Archive for September, 2011

The babe is in bed, he went to bed early, and now I don’t know what to do with myself.  I feel like I have so many different things that I’d like to do.  Shouldn’t I be writing?  Reading? Cleaning? Doing all of those things that I put off because I feel like I don’t have the time concentration peace of mind? I’m watching “Sister Wives.”

It’s like I just don’t know what to do with myself outside of the babe. When he’s up and I’m working on homework or blogging here or anything else that isn’t playing in the puppy tent or swimming, or doing fun baby activities I feel like I’m being neglectful.  But then when he’s sleeping I feel so overwhelmed with possibilities that I shut down completely and sit in front of the t.v. to engorge on some polygamist drama.


In other news: I pet the kitten cat.  Fleetingly and apprehensively I reached out with my fingertips and stroked his back while he was eating.  I approached from the side, like the internet told me to do, and averted my eyes, like the internet said.  He flinched at first, backed away and made a little hissy sound.  But I persisted, and then, he just sat.  Underneath my fingers his fur felt soft and clean, and underneath his fur it was all bones and fragile.  I was shocked at sharpness that lay so close to my fingertips.  Despite the two feedings a day of a canned and dry mix that I put into the rooster bowl, he’s still a little bony thing that seems like he could break down and get buried under leaves where no one would ever find him again.  His legs also seem strange.  Bent funny, like it’s too much energy to move them.  He’s so light, though, that he moves in and out of my eyesight without me noticing.  He makes no noise on the ground and his only signal of approach is the mew that he lets out when he’s hungry.  I’m worried that I’ll find him one day covered in flies, but I’m too afraid to capture him.  I don’t know what I would do with him or where I would take him or how I would change him.

I need to though.  His legs worry me.  If anything else it would be to put an end to my suffering.

“Teen Mom”, now.  Let’s hope the babe wakes up soon.


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So, Full disclosure, right? That is what this blog is supposed to be. That’s what I set out for it to be.
If I’m being truly honest here, holding nothing back, this is hard. I don’t want to admit it, but it is. This is really really hard. I mean, the part where I’m taking sixteen upper level credit hours and attempting to raise a two year old by myself, sort of kind of except with tons of help from my parents. It’s hard that I feel like I’m not good enough. I can’t study hard enough or put in enough time. I can’t make the Babe’s life what it should be. I can’t offer it the beauty it deserves. I can’t go a day without popping on the cartoons to distract the ever brilliant toddler baby while I try to breeze through another chapter, another set of french vocab. I have to tell him, “Soon, baby.” when he says, “Play kitchen, Mama?”.

This is hard, and I’m scared.

It’s not that I think the Babe is not going to turn out beautiful and brilliant. He will, because it is inherent in him. But I’m scared that in being neglectful he won’t be able to enjoy life to the fullest. I won’t be able to teach him enough, and I’ll leave him with hang ups about who he is or where he belongs. Because the biological daddy has decided that he no longer wants to invest time or energy or love in raising the babe, I worry that he will forever feel abandoned. Or that my sadness will seep into him-the slightly pulled smile and too-short-temper at night-will leave some part of him unwhole.

I worry even more about the genes that the biological father contributed. Maybe, possibly, beyond my control, he’ll become what his father is. When the two-year-old tantrums come out and bowls of cereal fly across the room, the Babe with his hands open, spouting, “I’m mad!”, I try not to imagine him as a full grown person, books and mirrors and people all shattered in his wake. But I can’t. I can’t help but worry that some kind of poison was planted in him via his genetic make-up, and one day he’ll surrender to the same demons his father does. And what can I do then? Sit and cry? Beg? What could I do with his father, but just let go?

Maybe that’s the hardest part. I could let go of the father knowing that he didn’t want to be here, anyway, and that the very knowledge of that was endangering to the Babe. But you can’t let go of a child. I couldn’t let go of him, and if he were caught up in a poison that was buried deep inside of him I would have to get caught too. I would have to survive alongside him. Hold him. Burn out.

I know this is too much for a two-year-old. I know that in all likelihood there won’t be a trace of drug-addict inside of him. And, I should just concentrate on him now. His crinkled nose, little almond blue eyes, the way sweet little moon of his belly as it rounds over his hips.

A beautiful girl that I knew all too briefly contacted me the other day. She gave me a little perspective in helping to realize that most of us are a little bit chipped, or abused or just sad. That we all come from similar stock, but that we grow and change and move together. We come together and share our stories and heal. We end up delicious and savory and full ‘o flavor.

Some Pictures thrown in just for fun? I say, yes.

Crabs with Grandpa

Trip to the Museum with the Jessie

With the Great Great Aunt

Just in case you forgot my sunshine face.

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It’s been a while since I’ve been around these parts.  I’ve been in the midst of a hurricane of school work, scrambling to graduate in December.  I’ve also woken up covered in diarrhea, vomit, tears the past week.  No, I have not clinked chardonnay glasses one too many times.  Yes, both me and the Babe ended up with the stomach flu.  It was the Babe that was taken down first.  Right before I left for French class he wandered outside with the G-pa to take a swim, let out a pitiful cry, and then projectile vomited a days worth of half-chewed hot dogs and tea all over the pool deck.  My poor sweetie, he’s never experienced the sensations associated with major stomach upset before and wasn’t sure what to do.  He was scared.  He wimpered, “Mommy”, and I cried along with him because all you can do in that situation is wait.  He galloped between sessions of serious tummy troubles where he laid out on the floor and whimpered before I helped him hover over a big blue vomit bowl, and running around the room laughing in glee.  Babies are the strangest creatures.  His troubles lasted about 48 hours, and where his ended mine began.  Needless to say, I wasn’t as exuberant as dear babe in the throes of my affliction. But, enough about vomit.  Today is more special than stomach flu.

Today is devoted to one of the most important people in my life.  Today is for my dear friend, J-to the essie.  She turned the big 25 two days ago, when I had originally intended to write this blog, but got caught up in life.  Her, the babe and I all went on a journey to the beach.  We watched the waves while we sunk ourselves into the shoreline and the surfers on the horizon played God’s game with the sharks at their toes.  We pondered the notion that the babe would one day be a surfer, and then rejected, remembering that most surfers are elitist assholes who think that the sea and the beach and the sky all belong to them.  From the beach we went to hang out adult style and dance and forget who we are and where we came from and where we’re going.  We evoked the name of Buddha and laughed about our existence and insisted that we did indeed exist.

It’s hard for me to describe what my J-to the-essie means to me.  At times she has been a mystery that I’ve wanted to pry open and untangle and set straight.  She’s tall and thin and fashionable.  She’s all made up of art; an amazon with poetry lips.  Most of the time I just want to sit with her and talk about all the things that most others wouldn’t understand.  Or laugh about jokes that we came up with years and years ago.  Mostly, I just love her.  Because she’s special and a mix of artsy nerdy doesn’t fit in, and Latina goddess.

This one goes out to all best friends.


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What I need.

The kitten now hovers at fingertips length.  I can reach out and touch him.  I could scruff him even.  He would do that weird cat thing where they freeze up and their faces look like something out of hell.  I could scruff him and then hold him to my chest like he was a baby.  Like he wanted me to be there.  Like he wanted me to hold him.

But I don’t.  I’m afraid that in doing something like that it would compromise who this kitten is.  He doesn’t want to be held.  He wants to be wild and roam around the streets eating dead mice and pigeon eggs.  Except he doesn’t.

This kitten wants me to feed him gourmet kitten food.  He wants me to set it in the same place every day and he wants me to sit at least an arms length away to watch him eat.  He permits me speaking.  He permits baby playing.

He won’t let me touch him or cradle him, he won’t come to me when I call, even.  He won’t play with the baby or feed him or bring him dead mice.  At this point I’m not seeing a whole lot of value in the kitten.

Maybe I should have left him out where I found him.  Maybe it was wrong of me to start feeding him and to offer him clean water.  Possibly he liked being wild.  Even when he was skin and bones and bags under his eyes.  Even when he was wandering from house to house looking for love and trying to hide from the hawks that were just waiting for his claws to retract.

Maybe he would be happier like that.  Or someone with sterner resolve could set him straight.  They could scruff him and take him to the vet.  They could sternly yet tenderly pull him in.  They could make him a house cat.  Hell, they could train him to go in the box.

But maybe then he wouldn’t be him.  He wouldn’t be that stray little snarky thing.  He would be held against his own accord, and even if that’s what he thinks he wants, it would never truly be his choice.

And maybe that’s my downfall.  That I’ll feed the kitten and I won’t force him to be touched.  That I’ll let him take from me.  To come when he’s hungry.  To drink when I’m not looking.  To eat freely.  To shit in the garage.

That I don’t force him to be good to my son, to spend time with him, to love him.

Thanks Mimi and Papa for the little red wagon!

How could he not want to rub his whiskers on that sweet face?  How could he not want to spend every nap curled up on his little baby lap?

There’s a good chance that the kitten sneaks to other houses during the day.  The times when I call him and I can’t find him.  He possibly rubs his body against other legs.  Mews.  Takes food from prettier girls hands.  Drinks from their mouths.

Yeah, kitty face, I see you sneakin' in that back door.

And maybe that’s okay, too.  Maybe all I really need is to know that he is fed.  That he’s patting around living his kitty life.  Maybe I don’t need to force him to be what I need, but to instead be content that he existed for a purpose in my life, and that I will feed him, but otherwise maybe I don’t need him for anything else.

All I really need is this face:

A shout out for Fern and Mary!


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