you, is deceiving. It should be easy, because you know what is coming. But knowing what’s coming, blinds you.

Slowly, with refreshed insight, I walked to save him from breakage, so we both could cheer for Malcolm. I stopped, knelt, and braced myself for the impending onslaught. He forcefully threw his arms around my neck, whispered “Mommy” and kissed my lips.

My Grinch heart grew three sizes. Thank goodness he loves his kisses, just like me.

We’ll get there…

June 2, 2017 0

Mom-dern Vignettes

hopefully hilarious life outtakes and mom fails

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