Princess Froggy Veronica

keep art alive; photograph by Julia

Veronica is all the things I wish I was at her age, and beyond. She is bold and bright, and emenates such a strong sense of self and spirit that I half expect her to take a running leap and fly right up into the air - with or without wings. She has a superhero's nature, brave and daring, yet she still possesses that ever-fragile and illusive wonder and innocence - you can recognize it in the way she asks why, with a slight lift in her voice and a tilt of the head, and in the way she takes in the world around her.

She has an artist's viewpoint on everything. She is happiest when painting and drawing, or making "craps" at home, at her Grandparents, and her birthday-twin Auntie Kate. She is giving in her art, too. She colors pages for the grocery store clerks and baggers, marks up dream castles in chalk on the pavement, and paints garbage cans into unique works at home, and for Auntie Kate.

I love to watch her when she does not notice my gaze, to see the way she examines everything around her, painting everything with this storybook imagination that I can see coming to life with every blink and wide open stare of her eyes. She notices the tiniest details in this world, the ladybug hidden among a patch of weeds and flowers, the glitter stuck in a mess of hair on a girl at the park; she is a discoverer of the beauty in everything.

She is fearless, and although it often scares me, I am also delighted in how I see her in the future. She has a bit of fire to her, and it is known to strike and burn at times. But, I see this as another of her gifts that will help her as she grows. This strength and passion are such gifts, and I sit back knowing that she will be able to set out and conquer anything she comes up against, and forge on through to fulfill any dreams she decides are worth fighting for.

She loves with just as much fury as she can battle with, and she is endlessly generous with those she takes into her heart. Veronica is open with her heart, too. She embraces people in general, never seeming to notice the differences. She will tell stories and her daily news to the homeless man at the park with his cart of belongings just as earnestly and with joy as she does with the women behind the perfume counter at the expensive mall department store. She would probably offer them all up a freshly picked wildflower, and a drawing, too.

Five years she has been in my life, forever changing it, and making it more color-filled and beauty bright. She is amazing and I love her so very much.

Saying "You can call me anything you like,

but my name is Veronica"

Veronica ~ Elvis Costello

L.

Three is the magic number

keep art alive; photograph by Bree

My darling boy turned three on the last day of May. Three years ago he came into my life. I remember the first night with just him and I in the hospital room together. I was lying there with him crooked under my arm thinking you will change my life forever.

When I first discovered I was having a boy I panicked. The kind of fear that grips you far below the surface and nags at you, whispering doubts and worries as you try to drift off into sleep.What on earth did I know of boys? It seemed so unimaginable and foreign, especially after being the mother of a daughter -- or two, eventually -- for over a decade.

I remember Kate assured me that there would be a bond I would never have known before, and that we would teach each other. That I would do just fine.

What he has taught me, in the mere three years he has been in my life, is immeasurable. I feel like there are parts of my heart that he has cracked wide open; pieces that I did not even know existed, until Max. He is a quiet strength in a family that is a bit more boisterous than most, and who tend to wear every emotion pinned right on their sleeve.

He has taught me to listen more, to learn from silences, and to notice some of the more intricate details of this world.

What he does share with all those in his family is a love of music. Whether he is singing into the vacuum cleaner, banging away made-up melodies on the Sesame Street piano inherited from his sisters, dancing around to the likes of 90's boy bands, Babyshambles, and electro clash -- he definitely has the music in him.

Cars and playgrounds, ghost words, and nicknames; Teletubbies, English football, and Thomas the Train; Jay Jay the Jet Plane, following his sisters, and stealing blankets and spaces in bed; Telling knock-knock jokes, saying "my friend Momma", and "I love you" in a soft whisper; trying on lipstick, inflections that go from highs to lows, and being our Pizza Man-Pip-Bubba-and Maxie. Those are just part of what makes up Max.

His party was celebrated at one of his favorite parks. His sister picked out a special pairing of Sally and Lightning McQueen in their "cruising" get-ups. McQueen is all chrome and white wall tires, reminds me of this drive-in and hamburger joint we went to when I was a kid that would have waitresses on rollar skates, and classic cars with dice hanging from the rearview mirror. It was his favorite of his gift, even the train sets and football. Veronica may torment and tease, but deep down she loves her brother, and seems to know him best of all of us.

Max licking the side of his birthday cake, then checking around to see if anyone was watching, and sneaking another lick and a bite, was by far the highlight of the party. I remember getting his own tiny cake for his first year party, and he just sat there and stared at it. Eventually his puzzlement took a bit of action, and he touched the frosting with the very tip of his finger to taste. For a moment I could see the just turned a year baby boy in him meeting up with the learning to be a bit sly boy he is becoming.

As we grow do we not all carry pieces of each year in our lives? If you look closely you can see the baby, the three year old, the teenager, and the adult in everyone you pass in this life. And, when I look at my newly three year old, I see all of it, and more.

He is more that a bit of magic and full of love, this boy of mine.
Happy Birthday, Max.
Thank you for coming into my life.

A man and a woman

had a little baby

Yeah they did

Three Is The Magic Number ~ Blind Melon

L.

Co-pilots and wingmen

art by tara mcpherson; keep art alive

There are many challenges you face when you become a parent, they say your life will never be the same, and that sleep will not be the only thing that irreversibly changes. We start and stop and stumble through the beginnings of parenthood, some of us clinging tightly to the What to Expect... self-help type books that often skip on the some of the rougher edges of raising a child. The books never clearly describe what it is like to smell of sour milk for months at a time or how it feels to hold your two-year old daughter's shaking hand as they slide her tiny body into a menacing Death Star looking machine meant to take a picture of her brain.

Those are the moments when you must pull from within yourself, locate the strengths you may not have know you had. Parenthood requires you to develop a technique that masks fear and loathing, turning it into confidence and make-believe bravado. It also helps to have an imaginative partner in crime to step in and save the day with you, or to run out for ice cream, when needed. This does not have to be found in a spouse, or even from your own familiy. Parenting wing-men and Clydes to your Bonnie can be your best friend, the across the courtyard neighbor, or another fly-by-the-underside-of-a-spaceship parent you may meet at the playground, the grocery store, or the hospital waiting room. Sometimes the best team is made up of mismatched players drafted and promoted as time goes by. They are all part of what I like to call your family of choice.

Mine has been sewn together by place and circumstance, and a rocket size blast of luck. My best friend of twenty-six years lived three houses down from me growing up. We met because our mother's were best friends at the time, though the bond Kate and I have has outlasted their relationship. We have been each other's strength and compassion when the world took upside down and inside out turns of fate; we have been each other's shipmates in the storm. There are things she knows about me that no one will ever know, and she knows every side of who I am, good and bad.

Our lives have had parallels, most likely due to our similar views and upbringings, or possibly because the major hops and steps in those rites of passage days were done with hands held. We traded notes and borrowed each other's text books when it came to sex and love and rock and roll, and as we grew older, to family. We both have three children, have been single mother's at different times, and have stood by each other through births, illness, catastrophe, and divorce. She is the one person I want to call when ever I am stuck in a situation that I feel lost in, and she is also the one I want to tell all my joys to right as they happen.

My oldest, Julia, once told me that "you and Auntie Kate are alien crazy, it is like you two came flying out of some far off planet". I smiled and thought to myself that she is right, but at least we speak the same language and know how to steer the spaceship. She is the one I turn to when life outside of the How-to books happens, and I believe I am on her quick dial list for those turn of events, as well. We all need to find those links to our sanity and companions to our hearts. We all need to have our chosen family members held close in our lives.

I remember the ones my mother had, the aunts and uncles with no blood ties, but who connected deeper to the core of who are family was then our actual family ever did. She chose who to gift our craziness and chaos to, and it is a tradition I am trying to continue on with. Kate is one of them, forever a part of the leaning to the side of the sun tree that we call family. David has picked a few to hang up in our family branches; Julia has, too.

Eventually I will sit back and watch as my family grows and changes. All of our pieces will press together forming a unique puzzle picture. All the cracks will smooth and fade in time, but we will know where they came from. We will know all the stories. I know that the family we choose is made more solid with each and every flaw, laugh, love, and heartache. We recover and glue ourselves together with each day we share, slowly turning our family into something beautiful.

I get so tired of
working so hard for our survival
I look to the time with you
to keep me awake and alive

In Your Eyes ~ Peter Gabriel

L.

Re-told happily ever after

art by daniel danger; keep art alive

We all want answers, easily drawn maps and charts that lead all the way to the last page of the book, and the predictable happy ending. Is there not a part of us that still hold some of those fairy tale stories to be true? That some nights when we toss and turn in sleepless anxiety, worrying over budgets and college funds and pre-school selections, do we not hold our breath for even just a second hoping the slightly older and carb-friendly fairy godmother will appear making everything alright? When faced with ditched classes, wet beds, and throw your body to the ground tantrums I know that I have harbored that fleeting wish that Alice will take my hand and lead me out of this upside down bizarro wonderland of being a grown-up; or that like Dorothy I will wake up from all the catastrophe and chaos to find only compassionate faces around me, nodding in understanding when I recall the troubles I had seen that they all held a role in. "And you were there, and you, and you."

The thing is, even if I found that my red shoes (that are really black) could click-clack together and get me the hell out of here, I think I would shove them off to the nearest thrift store, and stay. I would want to hang on to the parenting play-by-play book, though.

I cannot think of a harder job I have ever held, or heard about, then being a mother. Add to it the adjective, or really the active verb, of being a working mother and you are definitely in the hardest job ever category. That guy on the Discovery Channel who has that show called Dirty Jobs, where the host spends a day doing jobs that make us all groan in disgust and awe; why do they never send him off to be a working parent for the day?

I can see it now, the commercial break ends and you focus in on the host waking up to his son holding out a busted cup that was shoved in some ancient relic hideaway spot in his room that once contained some kind of milky concoction inside. Watching it you can almost smell it, wafts of sour and rot filling the room, but it does not end there. Next is the slightly older sibling stumbling into the room in a half-asleep stagger, she is holding her favorite blanket up to you as if it were a dying soldier in need of resucitation. At a closer look you notice her clothes sticking awkwardly in places, the new smell competing with the science sippy cup experiment, now adding the Sorry, I wet the bed odor to the mix. Only moments before he was in dreamland, and as the camera pans in a bit closer you see his eyes shut tight in that futile hope for escape, or at least the relief of a commercial break.

The early morning story arc concludes. The new scene looks brighter, kids cleaned-up and sitting around a table shovelling spoonfuls of cereal into their almost smiling mouths. There is the piped in soundtrack of soothing music, the kind you would hear in your Grandfather's old Caddilac, or a hospital waiting room. You know instinctively that he should be afraid, even if you are not quite sure why. Then it is all so suddenly made clear, in the corner of the screen you catch a glimpse, the undead has arrived with their bedhead disaster and zombie-grumble coming right for him. The viewers at home all simultaneously scream Run!

She was once a beautiful girl, you can sense that some of that may still exist under the decaying eyeliner and last minute term paper up-all-night pallor. For a moment she fools him into thinking she is harmless. Reaching over him for the cereal box she begins uttering soft compliments about his hair and choice of dress for the day. The flattery is pulling him in, leaving him at a vulnerable disadvantage, and he is almost caught in her coooing trap of can I stay home from school, just this once?

The last thing we see before the producers realize this is more than one show can handle is the attempt to leave for work unscathed moment. The walk from the kitchen table to the front door may only be a mere seven steps, but everything shifts into slow motion. Each step releases an obstacle to overcome, a puzzle that requires a secret code to pass, and the inevitable search for the missing keys. There is screaming, runny noses wiped on pant legs, while sticky breakfast fingers pull and grab, trying to keep him trapped in their clutches. The escape is narrow, he barely makes it to the car alive. His pulse is still racing as he starts up the engine to go, but by the time the freeway entrance looms ahead the sight of bumper-to-bumper traffic actually seems like paradise found.

Is this the happy ending we viewers have been waiting for? The office looms ahead and our surving host's briefcase swings back and forth in an almost jaunty bounce. There are no more funky smells permeating the air. There are no more teenage mutant girls. The yells and shouts seem to be just a residual ringing in our ears. Is this the tied up in a tidy bow curtain close? Is this a message of hope that no matter how rough our jobs may seem, it could be so much worse?

The show ends with an elevator opening, and our trusty host taking a step inside, proud and triumphant. It is then that we see it. We wonder how we missed it before. The sticky marshmellow encrusted cereal spoon stuck to the back of his suit jacket.

***

The real happy endings are hidden and hard to see. They are the tiny moments that we often forget when we are overwhelmed, overworked and overtired. The two youngest sharing a book together, the older one teaching the younger colors and the many names of things. The oldest choosing you as one of her heroes in a place she thinks you will never see. The ecstatic squeals of joy when you walk through that door at night of Momma, you're home! Those are the mis-matched glass slippers and golden eggs we are actuallygifted. Those are the stuff of our own happily ever after endings.

Like a good book

I can't put this day back

A sorta fairytalewith you

A Sorta Fairytale ~ Tori Amos

L.

All Dressed Up

art by fafi; keep art alive

When I was a young girl my imagination was quite possibly my most treasured posession, and best friend. Some of this stemmed from being a voracious reader who consumed stacks of books carried home from the library, or brought home for keeps after visits to a few bookstores that my grandmother would take me to. It was also most likely inspired by the love for movies that my mother helped to introduce me to, most often during middle of the night insomnia-fueled viewings of musicals and classic films. We went to the movies often, too. I remember vividly going to see Disney's Robin Hood, the release of the Star Wars films, and the re-release of The Sound of Music. My imagination and I loved to create characters, often on paper in numerous spiral bound notebooks, but also in myself. Creating a new me was one of the best games I could ever think up -- one day a gypsy fortune teller, another as Maid Marian, the next Holly Golightly, and the week ending as Princess Leia -- when everything else seemed stagnant, I could always change myself into someone else entirely.

Julia was a princess kind of girl. She insisted on only wearing dresses that would spin, and that were of the brightest hues. She was a Disney girl, full of those happily ever after fantasies. That said, she also admired the animae versions of the adolescent heroine, in shows like Sailor Moon and Muldiver. Most of these stories contained similar themes of an outsider girl -- different in some way, or craving something different -- is somehow given the power to change her existance either through love or some supernatural power. Mostly, though, it comes down to love. Granted, most of these stories are filled with very limited and unrealistic versions of love. My mother used to joke that you never saw what really happened after the princess married the prince, that if you had you would most likely see her doing dishes and cleaning after the prince's horse. Somehow, though, it was never the promise of a prince that seemed to interest Julia; instead it was the fanciful garb and the idea of having something "special", be it powers or title.

Veronica takes to more than just the costume of a princess. She seems to adore the prospect of being treated as a princess should be. She wants things to be beautiful, flowers and rainbow colors everywhere, and she strives for attention. I watch her in just about any situation and she has this power to charm just about anyone. Part of it is her outgoing personality, she will literally talk to anyone and is very generous with her words and what she is willing to give. Her new favorite pastime is to gather up flowers, or draw pictures, and gift them to the everyday people she encounters. A freshly picked rose is given to the person who bags our groceries, a painted castle left at the neighbors front door to greet them on their return home. One memorable Veronica encounter happened when we lived in Chicago. We were riding the train and she decided to re-name all the passengers that sat in her close proximity. By the time we reached our stop everyone around us were laughing with each other, and waving goodbye to the charismatic toddler who christened them names like Eggbert and Leeloo. It does not take a very big suspension of disbelief to see her ruling over a kingdom of her own.

Max is fascinated by the costumes Veronica wears. His favorite token of imaginative royalty is the crown. Back when we lived in the small one bedroom, in Fullerton, the kids used to play this game out on the balcony. Veronica, and my roomate at the time's children, used to set up this throne with the wood planks that were left by the previous tenants. Max would excitedly sit on them and the kids would then find any object within their immediate reach and try to balance it on his head. They would call Max the king, and after awhile he caught onto the game and would say "the king! the king!" I think the fascination with Veronica's tiaras stems from Max's memory of his past reign as household king.

Perhaps I am raising a future realms great leaders. Or maybe we all secretly long to play at being someone else. It is just as we grow older that we save such desires for Halloween, or the occasional masquerade parties. What would we dress as if it was socially acceptable to put on different costumes regularly. Who would you be today?

I pack my suit in a bag

I'm all dressed up for Prague

I'm all dressed up with you

All dressed up for him too

Prague (All Dressed Up) ~ Damien Rice

L.

Hide and seek

art by rusty wex; keep art alive

Spring is alive in our neighborhood, I can feel the honey bee buzzing of energy and heart-beating reverie. Sitting in the corner of my kitchen by the two open windows, my favorite place to write as of late, I watch the signs of the season in the tiny details of life outside. The woman from upstairs who has the newborn baby, she usually walks about with the red-eye squint of sleep deprivation and a scowl on her lips, a non-verbal curse at the morning sun. But, this morning I noticed a every so slight bounce to her step, and an actual smile as a hello when our eyes met and I nodded to greet her. Later in the afternoon, when school had let out, the teenage daughter that just moved in across the way went running -- no, it was skipping -- past my window and into the parking garage. I heard giggles that you know came from a blushing girl, that were loud and raucous, and so infectious that I had to giggle a little myself. She came out eventually, with a shy boy in tow, his eyes on nothing but her. The looks on those just been kissing faces were the sort of thing that line of birds on the line should be singing about. They were every pop songs favorite couple, with her hiked a bit shorter parochial school uniform and his ripped jeans and torn at the sleeve t-shirt, they were Southern California's post-modern Jack and Diane for a mid-afternoon moment.

Last night Veronica refused to wear any clothing beyond her polka-dot underwear. She told me that her skin was too hot for such things, and that clothes would only slow down her dancing. Julia put on the classical music channel, by request, so the scarcely-clad Veronica could practice her self-taught ballet. "You know, she is actually a good dancer, Mom. We should get her into a class," Julia remarked. And, she is right, Veronica has the agility and sense of balance of a dancer; or, a fairy. Some nights I peek under her nightgown to see if her wings have arrived. After the dancing, and a bath, she told me that there would be no getting dressed unless we went outside to talk with the moon. This is a warm evening ritual we started when she was barely walking, around the time that she fell in love with the book Goodnight, Moon; and, spent more time wishing the moon a fair evening than all the times spent reading and re-reading that favorite book.

On our walk back into the house Max looked around furtively, scanning the sky, asking me finally "Where moon go?" Veronica answered authoritively, with hands firmly on her hips, "Max, the moon went to play hide-and-seek with the stars." Veronica being the family expert on all lunar playtime activities, of course.

Julia has been spinning about the house in the glow of love's soon arrival. She kisses everyone as she walks by, and is constantly singing even when her iPod is gifting her ears with song.

As for me, I am just hoping to catch some of the fever around me. The blues have taken resident in my skin this week, and I am waiting for it to take the first bus, and leave. I want to trade my mood in for Spring's bursting pallet of color.

spin me round again
and rub my eyes
this can't be happening

when busy streets
a mess with people
would stop to hold their heads heavy

hide and seek

Hide and Seek ~ Imogen Heap

L.

Save the world

art by ray caesar; keep art alive

Questions are something that I have always been rather fond of. I have an ever curious nature that is not easily sated by surface small talk. Long, deep conversations that last well into the early hours of morning are some of my most favorite things be a part of. Perhaps it is the writer in me, or the fact that humankind just interests me, but I have this need inside me to know people's stories. The truth that I have discovered, through my inquisitions of those I meet or come in contact with, is that people love to discuss themselves; they enjoy having a reason to expose their plots and unearth their mysteries to a someone who is actually listening. We are all suckers for surveys, magazine page quizzes, and even truth or dare games. Casual therapy between friends can be the building blocks to connection and healing; and, at times I do believe we all need a prescribed dose of that.

Veronica is at the question-asking stage. She throws quite a bit of what I say back at me, wondering at what it all means. This is not a ploy to change my responses, or instigate anything. Nor is it a bargaining tool to navigate things to go her way (though she does possess quite a bit of bartering techniques). Instead I see in her just this enormous curiousity and a burning need to know. Tonight she asked me two different questions, one that I found amusing and could answer easily; the other took my breath from me, and made me momentarily pause to sort out how I would answer her. This is a change for her, this new tiny detective who peels apart words and phrases, sights and sounds. And, I think I am still trying to get a grasp on how deep and detailed she wants my answers to be.

The simple question was "what does already mean, momma?", as she had just used the word in her impatient tone of "let's get out of the car already." I love that she questions things that she not only hears, but says herself. She picks up sayings people utter around her; overheard conversations, teenage vernacular from Julia and her friends, slang lifted from television shows or heard in song lyrics. Most times she uses the new-to-her phrases correctly, she has a strong vocabulary, a good grasp on language, and a sharp ear for how things should sound. But, when she is not completely sure what something means she tries it out, then asks for confirmation that she has used it right. I told her "the way you used already means hurry" and she smiled at me, pleased with herself for expressing her feelings correctly. For a second she glowed enough to light up the dark parking garage.

"What is the end of the world, momma?" was the trickier question she threw at me. It gave me quite a pause, and I admit my first instinct was to change the subject. She has inquired about death a lot lately, especially asking about my Grandmother who passed away long before she had the chance to meet her. I was not sure if this was a question that veered into the realm of death, or if this was something she had pictured in her mind as an actual end of the earth. There was some cartoon that ran through my memory-scape, that I cannot clearly recall. It had a character standing at the end of the world, as if the pages led to something blank and final, and there he was standing and looking straight into an endless abyss. I also pictured Jim Carrey's character in The Truman Show finding the far edge of the set, the flat surface appearing to him as if it were the end of the world. Was it this kind of ending she was seeing in her mind's eye?

These mind wanderings and imaginings just lengthened my hesitance to respond, and for a second or two I thought I might escape without having to come up with an answer. Veronica would have none of that and asked again, "what is the end?" I told her the only thing I could, that I really did not know. Perhaps it would be if the whole world were to die. She mulled that over for a bit then responded with another question, "you mean like the dinosaurs that all died?" I said "yes, something like that." The conversation was put on hold as we went into the house and she was distracted by her brother who had fallen asleep on the couch, and her desire to have some of the dinner that was now ready for us to eat. It was a bit later, as I tucked her into bed that she said to me in an almost whisper "we should be like superheroes, momma, and take care of the world so it does not end."

I smiled and agreed with her, told her that her papa already prepared her for that job by giving her a superhero middle name. Veronica Hawkgirl, she is making plans to save the world.

So I walk up on high

And I step to the edge

To see my world below

And I laugh at myself

While the tears roll down

'Cause it's the world I know

It's the world I know

The World I Know ~ Collective Soul

L.

You give your love so sweetly

art by Lori Earley; keep art alive

For as long as I can remember, in my life, I have loved freely and easily; often giving my heart away a little too carelessly, forever watching it dangle by a thread off the edge of my sleeve. There may be a long list of things that I am ever afraid of, but with love I have always been brave. Brave, or just stupid, would be most people's questioning arguement. But, I prefer to believe that I am a soldier of love, ever fearless and ready to take it on, in all of love's varying forms and conditions. And, for the most part, it has been worth it. Sure, I have had my heart broken more than once, and I have had my share of being way off base and wrong as can be about whom I have trusted my time and affections with. That said, I would not erase any of it, nor would I trade a day of taking chances in love to sit alone, holding myself back, sure that I will never be hurt. What if is a terrible thing to wonder at, and I try to live my life in a way that ensures that I very rarely ask myself that; at least not in regards to love.

What does scare me to the depths of my easily open heart is watching Julia give her heart away with the same reckless abandon as her mother always has. It seems hypocritical, I know, but it is a completely different feeling to watch someone you have given life to, and would give your own life for, be so brave, and possibly stupid, with love. She tells me to trust her, that she is not stupid, that she knows exactly what she is doing, and that this boy is everything she believes him to be. I know this speech well enough that I could mimic it right back at her, word for word, intense emotion for intense emotion, expressive eyes and hands, the whole bit. This speech is the same one I have given a million times over; to my own mother, my closest friends, and even to my own mirrored reflection. I said each and every word of it with the truest conviction that one could ever have; none of what I said or felt were wrong to me, at the time; they were my truths. The doubt and trepidation I feel while listening to her and watching her wax poetic at everything he says and does is probably exactly what everyone else felt. Now I know the other side of the road, the flipped perspective. That is one of the hidden gems that parenthood provides, a look from a different set of eyes.

Julia’s first boyfriend lives in Philadelphia. She met him online and they have built up their relationship through messages, texts and phone calls that last late into the night. I have been there, too. Long distant relationships can be amazing, exciting, frustrating, and lonely experiences. She has felt all of those things, and we have talked about them in depth. Conversations that I could tell she was actually listening to, even. In my times when I am alone in my thoughts I have considered the fact that he lives so far from our front door as a sort of relief. Though I have worried about the hurt and irritations that can arise from loving at a distance, I fooled myself into thinking that there would not be more to the story. That is, until yesterday, when the phone call came and he announced that he will be coming to California next Thursday to visit, accompanied by his sister and mother, and staying by the ocean in Santa Monica. To say she is thrilled and deliciously anxious would be the underestimation of the century.

I want to dance around the house with her, and share in all that joy. But, deep inside I am scared as hell that he will hurt her somehow. That it will not be all that she wants it to be, or maybe worse yet, it will be. Then where is she left? To pine away for someone across the states from where she resides? To spend her hours wishing to be somewhere else, living for phone calls and not living in her life right now. At this juncture she still sees her friends, she still goes out, and she even still flirts with other boys. But, will that be something that disappears if she gives all of her love to this boy, and he returns home after his five day stay? Instead of meeting him with smiles and welcomes I want to take him on one of those Mafia drives and tell him that it will be his final road trip if he hurts her. That he better make himself worth it, worth her attention and care, and that he better love her tomorrow or get right back on the plane and return home before they share a first kiss. Tell him over and again that she is something precious and rare, that there is no other Julia, and that she is incredible.

The other part of me wants to tell her to lock up her heart. But, I know only too well, how impossible that can be. Love is beautiful and worth the risk. I know, I know. I taught that to her. But, I am still wishing that if she falls, it will be gently.

Is this a lasting treasure?

Or just a moment's pleasure?

Can I believe the magic of your sighs?

Will you still love me tomorrow?

Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow ~ Amy Winehouse

L.

To TV or not to TV

art by jonathan weiner; keep art alive

I grew up in the generation that can typically chart their rites of passages and seasons of past days by what was on the flickering lights and colors of the television set. It is how we relate to one another, most of the time, and our television-fed pop culture histories are what have become the threads that hold us all together in most conversations and connections. Most of my friends had a television in their bedrooms, and spent most meals huddled around the latest network primetime offering. Begging and bartering, I would offer up promises of a clean room or just the sight of my pouting eyes to get an extra hour of awake time in order to watch this week’s Charlie's Angels.

Most of the playground make-believe games and make-believe were based off of characters on re-runs of Happy Days and Laverne and Shirley, and we all secretly longed for the Brady’s as parents, even if my friends and I cringed at the idea of sharing a bathroom with five siblings. My mother still had us sit around the table most nights for dinner, and I do not think that our household watched the box more than any other family on the block did; that said, I know that I remember far more about Wonder Woman's visit from her sister, the downfall of toes stuck in bathtub drains, and how Lucy met William Holden than I do about algebraic formulas or the articles of the Bill of Rights. I can probably recognize just about any television theme song in ten notes or less, too. It is just the way my media-saturated mind and memory works.

First was the television, and then came cable and the birth of MTV. I would shudder to think, or admit, just how many hours I spent watching Martha Quinn and Mark Goodman tell me about the latest videos, or the notebooks I wrote in, tracking what video played when, and how many times. I can vividly recall sitting cross-legged on my bedroom floor, with the phone crooked at my neck and ear, discussing Pat Benatar’s dangerous prostitute dance and how it could frighten a pimp, what it would be like to kiss an animated boy, or just how good we would look standing on that boat with Simon LeBon and Nick Rhodes. After that, or probably just around the time if my memory serves, came the VCR which meant we could watch movies we could choose and bring home; and that now my friends and I were obsessively recording all those videos from MTV, to watch whenever we wanted to. These were what my adolescent years were filled with, along with hair dye, record shops and KROQ, dancing at Studio K, sleepovers, and crushes on boys. But, if I were to look back at any one of those other things I bet I could connect something that played on the television to it, even the hair dye.

The thing is, no matter how much television I watched and wasted time with, I still read books and I had amazing friends; I still rode my bike through the neighborhood; and, I still wrote pretty much every day of my life in spiral bound notebooks, composition books, and diaries. Looking back, I do not think actually lacked much of anything because of television, or believe I missed out on any experiences that I may have partaken in if I had not sat rapt up in serial dramas and half-hour comedies.

There were things I gained from watching, too. It was a show on televison that confirmed the fact that the abuse I was suffering was actually abuse, and wrong. It acted as a comfort that I was not the only one to have such a thing happen in their family, and it took away some of that guilt and shame that I had carried around with me for so long. Because no one ever talked about sexual abuse at school, or anywhere else, for that matter. There is a very good chance that I would have grown far into adulthood and still never told anyone what was happening had I not seen a made-for-TV movie that reflected back what I had kept secret for so long.

I probably weighed more because of television, though. Not that I was ever very physically gifted at all, or keen at sports. My inborn klutziness acted as a pretty big hindrance to any team sport participation, and until my best friend moved into the neighborhood, I was the lone girl on a street of boys who lived to climb trees and play ball -- both things that I generally failed at doing well, and loathed because of it. The television, along with stacks of books, kept me company and comfortably indoors. They also kept me inactive, and snacking. So, my never skinny figure was not helped by all the shows I deemed must-see, though I cannot say without a doubt that I would have been any skinnier if I had been raised in a no-television home. I will say, the Hollywood view of women and their near-impossible-to-attain bodies, did not help my already shaky self-esteem. I can say for certain that the television was not the only reason for my struggles with body image and eating disorders, but I will note it did play a part in it.

So, now as a parent I find myself faced with the dilemma of the television. To allow your children to watch or not watch, that is the loaded question that friends, colleagues, experts and society all seem to have an opinion on. I have heard all the arguments that television viewing fosters violence in children’s behaviors, negatively affects attention spans, and helps promote the dumbing down of humankind. To be honest, the things I am more concerned about are the commercials, and the disgust I feel in the enormous marketing geared at children of such a young age. I know that it exists, and how deep and ingrained it aims to be, because I have spent almost ten years working for the beast called advertising. The goal is to create consumers from just about birth on, and advertisers and brands are quite skilled at it, too. Just ask my four year old and she will tell you what her new favorite cereal is (even if she has not tasted it yet), sing you the jingle to the paper plates that we need to have ("Zoo Zoo Zoo pals"), and constantly wish for a myriad of toys, some of which she would not even enjoy playing with if she had them. When she was younger, Veronica once told David and I that she just had to have a special light that told you where on the carpet your animal had urinated, all because she saw it on TV.

But, beyond the commercials, is television viewing that horrible and something you shoudl forbid? As a mother who has spent most of her life working while raising children, and who was a single mother for a large portion of my oldest daughter’s life, I will readily admit that there were times when turning a program on, or throwing in a video, was my saving grace. Weekend mornings when I could hardly function from being so tired, and times when I just needed twenty minutes to a half hour of adult time, television helped out the cause. Did I feel guilty for turning on the television because I needed a break? Sometimes, yes I did, and still do. But, it is the exception, not the rule, that I let a screen play temporary caregiver to any of the children.

Julia is an avid fan of the television, and she even has a set of her own in her room, along with a VCR/DVD combination player. Yet, she still devours books to the point where they are impossible to carry alin one set of arms after one of her notorious library hauls, and she has grown to be quite a selective viewer, and conniseur of programming. With all the hundreds of cable channels to choose from, and all the gadgets to view any program or film at home, she has become quite picky about what she will spend her time with. At the moment there are only two shows she will regularly tune in to watch, Project Runway and Heroes. Though she does have the music video addiction I did, with Fuse as her MTV, but that was almost to be expected.

As for Veronica and Max, I am sure that some would say they watch too much television. Max is enamored to the point of obsession with Teletubbies, Thomas the Train, and Jay Jay the Jet Plane. Veronica, whose tastes have grown past the PBS fare, prefers the mysteries of Scooby Doo and Martin Mystery, along with a love of Sailor Moon. When she was younger it was Dora the Explorer and Sesame Street that she loved, along with a few of Noggin’s other offerings.

Do they get anything from the time spent in front of the tube? I think so. I know that Veronica learned a smattering of Spanish from Dora, a dose of girl power from the Sailor Scouts, and various problem solving techniques from the mystery genre she seems to enjoy that started early on with Blue’s Clues. For Max, television seems to help with his need for rituals and predictability. He seems to especially like the repetitive nature of Teletubbies, who even repeat whole sections of the show at the request of the Teletubbies plea for "again, again". He talks along with Thomas, and mimics the sounds of the trains as they go, and sings the theme to Jay Jay with a huge smile.

I think at this stage in the parenting game I have come to the conclusion that television is not the root of all evil, as some would have society believe. Instead I think that negligent parental involvement with television is where the trouble lies. Not to say that I am a supporter of censorship, or parental advisory propaganda; but I do think that viewing television can and should be active, and that parents’ need to be involved along with their children. There are plenty of tools out there to help with your show selection, guides and online synopsis, you can even catch clips of episodes on youtube to just about anything; or you can sit down next to your children, which I often do, and watch with them. Also, if you have the On-Demand feature with your cable television there are options for Noggin, Nick Jr. and my personal favorite, PBS Sprout, that offer some of the most popular pre-school level educational shows almost commercial-free. There is typically one commercial at the start and end of a show, but what I have witnessed the advertisers have only been diaper companies, and I can live with Pampers brand marketing to the kids, they usually do not plead for diapers at the store.

For me, I allow the television to be a part of our family’s life. But, I still encourage books to be read, and read them aloud, and not just at bedtime. We take trips to the park, and walks around the neighborhood. Veronica and I plan and execute craft projects and bake cakes, do chores together and talk about the things she does see on television and around her world. Julia and I bond over shows that we like, but we also listen to music, talk about boys and philosophy and politics, and go out and do things together. Max shares his cars with me, gplays chase at the park, and he rides on my back around the living room. The television is not always on, and it is often replaced by music, or just nothing but silence, or our chattering and storytelling to each other. I suppose, like anything else, moderation is key.

And, I suppose, if I am going to love some television shows as much as I do, how can I say my children cannot fall in love with their own selections? I just try to steer them to the best things available.

So give me coffee and TV

Peacefully

I've seen so much I'm going blind

And I'm brain dead

Virtually

Coffee and TV ~ Blur

L.

Dream of horses

art by Audrey Kawasaki; keep art alive

Ever since I was a young girl I have been gifted with vivid dreams that come to me in technicolor, with intricate details such as facial features, hems and pleats of dresses and coat sleeves, and the presence of sensual elements, such as taste and smell. As an adolescent I started to wonder at the significance of my dreams. I began poring through dream analysis books, my initial searches leading me to keep a journal specifically for recording my dreams which I kept tucked under the right corner of my mattress.

In my final year of high school a close friend of mine found an article in a science journal which discussed lucid dreaming, and the possibility of training yourself to control your dreams. We were transfixed by this article, spending a lunchtime huddled together in the musty backstage area of the school theatre, taking down careful notes and agreeing to try it out that very night. The first goal the writer noted was to try to fly in your dreams, that this very feat would be the first step to taking the helm of your individual dream journeys. Scott was able to make himself fly after three days of dreaming; I never figured out how to fly.

From that point on, any time I have attempted to control my dreams I have failed. I still keep track of them, not by stringently noting them all down on paper, but by running the details through my conscious mind during a hot morning shower, while driving to work, or sometimes in conversations with close friends. Most of the time I enjoy the experiences I have in my dreams, even the haunting and surreal ones; they give me a ticket to walk along a different path for a moment; an opportunity to toss aside reality and responsibility, and be someone else entirely. As soon as I stopped trying to direct my subconscious, the images seemed to flow even smoother, and with brighter tints and hues.

There are the occasions where dreams repeat and reoccur. These particular reruns of the mind are never welcome holidays, instead they are the moments I wish I could jump in the middle of with a big red marker and edit for content, or push a giant rewind and erase button, removing myself from all of it completely. The times I have tried to insert my will onto the inner eyelid screen the dream seemed to elongate, or worse yet, become something filled with a heightened sense of frustration, or peppered with beasts of the fire red eyes variety that chase after me as if they have been let loose to run me off their lands.

One of these rerun mental motion pictures feature my teeth falling out so vividly that I awake to frantically run my tongue across the top and bottom of my mouth to be sure all are present and accounted for. Another one has me trying to follow a path to a place I remember from my childhood, only to find myself stuck in a dank and freezing field of frozen over plants and larger than life buffalo leering at me with piercing otherworldly eyes. A more recent addition involves being trapped between two societies, one run entirely by vampires and the other by a misogynistic government, and my role is to pass between them and sort out which are the actual villains.

When I have traced the patterns and occurrence of these dreams I can follow a dotted line around the times in my life when I have no control of anything, or at least the perception of control seems to be removed from my hand. The children are usually part of the equation, things happening to them or in their lives that I cannot help, heal, or fix. I recall a time that Julia was being bullied at school by a clique of mean girls who seemed to spend their time inventing new ways to torture and humiliate her. Throughout most of this experience I was forced to sit idly by while I watched her spirit being squashed on a daily basis, her eyes full of tears and pain pleading with me not to contact their parents or the school authorities, which left me conflicted and pacing the room. My teeth began disengaging themselves from my gums weekly around those days, falling into my lap during a business meeting, or shooting from my mouth while I tried to speak.

Lately my reoccurring dreams have taken a turn and I find myself reliving some of the times from my own childhood when I felt trapped, frightened and unable to free myself from the hands of someone who once hurt me on a regular basis. I try to raise my arms to wrestle my body free, but my arms are weighted and immovable; I try to open my hands to claw and scratch at the shadowy face that I remember all too clear, but my hands are sleep-tingly and non-responsive; and, I try to yell but when I open my mouth only smoke flies out. A few nights ago, in the midst of a version of this dream, I was finally able to get sound to come from my mouth, but when it did the screams only sounded like my children’s cries; the ones that happen when they fall and scrape a knee, stub their toe, or slam their fingers in a door. It is an echoing sound of physical pain, and it was only silenced by the sudden cool hand resting on the side of my face, the touch of my young son Max waking me and saying more juice.

I know that the recent worries about Max are part of what is causing these dreams. The waiting, as they say, is the hardest part. Recent struggles with insurance and finances just seem to add insult to injury, making it all more clear that without money you do suffer in this society, and are not able to obtain the same level of healthcare that the richer and better insured have available to them. I have spent hours researching autism, running down lists of early signs and symptoms with a mental highlighter, marking all the descriptions that fit the way Max behaves and reacts. Afternoons and evenings have been spent looking up local support groups, checking out school programs that offer help with what may be his issue, and talking with other parents and siblings of children who are growing up with this particular life challenge. All the reading and discussing cannot give me the peace of mind of knowing, though, and all the help that is graciously available is out of my reach until I have a diagnosis. No insurance equates to no diagnosis. So, I find myself once again haunting the job boards while I wish and hope for a good opportunity with benefits to show itself, while I silently mourn the near approaching end to my days of staying home with the children.

Talk about a loss of control.

The lesson that I wish I could take from all of this is that if I could only just learn how to breathe into my days, to let a bit of my worry and world wrestling level attempts to navigate everyone and everything go, then maybe my waking life would mimic my dreams; the ones that happen when I am controlling my awake life, and letting go in sleep, that is. Perhaps I could trade, take the director chair and scribble notes in the margin of my dream scripts, be in total control of my nocturnal journeys. In exchange I would spend my days freeing my hands from trying to steer and manuver the world around me. If I could sort out how to do this at night, and in the light of day let go of the reins, would it change anything?

I ask my daughters each morning what they dreamed of while they slept, a question I will also ask of Max when he is old enough to answer. The responses I get vary, sometimes I just get the sleepy voice and sigh response of come on, mom, I don’t remember. Other times, though, I get details and descriptions, and I sit down enraptured by what goes on inside their unique minds. On those mornings when time allows more than an exchange of single sentences, I find that the dreams help open doors to deeper conversations. At times it is the easing of fears that lack other ways of floating to our surfaces, other times it is questions about the world that appear, queries of reality and possibility. These are the times when the cords of connection weld a bit stronger between myself and them. I can feel it, and can almost see the gossamer threads tying bows around our internal existences.

Last night Veronica dreamed that she was riding a horse through a field of green. As the horse and rider ran across the grass the horse suddenly sprouted purple wings which allowed it to fly the both of them high up into the sky. High enough, Veronica explained, that she was able to taste a cloud. And yes, Momma, clouds are yummy, just like marshmallows. Perhaps I can borrow Veronica’s dream horse and teach myself finally how to fly.

judy got a book at school
she went under the cover with her torch
she fell asleep till it was morning
she dreamt about the girl who stole a horse

judy never felt so good except when she was sleeping

Judy and the Dream of Horses ~ Belle and Sebastian

L.

I woke myself up

art by Sylvia Ji; keep art alive

Momcore is a term I first discovered in a review of the musician Julie Doiron. I was listening to her latest album Woke Myself Up and delving into research on the artist and her past albums, while working on a review of the newest that I was creating a draft for, when I noticed it. The term was used to describe a state of mind, and art, that concentrate on hearth and home; the notion of an artist turning a kind of domesticated life into something full of grace and beauty. The word, and the seeming definition, stuck with me and sat in the back of my mind for weeks after. It was during this spinning round of momcore that I found myself ruminating on my own role as a mother, and what being a mother means to me; as a woman, a person, and an artist.

More often then not when you mention to someone that you are a mother there is this dismissive tone, and a flash of disinterest, that occurs and overtakes the listener. It is as if this realization of this piece of who you are suddenly makes the other bits disappear, and leaves you less worthy of expression, of interesting conversations, or of any kind of creative thought at all. As if the act of bringing a soul to life, and helping to mold them into people who will exist in this world, somehow lacks imagination, a pioneering spirit, or any intellect. When you think on it that way it makes the preconceived opinions and repression seem ridiculous and borne of ignorance, don't you think? I suppose that thinking on this, and some of my experiences as a mother, is part of what made me decide I wanted to try my hand at something like this.

Momcore will not be a place to dictate a list of parenting skills, or act as a platform to be an expert on anything to do with being a mother, at all. I am no expert, and I falter and fail often; but then again is it not in our mistakes that we learn the most? This will not be a space to state how adorable my children are, nor will it detail every new word they come up with to describe an event in the bathroom, or to tell tales of something they stuck up their noses. Instead I am hoping this will be a place I come to for examination of my days, to dig deeper into the struggles I face as a mother, and where I look below the surfaces of who I am as a woman, and what it is really like to face growing up while you are helping others grow up, as well.

We live in a society much different than that of our own mothers, or their mothers before them. The neighborhoods, villages and communities that once thrived and came together to work as collective parenting are rare; most of us live for years in a place without even knowing our neighbors first names, much less what their own families are like. Long gone are the rows of houses filling up streets and cul de sacs, all housing stay at home mothers and two or three children minimum, with the 9-to-5 departure and arrivals of the working father as the norm. The post-modern household that exists now may have two working parents; it may contain stay at home fathers and breadwinning mothers, or single parents, or partners of the same gender or much older new mothers having babies than we have ever known before. All of these changes are not bad, and they do not set us back as people in any particular way; but I know that I am not the only one to find the experience often isolating, and as lonely as the inhabitants within the pages of Douglas Coupland’s novel Microserfs were once touted and detailed on the page.

I wanted to find a home for my thoughts on motherhood, a place to describe what my house looks like on a daily basis in all its shining chaos and catastrophe, and to develop a small side space to ruminate on the trials and travels of a woman who is figuring out what it means to grow beyond the patterns and predictability of being a wife and mother; a place to note how it is to come out the other side of a day and still remain my own definition of me. Hopefully this will help me discover things about myself, and my children, that I may not have recognized before. Perhaps it will be a stepping-stone to hop across and connect with other parents looking for connections and support from other mothers and families out in this world. And, in the end, hopefully it will act as both a writing prompt and artistic motivation for myself, and possibly anyone who takes the time to stop by and read now and then.

Now for a little character introduction and a few words about the persons I will mention most often:

Laura: Today I am thirty-eight years alive. I am the mother of three, a wife, friend, writer, worker, survivor and daily warrior in the minefield of being a family. I tend to be obsessed with music, films, good television shows, pages in books, first days, and new starts. I long for change. The lure of the road and chances to uproot myself and start over tempt me a little too often for my own good. I write often, and talk even more. I tend to be a bit of a control freak, have struggles with long-term relationships, and often exist in chronic overwhelm mode. But, I do wake up every morning and persist in trying to live my life, and for the most part, even though I have much more figuring out to do about myself, I am happy with whom I have become.

Julia: My oldest daughter who is now fifteen years old has lived through miles of my trips and stumbles while I tried to sort out who I was, and what I was doing with my life. She has the biggest heart of anyone I have ever known. She is smart and sarcastic, struggles with low self-esteem, is kind to everyone, and sometimes cares a bit too much about what other’s think of her; and she is completely boy crazy. She is a lover of music and fashion, is a talented artist, and has very definite goals, and a well-mapped out plan, for her future.

Veronica: The girl least likely to be a middle child. She is four years old and itching to start kindergarten, asking every morning if it is September yet. She is dramatic, extroverted, sassy, bossy, and possesses an imagination so ripe and vivid that it could take any opiate-induced animated dream sequence and put it to shame. She is wise beyond her years, silly, artistic, and a lover of classical music and flower gardens, and told me recently she wants to be the president when she grows up because they get to stand on a stage and talk all the time.

Max: The youngest member of our circus troupe. At two years old he is the quiet one, a bit emotional, and very gentle and careful with everyone and everything he comes in contact with. He memorizes dialogues and lyrics, and can mimic tones of voices and vocal inflections perfectly. Some of his behaviors and personality traits correlate with early signs of autism, and I am in the midst of finding out if that is a diagnosis we will be living alongside of. He is unique in so many ways, and is my first experience with raising a boy. I find myself often in awe of the way he is, and how he reacts to the world around him, which is so different from the way the girls and I seem to.

David: My partner in crime and parenthood. Today is both of our birthdays and the marking of our seventh year of marriage. We have had a rocky go of it at times, and recently spent a year living apart from one another; but we are both dedicated and working hard at making our marriage and family not only work, but be something that brings happiness into each other’s lives. David is the birth-father of my two youngest children, and the stepfather and friend of my oldest (they have had their share of struggles as well, but are both working on a new goal of being friends). We have not always been the perfect couple, and often have been questioned at why we are together, but in the end we have a connection that is deep and stronger than our mistakes, and we truly love each other, and the children, very much.


I woke myself up
To rest my weary head
from all the work I’d done
in those dreams I had
I Woke Myself Up ~ Julie Doiron

L.