what would happen if you gave one woman
a bottle of wine and internet access?
first, she will go into the bathroom
and meticulously cut her hair
(she has no hair)
so perhaps she is seeking a sense of control and
hair manipulation is her domain.
nonetheless, she will settle into the kitchen table
and start to write.
she might remember that she was eager for this
evening time alone.
that she tucked her children into bed
and was looking forward to a sense of freedom of
self.
but when it came time, it brought a friend named
alone.
there are times to be.
she is not afraid of being.
but there are times she yearned
for connection.
for the night at the neighborhood bar. the dinner party.
the person on the train rubbing her feet.
instead, she was staring at a tree full of lights,
a dishwasher running, and Facebook
remembering when there were adults
(or kids playing adults) available
for wining, dining, and (shhh...)
playful debate.
there are moments like this
when she thinks about waking
her children from slumber and declaring
"oops, i was wrong. let's keep screaming,
singing, throwing food, and getting frustrated
at what we can't do yet."
please come back.
but that has never happened.
she is smart enough to write instead.
sometimes she calls and leaves you a
wacky voicemail (insert laughter)
but for now, she fills her glass and smiles.
sometimes there isn't an answer.
but there always is something.
Friday, December 13, 2013
Wednesday, October 23, 2013
undertaking
careening across portland,
a light found me
he kneeled in cigarette butts
and held a sign
"No work. No hope. Help."
with 54 cents, i rolled down the window
but he took a buck from a bmw
good. i figured
and then i remembered something.
the love i've felt
for friends, lovers, a job, a thing
was a choice.
was this love worth the work?
being in love is showing up to work
and there is hope in work.
i hope that helps.
a light found me
he kneeled in cigarette butts
and held a sign
"No work. No hope. Help."
with 54 cents, i rolled down the window
but he took a buck from a bmw
good. i figured
and then i remembered something.
the love i've felt
for friends, lovers, a job, a thing
was a choice.
was this love worth the work?
being in love is showing up to work
and there is hope in work.
i hope that helps.
Sunday, September 29, 2013
29 days
i've spent 29 days not knowing what to do.
like the bee sting burrowed in my summer's foot,
the unknown festers.
no teacher said, "thank you for remaining silent in class. oh, and thank you for not answering that question. not to mention, thank you, truly, for all you haven't comprehended here today."
but why?
why does me knowing or not matter? to me or you.
i've spent my whole life acting, taking action, executing action plans, and acting without knowing
for the simple reason that i had to keep moving, keep answering, keep making choices to earn the gold star.
choose a or b or c or d or all of the above or none of the above. do it. now. answer the question whether you know, you cheat, you guess. just fucking answer the question.
because if i didn't, i would lose. i would fail. me. you. the big talking head. game over.
perhaps, me not knowing was the best thing that ever happened to me.
and it scared you.
i don't know.
like the bee sting burrowed in my summer's foot,
the unknown festers.
no teacher said, "thank you for remaining silent in class. oh, and thank you for not answering that question. not to mention, thank you, truly, for all you haven't comprehended here today."
but why?
why does me knowing or not matter? to me or you.
i've spent my whole life acting, taking action, executing action plans, and acting without knowing
for the simple reason that i had to keep moving, keep answering, keep making choices to earn the gold star.
choose a or b or c or d or all of the above or none of the above. do it. now. answer the question whether you know, you cheat, you guess. just fucking answer the question.
because if i didn't, i would lose. i would fail. me. you. the big talking head. game over.
perhaps, me not knowing was the best thing that ever happened to me.
and it scared you.
i don't know.
Saturday, July 6, 2013
Chang-ing
It's noon and I'm at a bar scribbling about "change."
You know, that kind of uncertainty that inspires us to practice yoga in too tight sweatpants, to fuck strangers with good teeth, and to meditate on a splintered bench next to the bird lady.
Professional lives are built upon our inability to cope with change. Talk about job security.
Bartender, can I get another?
As autonomous adults, we build fences, stilts, ball fields, and water parks to contain and regulate lady luck. But when we morph into adult PARENT persons, all boundaries are decimated. A mighty Oz wind howls our sexy theme park to shambles. Damn all.
Kids move quicker than hip. "I got this" quickly flips into "SOS." Vulnerability becomes our shaky vehicle to shore. On we go, with love, humor, and folly. Follied.
So what can be done if all we have is a bartender, a compass, and a pen plus paper?
Write. No one else will save us. And we can't afford the therapist.
You know, that kind of uncertainty that inspires us to practice yoga in too tight sweatpants, to fuck strangers with good teeth, and to meditate on a splintered bench next to the bird lady.
Professional lives are built upon our inability to cope with change. Talk about job security.
Bartender, can I get another?
As autonomous adults, we build fences, stilts, ball fields, and water parks to contain and regulate lady luck. But when we morph into adult PARENT persons, all boundaries are decimated. A mighty Oz wind howls our sexy theme park to shambles. Damn all.
Kids move quicker than hip. "I got this" quickly flips into "SOS." Vulnerability becomes our shaky vehicle to shore. On we go, with love, humor, and folly. Follied.
So what can be done if all we have is a bartender, a compass, and a pen plus paper?
Write. No one else will save us. And we can't afford the therapist.
Thursday, May 23, 2013
Mother superhero
As a kid, I tuned in to the local news every night. I took pride in knowing the happenings, the politics, and the weather of the region I called home. But damn, if it didn't terrify me. I would pee on the carpet near my bed just so I wouldn't have to walk around a blind corner to the bathroom at night. The boyfriend strangling his lady, the car wrecks at 2am, the fear, violence, murder, perversion, violence, fear...after 10 years of committed viewing, I knew the geography of the Pacific Northwest (seriously, ask me the name of any town in WA and I know where it is) and that humans are cruel violent beasts, running around passionately ruining each others lives. And the environment. And the planet.
Last night I errored in looking at CNN.com and there was a horrifying story about 2 men who butchered a British soldier in broad daylight. A monstrous photo of one of the killers greeted me upon opening the site. His hands were red, and he held a meat cleaver. Oddly, it comes forth that a woman, a single mom in her fifties, approached the killer seconds after he took life. She said she did so to save others and to calm the situation. What the fuck? Then I sat on it for minute. Of course she did. She's a mother.
When Mirabelle was little I took her in the backpack everywhere. We lived in suburbia as she neared age 2, a charming cottage filled neighborhood in Portland. One day, while we walked to the ice cream shop I noticed an odd duck waiting at a bus stop. I always said hi to passerbyes but this fella stared at his feet. I marched on with Belle bouncing and humming behind me like the most beautiful musical I couldn't see. Suddenly, nothing was ok. Moms and dads, you know what I'm talking about. The sixth sense that you are about to kick the shit out of something that might hurt your baby. Electrical pulses shot my hand to the knife I always carried (I am my father's girl) and with Belle riding high and heavy on my back, I spun 180' like Bruce Lee to face the man from the bus stop. I could smell his chewing gum and pulled the knife to my side. "No, get back! Get the fuck away from me now!" He about shit his pants. A woman with curly hair drove up and he ran like he was on the beaches of Normandy into a vacant lot. She chased him down the best she could in her car but he disappeared.
It is terrifying to love like a mother. To allow your heart to dangle from your chest exposed every second, even as you sleep. To know that the world is insane and that there is nothing that you can do to control the madness. Life is vulnerable. And you love your child like nothing you could ever emulate with a lover, partner, or friend. God damn tornados, molesters, speeding drunks, bicycle crashes, choking on raisins, diseases, mental illness, bullies, fucking death. death. death. All of it has crossed our minds. Yet we love and live on.
When I make the mistake of revisiting the news I remind myself of this: love, Julia, like you don't know how. Love Mirabelle and Dockton so fiercely that no matter what happens today or in 60 years they know, feel, smell that love so god damn strong that when you are gone it's there. Play fairies one more time (after playing 6 times already), stop and laugh spontaneously, say I love you in the grocery store even when they are driving you insane, stop and look at them in awe over and over. As a mother, the legacy I want to leave my children is that no matter how fucked up the world gets, they have so much love, from me and of themselves, that they can prevail and dance, even through total darkness. When I don't know what else to say, I repeat, "I believe, I love, I am." Yes. That is right. And I hope you sleep well tonite.
Last night I errored in looking at CNN.com and there was a horrifying story about 2 men who butchered a British soldier in broad daylight. A monstrous photo of one of the killers greeted me upon opening the site. His hands were red, and he held a meat cleaver. Oddly, it comes forth that a woman, a single mom in her fifties, approached the killer seconds after he took life. She said she did so to save others and to calm the situation. What the fuck? Then I sat on it for minute. Of course she did. She's a mother.
When Mirabelle was little I took her in the backpack everywhere. We lived in suburbia as she neared age 2, a charming cottage filled neighborhood in Portland. One day, while we walked to the ice cream shop I noticed an odd duck waiting at a bus stop. I always said hi to passerbyes but this fella stared at his feet. I marched on with Belle bouncing and humming behind me like the most beautiful musical I couldn't see. Suddenly, nothing was ok. Moms and dads, you know what I'm talking about. The sixth sense that you are about to kick the shit out of something that might hurt your baby. Electrical pulses shot my hand to the knife I always carried (I am my father's girl) and with Belle riding high and heavy on my back, I spun 180' like Bruce Lee to face the man from the bus stop. I could smell his chewing gum and pulled the knife to my side. "No, get back! Get the fuck away from me now!" He about shit his pants. A woman with curly hair drove up and he ran like he was on the beaches of Normandy into a vacant lot. She chased him down the best she could in her car but he disappeared.
It is terrifying to love like a mother. To allow your heart to dangle from your chest exposed every second, even as you sleep. To know that the world is insane and that there is nothing that you can do to control the madness. Life is vulnerable. And you love your child like nothing you could ever emulate with a lover, partner, or friend. God damn tornados, molesters, speeding drunks, bicycle crashes, choking on raisins, diseases, mental illness, bullies, fucking death. death. death. All of it has crossed our minds. Yet we love and live on.
When I make the mistake of revisiting the news I remind myself of this: love, Julia, like you don't know how. Love Mirabelle and Dockton so fiercely that no matter what happens today or in 60 years they know, feel, smell that love so god damn strong that when you are gone it's there. Play fairies one more time (after playing 6 times already), stop and laugh spontaneously, say I love you in the grocery store even when they are driving you insane, stop and look at them in awe over and over. As a mother, the legacy I want to leave my children is that no matter how fucked up the world gets, they have so much love, from me and of themselves, that they can prevail and dance, even through total darkness. When I don't know what else to say, I repeat, "I believe, I love, I am." Yes. That is right. And I hope you sleep well tonite.
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
Other moms
"You should go out and meet other moms. Make some 'Mom friends'."
Remember when you suggested I try one of those mom clubs? Here's why there is no chance in hell of that happening:
Moms (in general) aren't fun. They work 24 hours a day, wipe butts, hold screaming children, and rarely read. Moms endlessly psychoanalyze their kids and wear guilt for every wrongdoing reported back by their mate or child. Moms either don't drink or get chateaued off white wine and cry. Moms don't have enough sex or simply don't at all and start wearing outfits that resemble the ones they wore in third grade. Moms talk about Fred Meyer deals and the broken swing at the park. Worst of all, the moms resentful of their families because they never went to Paris, had a lover, or became the executive of NBC. No thanks.
Instead, I would rather hang out by the railroad tracks, or jump rope in the carport. Or play with the kids on the monkey bars and chat with the grandpa smoking a pipe on the park bench. I want to hear stories about kids who aren't labeled with some defect. About women who feel sexy and alive and of people fucking in public places. I want to make things and take them apart. Be surrounded by folks who believe in mysteries and magic. Listen to Bukowski poems and radio shows in the dark. I want to be surrounded by strangers on the train and play Yahtzee while drinking Port. I want to be with women who laugh until they cry and who play with their kids on the floor until everyone has rug burns.
So I'm gonna hold out and wait to find some folks that I can actually relate to and hope that in the mix there are a few fun loving ladies with kids. But thanks for thinking of me and my motherhood dilemma.
Remember when you suggested I try one of those mom clubs? Here's why there is no chance in hell of that happening:
Moms (in general) aren't fun. They work 24 hours a day, wipe butts, hold screaming children, and rarely read. Moms endlessly psychoanalyze their kids and wear guilt for every wrongdoing reported back by their mate or child. Moms either don't drink or get chateaued off white wine and cry. Moms don't have enough sex or simply don't at all and start wearing outfits that resemble the ones they wore in third grade. Moms talk about Fred Meyer deals and the broken swing at the park. Worst of all, the moms resentful of their families because they never went to Paris, had a lover, or became the executive of NBC. No thanks.
Instead, I would rather hang out by the railroad tracks, or jump rope in the carport. Or play with the kids on the monkey bars and chat with the grandpa smoking a pipe on the park bench. I want to hear stories about kids who aren't labeled with some defect. About women who feel sexy and alive and of people fucking in public places. I want to make things and take them apart. Be surrounded by folks who believe in mysteries and magic. Listen to Bukowski poems and radio shows in the dark. I want to be surrounded by strangers on the train and play Yahtzee while drinking Port. I want to be with women who laugh until they cry and who play with their kids on the floor until everyone has rug burns.
So I'm gonna hold out and wait to find some folks that I can actually relate to and hope that in the mix there are a few fun loving ladies with kids. But thanks for thinking of me and my motherhood dilemma.
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
I think therefore
In our early 20s, many of us with the privilege of college attendance, realized that the lecture we were half attending was not the education we wanted or deserved. That with that tuition dollar, we could travel to Thailand rather than listen to an old white guy tell us about its culture. That we were paying thousands of dollars for no guarantee of any real enrichment, status, or future security.
Ask a 5 year old what she wants and she will probably say, "to go to school." But let's not stop there. Ask more questions. What do you think school will be like? What interests you? And you will find no school can fit this shoe (no matter how slick, integrative, or alternative).
Kids care about making connections - with other kids, with concepts, within their own heads. Every child will paint a different picture of kindergarten. But much like the 23 year old at university, the shit happening in the classroom is just that. It's what the state, the teacher, or the culture want "taught" and the learner, whether child or adult is left thinking,"hey, why am I here?"
What if we didn't see ourselves as vessels to load down with facts and with other people's knowledge. Rather, we saw ourselves as full from birth with everything we need. That our goal was to find the mentors to help us unpack and utilize all that we have. That we can live in presence and in passion rather than bow to the man because we gotta. This idea that we "gotta" put our kids in school to get educated is the first and most profound act against our own brilliance. We don't really trust ourselves, right? And unfortunately somewhere along the way we decided not to trust our kids either. That they need to move rather than sit in a desk. That they aren't interested in the ABCs and would rather be writing a story in scribbles. No, that's not learning. Sorry, your child is not okay. They THINK and we can't be thinking right now. They dance, no god damn dancing in these halls.
Seriously why the hell is it a problem if a kid doesn't want to read until they are nine? Why?! But yet every day I see that school bus packed with faces bouncing around like buttered popcorn headed to the formal instruction that is needed to BE.
I hope in my lifetime we stop and think about why we send our kids to kindergarten. We didn't send our kids to school to learn how to walk or talk yet we think they can't read, write or fucking think without outsourcing to a "professional". As one of those pros, I wish parents knew how incredible they are. I wish we stopped shipping our kids off to foreign concrete caverns (schools) and instead met every neighbor within a 5 block radius and set up a community based cooperative child care/learning programs for parents and kids. Don't laugh. Don't forget that we are the ones making the choices here. We are the moms and dads that our children chose as guides. We are the folks that help our children construct reality. What kind of reality do we want? One where our kids see themselves as test scores, desk fillers, or inadequate according to other people's professional opinions? Or do we want our most precious to see themselves as empowered, nurtured beings who are heard and respected, who have rights and choices, who are as much the teacher as the learner.
What if we stopped and listened? To our heart, to our own experiences, and most importantly to our children. They know what they need. And we can work together to support our children.
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
Broken
What do we do when we can't fix it?
There is no sleep in my soul. My son screams in his waking body.
Laugh boy, at my need to rest. Your new eyes don't blink.
I wither like a sun bruised grape.
Meditate mamma: I am limitless. I am love.
This too shall pass. And I am on this ride. Accept.
The spaghetti and meatball world entangles me.
Wicked madness on a plate, yet my child must spin this bloody mess on his fork.
Consumed. I don't know. And I'm one of those people who pretends to.
So hold on son. And I will too.
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
If I
If I am, then let me be love.
Limitless
My arms open to the ocean
If I can, then let me be hold.
Body
My feet plant in the earth
If I will, then let me be friend.
Creation
Destruction
I am.
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
One handed typing
A mother or a pervert? Yes. I'm a one handed typer. I like to envision a woman, mid thirties, with three small children inventing the "smart phone" - a device that actually demands single digit dexterity and that is easily operated while breastfeeding, diapering, and cradling.
My son is my agent, editor, and humorist. Laying across my lap, he looks up, smiles, frowns and directs my virtual pen. Writing stops at his command, inspiration flows from the sleep washing his cheeks, and he suckles to the beat of my imaginary keyboard.
Growth is relentless. He squirms and grunts like the engine of this mother son machine, his eyes fixed to my armpit, pupils tracing the shadows on the wall behind us. I can't put him down or the circus music stops, he screams as though ripped from the story, and I place him quickly to breast again. Yessir. Sorry sir. Writing commences.
Love is what fuels this three legged dog and the one handed typer. I will tell you more as long as my son approves my message.
My son is my agent, editor, and humorist. Laying across my lap, he looks up, smiles, frowns and directs my virtual pen. Writing stops at his command, inspiration flows from the sleep washing his cheeks, and he suckles to the beat of my imaginary keyboard.
Growth is relentless. He squirms and grunts like the engine of this mother son machine, his eyes fixed to my armpit, pupils tracing the shadows on the wall behind us. I can't put him down or the circus music stops, he screams as though ripped from the story, and I place him quickly to breast again. Yessir. Sorry sir. Writing commences.
Love is what fuels this three legged dog and the one handed typer. I will tell you more as long as my son approves my message.
Saturday, March 16, 2013
What is love? Take one.
The man made a great scramble. But after years of pupishly chasing his tail, I was flea bitten. No amount of love was going to make this man love me. Oh, it burned - so powerless I was to his heart's whimsy. He did not mention the hot tobacco on my breath as I passed, rather he acted oblivious to my presence and courted his breakfast like a horny teenager.
I never made it to the table. Hitting send, I propelled my image to a man I barely knew across the country, knowing that I would be thoroughly feasted upon. Perhaps that is all I wanted - to be seen and to captivate someone so intensely that he could barely function through the doldrums of his day. In other words, I was ready to fuck him up the way I had been by this man in my kitchen space.
That is all I wanted and knew of love in my late 20s. Pain and chaos. Maybe digesting all those Bukowski poems resulted in this diagnosis of irritable heart syndrome. But whoever was to blame did not matter now, for finally I had gained control and in my net was the biggest fish the ocean could have churned.
Sean. The towering urbanite from the Twin Cities was calling me. In two weeks the train would bring me to his Midwest doorstep and all my sex would leap into his arms - a pilgrimage of my womanhood back to its molten core. I took the call and compliments as I sipped my coffee. Love was not necessary like it had been in relationships prior and in its playful absence, freedom and joy returned to my smile. I thought I was on to something: Love is need and needs are fucked. Sure. It felt good and I could go about my day lighter than I had been in years. My thoughts were pleasant and no longer consumed by a longing for love.
After two bottles of wine and 40 hours of rolling, I reached Minneapolis wild and beautiful. I scampered to my motel to prepare for my lover's arrival. In the cheap glass of my bathroom, I drew my game face and waited for the ball.
I never made it to the table. Hitting send, I propelled my image to a man I barely knew across the country, knowing that I would be thoroughly feasted upon. Perhaps that is all I wanted - to be seen and to captivate someone so intensely that he could barely function through the doldrums of his day. In other words, I was ready to fuck him up the way I had been by this man in my kitchen space.
That is all I wanted and knew of love in my late 20s. Pain and chaos. Maybe digesting all those Bukowski poems resulted in this diagnosis of irritable heart syndrome. But whoever was to blame did not matter now, for finally I had gained control and in my net was the biggest fish the ocean could have churned.
Sean. The towering urbanite from the Twin Cities was calling me. In two weeks the train would bring me to his Midwest doorstep and all my sex would leap into his arms - a pilgrimage of my womanhood back to its molten core. I took the call and compliments as I sipped my coffee. Love was not necessary like it had been in relationships prior and in its playful absence, freedom and joy returned to my smile. I thought I was on to something: Love is need and needs are fucked. Sure. It felt good and I could go about my day lighter than I had been in years. My thoughts were pleasant and no longer consumed by a longing for love.
After two bottles of wine and 40 hours of rolling, I reached Minneapolis wild and beautiful. I scampered to my motel to prepare for my lover's arrival. In the cheap glass of my bathroom, I drew my game face and waited for the ball.
Thursday, March 14, 2013
A chapter of birthing
When I found out I was pregnant, my instinct was to fanatically forage for knowledge - for terms, for the language of birthing. And damn, I found everything. Encyclopedias of pregnancy, techniques of childbirth and rearing that reminded me of reading political pamphlets - each school of thought bashing the other as the old way or the risky unproven method while singlehandedly claiming victory. "Birth with us or else."
Jesus, what if I chose the wrong team? What if I ruined my kid's life by eating that Butterfinger with every horrible coloring and preservative known to man? What if I can't breastfeed and my kid disowns me and grows a third arm? I was scared shitless.
What to expect if you're expecting? A staggering spew of information and absolutes disguised in passive aggressive manifestos.
This ain't that. Two gems I have to share with you are as such: shut your brain off and ask your heart, what do I know of love?
This is a story of one woman's determination to understand what the hell love is so that she could fearlessly and passionately be the woman and mother she dared herself to become.
First, we begin where I began in the depths of my 28th year of loving. Standing before you, nude in red cowboy boots, posing with a Marb light lit to lip, and languid on itchy carpet, I snapped a portrait that captured my knowing. I came downstairs to email the flick to my Midwest lover while my boyfriend scrambled eggs.
Jesus, what if I chose the wrong team? What if I ruined my kid's life by eating that Butterfinger with every horrible coloring and preservative known to man? What if I can't breastfeed and my kid disowns me and grows a third arm? I was scared shitless.
What to expect if you're expecting? A staggering spew of information and absolutes disguised in passive aggressive manifestos.
This ain't that. Two gems I have to share with you are as such: shut your brain off and ask your heart, what do I know of love?
This is a story of one woman's determination to understand what the hell love is so that she could fearlessly and passionately be the woman and mother she dared herself to become.
First, we begin where I began in the depths of my 28th year of loving. Standing before you, nude in red cowboy boots, posing with a Marb light lit to lip, and languid on itchy carpet, I snapped a portrait that captured my knowing. I came downstairs to email the flick to my Midwest lover while my boyfriend scrambled eggs.
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
a happy birth story
The first time it happened, I nervously perched on the love seat in my aunt's house. The baby had a penis, which I sort of made out in the ultrasound photo, and therefore all decor came in powder blue - bears, cars, fucking footballs, tangled up in a haze of our cultures' baby boy. The women were gathered to play the baby shower Super Bowl - the worst was the tootsie roll in the diaper game. Surprise! Luckily there was alcohol for the women like myself, who weren't sure they would ever have kids and were horrified by the women who had. Many looked sexless, as though the birth of their child had caused all sexual inclinations to perish and Winnie the Pooh to set seige on their vaginas.
I set to get drunk quick and that's when the stories began. "Look honey, your boobs will never be the same after you breastfeed this kid. If I don't wear a bra it's like there are two pancakes hanging off my chest." Not to mention, "I was in labor for 36 hours until I screamed to the Doctor to get this thing out of me and he got out the vacuum thingy to suck his huge head through ..." There wasn't enough alcohol to make this a party and I felt terrible for my cousin, who sat silently on the sideline opening box after box of the same onesie 3 piece outfit ready to burst with child and anguish.
I wondered why. Why would anyone have children if this is what birth and parenting reflected? Why would we celebrate life and womanhood in such a perverted and dogmatic way? Why did having children seem to strip these women of their power? And why wasn't the booze taking away the pain or at least speeding up the show?
It would be several years later that I found myself seeking the answers to these grand wonderments but let me tell you, this is a story about birth that you won't hear at most baby showers and it is one that will leave you in awe of your own beauty, strength, and vagina. So please join me in this happy birthing story - it's about a woman (that's me) who found her truth between contractions and discovered what the hell love really is and isn't through birthing two incredible beings.
I set to get drunk quick and that's when the stories began. "Look honey, your boobs will never be the same after you breastfeed this kid. If I don't wear a bra it's like there are two pancakes hanging off my chest." Not to mention, "I was in labor for 36 hours until I screamed to the Doctor to get this thing out of me and he got out the vacuum thingy to suck his huge head through ..." There wasn't enough alcohol to make this a party and I felt terrible for my cousin, who sat silently on the sideline opening box after box of the same onesie 3 piece outfit ready to burst with child and anguish.
I wondered why. Why would anyone have children if this is what birth and parenting reflected? Why would we celebrate life and womanhood in such a perverted and dogmatic way? Why did having children seem to strip these women of their power? And why wasn't the booze taking away the pain or at least speeding up the show?
It would be several years later that I found myself seeking the answers to these grand wonderments but let me tell you, this is a story about birth that you won't hear at most baby showers and it is one that will leave you in awe of your own beauty, strength, and vagina. So please join me in this happy birthing story - it's about a woman (that's me) who found her truth between contractions and discovered what the hell love really is and isn't through birthing two incredible beings.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
