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Posts Tagged ‘children’

My dreams

At this moment my life is kind of sort of playing out like some of my dreams come true. I can’t remember a time in my life where I didn’t want to be a mother. As a child I wrapped my arms around my dolls at night, one cradled around the waist, one around the neck. I honestly believed that they existed past the plastic and fiber fill that they were made of and I apologized when I felt they were neglected. My little flesh and bone babies now occupy the spaces between my arms and against my chest at night. When I wrap around and cuddle them to me some part of me is that little girl again, and I hold them and smell them and whisper to them. Sometimes I feel like I can smell the Cabbage Patch kid baby powder that filled so many nights of my childhood.

It’s not just the babies, though they would be more than enough, but I have a job that I love. I get to work with Middle School youth. I get to encourage them to speak without fear, to talk about what they look like and what they feel like and their fears and their accomplishments without being afraid of being judged or laughed at. I get to pretend that I’m guiding them, when in reality I’m just listening. The girls that come to me all have names that remind me of flowers; as if their mothers could feel them growing and blossoming inside of them and they couldn’t help but form words like petals that would belong to them for the rest of their lives. The boys are skinny wonderful half-men who take pride in the cracking of their voices and the way that their skin will blister with acne, “Like a man.” They tell me that they don’t speak Spanish, but as they describe their family in far off Spanish lands their voices take on a poetic tone and every word comes out uncracked and beautiful. Every time I’m around them I smile. I can’t help but think of my beautiful little people. My tiny little rose bud who will grow and flower and my silly little man child whose voice will crack and splinter and become entirely new one day. I love their baby years and mourn every day the loss of them, but I do get excited for watching them grow and seeing the wonderful people they will turn into.

Other than the babies and the work my life has taken on this chaotic and wonderful rhythm. Sometimes I feel like I’m trapped in a ball of string that keeps on bouncing down a flight of stairs, wound up pieces of me being left behind. We are almost always on the move, my little family and me, and if we’re not I’m finding time between feeding the baby and snuggling the toddler to write up lesson plans and do artwork. It’s a good feeling, like my body and mind have finally settled into the kind of pace that they have needed all these years.

That’s not to say that it’s easy. Even dreams can be difficult. Our days are hectic and most of them have at least a few tears (and usually not only from the babies). And the job, even if it is a dream and I get to work hours that work for me and do things I love and have a boss that encourages and understands me, does not pay much (as is the case with most dreams). I also miss writing. I also miss reading. I also miss bathing regularly. But, I know that all of these things will appear again in due time, and in the mean time I’m living my dream.

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Home

I feel homeless in my home.

I feel like I don’t have the right to say this, as I live in a beautiful home with a kind and loving family.  I have my own patch of garden outback, there is a pool to swim in, there is a state park down the street with old oak trees and a spring fed lake that has tiny tadpoles that will nibble on your ankles.

But I feel displaced.  Like I can’t rest my head.  I have to sneak in and out of rooms, even though I don’t have to, I feel like I should.  Like I need to clean and wash and I never do it enough (even though I really actually don’t do it enough), and every step forward is another step back.  I feel as though baby and I are the weights that bring the whole place down.  And by baby and I, I mean I.  I am.

In an attempt to feel secure and like an adult and at home I planted the garden.  And it came up and is beautiful, and most people love it, but some hate it.  And my pumpkin plants sprouted up and most people loved it, and some hated it, and then it was run over with the lawn mower and no one talked about it anymore.  I keep a compost pile to feed my garden and to try to reduce the amount of waste we…waste.  And when I make a collection of onion ends and apple cores and bannana peels and then go to get some shorts on baby, and shoes and clothes on the both of us so that we can trek into the yard that is full of giant mastiffe shits, I come back and it’s been thrown in the trash.  Because in my home I have no ownership.  I have no rights to recycling, to composting, to buying organic.

I feel placeless.  I feel useless.

Today, I made an attempt at escape.  I had a dream that the baby’s daddy and the baby and I lived together.  That I had someone to stay up late with.  Someone I could wake up early with and whisper my dreams to over sleeping baby’s hair.  I dreamed that I made breakfast lunch and dinner.  That we never used paper plates, that I grew sunflowers that smiled down from a place over our heads.  So I escaped to the baby’s daddies house.

Except, when I got there I felt even more homeless.  The insides of his home smelled like cigarettes and dog food.  And his big dogs knocked the baby down.  And he sat on the couch and watched his shows while I sat crumpled up in a chair hoping that he would notice and take us away to a place filled with wild blueberries and dragonflies.

But, he didn’t.  He smelled like booze and his eyes were bloodshot and wouldn’t focus on mine.  His dogs barked and scratched and tried to bite the baby while he stared off at the murder mystery on t.v.  His chin sank away into his neck and his hands looked clumsy and short.  So, I gathered up baby without him and flew away on my own.

Without the child support that he promised.  So I ran out of gas and had to get my Daddy to save me, and he did.  He always does.

Baby and I came back to our home.  When we pull up baby tells me, “We’re home”.  And I want to say, “Not yet.”.  Really, I want his daddy to make us some sort of magic home that I can fly out the window and land in when this home, this world, this life, crushes me.  I wanted him to be our home.  But, that’s the thing about love; sometimes at the times that you need it most, it looks a lot more like hate.

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