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.

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.