My mom looked especially beautiful the first time she held her first grandchild.
She didn’t think so. She’d lost her hair to cancer treatment. It had just barely grown back in pale silver wisps.
She asked me not to take pictures. I took them anyway, understanding this might be my one and only chance to capture my mom with my son.
I wrote an autobiography in 2004.
(There are three sentences worth reading in the whole thing.)
I was still broke and without internet after finishing that, so I wrote a trilogy. I published the first book, The Monster’s Daughter, in 2011.
I intended to publish the other two, but then I read them.
No. Just no.
I don’t have enough lifetime to waste editing them.
(Seriously, I’d need a thousand years apiece. I’d do better rewriting them!)
I’ve written a fifth book since. That novel’s first draft is better than The Monster’s Daughter‘s final draft. Despite that, I’m not editing it. I’m not interested.
Another half-dozen books whirl around my brain these days. Despite their insistence, I’m not writing them. I’m not interested.
For now, I’m content to blog and know I’ve fulfilled the writing maybe-someday that once mattered most to me: I wrote a book.
The rest is gravy.
For anyone who ever asked what happened to Joey, highlight below to see the short version:
He’d become a vampire. Ginny, not actually dead, killed his not-so-friendly vampire incarnation. Then, for added giggles, Denise became a vampire and Ginny had to kill her, too, for I am a cruel bastard.
Don’t like these outcomes? Awesome. I welcome you to imagine your own, which I fully endorse as authentic. The real ending for me–the one in my heart–is much kinder than the one I wrote earlier with my hands.
I was just a week or two away from delivering my younger son, Littler J, when I met Ra in person.
I’d read–and savored–a few of her blogs before I met her. I knew I liked her, but I was pregnant and distracted. I didn’t really know how much I liked her until I met her.
I met her and loved her simultaneous clarity/strength and vulnerability, a rare combination.
And then I delivered Littler J, and lost track of where she was, though I distantly knew she was in prison.
I came back on track far later than I’d have wished …
… and yet: What was, was. What is, is. The past is past when driving with Ra, when I am struck–though never so heartily as reading this blog about me and my guys!–by her rare appreciation for the good in a little chaos, and an ability to adapt (fairly) swiftly to whatever challenges the moment casts.
Farscape, Ra, kid chaos, burps/farts and lots of snuggles: These are all things that make my household what it is. And I’m glad for it all, even if I don’t know for sure what to make of The Great Big Everything ahead. I suppose I’ll deal with “ahead” then.
Now is now, and there is so much loveliness in it.
Originally posted on rarasaur:
Mail is late and we’ve already been locked in for the night.
A letter is kicked under the cell door.
“Just one today,” the officer ponders, “Maybe they all stopped loving you.”
I laugh, a low peal of chuckles– revealing as much about my comfortable relationship with him as my confidence in my world. His booming male-guffaw follows him down the hall.
I pick the letter up off the floor, noticing that my tiles are a little dusty. In a minute, I’ll take out a maxipad and wipe it down by hand. Tomorrow supplies will be restocked, so it should be okay to use one.
But for now, I tear open the seal of the letter with my thumb.
It’s a series of notes.
One from each member of the family.
Just one I haven’t really met yet.
View original 1,251 more words
If we were having coffee, I wouldn’t actually have coffee. Even a single cup a day makes me anxious, so I’m finally stepping away from it.
(I’d order peppermint tea instead.)
As for the conversation, one of three things would happen:
- I’d be almost completely silent, unable to find anything to add and not wanting to speak simply to fill the silence.
- I’d chatter non-stop about anything and everything, if I wanted to connect but didn’t quite know how. That’d be my way of fishing–most awkwardly–for the thing that’d make you bite.
- Feeling at ease, I’d share what’s most important to me at times that worked in the conversation.
I mostly blog as if the third is true, so I’ll coffee-share in the same vein.
If we were having coffee, you and I, I’d tell you that I feel ill at ease right now. Nothing feels quite right, and it feels not-quite-right all the time. Read more…
My five-year-old just finished his first week as a first grader.
He knows his mama doesn’t believe in bad people, just bad acts. When I chastise our dog, he says, “But he’s good! It’s just the act that wasn’t good, right? He’s still good.”
All the same, my little man finished his first week with the proclamation, “It was good! I’m a good boy!”
My faith isn’t as firm as his papa’s. It varies day by day, and sometimes minute by minute.
When Li’l D asked religious questions this week, I wanted to say, “It’s all mythology!”
Instead I said, “These are great questions. Let’s answer them together,
in the weeks ahead!”
at day’s end,
like all I am
is my work:
pay the bills-to
cover the heads, to
feed the bellies, to
keep water flowing
Juggling many balls to
keep things going, to
keep family sheltered, to
Who I am? Well,
just as long as I
keep paying the bills,
keep putting one foot after the other
as if I am no more,
in the end, than
the just keeping on
Tonight I took a picture of my husband singing to our younger son.
I snapped a picture and realized Anthony was singing a song important to both of us.
I melted, remembering that song playing on an evening that would prove pivotal to both our lives.
And then? Then he wrote a post about that song, lullabies, love.
How I love this man!