Sometimes at night you can’t see the moon, but you know it’s there though because where would it go?

And Sarah Jessica always says “good morning” with her magical smile and each tooth so perfectly shaped that you want to be jealous but the electricity that is generated by her voice is so intoxicating and really you just want to sit across from her at a coffee shop and twirl your hair as her mouth forms words you aren’t really listening to.

Sometimes at night the moon at night looks like a blur of light mistakenly resembling a UFO that you’ve never really seen but your mind can fill in the blanks

And the little alligator will eat the snails if you don’t save them and it is still a mystery how he managed to get inside their house without being noticed, but once in your hands he seems so harmless with teeth the simple sharpness of a new puppy

Sometimes at night the moon shines so bright the sky looks like a mirror and upon staring with a level of stillness that is never capable during the daytime hours, you see what is real; not just what you want

Sarah Jessica embodies everything you wish you could be, but with her long hair tied up with a pencil she is probably more like you than you than you give yourself credit, the alligator doesn’t want to cause harm, he was just trying to make friends and forgot that his jaws were so incredibly crushing, and what you believed in is still real even if it isn’t wearing the same face and “even though it all went wrong, you stand before the lord of song with nothing on your tongue but ‘hallelujah.”

In my head as I get dressed, The Black Eyed Peas “I Gotta Feeling” is getting louder and louder until it feels as if the pounding in my ears matches he pulse of my heart. This is a night I have been anticipating for months and for the first time in a LONG time, it’s mine. I must share this feeling with no one. And frankly, even if I wanted to, unless you lived in my head you wouldn’t understand it anyway. I look at my reflection in the mirror and I don’t see the little heartless girl from a small town in Texas, it is an updated version of the Grinch because my heart has somehow grown 2 sizes.

All the moving parts are turning and twisting. The presentation is moving along like a well-oiled machine and rather than butterflies in my tummy, it sort of feels like a hamster running circles in his stationary wheel. I stand up, I sit down. I am not quite sure what to with my hands and my arms suddenly feel incredibly long like I could twist them twice around my waist and still manage a princess wave. I notice my hands and question why I painted my nails. I am distracted. Breathe. Focus. Just as my mind is returning to the surroundings, I stand and then sit. Again. But this time, somehow my skirt catches on the pew and as I glide back to anchor my shoulders across the back of my seat. It isn’t until I cross my legs that I sense the coolness of the wood across my bare bottom. It is all I can do not to roll my eyes. Seriously? Not only am I rethinking my choice of underpants, I mean who wears a thong to their confirmation?!, but I cannot pull from my head how unbelievably inappropriate it is and how this cannot be what I remember from this night!

I shake it off. Minor details. The echoes, the sound of bells ringing. Then I am kneeling, enacting some sort of vison or dream, I honestly cannot make sense of it all. But he is crying, But I am not. I try to be brave and hold this wounded child in my hands, but I remember I am not a mother. I am barely a person. Then the moment when all our hands connect this bolt of electricity takes away my breath. I turn to look at her, but she’s no longer sitting where I left her and the whole space is empty like a forgotten tomb. There is an elephant on my chest and I desperately want to stand and run. But where? Wait. Stop. This is where I am meant to be.

Fast forward. It’s cold, but my forehead is warm from the oil. It drips into my eyes and I wipe it away only to notice mascara on my fingers because I have indeed been crying after all. I stand and turn one final time on new legs that I am convinced will never let me fall to far into the dark ever again.

You must be a few whiskeys in before you can truly comprehend the genius behind Hemingway. There is a certain threshold of boundaries that simply dissolve and allow thoughts and feelings to flow through a siphon to establish a pure formed story. Time and space probably play a part, but that is harder to pinpoint. With this siphon, what stays, what is flushed out, it is impossible to decipher but what emerges is either amazing or utter garbage to the reader.

Her head was full. It was like the days when she was a smoker and would walk outside to strike a match. With the first inhale of smoke filling her lungs something was released. An exhale of joy or sadness whatever the moment held. A promise made but somehow forgotten. When would it end really? Self-sacrifice or forgiveness of others never really filled the void this had all made in her heart. An attempt to explain it seemed ridiculous. Win some, lose some, but somehow this was different. She needed answers, she needed someone other than herself to be an adult, be who they claimed to be, accept some responsibility.

You see her. How could she be missed in a cathedral full of smiles, polished looks and muddy shoes? Her hair is matted, and strands twisted strands peeking from underneath the worn hat. Her eyes wide and rimmed with red from numerous late nights and early mornings. Shaky hands that continue to twirl her hair and make swift swipes under a dry nose. You can’t stop and say hello because that would just open the can of worms you know she has been carrying in her handbag for months. And to acknowledge the hidden can might mean you made a mistake. But it is there. Pulsing like a heartbeat that is destined to survive. It is not going away anytime soon. She stands. Begins walking toward the alter. Either unaware or uncaring of the eyes that are burning into the back of her neck. “You left me,” she whispers, but in the quiet space it almost sounds like a scream. “You left me, and no one can explain why” she mutters as she falls to her knees. His robe creates a swoosh as he turns to walk away.

Her hand reaches out just in time to feel the silky fabric flutter through her hand. She clutches her fist around the empty air. She stands and turns to face the crowd. “This was my home, too. I worked hard just as hard as all of you to build it. I believed in every brick, every beam, every bit of drywall, every brush of paint. But when the roof started to cave in and I lay my body over her to protect her from the falling debris, you went to dinner. I lie awake at night and wonder if Christ came in here bearing the weight of his cross, would you help Him carry it? Would you help Him up off the cold floor and tend to His fractured body? Or would you walk away and believing it someone else’s responsibly to help? I guess only one of us will ever know the answer to a lot of questions.”

She turns on her heels and steps out into the cold; the frigid air takes her breath away for a split second. Almost instinctively her hand reaches deep into her pocket and pulls to the surface the long, forgotten pack of smokes. A little deeper reach divulges a box of matches. As she presses her finger to the tip of the match and draws it along the striking strip along the box. A quick flash of light followed by the faint stench of sulfur feels her nose. Just like riding a bike the memory of bringing the cigarette to parted lips as the flame and tobacco unite is just like it was yesterday. As the smoke fills her lungs, she exhales with a small cough. She dips her nose down into the warmth of her scarf, drops the cigarette on the ground. Crushes it out as if she is extinguishing all the hurt in her splintered heart and with all the pieces of her that remain, she smiles and walks away because sometimes winning looks an awful lot quitting….

Before my house was blue
It was a light shade of gray
The cherry tree bloomed beautiful blossoms in the spring when the weather was still a little too cold to enjoy the outdoors

Before my house was blue
The gray was just a faded vibrant gray that the years had weathered in sunlight and rain
But the roses of white and orange filled the backyard with a heavenly fragrance and begged to be trimmed and used in a bouquet

Before my house was blue
The white trim around the windows and stairs looked a little dingy and splattered with earth
But the grass was green and soft under bare feet in the warm summer months

Before my house was blue
The faded gray and the dingy, earth splattered white trim enveloped the surroundings into a warm beckoning sanctuary
And the laughter was abundant and echoed through the air like a Gregorian chant

The painters came and sealed off the windows and the doors
Creating an obstacle to get inside for lunch
Pressed tall ladders against the gutters, leaving an impression in the grass long after they were gone
And as the sun poured from the sky like milk into a tall glass

Now my house is blue
Not intentionally, just a misjudge of color
And the trim is as white as freshly bleached teeth
The door creaks and the windows stick
But the sun fills the inside like a blanket of pixie dust

Now my house is blue
And my conversations with her seem few and far between
Her tone foreign and unfamiliar
until I hear the laugh that fills the space like cotton candy

Now my house is blue
I twirl my finger in my hair
And try to catch my breath
As I put down the empty glass.

Now my house is blue
But I remember when it was faded gray
The smell of cupcakes with sprinkles
Filled every room like a blanket

Now my house is blue….

It’s like that bitter taste on your tongue from a B grade bottle of wine she thought as she recalled the day’s events. There’s a mix bag of catharsis and excitement in filling in all the words into the blank spaces like a test you know all the answers to. Tap, tap, tap the loose sheets on the table to align them all perfectly before adding the staple in the upper right hand corner. I should feel something she thought or did she say it aloud? Closure? Is that what I was looking for? Seeking to accomplish? Because for that split second as the papers tucked neatly into the single pocket folder, a sigh of relief escaped her lungs, but before it could be acknowledged or enjoyed, a renewed sense of emptiness returned in its space. Oh the songs about her, she’ll never hear again, the Global Martin’s gentle hum that sang the soft lullabies to drown out the long days and bring sleep like a gentle whisper. It was gone, but it had been gone for such a long time it seemed odd for the onset of stir in emotions. It’s a loss everyone had said. But no. It was something far more vain than that. She’d lost. For the very first time and it wasn’t because she was defeated. It was simply because she put the ball down in the middle of the court and walked away to take a shower. Once her skin was glistening and her hair a different color, she returned to the court to finish the “game,” but the ball was gone and the crowd was filing out the stadium doors to return to their cars and drive home. But where was her home now? And mind ablaze, if she’d just held onto the ball what would the story be? What would have happened? And somewhere in another universe, she makes a different decision and walks a different path and the doors just continue to open and the light flows in and she hears it. Her name. Over and over like a Gregorian chant pulsing against her eardrums like a heartbeat. The broken puzzle of memories begin to move and snap into place filling her soul like a breath of fresh air. The universe settles as her breath deepens and the corners of her mouth begin to curl upward; her eyes open and she realizes she will never lose again. And it’s over. It’s finally over. The flame beneath the scar is blown out like a candle on a birthday cake completing the wish. It’s not a secret anymore. She can place it on the bookshelf for everyone to see and smile when someone wants to read it.

Jennifer Juniper Josephine Green
The prettiest girl the world’s ever seen
She’s as fast as a cat
And as loud as a lion
And never there was
A tree she couldn’t climb.

One day she decided
I don’t want to be fast
I no longer want to be loud
I want to blend into the woodwork
Be just another face in the crowd.

So she spoke in a whisper
And walked on tip toes
She held her head so high
You could see up her nose.

With her pace now so slow
Her feet forgot how to run
And before too long
Being unheard on the playground
Was suddenly no fun.

So she changed her mind
Again to be
A lot of different things
Because “that’s just me.”
“It’s true I am pretty
And can sometimes be mean
But I am also very smart
And can climb most any tree.”

“Sometimes I talk
A few decibels too loud
My clothes often wrinkled
My mind up in the clouds.”

“But I run like a cheetah
So incredibly, SUPER fast
And if you are having a lousy day
I bet I can make you laugh.”

“I am me, just little me
That is all I can be,”
Said Jennifer Juniper Josephine Green

When I was a little girl and on up through my twenties, I said I never wanted to have children. I was certain I did not possess the “mom gene” required for such a difficult, lifelong task. And I wanted to travel. To live in as many different cities as I possibly could to grow, learn and evolve my small town mind.

It wasn’t until I met my husband that I really wanted to make a go of having a family. Maybe it was because somewhere deep down it was something I had always wanted. Or perhaps I felt my age was increasing so quickly that I wanted it because maybe it might not be an option soon. Also, I was feeling as if I had explored quite a bit. I had taken solo ventures out of the country and visited some amazing cities throughout the US. And I had, on a whim, uprooted myself by moving across the map to where I knew no one and had successfully built a life on my own. I had “jumped and the net will appear” so many times, the net fibers were wearing thin and would not likely hold many more leaps. Whatever the actual reason that changed my mind, I will probably never know.

From the onset of my first pregnancy, once it was actually happening, to the birth of my amazing daughter, I have questioned my ability to parent. From the first waves of postpartum depression to the gut wrenching feelings of losing the person I once was; I have feared because of what I would or couldn’t give her would ultimately result in an adult life full of therapy sessions trying to remedy what was lacking in her life. I loved her, but did I love her enough? Would I unknowingly mold her into a ticking time bomb with no patience? Was I ultimately going to be responsible if she took the Jeffery Dahmer path? How could I prevent it? How do you shape a tiny person into an outstanding adult?

These issues haunted me. With every move I was second guessing, questioning, trying to figure out who I needed to be, to become or pretend to be. For years I nodded my head and smiled at other moms, hoping to glean, from yet another play date, some nugget of understanding how everyone was seemingly so confident in their parenting path and I was nothing short of a hot mess. Because of my downward spiral into the vortex of self-doubt, I never thought I would be able to have another child. And somehow that made me feel even worse. I had grown up with 3 sisters and while it wasn’t always a slumber party of fun, I was never alone. How could I cheat my own child out of something as meaningful as a perpetual partner in crime?

But when dust settled and the sun came out; with what I can only guess was literally my last egg, I was expecting another baby. The pregnancy was nothing short of a total nightmare. No longer was I humored by the novelty of growing a human in such a small space. I couldn’t sleep, my back hurt so bad I cried if I had to walk long distances. But after all craziness subsided, I had a baby boy just as perfect as the little lady I was blessed with almost four years before.

Since he joined the family, I still question what I am doing and if I am doing the best I can. Providing the love and comfort they both need. But as I watch them run and play together, I know the one thing I have done right in the game of parenting, was giving them each other.

 

I used to be a Volkswagen. 2 door, heated seats, manual transmission with a sunroof that was always open. My hair was long, not only on my head but my legs and armpits rarely saw the likes of a razor. My mind was sharp and my fingertips smelled like my last cigarette. My eyes held a sadness, but were overwhelmed with hope of the “bright side.” I tolerated. I smiled. I told you my opinion even if you didn’t want to hear it. My music was loud and my heartbeat was always racing. I yelled “I Love Yous” to anyone who’d listen. Dante was my path and Dostoevsky my wisdom. I was real, but also a glimmer of a cartoon character I created from pieces of novels and film.

Now I am a RAV 4. Still foreign, yet no longer German designed. 4 doors, automatic transmission, 2 car seats, cloth interior with a random cassette player I still question the existence of in a car manufactured after 1987. My corporate coffee is a perpetual statement in the cup holder. My hair is short, my muscles more toned and fingertips have a lingering scent of a glue stick. M. Stewart is my hero and birchbox my truth. I speak in a firm tone although my words often fall on deaf ears. My smile is genuine and my shoes are overpriced.

My heart is content. (thank you, Voltaire) My journey to this destination has been long and winding. (thank you, Paul.) I think I am ready to be a Ford because I am certain that holds the next level of an uncharted path of adventure.

 

I stole her socks. Not on purpose, but somehow it happened. That’s actually not the truth. I stole them, but it wasn’t in a malicious manner in which one might typically think when you use the word “steal.” Maybe let’s just say I borrowed them and then rather than return them, I kept the socks in my possession. There. That’s better. I don’t want to give anyone the wrong idea.

It started something like this. I arrived at the party from a more formal affair. With a long flowing dress and a fascinator suited to meet the Queen, upon my feet were the only shoes that would complete the outfit, the multi-colored, strappy Kate Spade shoes I got on my 40^th birthday. This party was a casual meet and greet held outside where pavement was scarce and everyone was standing around the huge grassy fields sipping cocktails and chatting resembling something out of a F. Scott Fitzgerald novel. I had packed a more casual outfit and just as I completed my quick change and headed out to meet the others, I realized the black Prada booties I had in hand couldn’t possibly be worn comfortably without socks. I didn’t panic. I simply walked up to the host and asked if she might have a pair of socks as I had absentmindedly forgotten mine in the rush to get over.

She replied, “of course!” then walked to the back of the house. Feeling a little more than embarrassed that I was walking around like a vagabond with bare feet, I slipped toward the corner of the kitchen to wait patiently for the remedy to my situation. I waited. And waited. And waited some more. I didn’t want to be grumpy, but my patience was wearing a bit thin. Standing in the corner like a guilty child who needed to poop was ridiculous. I needed a drink and wanted to join the others outside.

Then I saw her making her way through the crowd, chatting and carrying on with the guests with plain, cream colored, overly fuzzy socks in her hand. It was almost as if she was completely unaware of them. Her hands moving around as she spoke, the socks just stuck within her clutches moving this way and that, simply along for the ride.

“Excuse me…” I tiptoed behind her. “Yes?” she said. “What’s in your hand?” I asked. “Someone needed socks, I think,” she replied peering down at my naked feet, yet lovely painted toenails. “Yes, yes,” that was me I said and quickly grabbed them before she drifted away again.

They were certainly not like any socks I owned. As I mentioned, they were plain and odd beige color and a bit fuzzy for my taste. But when I put them on I suddenly felt a sort of magical tug at my heart. I cannot explain it really, it was just that somehow these socks made me more whole. The soft fabric on my feet felt reminded me of how she used to hold my hand when I was a little girl. And how safe I felt when I knew she tucked me into bed at night.

At the end of the evening, when it was time to start the long journey home I knew I should return the socks, but I couldn’t stand to part with them. I knew if I didn’t mention it she was likely to forget she ever loaned them to me.

So in a nut shell, I stole my mother’s socks. And I am certain she doesn’t remember, so I don’t feel guilty. And while I will probably never wear them again and the scent of her laundry detergent has faded after washing them in my own, they are tucked safely in the bottom of my chest of drawers like a hidden treasure.

I have never been a strong believer in the term “bullying.” Being removed from the school system with only small children, it just seemed that parents around the globe were overreacting to issues at school and they wanted to have an excuse outside of their own parenting skills as to why their child was depressed or not excited about school. Basically, I thought parents were yet again looking for someone or something to “blame” for their unhappy child.

And those so called “bullies,” well, they were just trying to intimidate others because they were not being given proper attention and bad behavior would ultimately result into the attention they were seeking. It can be rationalized at a young age that negative attention is far better than no attention.

It has been in the last 6 months that my mind has been changed drastically. My daughter has become a target for a particular child on the playground. And while I initially passed it off as a few outside games that had been taken too far, it is now obvious that one particular ring leader intentionally intimidates my child specifically. However, it is still not obvious as to why. My little lady pretty much keeps to herself, is interested in playing with anyone and everyone, but is also comfortable playing independently. So on this bullying continues, from taking her jacket off her body and throwing it into a puddle to punching her in the face and stomach. I contacted teachers, head teachers and principals, asking for help, trying to understand why these behavior is allowed or going unnoticed. Well, friends, here in lies the problem, the public school system.

First, “it is normal kindergarten behavior”. Next, “he is really a sweet boy in the classroom I cannot believe he would do that!” Then, “it is a bit aggressive, but this boy didn’t have the opportunity to go to preschool so he’s still working on his social skills” and now, “the parents feel like your complaints are race related”. Are you freaking kidding me? Does anyone outside of my husband and myself give two shits that the little 6 year old white GIRL who was able to go to preschool, but is also kind-hearted and empathetic to the degree that she wants to befriend the raccoon that ate my neighbors chickens, is being hit, teased, intimidated to the point of fear by a BOY.

Wake the Hell up, world! Last time I checked, when the media interviewed folks who knew and or lived near Jeffery Dahmer, after finding hacked up human parts in the nut job’s freezer, they said, “I always thought he was such a nice, guy. Sort of quiet and kept to himself, but nice all the same…”

So really, bullying it is real. Let’s pay attention and not assume someone is calling it out because the color of someone’s skin. My daughter doesn’t even see skin color. And as the human race, can we work proactively rather than reactively so we can support not only the victims, but those who are bullying others? Either give the positive attention that they so desperately crave or offer the guidance to support their personalities so they might find their own level of success. Normal playgrounds do not depict the pages of Lord of the Flies….