My mom wants me to be a food blogger, my sister thinks i should be a food critic, and my friends think i should write about being a new mom. I would like to write about all of those things, but i just feel like there are so many, and by so many i mean SO MANY blogs out there about food and being a mom that mine would just get lost in the shuffle. I think i would need a focus--some kind of point. Like when that girl cooked everything in Julia Child's cookbook and blogged about it. I could do that! Well, maybe not that cookbook--i'm not so into the buying the bird and killing it and plucking its feathers out. I'm more into the buy the bird all chopped up and bloodless and frozen and then we have something to work with! Maybe Jamie Oliver's Food Revolution? I've already made a lot of those recipes though. And they were all phenomenol. So those could work. Maybe. Then there's the mommy stuff. I don't really feel like i have much advice to give other moms. I use disposable diapers, she sleeps in our bed, and i feed her pureed foods. Pretty much all the things that will immediately, if not sooner, get me kicked out of the mommy club or mommy/baby gatherings or the mommy/baby ent-moot or whatever they call it these days. But that's just who i am. That's what works for me. That's my journey, man. So off i go to try to come up with some new, clever, eye-catching popular blog that people all over the world will rejoice to read and I will become incredibly rich.
Oh, but if you have any ideas that may work for me, tell me! Cuz that would be awsome!
Saturday, May 19, 2012
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
of a Tuesday evening, sliding into Wednesday morning
My beautiful Stella is asleep. She is asleep in bed with her daddy and is cuddling up to him and flipping herself sideways so that her feet are on his shoulders and back. I go over and turn her the right way and make sure she's still breathing. She has a dastardly cold and I want to make sure that her nose has a clear path for breathing and isn't mashed down into the bed so that no air could ever get through, no matter how determined. Her breathing is labored and filled with more snot then ever should fit into such a tiny body, but she is breathing. And she is with her daddy, so i do NOT need to go check on her again......right?
Ok, so instead of opening the door to go watch her little belly rise up and down, i'm going to wash all of the various and sundry items we have been using for Stella's sneezes and coughs and watery eyes. I throw everything in the washing machine and go sit down with some oreos and milk and turn on Sex and the City, because, yes dear friends, i own the Big Pink Box. It is courtesy of the best husband ever in the history of the universe, who also will watch them with me sometimes and he knows all the characters and all about their lives and why Carrie couldn't be with Aidan, even though we really all did love him, and Big could definitely be an ass, but you just loved him and knew he had it in him all along!
The washing machine finishes its duties, and most of the items come popping out and then go flying willy-nilly into the dryer, all ready for their next adventure. But a small handful i hold onto as i shut the dryer door. I have a special place for these. I walk into the nursery/guest room (we have a very very tiny apartment) and start laying out onto my drying rack small, square, filmy pieces of my past. They are handkerchiefs that belonged to my grandmother--my father's mother--my Memom. Memom has been gone these ten years, and yet her handkerchiefs are in regular rotation. I tuck one in my purse if i know i'm going to see a very sad movie; i take one along if i'm on an outdoor excursion and i'm afraid i'll have an Attack of the Sneezes. I use them all the time, and now i'm using them for my beautiful Stella.
Her poor little runny nose was getting wiped so much that it was beginning to get raw. I decided "enough with the toilet paper and burp cloth!"--she needed something as soft and as beautiful as she is. I chose the handkerchiefs. Some are riotous with color and flowers, others are delicate with barely there embroidery. One of them has a "G" stitched in the corner--i can only assume it stands for Memom's maiden name, Grambo. If so, that is a very old handkerchief that is draped over my drying rack, blowing slightly from the heat wafting down quietly from the vents, and it could have been made by Miss Grambo herself when she worked as a seamstress. Another one has a letter on it that may be an "M" or may be a "W," which could stand for either Mary, her first name, or Wood, her married name. But it also could have belonged to my grandfather's sister, whose name was Mamie Kate Wood. There's no way to know now--Memom and Pop have been gone for a decade, Kate went a few years before them. There is no one left that could know for sure the history of these hankies, but history they have, and history they will continue to make, as i use them to wipe my beautiful Stella's face and tell her all about her wonderful ancestors who would have loved her so very much.
Ok, so instead of opening the door to go watch her little belly rise up and down, i'm going to wash all of the various and sundry items we have been using for Stella's sneezes and coughs and watery eyes. I throw everything in the washing machine and go sit down with some oreos and milk and turn on Sex and the City, because, yes dear friends, i own the Big Pink Box. It is courtesy of the best husband ever in the history of the universe, who also will watch them with me sometimes and he knows all the characters and all about their lives and why Carrie couldn't be with Aidan, even though we really all did love him, and Big could definitely be an ass, but you just loved him and knew he had it in him all along!
The washing machine finishes its duties, and most of the items come popping out and then go flying willy-nilly into the dryer, all ready for their next adventure. But a small handful i hold onto as i shut the dryer door. I have a special place for these. I walk into the nursery/guest room (we have a very very tiny apartment) and start laying out onto my drying rack small, square, filmy pieces of my past. They are handkerchiefs that belonged to my grandmother--my father's mother--my Memom. Memom has been gone these ten years, and yet her handkerchiefs are in regular rotation. I tuck one in my purse if i know i'm going to see a very sad movie; i take one along if i'm on an outdoor excursion and i'm afraid i'll have an Attack of the Sneezes. I use them all the time, and now i'm using them for my beautiful Stella.
Her poor little runny nose was getting wiped so much that it was beginning to get raw. I decided "enough with the toilet paper and burp cloth!"--she needed something as soft and as beautiful as she is. I chose the handkerchiefs. Some are riotous with color and flowers, others are delicate with barely there embroidery. One of them has a "G" stitched in the corner--i can only assume it stands for Memom's maiden name, Grambo. If so, that is a very old handkerchief that is draped over my drying rack, blowing slightly from the heat wafting down quietly from the vents, and it could have been made by Miss Grambo herself when she worked as a seamstress. Another one has a letter on it that may be an "M" or may be a "W," which could stand for either Mary, her first name, or Wood, her married name. But it also could have belonged to my grandfather's sister, whose name was Mamie Kate Wood. There's no way to know now--Memom and Pop have been gone for a decade, Kate went a few years before them. There is no one left that could know for sure the history of these hankies, but history they have, and history they will continue to make, as i use them to wipe my beautiful Stella's face and tell her all about her wonderful ancestors who would have loved her so very much.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Not much but too wonderful not to share
I am currently babysitting my nephews and typing my final paper for my American Lit class. My paper is dealing with a book called Wolf Whistle, which is a fictional retelling of the death of Emmett Till. It is a "magical realism" book, and much of it is hysterically funny. Some of the students in my class were offended by the book because they did not feel that it was appropriate to have a book that deals with such a tragedy be so funny. My contention is that Lewis Nordan, who grew up in Itta Bena, Mississippi, just miles from where the murder took place, and was about 15 years old when it happened, is using magic and humor to deal with the horror of the event and his own feelings of blood-guilt. There is an essay in the back of the book by Nordan where he talks about how much he reveres the memory of Emmett Till and how hard it has been for him to deal with what happened.
My 7-year old nephew asked me what my paper was about. I told him it was about a book called Wolf Whistle, He practiced his wolf whistling for a minute, and then asked me what the book was about. I hesitated, and then said "Well, alot of it is really funny, but alot of it is sad too."
This was Aidan's reply:
"Funny and sad mix together goodly. Mean and sad don't go so well. Mean is the only one that doesn't mix with anything. Mean, to me, is a myth."
Profound doesn't even begin to cover it. I'm including Aidan's comment at the end of my paper.
My 7-year old nephew asked me what my paper was about. I told him it was about a book called Wolf Whistle, He practiced his wolf whistling for a minute, and then asked me what the book was about. I hesitated, and then said "Well, alot of it is really funny, but alot of it is sad too."
This was Aidan's reply:
"Funny and sad mix together goodly. Mean and sad don't go so well. Mean is the only one that doesn't mix with anything. Mean, to me, is a myth."
Profound doesn't even begin to cover it. I'm including Aidan's comment at the end of my paper.
Scattered
I haven't written in a really, really long time, and i really really want to start again. As i keep getting jobs writing for other people and having them change everything or tell me it's not the right style or just not give me the credit, i realize just how luxurious and satisfying it would be to write for myself. But i need a point--some kind of focus. I'm thinking and thinking......hopefully it won't take too long before i come up with something.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Goin down to lonesome town
i feel like i have had the atmosphere of that Ricky Nelson song over me all day. Sadness, loneliness, a gray haze...i don't know why. Well, i do. And i don't.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
The prayer of a child
I babysat my two nephews, Tristan and Max, this evening. Max, the curly-headed imp, ran around shrieking and falling, leaving a trail of cheddar Goldfish everywhere he went. He kept throwing his favorite blanket over his head and then laughing hysterically when i would pull it off. He was like a little wide-eyed elf, in love with me and his toys and his house and everything he found.
Tristan, on the other hand, was unusually quiet. Typically boisterous and full of spunk, tonight he was content to lay down quietly and watch a movie, clutching his own blankie close. He was uninterested in his usual activities, like eating and stomping around the house roaring at everyone he sees. The fierce sharp-tooth was strangely sedated, perhaps as a result of his long and late nap. Sleeping too much can definitely bring an air of lethargy.
When bedtime came, and Wynken, Blynken, and Nod had sailed back home in their wooden shoe, and we had said our prayers, and had our milk, Tristan wanted to pray again. This time, though, he wanted to be the one talking. So he said, "Dear Jesus, please help Mama Laylee not to be scared, and to know that you are always with her.In Jesus name, Amen."
How is it that children always know just what to pray? Was Wordsworth right--is it because they have so lately come from Heaven that they still have memories of it that connect them to its heartbeat? Does their innocence give them a special insight that the clouded and jaded minds of adults can never see?
Whatever the reason, i am amazed that one simple prayer by a two-year old child can have more of an effect on me than all the eloquent prayers spoken by wise men.
Tristan, on the other hand, was unusually quiet. Typically boisterous and full of spunk, tonight he was content to lay down quietly and watch a movie, clutching his own blankie close. He was uninterested in his usual activities, like eating and stomping around the house roaring at everyone he sees. The fierce sharp-tooth was strangely sedated, perhaps as a result of his long and late nap. Sleeping too much can definitely bring an air of lethargy.
When bedtime came, and Wynken, Blynken, and Nod had sailed back home in their wooden shoe, and we had said our prayers, and had our milk, Tristan wanted to pray again. This time, though, he wanted to be the one talking. So he said, "Dear Jesus, please help Mama Laylee not to be scared, and to know that you are always with her.In Jesus name, Amen."
How is it that children always know just what to pray? Was Wordsworth right--is it because they have so lately come from Heaven that they still have memories of it that connect them to its heartbeat? Does their innocence give them a special insight that the clouded and jaded minds of adults can never see?
Whatever the reason, i am amazed that one simple prayer by a two-year old child can have more of an effect on me than all the eloquent prayers spoken by wise men.
What Is Dew?
His little blonde head leans over my lap.
One hand clutches his milk, while
the other rubs sprigs of yarn, pale and fuzzy.
His eyes follow the sailors' moves as they travel
through a shimmering night and catch fish
made of ancient religions and fire.
He wants to know, what is dew?
How can i tell him that it is she who now sits with him,
murmuring soft words in his ear?
That it is i who can be seen in early morning, shining
and quiet on the green, green grass,
but gone
by noon,
utterly disappeared?
Wynken, Blynken, and Nod can never tell him
that i am the one clinging to the vine.
I am unseen, but faithful.
One hand clutches his milk, while
the other rubs sprigs of yarn, pale and fuzzy.
His eyes follow the sailors' moves as they travel
through a shimmering night and catch fish
made of ancient religions and fire.
He wants to know, what is dew?
How can i tell him that it is she who now sits with him,
murmuring soft words in his ear?
That it is i who can be seen in early morning, shining
and quiet on the green, green grass,
but gone
by noon,
utterly disappeared?
Wynken, Blynken, and Nod can never tell him
that i am the one clinging to the vine.
I am unseen, but faithful.
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