tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36042434119787886812023-11-15T08:49:46.341-08:00butterflies flutter to my tiny flameMadame Butterflyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01894412138534905022noreply@blogger.comBlogger23125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3604243411978788681.post-54823005980158978822011-07-04T10:24:00.000-07:002011-07-04T10:34:57.110-07:00"Zumba Changed My Wife" On Saturday we were packed in like sticky sweaty little puppies, waiting for Zumba to start. The doors were open, Transformer-like floor fans roared, but still it was stifling.<br />
"We're already dripping sweat and we haven't even started yet," we whined.<br />
Finally the room filled with music and Ana our Zumba Guru started to move. We stopped our complaining and forgot that we didn't even have an arm's length apart from each other to move.<br />
The typical whoops, whistles and cheers that have become our soundtrack drowned out the droning fan. <br />
Belly-dancing music came on and Ana led us through the slow, silky introduction before the melody burst into a wild tangle of sound. We mimicked the piercing primal chant of the song.<br />
Suddenly, this woman bolted from her spot a row in front of mine, and started to dance next to Ana. Her moves were of a woman possessed. She was powerfully large and her thick, dark braid, veined with gray, pulsated as she moved.<br />
Her beaded forehead glistened under the lights.<br />
Her raw chants silenced ours.<br />
Her flesh became the vibration of the music.<br />
She shimmied. She shook.<br />
Her cupped hands sliced through the air.<br />
I stopped dancing to watch her. My hands flew up to cover my mouth in awe. I tried to figure out her story. What if she was a famous belly-dancer when she was young and in her prime? Or...maybe she's been an oppressed housewife her whole life, complacent and obedient, and this was the first time she'd ever done anything so daring. <br />
I looked around. Most people had stopped dancing to watch. <br />
The room had erupted in celebratory laughter and cat calls. We clapped along to the beat.<br />
We cheered for her because whatever her story was, this 50-something year-old-woman had gotten her sexy back.<br />
We cheered because whatever <i>our</i> story was, we could get our sexy back too!<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, Ana our guru did not seem to share in our excitement. She just kept following her own routine, throwing confused, nervous glances over at the woman.<br />
She would not give her center stage!...this woman whose native music had filled her veins with life.<br />
Finally, the woman stopped dancing and bowed a little to Ana, smiling sheepishly. She came back to her spot in front of me. I just had to give her a hug. Others came up to hug her. For the rest of the hour people hugged her. Thanked her for giving us this gift.<br />
<br />
Ana, come on now! I can't believe you missed it. <br />
You inspired her! You inspired <i>us</i>.<br />
You helped us believe it isn't over yet...<br />
even if we don't turn heads on the street as much...<br />
even if stretching before and after Zumba has become a necessity and not just a formality...<br />
A few weeks ago you were selling Zumba bumper stickers. One said,<br />
"Zumba Changed My Wife"<br />
and ain't that the truth.<br />
In the year I've been doing your Zumba class, I've watched middle-aged women start coming to your class religiously and become inspired to change their lives.<br />
I've watched them widdle their bodies into sculpted sculptures...probably the best they've ever looked in their lives.<br />
What more could a guru hope for? <br />
<br />
The woman honored you in the only way she knew how.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Madame Butterflyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01894412138534905022noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3604243411978788681.post-15604172655981506622011-06-30T13:31:00.000-07:002011-06-30T13:31:02.389-07:00Random Night<style>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Managed to slip out front to watch the sunset</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">while Eli watched TV</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">and Savvy, Paul played the Disney Princess memory game</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">she manages to kick our asses at, every single time.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">It felt so good to get fresh air,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">all by myself.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">I thought about what a miracle</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">it was:</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">the day had come</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">when I could slip out</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">like that, undetected.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">I flipped through the library books</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">I hadn't had the chance to look at,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">but I also looked up.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">From where I sat,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">the sunset orange lit up the house</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">on the tippy-top of the </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">highest hill</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Whittier's own Hollywood Sign. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;">The branches of the tall tall tree behind our rooftop</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">formed a heart (<i>corny but true</i><span style="font-style: normal;">).</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Another intricate crochet of twigs and leaves</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">and branches made me think</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">that words are just like that.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">Every twig seems meaningless</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">on its own but all together</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">they are a majestic, timeless tree.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">A life.</span><br />
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</div>Madame Butterflyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01894412138534905022noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3604243411978788681.post-53316115430686611012011-06-22T23:19:00.000-07:002011-06-22T23:26:50.599-07:00The Haircut The other day, Paul walked over to me and tried to give me his dusty hair-clipper kit. We'd bought it when Eli was still little enough not to care what happened to his hair, and had only used it once. Paul was forbidden to ever go near Eli with it again after what he did to his poor hair. <br />
"I need you to shave my head," he said. I laughed at first. Yeah right he was gonna let me mess with his hair. But when I saw he was serious I shook my head no and then more adamantly from side to side.<br />
Nope. No. No way.<br />
Can you imagine? I rarely do his laundry because it's never the way <i>he</i> would do it. Why would I risk fucking up something he carries around with him 24/7? You can't just rewash a botched haircut.<br />
"I've been to Supercuts three times now! The wait is ridiculous! It's not worth the money for the few minutes it takes them to buzz my head!" <i>...and they take only a few minutes BECAUSE THEY KNOW WHAT THEY'RE DOING!!!!! </i>I reminded him.<br />
<br />
And so ended up outside on the patio. He sat on one of the patio chairs, with only a dusty, cobwebbed window for reflection.<br />
"Could I in any way hurt you with these?" I asked over the chainsaw buzzing of the clippers. My shaky hand was almost to his skull. I took a deep breath and tried to force only happy thoughts into my head. Love. Peace.<br />
...Because of what happened the last time Paul went surfing. It was the last day of our Spring Break and I was <i>done</i>. I'd kicked myself for saying: "Of course!" when, earlier that week, he'd asked if it was OK with me if he went surfing the last Sunday of our break.<br />
He was heading out the door, surf board tucked lovingly under his arm, a spring in his step I've only seen when he is going surfing.<br />
He tried to kiss me goodbye as I did the dishes.<br />
"Bye!"<br />
"OK then."<br />
"What's wrong?"<br />
"Nothing. Just go. Be careful. Don't drown..." I said.<br />
<br />
An hour later the doorbell rang. He'd had an accident on his surfboard and landed on his knee. He said the pain had been excruciating. It was a good thing he hadn't landed on his head .<br />
"You cursed me!" he said.<br />
We joked about my magic powers. But his knee got worse and he kept saying I'd cursed him and while I obviously don't have magic powers, I'd started to wonder if he really <i>believed</i> I'd wished him harm. Wasn't that just the same as an evil spell?<br />
<br />
I held the weap-- <i>ahem</i>--clippers in mid-air. My arm shook. I imagined accidentally carving out a piece of his skull, blood spurting. The peaceful thoughts would not come. Only fear of myself. Self-doubt.<br />
"Go ahead," he said, "start at my temples."<br />
<i>Not the temples!</i> I saw a vein pulsating. <i>What if I...</i><br />
Finally, a connection. Blade to scalp. The hair came off smoothly, like clearing a cornfield. Straight little rows. No blood. My shoulders relaxed. I could do this.<br />
"Done," I sighed. Relief.<br />
...Only he ran up to the bathroom and said I wasn't. I'd left patches, he said. The hair at his nape was jagged and crooked.<br />
"You're gonna have to do it bare blade," he said, once again sitting down in front of the dusty window makeshift mirror, "It was too much hair. You didn't get close enough to the scalp." <br />
<i>For good reason...</i> <br />
He handed me the clippers. <br />
I learned what "bare blade" means...stared at the gash of exposed white scalp right smack in the middle of his skull.<br />
I tried to fix it.<br />
I tried to fix it some more.<br />
"Now I'll have to shave more off..." I said.<br />
"NO! No! Just leave it." I followed him up to the bathroom and winced as I saw his reaction.<br />
He seemed to be holding his breath.<br />
He blinked a lot.<br />
"You made me..." I whined.<br />
He exhaled.<br />
Finally... <br />
"It's only hair. As soon as the sun hits it it won't be so obvious. It'll even out..."<br />
<br />
I exhaled.<br />
Was it a test?<br />
If so, we were both relieved. All I had power over, really, was a bad haircut.<br />
<br />
<br />
Madame Butterflyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01894412138534905022noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3604243411978788681.post-25258374863792176582011-06-02T21:18:00.000-07:002011-06-02T21:18:02.805-07:00The End of Things On our way to Eli's soccer game one (way too early) Saturday morning, we drove by Chuck and Sonny's house. They were having a yard sale and I yelled at Paul to stop! It had been way too long since I'd talked to them. I jumped out of the truck, Savvy in tow. <br />
Chuck saw me first and my heart melted when I saw the smile spread over his face. He came over and gave me one of his bear hugs...hugs like no other. He is a big cozy guy with hugs that I can only explain as home. You never want to have to leave.<br />
It was his birthday that week and he was turning 54. Sonny is also around that age. They showed off their garden, an impressive maze of color and aroma and many herbs and veggies I'd never even heard of.<br />
Then they told me that they'd both lost their jobs.<br />
"What <i>now</i>?" I asked.<br />
"Don't look so scared," Chuck laughed, "We're taking a month off and then we'll see."<br />
I just stared. Didn't say what I was thinking as I looked around the house they'd waited so long for. And I hoped that all those people they'd housed and fed and nurtured back to emotional health would step up. I hoped karma would serve Chuck and Sonny well.<br />
I bought a set of small pea green saucepans with flowers painted on them that I was sure they'd had since the '70's. I'd think of them every time I looked at the funky green treasures.<br />
And then it was time to say goodbye.<br />
"Do you ever miss the old times on Friends Ave.?" I asked Chuck.<br />
"We talk about them all the time," he sighed.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"> ***</div> In our apartment complex, Chuck and Sonny, (grand central), lived in the front apartment. James and Jason lived above us. During our famous BBQ's, the place became one big commune. The doors of all the apartments would be unlocked and wide open, lights ablaze. We'd walk in and out of each other's pads.<br />
We'd have BBQ's once a month and the whole block was invited. The guys would somehow get the most reclusive of neighbors to come. There were bday BBQ's, holiday BBQ's, BBQ's because we'd all gotten paid, or because one of us needed a pick me up. Eventually, there was the pre-wedding BBQ for Paul and I :).<br />
When I moved in and became an official member of the family, they assured me I had nothing to worry about. I was safe with five guys living in the apartment complex.<br />
"The only reason I'd peep through your bathroom window is to tell you that your bra does <i>not </i>match with your panties, girl," Chuck said.<br />
<br />
Even then, we knew it was too good to last long.<br />
It was a wink in time. None of us had started our real life:<br />
...the overwhelming responsibilities of mortgages and kids and getting old...<br />
<br />
Ahhh...the end of things...<br />
the end of things hurts.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"> ***</div> My Trishie is retiring. She has been one of my best friends for almost 20 years. She saw me through long flippy hair, short dikey hair. She was one of the few who was excited when I decided to get dreadlocks.<br />
She has made me eat my words when I got married and had two kids. Once upon a time I was single and angry and adamant about keeping my freedom.<br />
My mantra was: "Wedding Rings. Golden Shackles."<br />
Monday mornings she'd anxiously await a story about a date I'd been on that weekend.<br />
She was the only one I wanted in the room the first time I tried breastfeeding at home. The baby screamed because it wasn't working and she just sat there, talking as if all was normal.<br />
When Eli's teacher told me he'd be "suspended" from pre-school if he doesn't potty train by the end of the month, Trish said, "I don't know any 18-year-olds who aren't potty trained."<br />
<br />
About every crisis she said, "I don't know any 18-year-olds who...[fill in the blank]"<br />
<br />
She baked a birthday cake for EVERY SINGLE ONE OF US, EVERY SINGLE YEAR. I swear some of those people didn't even remember their own bdays until they saw their cake.<br />
I can't begin to imagine how many are on her bday list now.<br />
People humbly ask her to please be added to the list.<br />
<br />
She decorated the cakes with fresh flowers, picked from the school garden<br />
I would see her at that garden picking flowers, while I was caught up in some meaningless work-related drama. Suddenly my shoulders would relax. I had to smile.<br />
"New flowers won't grow if the old ones are still there," she'd explain, and off she'd walk back to her classroom, nose buried in sweetpeas. <br />
<br />
It had been a while since we'd left the yard sale at Chuck and Sonny's house and Savvy was worried.<br />
"Are we lost, mommy?" She didn't wait for me to answer. She knows me well enough. Of course we were lost. She started to cry because we'd missed Eli's game.<br />
Just then, we crossed the street and started walking on a block lined with shedding Jacaranda trees.<br />
<br />
"It's raining purple!" Savvy said, her face turned up, an offering to the sky. She spun around as a breeze kicked up and purple petals rained down on us.<br />
I looked up at the anemic looking trees and thought it sad that they'd have to lose such beautiful blooms.<br />
"New flowers won't grow if the old ones are still there," Trish would say.<br />
<br />
<br />
Madame Butterflyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01894412138534905022noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3604243411978788681.post-66012207767817303072011-05-22T22:32:00.000-07:002011-05-22T22:32:54.025-07:00Friday. I slip off my loop earrings and bracelets<br />
toss them in my purse.<br />
At a light, I fish around and find<br />
a semi-clean tissue and wipe off<br />
the red lipstick.<br />
High heels have long been exiled<br />
to the back seat<br />
and yet I pull into my driveway and know<br />
I have not stripped myself entirely of the work week.<br />
Half this and half that,<br />
I take a deep breath and walk through the door.<br />
<br />
Friday's here but we are all still there.<br />
The four of us will spend the night<br />
painfully becoming our Weekend Selves.<br />
We have, after all, spent the week as, <br />
and with, <br />
other people.<br />
We have lived <br />
in other places.<br />
<br />
The sun will set on the weekday<br />
and four ghosts will wander from room to room.<br />
There will be crying meltdowns or<br />
absent eyes sitting in front of a screen. <br />
<br />
By Sunday we'll start to recognize each other.<br />
I start to feel like more than just<br />
She Who Nags about homework, dinner, baths.<br />
The house sighs.<br />
Often we decide<br />
to stay in our pajamas and lay around all day<br />
<br />
By Sunday<br />
Friday feels so far away...<br />
<br />
but so often now I learn something new<br />
about these people I live with:<br />
"When did you start saying/doing <i>that</i>?"<br />
"You didn't tell me that..."<br />
I stare at each of them, bewildered <br />
<br />
and try not to wonder<br />
How long before<br />
we remain Friday ghosts,<br />
strangers bumping around the house<br />
with no Sunday in sight?<br />
<br />
Madame Butterflyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01894412138534905022noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3604243411978788681.post-75736060381449460272011-05-17T22:19:00.000-07:002011-05-17T22:23:48.032-07:00TalismanShe says, "Close your eyes."<br />
I do.<br />
"Put out your hand."<br />
I do.<br />
"<i>Nooo</i>...not that way."<br />
She puts in the palms of my outstretched hands<br />
a foam picture frame she made for mother's day,<br />
a crazy splatter of sequins and glitter and little hills of dried glue<br />
In the picture she wears a floppy red hat cocked over one eye<br />
a lace shawl around her shoulders<br />
Which she holds with gloved hands.<br />
"So that you remember that I love you<br />
if you get sad.<br />
You can take it to work if you want,"<br />
she says<br />
and skips off<br />
to play schoolMadame Butterflyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01894412138534905022noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3604243411978788681.post-73324264191405049222011-05-09T21:46:00.000-07:002011-05-14T09:14:45.950-07:00Real ThingsThe couple at Rite-aid shopping together for adult diapers<br />
<br />
In Zumba class, the 75-year-old woman in striped leg warmers and sparkly head band<br />
swaying to the music with her eyes closed<br />
<br />
"Station for Rent" sign in the window of the fortune teller's store front<br />
<br />
Cheap beer on Sunday morning. Mother's Day.<br />
<br />
The wirey black hair<br />
sticking out of the chin mole<br />
that is love.Madame Butterflyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01894412138534905022noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3604243411978788681.post-55485236865879494712011-05-06T11:54:00.000-07:002011-05-10T22:11:34.336-07:00I find myself doing like back in the day<br />
looking for answers<br />
between pages of poetry books.<br />
<br />
I grabbed as many from the library<br />
as my arms could carry<br />
and I'm approaching them slowly...<br />
shyly.<br />
First because I haven't been there<br />
for a while<br />
Then because I'm not sure<br />
what I'd do if I found<br />
what I didn't even know<br />
I was looking for.<br />
<br />
If I find the answer<br />
and the search is gone<br />
what would be left?<br />
<br />
My mama's voice echoes:<br />
"Read the <i>Bible</i>, hija."<br />
Yeah, I know...<br />
but I've had better luck<br />
with poetry.Madame Butterflyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01894412138534905022noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3604243411978788681.post-84313140242691627292011-05-04T23:05:00.000-07:002011-05-06T11:41:08.042-07:00R.I.P. Ms. Rose<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">I.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"> It was a typical morning. The kids and I burst in the office at Lad 'n Lassie, running late as usual. I finished signing Savvy in and looked up, right into the eyes of Ms. Rose...a picture of her, that is. It was attached to the donation box that had been sitting on the counter since she went through chemotherapy for the first time. It had been collecting dust lately, but now it was right smack in the middle. <i>Good news</i>, I thought. <i>Maybe she's a candidate for another kind of treatment</i>.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> I asked the the directors how she was doing, then glanced at the clock, instantly regretted starting the conversation when I was running so late. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> "Any day now," Doris said. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> "...she'll be going into treatment?" I answered. But then I saw the look on her face and the numb poured over me. I felt cemented to the ground. The clock stopped ticking. Suddenly it wasn't that important if I was late to work. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> The horror of it framed my entire day.<br />
She is one year older than me.<br />
I thought of her 2-year old daughter and hoped someone had taken lots of pictures of them together...and that Ms. Rose had taken a lot of pictures before she'd gotten sick. Had I taken any pictures lately? </div><div style="text-align: left;"> From then on the donation box was a reminder to stop the madness. It made me ask myself: <i>OK...is this a big deal? Is it worth yelling over?</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"> Any day now.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>II.</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><b> </b>It was Valentine's day but you wouldn't know it walking into Lad 'n Lassie. For the first time I could remember, the place hadn't been transformed into a red heart and cupid wonderland.<br />
In the office, images of Ms. Rose covered a poster board. There were pictures of her with her signature curls pinned on top and tumbling over her shoulders. That glossy smile. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> A wedding picture</div><div style="text-align: left;"> Pictures with every one of the L 'n L teachers. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> posing with kids she'd taught throughout the years.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> and then ones of her when she'd lost her hair and wore a page boy hat. Her glossy smile strained.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> Next to the poster was a flyer for her memorial. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> I gasped but the tears came anyway. Lupe (one of the directors) and the mom she'd been talking to came over and hugged me. Lupe had been with her when she passed away. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> Lupe's eyes shone with tears, but her smile was serene and wide. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> "You should have seen her," she said, "she was beautiful. I pressed my cheek against hers and she asked me to help her pray. She said, 'I'll miss you but I'm ready to go home.'"<br />
She died in her sleep not too long after.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"> When I got home, a bouquet of flowers sat on the table for Valentine's day. They were all my favorite flowers in all my favorite colors. Paul had also gotten Savvy two white roses. I decided not to tell him about Ms. Rose until that night.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">III.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"> What got me was when a little girl wearing a purple Tshirt and leggings, (her diaper giving her the precious baby bubble butt) walked down the aisle towards the easled poster filled with pictures memorializing her mother. She ran past it and the flowers, to an Elmo helium balloon that was attached to one bouqet. Somebody untied it and gave it to her. She turned and walked back to her seat with a grin on her face to where daddy sat. People smiled and cooed at her as she passed them, then burst into tears as soon as she was gone. I hoped that for the rest of her life people would not look at her and see loss death. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> It took every muscle in my body to keep from crying. I was amazed at the force of grief.<br />
I was rocked with guilt.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> I'd thought of visiting her in the hospice since it was so close to where I work. I'd wanted to thank her and tell her how exceptional she'd been in the lives of Eli and Savvy...and mine. But I could never conjure the nerve. No matter what I said to her, it would be a good bye. Wouldn't that be insulting to someone who was going to live?</div><div style="text-align: left;"> I tried to focus on the purple. Many people wore purple, obviously her favorite color. Sprays of it everywhere: Tshirts, flowers...her husband wore a purple tie. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> She'd planned her own funeral. Every speaker and singer said she'd asked them to participate in her funeral. She'd choreographed the order of events and had even helped put the video of her own life together. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> I needed air. I needed to write. At the lobby of the place, someone had put out index cards, pens and boxes for guests to write letters that her daughter could read much later, when she was older. I wrote:</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> Dear Lilly,</div><div style="text-align: left;"> Your mommy was soooo special. She was my son and daughter's teacher. Her smile helped me through tough times, especially when my son was in her class. It was during the hardest times when her smile would soothe me. Nothing could be that bad if she could smile like that after dealing with my darling all day. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> She did the best impression of my son I've ever seen...the way he pokes his tongue against his cheek and looks down at the floor when he's embarrassed or has gotten caught. I hadn't even noticed the tongue thing until she did the impression for me the first time. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> But while she touched me so much when she was alive, I just want you to know how her being gone has helped me... just as much as when she was alive. Every time I am losing control or perspective as a mother, your mommy's face pops into my head. I remember how hard she fought to concieve you, and then stay in your life. How could I take this for granted?</div><div style="text-align: left;"> You will always be in my prayers.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"> Love, </div><div style="text-align: left;"> Eli and Savvy's mommy</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>IV.</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"> I'd decided not to write this. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><b> </b>But then I had to find a baby picture of Eli for a school project. I came across Ms. Rose again. She was in pictures with both my kids at the Halloween parades, Cinco de Mayo dances, class photos...there was the program of her memorial service a month ago. I'd put it way in the bottom of the red silk box of stray photos.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> Then there was the note scrawled quickly on a teddy bear memo pad.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> "Dear mom and dad," it said, "I just wanted to share with you something that Savvy said today. All day long, her response to anything I said was, 'praise be to God!' It was precious and I knew you'd love hearing about it. Love, Ms. Rose."</div><div style="text-align: left;"> It has been the first and last time a teacher has ever given me the gift of a glimpse inside <i>allllll</i> I miss when I am away from my children. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> I knew this would be hard <br />
but she's worth every tear.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div>Madame Butterflyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01894412138534905022noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3604243411978788681.post-67891691302102878262011-04-14T22:43:00.000-07:002011-04-14T22:43:01.039-07:00Finally. Spring...It's been a long, cold winter my friends.<br />
Never quite recovered from Christmas. We went out to South Carolina and stayed with Paul's parents. While I was relieved that a KKK squadron did not meet us at the airport when our flight arrived, I was welcomed by worse when we finally made it to the house:<br />
Zorro. The 100 lb. evil Ukrainian mop of a cat.<br />
He fixed me with an amused look in his eyes the minute I stepped in the door.<br />
I tried to look away but the power of his stare seemed to burn my throat. My eyes. My everything. Soon I learned the the heat was allergies...the worse I'd ever experienced. No longer will I roll my eyes when people whine about debilatating allergies. Now I know. Drugs were powerless to the strength of Zorro.<br />
It didn't help that Zorro was out to get me. Once, I found him all cozied up inside my purse. He reacted to my screams with the same cool amused look in his eyes as the first time we met. He wouldn't budge and someone had to pick him up and out. <br />
<br />
I was sequestered the majority of the time in the little room upstairs, with an air purifier on one side, a fan on the other. Every once in a while I peeked down to see what everyone was up to. As soon as I saw the furball, I'd slip back into my room, itchy tail between my legs.<br />
<br />
When we finally got home (two days early), we had to take a shuttle home when our ride never materialized and the airport closed.<br />
"See! I told you no one would pick us up!" Eli said. Over and over. and over.<br />
I'll stop here because the mere memory is making my neck break out.<br />
In all fairness, the kids had a blast hanging out with their many cousins. Savvy cried when she had to finally disengage from hug after hug after hug. And yeah, I felt like an ass. An itchy, miserable, drippy ass. <br />
<br />
Savvy's 5th bday party kicked off Spring. Finally. Spring.<br />
It was a Barbie themed party, and I got all creative and bought gold and silver beaded necklaces, and feather boas in varying shades of pink and purple to use instead of streamers. I think the result looked more like burlesque, strip joint (Oops...I-just-stripped-and-my-boa-landed-over-<i>there</i>-big-boy sort of thing) than Barbie. Nobody seemed to notice any of it any way.<br />
<br />
...and so a toast! To Spring and the shedding of jackets and rainboots and nightmares of Zorro's eyes. <br />
<i>Ching!Ching!</i>Madame Butterflyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01894412138534905022noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3604243411978788681.post-46858709920126326372010-11-20T22:59:00.000-08:002010-11-21T23:02:52.434-08:00Avatar-boundWatched Avatar tonight.<br />
The main character in the movie, Jake, is participating in some kind of top military project where he penetrates a virtual world for the mission. I don't know a lot more than that about the plot...wasn't really interested until the part where...<br />
Jake is assigned an Avatar (this hybrid human, animal alien entity) that would enable him to penetrate this other "world." Jake is wheelchair bound, and his Avatar can walk, run, leap.<br />
<br />
My Avatar would be able to see without glasses or contacts.<br />
My Avatar would not get depressed<br />
or compare herself to other mothers<br />
and then get more depressed.<br />
My Avatar could sit through a mind-numbing, soul killing, Thanksgiving-week ruining, meeting and walk out, unscathed.<br />
My Avatar's daughter would look up at her: "Play with me, mommy?" And my Avatar would smile and nod and reach out her hand to her, every. time. They'd disappear into the rainbow.<br />
My Avatar's son would never tell her he wished she weren't his mommy<br />
and she'd never fail her husband<br />
or sister<br />
or mother.<br />
or herself. <br />
<br />
At the end of the movie, after the war between the "sky people" (humans) and the Avatars, Jake's soul is transferred from his human body to his Avatar's.<br />
Of <i>course</i> he chooses the virtual world, right? I mean... he could WALK now.<br />
It's only a matter a time before we really could escape permanently into a virtual world.<br />
Sometimes I think the real reality has lost it's worth.Madame Butterflyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01894412138534905022noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3604243411978788681.post-47331431878704845322010-11-14T20:59:00.000-08:002010-11-14T20:59:27.189-08:00The first half of my creative writing class (which started in September), is now over and the next half is about to begin next week. It was a big class: 28 students, when usually it ends up being a core group of 15-20.<br />
<br />
Among the highlights was the student who came to class loaded on those caffeinated alcohol drinks that are the rage apparently. I finally managed to get her escorted out of my room and into the main office...only she somehow (in her state) kept escaping the counselor and the security guards, and finding her way back to my classroom where she'd bang the door, demanding to get back in. First she said she'd left her stuff there. When I finally opened the door, she stood in front of the class, wobbling, pointing a finger in my face. "You're a <i>BAAAAAD</i> Lady," she said, before sliding onto the floor.<br />
<br />
After like the third time she came back, I gave up and tossed the poems I was still trying to read.<br />
"OK," I sighed, "I was gonna ignore it and go on but let's talk about what just happened..." Teenagers being teenagers, some said they thought it was funny. But most sat shuddering in their seats. There were several who had just finished stints in rehab, jail, even. Those students said there was nothing funny about it, and it served as a stark (broad daylight) reminder of how stupid they look when intoxicated like that.<br />
<br />
And then there was what I now refer to as "The Factioning." I've taught the class for so long and this is one of the few times this has happened. I vaguely noticed the two groups forming as the class progressed, but it's natural for people to gravitate to people with whom they are more compatible with, in high school and IN LIFE. I didn't give it another thought until I got a call from the counselor. The two groups had gotten in an argument which had escalated and had all ended up in the counseling office.<br />
Later, one of the students told me she wanted to drop the class. She said that what I'd said about the class was not true. It was NOT a safe place to be honest and free to write what you want, and not be judged. The argument she'd gotten into had revolved largely around stuff she had read in class. The opposing group had done just that: judged her by her stories.<br />
<br />
It is the most important thing I try to drill into the students (and myself): treat the writing as just that: the writing. Once it is on paper, it is just a story, subject to faulty memory. DON'T JUDGE THE PERSON, JUDGE THE WRITING. If they can grasp this complex concept, then they could gain enough distance to write the hard stuff, the deep stuff of the heart, the REAL and ultimately, most touching stuff effectively. As for me, I have to remember this concept so that I can read their work and not fall apart. So that I can cope with such hard core stuff and continue to do this. It's worked for the most part, for the 8 years I've been teaching the class.<br />
<br />
No one had ever said to me that it was not true. That really, there could be no such thing as this safe bubble I'd tried to create. It was hard to hear and I had no idea how to handle it.<br />
A good friend who also teaches writing told me, "There are bone heads every where! Boneheads in high schools and boneheads in 'advanced' workshops! Boneheads in life!'"<br />
It was a good reminder to get off it! Why would I think my class would be so flawless? I decided all I could do is be honest with the students, as I ask them to be in their writing.<br />
Thanks, Chi.<br />
<br />
And so the second part of the class starts this week. Hopefully I can find a way to save some of my creative energy to write another blog before January, when the second half of the class ends...Madame Butterflyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01894412138534905022noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3604243411978788681.post-27430216122451246072010-09-12T22:22:00.000-07:002010-09-12T22:24:56.238-07:00Just EnoughJust enough so their stomachs don't growl<br />
Just enough for him to tell the truth when he tells teacher he did his reading<br />
Just enough so that they don't look at my sandaled toes and cringe<br />
Just enough so that my hair <i>and</i> my smell don't scream "homeless lady."<br />
Just enough so that my friends know I love them.<br />
Just enough so that Savvy will someday have something good to say about her mommy when sitting around talking to her girlfriends<br />
Just enough so that they walk into their classrooms clean, even though most times wrinkled<br />
Just enough so that they remember the holidays at home<br />
Just enough so they know I'm serious<br />
Just enough so that they know I'm not always serious<br />
Just enough so that I don't get called into the boss' office--again<br />
Just enough so that I can still fit into my clothes<br />
Just enough so my husband knows he now calms me throughout my day<br />
Just enough to remember to ask my mom about the first night of her new class<br />
Just enough so that she knows she'll always have big sister to fly home to<br />
Just enough to keep the lids on<br />
the jackets zipped<br />
dreaming eye lids kissed<br />
Just enough sleep<br />
Just enough late nights to hear the house breathe<br />
Just enough late nights to hear myself breathe.<br />
<br />
I hope<br />
when all is said and done<br />
it will end up that<br />
it was just enough.Madame Butterflyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01894412138534905022noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3604243411978788681.post-73887713628017095252010-08-22T22:54:00.000-07:002010-08-22T22:54:19.012-07:0010 G's For Some Double D's "So did you <i>finally</i> decide what you're gonna do with the money?" I asked when she walked into my classroom.<br />
It was the same question I'd asked her countless times in the last two years. The other teachers and I had had fun trying to guess what she'd decide to do with the $10,000 she'd be inheriting on her 18th birthday from her deceased father.<br />
We'd made sure she had our input.<br />
"College?" one of us had suggested.<br />
"Savings?"<br />
"I know, a trust fund for Nikki! She's only two, by the time she's 18 interest will accrue and..."<br />
We had all learned to expect her 16 (and then 17) year-old eye roll.<br />
"Nope. A car! A month long cruise! Another car!" she'd counter.<br />
<br />
Finally, her birthday was a few weeks away.<br />
"Guess," she said.<br />
"The Land Cruiser?"<br />
"Nope."<br />
"The cruise..."<br />
"Nope, give up?" she asked. I said I did because it was obvious she wanted me to.<br />
She drew in a long dramatic breath. "A boob job and a tummy tuck."<br />
"Ha!" Typical of her sense of humor, I thought.<br />
She seemed confused at my response.<br />
She wasn't joking.<br />
"But...you just had a baby. You're 18!!! I-I-It'll all bounce back!" I stuttered.<br />
"Nope, nope. I've tried everything. Sit-ups, diets. I want to look like a normal teenager again. I'm sick of my belly ring jiggling way after the rest of me has stopped moving," she said with a set jaw.<br />
"But you're <i>not</i> a normal teenager. You're the mom of beautiful Nikki..." I said with a sigh. Because of course, she wasn't listening. She had whipped out a stack of brochures and I found myself staring at a bunch of glossy before and after pictures of boob jobs and tummy tucks.<br />
"See, these are the ones I'm getting: The Teardrop Shaped Ones," she said, as if we were chit-chatting about earrings. "Oh, and I'm getting double D's," she added.<br />
<br />
I called her mom.<br />
"Oh, yeah, so she told you, huh? Were you shocked?" she chuckled. "I think it's a smart decision. It's like an <i>investment," </i>her mom explained. "A car will eventually go out of style, with a trip all you have left is pictures...but I told her, 'if you look good, <i>mija</i>, you could get a <i>man</i>. A good one.' And then she and Nikki won't have to worry about nothing."<br />
<br />
Soon after, the newly minted 18 year-old walked into the classroom with her tear-drops threatening to burst out of a stretchy tank top...one that stopped in the nick of time to show off the taut new navel. She had apparently had enough bling left over for a new belly ring...<i>and</i> a tan.<br />
"Wow," I said.<br />
"I know, huh? You can't even tell I had a baby," she beamed. "I think my dad would be proud."<br />
<br />
<br />
Madame Butterflyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01894412138534905022noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3604243411978788681.post-38751157756180411702010-08-20T00:06:00.000-07:002010-08-20T23:36:33.225-07:00A Night. Tie-dyed Skies. We decided to take an evening walk. It was still at least 90 degrees outside, but shades of pink had started to tie-dye across the desert sky and there was at least a breeze.<br />
Paul and my dad walked way ahead of us, while my mom and I walked with the kids.<br />
"Just let them walk ahead," I said, "we won't get lost." I shouldn't, since we were staying at the same time-share in Palm Springs that we'd been coming to when I was still breast feeding Eli under a towel by the pool. People look at me like I'm crazy when I tell them we go to Palm Springs in August, when the temperature could easily topple over 110 degrees. But it's off season and cheaper, and hey, you just make it work.<br />
The place is built around a gulf course, with rolling grassy hills and lakes where ducks shimmy around in.<br />
On the walk back to our rooms the kids started to whine. The breeze had stopped and suddenly it was hotter than hell.<br />
"Carry me!" Savvy whined.<br />
"How come she only gets to be carried?" Eli. He'd plopped down on a curb and said he was walking no further. His legs were sweating, he said.<br />
My mom leaned over and whispered something in their ears. Suddenly the three of them took off running. By the time the rest of us reached the pool area, they had already stripped down to their bathing suits and dripped over to us by the gate: "Ha!Ha! We got in the pool and now we don't have to go to bed at bedtime!" Eli nanni-nanni-nannied, jumping back into the pool.<br />
My mom looked at me with her signature innocent shrug and bewildered eyes. "I don't know...they just got in..."<br />
It was 8:30 and the pool was aglow with white lights under the stars. Occasionally a breeze would blow and tiny white lights twinkled in the swaying palm trees. <br />
It was dive-in movie night, a staff person announced. A pool full of people cheered as this theater-size blow up movie screen was erected right at the edge of the pool. Just like that we were watching, "The Tooth Fairy" from the water!<br />
Paul had gone off to the adult pool, where it was quiet and the pina coladas flowed. He asked if I wanted to join him. "The kids are with your parents," he said.<br />
I looked over at the kids and my parents. My dad and Eli were out in the middle of the pool where Eli (who had quickly gotten bored with the movie) was trying over and over to achieve a perfect flip in the water, the skin on his tummy stretched taut over his ribcage with every try. "Watch, grandpa! Watch what I can do!" <br />
My mom and I sat at the edge of the pool, where Savvy was performing one of her "princess dances" for us on the top step. My mom had gotten the giggles when Savvy tried to twirl and fell backwards into the water.<br />
"Stop laughing, grandma...or I won't dance. any. more," she said, missing another step as she tried to stomp...and toppling into the water again.<br />
I love to see my mom laugh like that. Totally uninhibited throaty laughter that leads to snorts. The kind of laughter that gives my dad his cue: "Stop, Stella, you're gonna pee."<br />
I thought of all the family vacations we'd taken when we were little. I remember thinking that it was worth all the stress of getting there, because soon I'd get to see my mom laugh like that and watch my dad make her laugh even harder. Seemed like so many lifetimes had gone by. Why did everything have to get so hard? There had been so many scars since...licked wounds, broken hearts. It's a testament to what a family could survive, forgive, I guess. Because there we were...a family vacation just like when I was little, only with my husband and two kids. Ha! It was surreal. I squeezed my eyes tight. It was one of those moments you just can't plan and all you can do is try and brand it in your brain, engrave it in your heart.<br />
"Nah, I think I'll stay here," I told Paul. I had pictures to take. <br />
<br />
<br />
Madame Butterflyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01894412138534905022noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3604243411978788681.post-69524215863171465902010-08-15T23:27:00.000-07:002010-08-19T22:38:00.531-07:00Zumba, Kids: RevisitedIt was a week ago today when I started to panic.<br />
It was the start of the much feared Three Weeks With the Kids.<br />
A routine was going to be my saving grace, I decided. Sunday night I sat down and drew up a behavior chart (complete with key of what every color meant...stole this from a 1st grade teacher), a schedule...<br />
And still....the panic at the thought of being alone with the kids. <i>With my own kids</i>. <br />
<br />
But it wasn't the first time I'd felt that fear. It's been there since the very first night I was alone with Eli in that hospital room, only hours after he was born. I'll never forget the instant the door clicked, and the icy silence that followed. All day there had been people. People bringing me flowers, food. People holding the baby, taking pictures.<br />
And then there were no more people. And I looked over at my new baby, and he looked over at me, and who knows who looked more terrified.<br />
From that night in the hospital on, I have felt the terror grip me whenever I've alone with them.<br />
I am only a little more confident now than I was then, but only because one day I realized what I was afraid of: <i>me</i>.<br />
Not just: what if I don't know what to do.<br />
More: What if someday I just...can't...just <i>don't</i>.<br />
What this looks like is me opening the front door and running down the street, pulling at my hair, shrieking.<br />
<br />
The good news is that work is over and I have returned to Zumba. Thursday night I moved up one row in the class...was in the <i>second</i> to last row. It's clear I may get those crazy dance steps long before I master the kid thing. <i></i><br />
Once again, I witnessed the phenomena of the hottest chicks in the class: The Front Row Dancers, turn into pumpkins, (A.k.a moms) when they picked up their kids from childcare. The hotter the dancer, the crazier her kids were, it seemed. Coincidence? Of course not! We are all, I think, whispering the same thing to ourselves in class: 'Dance, momma, dance, and everything'll be alright...'<br />
<br />
I started thinking about how Zumba is so much more than nostalgia for the clubbing days.<br />
Zumba is The Dance Class for the Rest of Us.<br />
It was like when I ran...(well, participated)...in a half-marathon last year. Just as I was about to quit, when I thought I'd reached down down and found nothing left to keep me going, I told myself: 'remember all those times you were picked last for the kickball team? When you weren't asked to dance at the stupid 6th grade dance? ...and the mother of all remember when's: the time you told everybody you'd failed PE on purpose because you didn't want to mess up your hair, when really you just could not think of failing at yet another sport? Well, don't be a weak ass! Run!' <br />
I managed to hobble across the finish line. I'd like to to think The Rest of Us were redeemed. <br />
<br />
And I can't quit now. Second week Alone With the Kids starts tomorrow. When I reach down down and feel like I could find nothing more to keep me going, I hope I remember to take a deep breath and: 'remember that first night in the hospital room, and I thought I couldn't...?'Madame Butterflyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01894412138534905022noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3604243411978788681.post-68139718647128782962010-07-15T22:43:00.000-07:002010-07-15T22:43:11.113-07:00Sports Camp "There he is...right where he always is...either in line for the diving board or in the same corner of the pool. Well, go ahead and go get him."<br />
"No, <i>you</i> get him. He's used to <i>you</i> picking him up," I said.<br />
"That's why you should... (hard sigh and a look of dread)..."I don't want to go through this again...he's going to throw a fit that we're early..."<br />
<br />
He saw me before I saw him... ran to me and gave me a sopping wet hug.<br />
Not a frown on his face...<br />
caught myself before the shock could show on mine<br />
I signed him out<br />
he grabbed his backpack, slipped on his flip-flops and waved good-bye to the camp leader.<br />
<br />
"We played water dodge ball," he said, slipping his wet little hand in mine. "It's like dodge ball, mommy, except you throw water balloons."<br />
Managed to keep all comments and questions to myself<br />
<br />
The sigh of relief I couldn't hide.Madame Butterflyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01894412138534905022noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3604243411978788681.post-39326650398878731432010-06-21T23:36:00.000-07:002010-06-22T06:53:00.988-07:00Warning: Rant<b>Rant #1: </b><br />
I have <i>soooooo...</i> many fucking writing projects I want to work on for this blog!<br />
<ul><li>But working at my high school's graduation...</li>
</ul><ul><li> and then there was my birthday...when I had one of the most humiliating interviews I've ever had in my life (story for another post)</li>
</ul><ul><li>and preparing for weeks for the class at Whittier College I will be teaching <i>TO ACTUAL GROWNUPS!!!!!...</i> </li>
</ul><ul></ul>I have this <b>one</b> week off to spend with my kids before having to go back to teach summer school and it is not going well. <br />
Paul took today off since his family is here to visit.<br />
When I got home from running an errand this morning, the kids had been separated, forbidden to be in the same room.<br />
They fight over and about everything. We took a walk this evening and the fight was over a weed.<br />
Eli had picked up a weed off the sidewalk that Savvy said she was <i>just</i> about to grab.<br />
Yeah. Like that.<br />
<br />
There is this house we walk by where an older gent lives by himself. He sits shirtless in his garage that is plastered with yellowed pictures of hot air balloons, I'm guessing old calendar picture cut-outs. He wears these huge 1970's eyeglasses that magnify his watery eyes and those glasses are always the first thing you notice. He is peering out of his hot-air balloon garage every time we walk by.<br />
<br />
For some reason, it is when we walk by this house that the kids seem to be at their worse. When Eli's whining has reached torture proportions, when Savvy is screaming <i>no!!!</i> and pulling away from me, flaunting to the world her total fucking defiance towards me.<br />
<br />
The man never says anything, just slightly nods at us as we pass by. <br />
But he doesn't have to say anything, because in his bug-eyes I see reflected who I used to be:<br />
...the one who used to wonder why someone didn't just shut the kid up.<br />
...the one who used to roll her eyes and recommit herself to never having children when <i>that</i> mom, with <i>those</i> kids were in a long grocery line.<br />
...the one who would rush out of the supermarket sighing in relief that she had the freedom to roll her shopping cart as fast as she could away from the screams and snot. <br />
<br />
And yet there I was, the old me: peering out of plastic '70's eyeglass frames, shaking her head at the new (twitchy) me.<br />
<br />
I think of all the progressive bullshit I've read in parenting magazines. What could I have done to prevent their behavior from elevating to such proportions? How about some positive reinforcement, huh?, <i>worker mom?</i><br />
But the magazines don't tell you: what do you do if your kids<br />
are like mice before a trap: <br />
always manage to grab the cheese and be long gone <i>wayyyyyy</i> before the thing goes snap!?<br />
<br />
Deep breath. <br />
<br />
<b>Rant #2:</b><br />
Because I'm a teacher, I get home early from work, but do I really get home early from work?<br />
It takes so long to emotionally leave my teen mom who has recently become homeless with her infant.<br />
Or how about my brilliant foster girl who is being treated like fucking Cinderella by a 24-year-old foster mom?<br />
I have just enough juice left to sit and do homework with my (<i>of course</i>) resistant son.<br />
I say a silent prayer that Savvy won't want to play her favorite "school day," where I have to be one of the students among her dolls, andget time-out if I yawn.<br />
<br />
I try to forgive myself for being sooooo grateful when bedtime comes. But by the time I am at the bottom of the stairs after putting them to bed, I am riddled with guilt and regret. What could I have done differently to make it a GOOD DAY?!<br />
<br />
Deep breath. <br />
<br />
On a positive note, I am thankful for my molar that broke, oh, about a week ago.<br />
No, wait, listen! I'm not wallowing.<br />
I think I've lost one or two pounds because it hurts <i>really</i> bad now to eat, even with Advil.<br />
But this is good news. Tomorrow I am going to the dentist...and might be able to squeeze into skinny jeans for the occasion. <br />
<br />
OK, I <i>did</i> warn you this would be a rant.<br />
<br />
<br />
P.S.: Dewi, if you read this: I haven't been able to send you an email...an error always occurs!<br />
My email address is: LaSavvy1@hotmail.com.<br />
I'd love to hear from you!Madame Butterflyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01894412138534905022noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3604243411978788681.post-54946849206475710252010-06-01T22:38:00.000-07:002010-06-01T22:43:10.131-07:00"I'm Coming Out..."The end of May marks my two year anniversary on anti-depressants and I thought I'd celebrate with some red wine and a "coming out" post.<br />
<br />
This is what happened:<br />
Savvy's birthday was coming up, her first in The New House. <br />
I decided it had to be memorable.<br />
<br />
My sister gave me "that look" when I told her I'd stayed up for several nights making paper flowers.<br />
"...because there's this place called Michael's where you can <i>buy</i>..." she said in her typical smart-ass, little sister way.<br />
Nope. They had to be handmade. Memorable, remember? I learned how to make them on the internet.<br />
along with flower shaped sandwiches<br />
"worms in dirt" pudding cups<br />
and even butterflies made out of tissue and construction paper. (<i>Not</i> as easy as YouTube made it sound)<br />
I ran around decorating, frosting, cooking...floating on a high.<br />
I can't even tell you if anyone offered to help. I would have said no. When I'm like this I'm shocked someone might think I might need it.<br />
I heard it went well, the party.<br />
by the time the party rolled around, I had already started to crash. I'd gotten only a few hours of sleep each night that week, which contributed to the floating down, down, down feeling that marks the beginning of: <br />
Going Under.<br />
<br />
By the end of that week all the typical stuff started happening.<br />
Listening, talking, touching...it all started to dull. It's like trying to do all these things through gauze. It looks like something's right there, but when you go to touch it, hear it, listen to it, it ends up it's really layers away...<br />
<br />
And then my gums started going numb. This particular characteristic doesn't always happen when I'm slipping into a deep depression, but when it does, I know it's gonna be bad. No exercising, writing, talking in the world would work. All these things in my "tool box": useless.<br />
<br />
This sequence pretty much sums up the rhythms of my life since college, when the depression began to become debilitating:<br />
<br />
(It still pisses me off when I think of all the things I screwed up because of "it."<br />
I missed weddings,<br />
funerals,<br />
parties...<br />
I much rather people think I was self-absorbed than "down") <br />
<br />
<ul><li> Start feeling more pep than usual</li>
</ul><ul><li>Can't believe how much I'm capable of and how great life is</li>
</ul><br />
<ul><li>I'M ON TOP OF THE WORLD!</li>
</ul><br />
<ul><li>I start to teeter-totter from so way up high</li>
</ul>Hold on tight and hope this time won't be that bad<br />
that I could sleep it off--no matter how long that might take<br />
and wake up and shake it off<br />
go on like nothing happened <br />
<br />
This particular time was the first time it had hit me so bad since I had the kids<br />
It became very clear that I was not going to be able to do this mom thing<br />
in such a state.<br />
I no longer had the luxury of self-medicating, sleeping for days, locking myself in a room until I was presentable again.<br />
Nothing's more frightening than the thought of being unable to be a mom to my kids <br />
<br />
and so here I am two years later<br />
it's like I finally started living my life<br />
On Saturday I watched my kids playing in the waves<br />
digging a hole in the sand to make a fort for protection against the world<br />
(wouldn't <i>that</i> be cool)<br />
and I had to turn my head so they wouldn't see me cry<br />
B.M. (before meds.), an outing like that would have surely hurled me into a deep one.<br />
My mind would flood with taunts about my inadequacy to compete with all those "real moms."<br />
who remember suntan lotion<br />
and snacks.<br />
Christmas, birthdays, vacations...I feel like I'm actually there now, not watching the Happy Normal People through that gauze I was telling you about.<br />
<br />
Things aren't perfect, of course.<br />
I still go under, but I could feel the meds. lifting me up long enough to scramble and grab my tool box.<br />
Many times it pisses me off that I have to be dependent on chemicals to make me "normal."<br />
like right now I am having a glass of forbidden red wine<br />
because this is really hard to write.<br />
...you know how people are<br />
there is still this stigma surrounding depression:<br />
suck it up, you're just being a baby<br />
at work if people know you're "medicated", side-long glances at meetings tell you they attribute any mistake, etc. to your...<i>ahemmm</i>..."condition"<br />
<br />
I know because I used to think the same way<br />
about those high-maintenance "depressives" (eyeroll) <br />
who can't get it together. <br />
<br />
I like to think of myself as a bad-ass<br />
and taking happy pills didn't fit with the image.<br />
<br />
A two year anniversary,<br />
though,<br />
of getting you're life back,<br />
that's something to celebrate and not be ashamed of<br />
and so<br />
I'm coming out...I want the world to know...Madame Butterflyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01894412138534905022noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3604243411978788681.post-14553276367626028602010-05-24T22:29:00.000-07:002010-05-24T22:30:59.135-07:00Best Laid Plans I changed into my running clothes in a book closet that opens up to my classroom, and arranged for a teacher to cover for me. Slipped out of my class and jogged to my car.<br />
Didn't want to be late to the Jog-a-thon fundraiser at Eli's school. Yeah, I was a bit pumped. Both of us were. Since it is his (our) first year at this school, we didn't know what to expect. I couldn't make out from the flyers that were sent home whether parents would be running with the kids or alone. Either way, we were supposed to get pledges for participating.<br />
"They already have the track ready and the cones set up!" he said the afternoon before the race. "And they're gonna have prizes!" <br />
I pictured Eli and I, running side by side....mother and son. It would be a bonding experience and God only knew we needed as many as those as we could get. Maybe we could start going running together...<br />
<br />
The woman getting out of the SUV behind me in the parking lot of the school wore Barbie-pink sweats, the Victoria Secret kind that had some kind of saying on the butt, a slightly less loud pink top, and flip-flops with crystals all over them. Her bleached choppy hair was fastened into two pig-tails that stuck out on either side of her head. She carried a fold up chair in one hand and tried to hook her tiny dog (who wore a pink collar, of course) to a leash.<br />
<br />
"<i>Great</i>," she said, "the damn gate is locked. Now we have to go all the way around!"<br />
<i>Pffft...she won't be running any where</i>, I thought. <br />
<br />
Once on the field, I started to get even more excited. They had balloons in the school colors all over. It was like a homecoming game! Music was blaring from the sound system and everyone wore the official Jog-a-thon T-Shirt.<br />
I chit-chatted with the few parents I knew.<br />
"Are you running?" I kept asking.<br />
You think their hesitation to answer should have given me a hint right?...<br />
But I shrugged it off. There were plenty of parents dressed like me. Surely I was not the only one who planned on running.<br />
<br />
The games were about to begin. The guy with the microphone explained that the outer lane was the walking track and the one next to it was for runners.<br />
I tuned the rest out. That was all I needed to know: where Eli and I would be running. Just then I spotted him out on the field and waved. He jumped up and down, waving back.<br />
<br />
The guy was announcing the beginning of the race, but still said nothing about what the parents should do.<br />
I turned to the mom next to me and tried once more, "Has he said if the parents run with the kids, or...?"<br />
She shrugged, annoyed, and got back to taking pictures of her son.<br />
Pictures. I looked around me. There were parents with frickin' tripods and fancy zoom cameras. And of course camcorders.<br />
Crap. <br />
I hadn't even remembered to bring my camera phone. My focus was on remembering my running shoes.<br />
<br />
The whistle blew and they were off! I looked on the running track and spotted Eli, taking off like a bat out of hell. But...there were only kids on the running lane. Parents pushing strollers and fast-walkers trying to get action shots of there kids were on the walking lane.<br />
There! I spotted a woman in the running lane. (Later I would realize she was a <i>teacher </i>running with her <i>class</i>) That was all I needed. I waited for Eli to get close by and then I sprinted until I was running next to him.<br />
"Hey pops!" I said.<br />
"<i>Mo</i>mmy...nono...you can't <i>be</i> here. Go over there! You're gonna get me in trouble!" He said as he stopped to get his lap card stamped by the official parent "stampers."<br />
I caught up to him. "No, I think it's alright! There are other grown-ups running..."<br />
"You're supposed to go over there and watch me and take pictures!" he said before sprinting off and leaving me in the dust.<br />
<br />
I kind of faded into the crowd, not even daring to look up and see if anyone had noticed my wounded heart laying there in kicked up dirt. I backed up, backed up until I was close enough to the school gate and then I made a mad dash to the car.<br />
<br />
<i>Hell yeah</i> I was hurt!...especially since he'd insisted I go. That very morning when he was acting up I'd threatened not to go and he'd actually started to cry! <br />
<br />
<i>Yeah</i> I felt stupid! I'd concocted this fairytale of running hand in hand with my child like they do in those stupid parenting magazines...of crossing some imaginary finish line together, after which no fights or time-outs or hurt feelings would ever come again. <br />
<br />
I imagined he'd be so proud to have me for a mom: "Yeah, my mom's cooking sucks, but this one time we won this race together..." he'd tell his friends.<br />
<br />
I decided I wouldn't go back to work with my tail between my legs. I had set out to run laps that morning and damn it, that was what I was gonna do!<br />
I pulled into the nearest park and told myself I couldn't stop until I'd done 5 laps/ lashes. I hadn't noticed earlier how fierce the cold wind cut through me, but no matter. I had a goal to meet.<br />
After three laps my throat started feeling scratchy.<br />
After four, piercing pain in my ear.<br />
The doctor confirmed it today: I have strep throat, a broken heart, and a bruised ego.<br />
<br />
I never did find out what the deal was. Were the parents expected to just walk? Did all parents just walk because all the others were walking?<br />
What...you think I would have the guts to ask? <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Madame Butterflyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01894412138534905022noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3604243411978788681.post-39788710921469599032010-05-19T22:39:00.000-07:002010-05-19T22:42:23.789-07:00Seeing Anne Lamott. Seeing My Mother. Not too long ago, I found myself with two tickets to see one of my literary idols, Anne Lamott. This is why I love her writing so much: in a scene in one of her books, she is in labor, trying to have her baby naturally. When she finally gives birth, everyone is dead silent, staring at a space between her legs. Later, her best friend told her that as she was pushing the baby out, she was also pushing out a tiny turd. Both the baby and the turd were playing peek-a-boo. Apparently she was able to push out the baby, but not the turd. <i>It</i> was still stuck there long after the baby had been whisked away.<br />
Anne Lamott has no shame and writes it like it is. I want to be like her when I grow up.<br />
<br />
I found myself with the two tix and no one to go with. My sister was out of town, and really, you have to be selective when you're trying to pick someone to share this type of experience with. When you have the chance to see someone you love on stage, the wrong person next to you could mess everything up, you know? Like if they're yawning the whole time, or worse, FALL ASLEEP! Can you imagine? For the rest of your life you'll remember seeing one of your idols... with this dead beat next to you.<br />
I happen to mention to my mom that I would be getting to see one of my favorite writers that night, and that I would get to go alone. Alone, after all, was a luxury when you had two small kids.<br />
"I'll go with you!" my mom said.<br />
I hesitated too long and she quickly recanted.<br />
"Never mind," she said, "it'll be too much of a hassle to pick me up. You have to go way out of your way..."<br />
"No, no...it's fine!" I said, "It'll be fun."<br />
<br />
But as I drove over to her house to pick her up, I started to panic. What if Anne Lamott said something that would offend her? What if my mom ended up being the dead beat next to me, yawning and nodding off?<br />
"Thank you for coming with me," I said as we sat in traffic.<br />
"Of course," she said. "When you mentioned you were going by yourself I thought 'finally I can spend time with her by herself, with out the kids'," <br />
I sat back, a bit stunned. It never occurred to me that she wanted to spend time with <i>me</i>. Ever since I had Eli and Savvy, our conversations had revolved around them. And <i>before</i> the kids? For the life of me I couldn't remember one conversation we'd had Before Kids. She actually wanted to spend time with me. Huh. It was truly one of the most tender things she'd ever said to me. <br />
<br />
When we finally got to enter the auditorium, my mom marched straight to the front rows, even though they were roped off.<br />
"Mami..." I hissed. "I don't think we can sit..." But it was too late. She had already climbed over the velvet rope and sat down, putting her purse in the seat next to her. She didn't even glance back to see if I'd followed. I rushed to the front trying not to make eye contact with anyone. I expected a security guard to call out any minute.<br />
"You see," she said after I'd sat down, heart pounding, "you just have to act like you belong somewhere and people will assume you do."<br />
<br />
Anne Lamott spoke from a podium just steps away from us. I couldn't believe our luck! I could see the spray of sweat on her upper lip, hear her gulp down bottled water. It was more magical than I could've imagined. My mom was mesmerized. She'd never been to a poetry reading or seen a writer--let alone a great writer--speak. I had my notebook out, like a net ready to catch her precious gems. I glanced at my mom. She was jotting down stuff all over her program. A lump caught in my throat. There I was: Anne Lamott just mere steps before me, my mother next to me. Two of the most influential women in my life, within arms reach.<br />
<br />
When Lamott was done talking, it was announced that she would be signing books at the table across the stage. When my mom heard this she pushed me out of my seat.<br />
"Gogogogo....while she's still right there, " she said.<br />
As I started grabbing my jacket and purse she yanked them out of my hand and shoved my book into my chest.<br />
"Go NOW!" she said.<br />
And so I ducked under the rope and stumbled up on stage.<br />
I<br />
was<br />
the<br />
first<br />
one<br />
to stand before<br />
Anne Lamott.<br />
And I did just that. Just stood there, dumbfounded. I am not ashamed to admit I had actually thought about what I'd say if I happened to get such an opportunity. OK, I actually kind of <i>rehearsed</i> what I'd say. But standing before her, I started to mumble something about what an impact she'd had on my life...<br />
She interrupted me. "Great dreads. How old are they?" she said, reaching out to touch the tips.<br />
"Uhhhhbout three years old," I said.<br />
"Yeah, I just cut mine. You should bleach some of them, I think they'd look good..." she said, holding out her own bleached dreads to demonstrate.<br />
She signed my book before the guards could lead herto the table where a winding line waited.<br />
"<i>Mami..</i>." I said with a tear in the corner in my eye when I finally found her outside. "Did you see that? She <i>touched </i>my hair!"<br />
We beamed as we walked to find my car.<br />
<br />
On the ride home she talked non-stop. She said she couldn't wait to read all her books. She said she kept thinking of experiences she'd had growing up as she'd listened to Lamott speak. She shared stories about herself I'd never heard. Story after story came tumbling out until the inside of the car hummed with them.<br />
She said that when she was a teenager and everyone had gone to bed, she would sneak out of the house with friends.<br />
My jaw dropped, because of course I would never even <i>entertain</i> such thoughts. "What did you do, where did you go?" I said, anxious to hear the dirt.<br />
"I just couldn't wait. I'd think about it all day:we'd go to the best burrito stand and have a burrito and a big soda..." <br />
"You were such a rebel!" I said as I cracked up.<br />
I resisted the temptation to pull over right there on the freeway shoulder and start writing the stories down. I didn't want to forget one word. This night, I knew, was once in a lifetime.<br />
<br />
When I dropped her off, she gave me a long hug and thanked me for taking her with me. She said she loved getting a glimpse into my world.<br />
And then, as is her way, she quickly let go of me. "OKbye," she said over her shoulder. Soon she'd closed the door and the night was over.<br />
It was a new reason to love Anne Lamott. She inspired me beyond words, but more importantly, she gave me a piece of my mother's raw heart, such a rare treasure. <br />
...if only for a night.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Madame Butterflyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01894412138534905022noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3604243411978788681.post-36766754542590142312010-05-13T22:59:00.000-07:002010-05-13T22:59:36.294-07:00Zumba Nights<div style="text-align: center;"><i>"the party's over, the rooster is</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>crowing and they've called in</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>the dice..."</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> --Charles Bukowski</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i>I reached over to give Arcy a hug and a high five before I got out of her car. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i>Who-whudda-thunk-it? We'd pulled it off. Finally, one of our schemes to spend more time together, despite kids and jobs and significant others had gotten off the ground.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
Not that it was easy. That night, Arcy had to arrange for the the twins to to go to their grandparent's house, and I had to squeeze in the pre-bedtime hooplah (baths and bedtimes stories and prayers) before I left. In fact, I'd almost canceled on her tonight. Paul had gotten out of work late and as much as I tried to avoid them, my comfy pj's beckoned every time I passed my bedroom.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> But then I'd remembered the pep talk.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> "We've <i>got</i> to stand up for what we <i>need</i>!" I said when we'd first talked about Zumba two nights a week. "<i>They</i> make sure they get what <i>they</i> need!"</div><div style="text-align: left;"> "Yeah...work trips and sports with the guys and all that..., " she said.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> "Ex<i>act</i>ly. So we'll just tell them we have made a commitment to go to Zumba twice a week, and that's it."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"> Both guys were encouraging in theory, but quickly realized <i>our</i> commitment would mean <i>their </i>sacrifice. It would mean taking over whatever bedtime duties we didn't get to. It meant they had to be home so that we could leave. But we'd stood our ground. As I got out of the car, the adrenaline from the workout...and our unlikely victory, was palpable. I floated inside my front door.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"> ***</div><div style="text-align: left;"> The magic of Zumba is the music, plain and simple. It's the best let-your-hair-down music from all over the world, crammed into an hour. The first time I tried it, I thought: I could listen to this music and just jump up and down and still feel this alive! </div><div style="text-align: left;"> The music makes it so.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> It's just like my Papa's and Beer days all over again...except without the tequila</div><div style="text-align: left;"> .....or the sand</div><div style="text-align: left;"> ....or the guys...</div><div style="text-align: left;"> OK, so it's really <i>not</i> like the old days, but still fun enough.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> A lot of the music is new to me. There's <i>reggaeton</i> (a kind of reggae, salsa fusion), rock en espanol, and exotic belly-dancing music.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> But once in a while one of <i>our</i> songs will come on...the ones with stories behind every beat, the ones that raise our pulse a notch. You know what I'm talking about. You're stuff in traffic, cursing the freeway, your job, your life...and then a song comes on and you're plopped right back to the good times, when your insides turned to mush.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> When <i>those</i> songs come on during Zumba, we glance at each other, eyes wide, remembering the time...</div><div style="text-align: left;"> Such a song was playing and the instructor had us doing lo' to the flo' moves.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> Ohhhh shoot...</div><div style="text-align: left;"> Arcy dared me with her eyes. Could I still do it? Would the music unlock my inner tootsie roll, the dance that would end all clubbing nights?</div><div style="text-align: left;"> "I don't think I could do this without tequila," I whispered as I made my way carefully to the floor. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> "I don't think we've ever done it in such bright light either," she whispered back. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> Now, there were many times the song could've plopped us back to, but as we shimmied and twisted and salsaed, we were transported to <i>the</i> mecca. All we had to do was close our eyes and there we were: Rosarito, Mexico.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> Rosarito is where we'd celebrate birthdays and break-ups, kick off the beginning or ending of summer. There were three of us and we found endless reasons to go to Rosarito. There was shopping, of course, and the food...but all that was merely filler as we waited for the sun to set and the night life to begin. Papa's and Beer was the spot. It was an outside dance club right on the sand and under the moon. I'd step through the gates after standing in line forever and soak it all in. There was a communal sense of relief mingled with the salty night air. It was the weekend and we'd left it all behind. Toes were buried in sand. We'd dance. And dance. And then we'd dance and dance and dance. The three of us would dance in a circle, giggling. We were free! Not since have I felt that sense of total freedom. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> And the night had just begun. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> Whistles were a fixture in Rosarito night clubs. They would pierce through the thunderous music and like Pavlov's dogs, we'd start to salivate. The whistles meant something good was about to happen. Somebody would get something good poured down her throat, picked up over the whistler's shoulder, and spun around to the beat of the music. Cheers! </div><div style="text-align: left;"> When the club finally closed and the music replaced with sounds from the sea, it was time for tacos. There was a ramshackle taco stand outside Papa's and everyone would head over there to eat tacos and watch the sun come up. In the light, you could make out the faces of the people who'd been dancing next to you all night. Between bites of taco, some people said they were from Sand Diego, right across the border, others as far as from out of state. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> The metallic muddy smell of Mexico...anything could be swept under the sand at daybreak, but not the smell. There was no denying where we'd been. It lingered in our hair and clothes. The memories of these times...they were such an integral part of my coming-of-age, and I'm guessing this is true for many. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> I remember the last time we made the pilgrimage to Rosarito. We'd entered our thirties and we were all more tired than usual during the car ride. Through yawns we assured each other we'd pep up as soon as we got there. We went to <i>Papa's, </i>but the drinks only made us drowsy. The whistles made us wince.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> "Were the whistles always so loud?" I asked.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> As we walked to the taco shack way before last call at the club, we agreed: it would probably be our last free-wheeling trip to Mexico. We wrapped sweaters tight against the wind, ate tacos and talked about meetings, and lesson plans not yet written. We were very quiet as we privately mourned our Mexico nights. No one had to say it: we had to quit while we were ahead. We didn't, after all, be the grandma in the mini-skirt and skuffed heels at the end of the bar. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Now I am nearing 40 and happy to dig out these memories from beneath the sand.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> Zumba made it so. </div>Madame Butterflyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01894412138534905022noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3604243411978788681.post-80385076750952631482010-05-12T18:48:00.000-07:002010-05-12T19:49:52.525-07:00My Very First Post<span style="font-family:georgia;">I just couldn't wait to get my blog up and running and now I'm stumped. For those who know me well, you know I've remained facebookless and textless...and so you know this is a REALLY BIG STEP for me. Many of you have tried to show me the (new) way, but you know what they say...you can lead the horse to water...<br /><br />I've spent some time trying to nail down what I want my blog to be. A Daily Journal? A type of on-line portfolio?<br />Got nothing.<br />But if I wait until it "comes to me" I'll never do this.<br /><br />And so for now I'll just say I hope to make you smile.<br />Snort.<br />Shake your heads.<br />I want to give you something to read (hopefully enjoy) and think of me.<br /><br />And maybe you will get the itch to write your own stories...<br /><br />Cheers!<br /></span>Madame Butterflyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01894412138534905022noreply@blogger.com2