Lottie wonders

That girl two houses down was riding her bike again. Back and forth, up and down the sidewalk she went.
Lottie shook her head.
"Ridiculous, Marvin. Simply ridiculous."
Marvin didn't answer.
"I've already reported her no-good mother twice for letting her play outside like on her own. In the front! By the street! I hate to call again."
Lottie fingered the phone sitting in its cradle on the small telephone stand beside her chair. She wanted to help. She wanted to see the child back safely back into her own home where prying eyes and malicious intents couldn't reach her. It had been this way since the girl and her parents moved in last month. Everyday, after school she would run outside to play. Sometimes she waved and called to the other neighbors, and sometimes a friend from the next street would come visit.
"Don't they know how dangerous this world is, Marv?" Lottie shook her head again. "I'm done. If her mom doesn't care, why should I?"

Lottie's attention moved to the newspaper sitting on the front walk. She had repeatedly asked for it to placed on the porch, but yet again, the delivery man had forgotten. She wanted the paper.
Lottie slowly walked over to the front door. She slid her feet into her slippers, toes gripping the faux sheepskin lining. Wet with sweat, her hand slid over the door knob. She tightened her grip, and pulled. The door slowly opened inward, the sunlight glaring off the chrome rims of that damn teenager's car. She slid out the door, barely leaving any clearance space.

"Quiet, now. Quiet, Lottie." She stepped off the porch, eyes darting up and down the street. Just four steps. The newspaper beckoned. Three steps. A car door slammed. Lottie caught her breath. Two. A dog was barking a greeting next door. One. She reached down and grabbed for the paper, missing it completely the first time. The second time, her shaking fingers grazed the plastic sleeve, and she tightened them and pulled her paper close.

"Hi, Mrs. Garza!" The girl stood at the end of driveway, a big smile plastered on her freckled face, her auburn hair falling in a tangle over her shoulders.

Lottie gasped, and turned, racing back the distance to her door. With relief, she pushed open the door, slid her body in, and slammed it shut, quickly turning the deadbolt.

She leaned over slightly, gasping for air.

Finally, clutching her prize, she stood up, and smiled triumphantly at Marvin. "I got it!"

Marvin didn't answer. He turned his head back to the sun and continued to lick his furry orange paw. 

Where did it all go wrong?

Sometimes I think I should have demanded good grades from my kids. I always said C's or higher, but should I have said B's? A's? Sometimes I wish I had been more involved. Should I have been one of those PTA parents who can't separate their lives from their children's? I know I should have stayed at Caleb's karate practices. He might have stuck it out longer. But sitting with a bunch of moms talking about sales on Halloween costumes just made me want to commit suicide. Maybe I should have nixed the computers for each kid (that their dad seems to think makes up for not paying child support) to protect my kids from the disgusting and constant profanity on the internet-even sweet tumbr-and yes, I think putting the f word in your user name is beyond pathetic, but I wanted them to fit in.  But it is when my child drags him or herself out of bed, stumbles out the door without brushing their hair, wearing pajama pants with holes them, that I realize I have truly and utterly failed as a parent. And I suppose it's too late.

I guess I'll be harder on the little boys.

Waiting

"Chrisses coming!" Lilian ran around the room, shouting the words to all who would and wouldn't hear. "Chrisses coming!"
Rebecca smiled over at the blonde-curled child. "Are you excited about Christmas?"
"Yes! And Santa will bring me a new dolly! And candy! and a teddy bear!"
Lilian stopped running, threw hands out and twirled in the ecstasy that only three year old understands.
Rebecca calculated, doll-check, candy-check. Teddy bear? Oh well, maybe the playdough set would make up for the lack of a stuffed bear. If only it were Christmas tomorrow. It was so hard to wait, Rebecca thought.

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Since the real goal was fiction

Liz looked straight ahead as she walked the sidewalk towards Mt. Vernon Avenue. The night was bitter, and the wind was lonesome. She felt as if she had been walking in the cold for ages. Had it only been an hour? She was always walking on this dark, cold night. It was quiet. Few cars passed. It must have been a dream. The struggle, the screaming (was that her?), the knife, the blood. She was going to prison. She knew it. They'd catch her. She tried to think of a story. She tried to imagine hiding away, creating an alibi. Who could she trust? An owl swooped ahead of her leaving a giant oak for a smaller undefined tree. She watched its thick body rise back up in the air. She had never seen an owl in town before. What would prison be like. She was already steeling herself for the beatings, for being someone's bitch. The word made her cringe. They were going to eat her alive. But she'd take it. She'd get by. In the end, almost anything is bearable, she thought. Oh why, had she picked up the knife? Why had she opened her door? Her heart? She knew better, she knew. The lights of Mt. Vernon were shining down on her. She kept walking straight. She'd keep walking until some closure was found. There was nothing else to do. 

A cold night

I am so proud of myself. After doing 14 minutes of a 17 minutes ab workout, I invited Tierney out for a walk. Liam had been tucked in, and Gabe was about to sleep in his swing (Taryn and Caleb were home). We went on a 25 minute walk or so. It was cold, the wind blew our backsides all the way to our turnaround spot, and then it froze our cheeks pinker than pink on the way home. I was so happy walk inside and feel everything come back to life. Who knew my lips could be so numb from cold, and then slowly tingle awake again? Tomorrow is the first day of winter, and I am delighted. 

What do you do?

When those words bite? When you notice each slight? When nothing feels right?
I didn't intend for this to rhyme. But frankly, I think it's rather sublime.

Outside the storm is beginning her show.
Where do I belong, I want to know.

I am middle aged and settled now, and yet, I haven't become me, I don't know how.

Liam is about to cry, lightning and rain, I'll get him. Sigh.





Enjoy your Wednesday. It's never as bad as the words that I paint. Melodrama is not for the faint.
I am having some fun, but I have to run.

Liam will not sleep with a storm raging about, a good night's rest, I'll do without.

A Day in a Middle School

Yesterday I had the delight of finding an afternoon job at Cherokee. Substituting at Cherokee is truly a pleasure; the students are so well behaved. Although they were seventh graders and it is the week before Christmas break, they were still much easier than some other places I have been. The very worst was a boy who tossed a dictionary playfully at a friend. Quickly the kids around him told me goodnaturedly, he should have to fill out a clipboard. I don't have a clue what the clipboard is, so I just left a note for his teacher. Our class assignment in language arts was the oral reading of a play of The Christmas Carol. And for the most part, it went very well. One class was a little chatty and all the classes just hooted when Fezziwig had to say the name Dick several times. Even I had to giggle a little at the pleasure seventh graders get from such things. When I thought about going into education, I thought about the poor students, the struggling, the ones who were in danger of not seeing what they were capable of. But I must say, there is a real pleasure to be with students who follow the rules, students who enjoy learning (or at least don't question it), and students who are eager to even read aloud. I was so happy that when we followed up reading  a play of Oliver Twist in the last period reading class, I briefly related the book to the plight of the orphan, Jane Eyre, and several girls nodded and smiled. They had read the book, too. What a joy!

The World is Sad

Is anything new? Since the dawn of time, people have hurt others. Sometimes (as in war) we believe it's justified. Other times, as in mass killings of innocents, we are mystified. But I can't stand the hate. First thing on my list, was the libertarians suggesting that at the least this will be used to ban guns, at the most, it was orchestrated by the government to ban guns. Do they really think their assault rifles are strong enough to protect them if the government comes knocking?

Then we look at the killer. What was wrong with him? I have heard mental illness and autism used interchangeably in this case, which literally makes me sick. Our society is not only remarkably violent, we are also extremely ignorant.

I have heard people blame the mother. She shouldn't have taught him to shoot (really? Why don't you not teach YOUR kids to shoot and not worry about other people's kids). This is especially funny coming from the right wing gun lovers. And I have heard she should have kept her guns locked up. Do you really think any  amount of keys and combinations would keep him from the guns at that point? Do you think an adult mother could hold off her grown son?

We hate the killer. Of course. At Columbine, one could almost understand. No, it was horrible and evil, but bullied children are hurt terribly. And teachers cannot protect kids from bullying. No tolerance helps, but many teachers were on the "upside" of social life, and they don't understand the pain. But there is absolutely no way to justify going somewhere you haven't been in years to kill people who are incapable of doing harm to you. But when people start calling other people "losers", I can't help but feel a little sympathy. When the man shot up the  movie theatre, he was described a loser and someone who couldn't make it in his profession (there are NOT ENOUGH jobs, even for people with technical/science degrees-don't believe the hype). And then someone described this person as a loser. And I wonder about all those on the edge. The boys who cry themselves to sleep because their "scrawny ass" as one person described this young man, got shoved around in the locker. What does it feel like to be 20 and realize you are no closer to persuading a girl to have sex with you, than you were at 10?
But I guarantee there are young men out there who identify with this man, and neither exalting nor denigrating him is going to make them healthier.
Of course, I think he is where he should be (I believe he is weeping at God's feet now for the horror he's inflicted-I believe we create our own Hell, once our eyes are opened).

There is no answer. We are animals, bent on raising up our own, and securing their way in life. Make fun of skinny Bobby in the corner? Maybe that'll keep him from being competition for that high paying job. Turn your nose up at the poor kid's family, rather than teaching your child to open up and befriend others. Maybe that will keep her from having the self-esteem to compete for boys and scholarships. I don't know. I may be wrong. But being mean is never right.

Holy Crap! I completely overlooked the religious nuts who think that praying in schools would solve this. Really? Why don't you look up violence and shooting in churches? These are the same people who insist that kids aren't allowed to pray in school (they are). Being Christian does not you have to be dishonest or spread untruths. In fact, it actually probably means you shouldn't. I want to believe in God. I want to believe in everlasting life. Why do people mix religion and politics and make it so darned hard?

In a Crazy World

It's Sunday morning. It's surprising warm for December, but, then maybe not. With global warming, this may be the way it is. Plus, we are in Southwest Missouri, not New England. A bird is singing outside. A simple chirp, but just enough to remind me we are not alone. A whole host of other creatures is lurking below the surface, creeping in the trees and attics, and bushes. How delightful. Less delightful would be the fleas which have been multiplying and spreading from the cat to me! I don't know if they are trying to escape the coming winter, or if they are just increasing in number, but it is time for more flea treatment for the cats. Honestly, I don't love animals so much anymore. I have five children. I don't like the cat hair and scratching of animals in the house. My children make enough messes. I used to stare deeply into a dog's eyes and feel as if I  could read her soul. But I don't want one now. Too much work. I feel like that is wrong, even when it's honest. 

La vie avec un enfant de deux ans

It's been a banner Liam night. First, as I was trying to convince him not to climb on the table at dinner, I had to break out the big guns.
"Santa is watching you."
"He's watching me?"
"Yep," I assured him. "He wants to see if you're naughty or nice."
"I am. I am naughty or nice."

I tried a new tactic.
"If you are naughty, Santa won't put toys or candy in your stocking. He'll fill it with a lump of coal."

"Really?" Liam started to get excited.
"Do you know what coal is?"
"It's for a train!" Liam was very excited now.

Sigh.


Later, as we watched Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer, Santa was lamenting that it was too stormy and and Christmas had to be canceled. Liam quickly turned to look out the window, than turned back to me, frantic.
"Christmas is canceled?"

A Salad for Snack

I guess it's not entirely abnormal to devour a big, green salad with no "good stuff" after hearing your mom has to have heart surgery. Especially when your not so older brother had a heart attack and subsequent surgery less than a year ago. I know intellectually that bypass surgery isn't the horror it once was. A 16% death rate after four years isn't too bad.  But still..it's scary. It's one of those things that make you stop and really think about things. I can't help but regret getting annoyed by certain things. Some things sure. But sometimes people are really trying to make you feel good, and they are just missing the mark, through no real fault of their own. I regret letting that small stuff get to me.
Last March my brother had a heart attack right before I was due to go on vacation. I couldn't help but feel guilty, but there wasn't anything I could do, and the vacation was planned and paid for. But getting updates in the evening after a day o' fun was odd. I felt guilty about being able to go have fun at an amusement park, shutting off the worry for the day. And then I felt like a fake crying after getting an update. My kids are not used to me crying over more than sad movies and touching commercials, and it really made them feel awkward.
So today I did what I always do when I have to go to the hospital. I cry in the car, not sobs, just streams, let myself imagine the worst, and then tell myself I am being ridiculous, no use borrowing trouble, and certainly no use indulging in emotional dramas for my own entertainment, and go inside. I wonder though, if it's entertainment or a way the mind prepares to deal with grief.

But, now, Karl offered to go get me chocolate. I guess to be nice, but I am trying not to eat after dinner, but...I can't say no to chocolate. 

Tired

"Who has seen the wind? Neither you nor I..." she quietly whispered to herself. She usually ended after that, because she couldn't quite remember what came next. Something about leaves or passing by or something. Once, she'd gotten together with the girl next door, and they planned to memorize poems and put on a show for their parents. It never actually happened, but it had been fun to plan. Staring at the bright computer in an otherwise dark bed, she knew she needed to catch up on her writing. The day had been an awakening of sorts. Just the night the before she had a started a book that made her stop and think, "Yes, this sounds right, this is what I want." She knew though, that awakenings do not last forever, and before too long, she'd fall back into the sleepy, mindless mode of normal. And she was angry. Shouldn't she be able to maintain this excited intensity? 

A paragraph

A simple paragraph consists of a few things. First, you need your topic sentence. This gives the reader an idea what the paragraph is about. Then you add your supporting details. These details explain your topic sentence in further detail. Finally, you end with a concluding sentence. These are the main components of a paragraph.

Thank God

Deep Breath. Thank you, Lord. One down and one to go. Seven o'clock had come around, and since the toddler hadn't had a nap, it was bedtime for him. Gleefully, Jill hurried him into bed and grabbed a nursery rhymes book. He loved nursery rhymes and was particularly concerned over the fate of Humpty Dumpty. Tonight was no exception. After reading about 20 or so rhymes, skipping to find ones she could recite quickly by heart, Jill kissed toddler and slipped out the door quickly. Door shut. The handle on the inside of the door had conveniently fallen off. Assuming she shut it carefully, toddler should be in place for the night. He would most likely grab his pillow and blanket and make a bed by the door. He'd pull back the flowing curtain covering the glass-paned door and drift to sleep with his head facing the livingroom. By morning, though, he'd be burrowed with the blanket wrapped snugly over and around his head. She didn't undertstand how he got enough oxygen, but he seemed bright enough.
Now off to her room. Jill snatched up the baby, fussing in his swing and snuggled in bed to nurse him. Bam. Five minutes later, he was out and the night was finally hers. Of course the Meg Ryan movies she was hankering for were not available for instant streaming on Netflix. She could study the trig she'd forgotten in the last decade in preparation for another teacher certification test. She didn't really believe in the test. Of course, administrators would want someone who had degrees in the area, not just the ability to pass a test.
But, fingers crossed, maybe enough people weren't into math. It was worth a shot. And a minor is half a degree, right?
But this was it. After this test, she was done. One more year of applying and then, well, she'd always thought banking might be fun. And there was always Chase.
Gosh, she thought. What I would give for a glass of red wine. And a hot tub. On top of a Manhattan building. Just a walk-up would be enough. Just noise and cold and hot bubbling water, with a slender stemmed glass filled with rich biting red wine.
That's what she wanted.

Gray

A ghost-gray December had settled in the valley early that year. Even before the children pranced the wide streets garbed as superheroes and pretty pink princesses, the sun had begun hiding his face most days. Janie didn't care. She liked the quiet of the mists rolling in from the lake, the cozy ideal of being snug in one's own home. Each morning, before the wan sun began its ascent up the clouds, Janie walked the sidewalks, noting the homes decked out in holiday lights and adornments. Each year it seemed like everyone tried to outdo themselves and each other. Part of her bristled at this thought, but she admitted to herself, the houses really were beautiful. Her favorite house lay a distance away from the others. It was the last house before the hill, faded and small. Every year  the same decorations shone: simple colored lights alternating around the base of the house, and a lit snowflake on the red front door. On closer inspection, the painted door was chipping, and the wood siding close to the ground was rotting. But even at this early hour, a light shone from a window, a view of a wooden oak rocker with a red plaid pillow tossed carelessly in its corner greeted Janie.

Home.

A Start

A sick smell of dirty socks, hair spray, and Eternity for Men engulfed Serena as she sat back in the molded plastic seat of her desk. She had always loved history class, but this year, the teacher's seating arrangement left her, Serena Clark, sitting in a seat next to Preston Kane, who apparently thought not doing his laundry could be overcome by piling on the cologne. God, she hated Eternity for Men. Even the name was wimpy.
"Hey, there, history girl." Preston leaned over, rubbed her shoulder suggestively. Yep. She was going to puke. Be nice. Be nice. Be nice, she told herself. Turning the corners of her mouth up ever so slightly, she nodded. "Hey Preston." Flat. Preston leaned back and grinned wide. He thought he'd won. They never learn, do they? she thought, as her breath caught in her chest. Her eyes met Cohen's as he walked in the door. She bet his socks were clean. And if they weren't, man, she'd like to have them anyway.