Bloody Sunrise, Bloody Moon, Bloody Hell.

Five ticks past 11 at night. I’m liable to argue with myself about how to roll out of the bed when the alarm sounds and the neighbor’s rooster crows a calling response in the morning. I greet the day, a habitual grudge, as the morning is forever coming too soon. A whispered, “Fffffucking hell” upon waking, or a happy thought for the two minutes I still have to rest until the alarm goes off again. Five minutes before 7 is as early as I have been able to force myself to wake.

Monday through Friday after the last minute moment of rest is caught, I fling my legs off my bed in groggy and immediate search for the pants and t shirt I wore the day before and the day before that. I allow myself 35 minutes exactly to greet, breakfast, and don the children in their outfits. Quickly weaving out of outfit arguments, rhythmically encouraging swift cereal spooning, eschewing the notion that socks should match, brushing a quick tooth, inevitably yanking a hair too hard mid sweep. Tears. Sighs. Kisses. 7:40. Public school starts too early.

There is supposed to be a blood moon tonight, and there likely is somewhere. Here there is only an orange glow casting off some low clouds to northeast. Can’t see no blood moon. Only stars I’m seeing is the glowing lights on the tops of the cell phone towers across the railroad tracks up Lee Street. Can’t see nothing. It’s quiet out, though.

blood moon

Blood Moon. AKA Total Lunar Eclipse. Somewhere Else. Not currently visible to me. 

The Room Ripe for Injury

Spring is in the air. Injury season is upon us, Fern is apparently allergic to injury season. Yesterday, while on a jaunt around the house, chasing her big sister, she got her finger slammed in the door. It rose up big and purple. I was not here at the time, the children were with their (unnamed) babysitter. Finger is not broken….And today, something that was likely bound to happen, happened due to the impossible positioning of the ceiling fan in the girls room. There is no way to position their bunk bed in the room so that the top bunk is far enough away from the ceiling fan. Neither of them sleep on the top bunk, I’ve kept Fern in her crib because of this accursed wind blower. However, the girls do take delight with wrestling and coloring the wall, playing on the top bunk. Certainly, why hell, of course I’ve warned them hundreds of times about the dangers of the top bunk bed. They could fall. They could get chopped in the head by the ceiling fan. They could come crashing through the frame and get shards of busted wood shoved into their kneecaps. Nothing seems to stop them. Fern actually pushed Ollie off the top bunk this week. Luckily the brilliantly close positioning of the door frame (the damn room as 4 doors, 3 of which are exit points) broke her fall and she only screamed about her hit head and her mean little sister for a little bit. But anyways. Today the inevitable happened. While choosing a path of not valuing sage advice, she was on the top bunk this morning, playing with the speed chain dangling temptingly from the ceiling fan and CHOP. Big LOUD horrified yell. The ambulance warning thump of Ollie’s feet running to my room. I was on it already. I walked in to see Fern, arms outstretched, bleeding from her forehead. “Oh, Lord,” I thought as I reached up and cradled her, then grabbing a towel to stop the blood. The cut doesn’t appear to need stitches. It’s half a pinky fingernail long, and will come together with a butterfly bandage. She didn’t cry long. I’m watching her for signs of a concussion. Guessing we will likely have to skip the AMPFEST at the bookstore. I imagine her head is hurting and loud noises won’t do much to soothe the brain. Poor Poopie-Pants.

Raffle Raffle Frozen Raffle

Tonight was family fun night at Fern’s preschool. There were dollar slices of pizza, free drinks, a baked goods sale, and dollar raffle tickets you could buy and drop into varying prize buckets with hopes of having your name drawn and winning. We bought several tickets, dropping most into the bucket for free passes for Tweetsie Railroad (a $156 value), quite a few in the “Frozen” gift basket bucket which held the movie, dress up clothes, books and other memorabilia, and some here and there in other baskets that caught the girl’s attention. There were about 50 prizes in all to be raffled away. With the anticipation of each name drawn and each prize given away, Ollie danced and hopped with excitement. Fern, too little to care about the prizes, was more into hugging on Mrs. ‘Silla at the baked goods table , glowing at the novelty of seeing her preschool teacher at night. One by one, names were drawn and called, prizes collected. We didn’t win the gift certificates to the restaurants on Walker Ave. We didn’t win the collection of art supplies. We didn’t win the summer fun basket. We held high hopes for the Tweetsie Railroad tickets, but alas, we didn’t win that, either. Ollie was sure we would win the Frozen basket. “Mama! I just KNOW we are going to win the Frozen basket! I really want that DRRRESS!!” she exclaimed numerous times happily jumping in my face. She held her hands together as they spun the basket that held the tickets around and around. She stood stock still as the lady pulled out the lime green ticket that held the Frozen movie gift basket’s fate. There was a slight pause as the lady squinted to read the name written on the ticket. Ollie raised both her hands up high in the moment of hope. And then collapsed in utter defeat when the name that was read was not ours…. As soon as we walked out the door of the school’s fellowship hall, nearing 8 o’clock, both girls fell into inconsolable distraught. Fern hollered, squealed, flounced, “I wanna hug Mrs. Sillaaaaaaa, I WANNA HUG MRS. SILLAAAAAAA!” I’ve never seen Ollie so disappointed in my life. Ever. Over and over and over through her high pitched cries that lost breath, “I wanted to win the Frozen baaaaasket! AAAAAaaaahuhuuuuhuuh! I wanted to win it! Mooooommmmmmy! It was so special to meeeeeeee!” …It was a long long 8 minute drive back to our house. The red stoplights mocked me. The woeful wails of my children widened my eyes to full circles, I am sure, as I directed our vehicle over the potholed roads back to our house. At some point I began singing Whitney Houston’s “The Greatest Love of All”. “I believe the children are our future, teach them well and let them lead the way, show them all the beauty they possess insiiiiiide, give them a sense of pride, to make it easier…” The singing did not help much to stop the girls howling, but it unquestionably calmed my nerves that were unraveling from the din of their bawling. So grevious in their broken hearts, I undressed them, put them in their nightgowns, held one each knee, still singing til they went silent, “…And if, by chance, that special place that you’ve been dreaming of leads you to a lonely place, find your strength in love.”


Bitters: A Dying Self/Anger Blaming.

I’ve been mad at the world lately.  I can’t focus on any sort of long term functionality. I can not keep it together and I always feel like I am falling apart.  

I’ve had to let a big part of my self die over the past years.  

I’ve been angry about how my kid’s daddy up and left, drunk in the middle of the night with a plan to call home crying about how he’d fucked up and for me to please take him back again. When he’d left with another woman. Again. Hell naw, son.

 I couldn’t take him back (again). The act would have been a self defeating blow.  And, oh! OH! What a tough two years it has been since. Who the hell am I now? 

Eric left me with a four year old and a four month old. Girls.  Beautiful loving girls. 

He left with another woman he’d knocked up when we were splitsville but still involved. You know. Baby daddy shit. 

She had her baby in January. And he didn’t see the baby.  She came knocking on our door, 90 miles away in February.  

I gave them room.  He met the baby. Another girl.   

He’d said. He’d promised. He wanted to stay with me.  

And, by God. I was willing to try.  I was willing to reach.  One more deep down try. 

I went for a walk with Ollie.  We left Fern with him. We came back. The woman and the baby were gone. Eric was there with Fern.

I felt some sense of closure. Some sense of peace.  We went and ate Mexican food.  

We put the girls to bed. We watched television together. I went to bed.  

He left in the middle of the morning.  Eight beers deep, left on the TV table.  

It was Valentine’s Day when I woke up with my four year old and my four month old.  Ollie came into my room. Asked, “Where’s Daddy?”  

I said, “Is he gone?”

“Yes,” she said. In her four year old’s voice.  

After a day of being gone her Daddy called and called begging for me to come and get him.  I couldn’t . I just couldn’t.  And I shouldn’t have.  And I didn’t.

And ever since then, many days I am either mad. Or sad. Or solitary. Or tired. And down. Little motivation. I struggle to keep up the patience. Or the laundry.  And the dishes.  The homework. The loving attention.  The baths.  Nutrition?  The bills. Friendships? Music?  Exercise? Fuck! Work! All this other stuff!?! Some days I can’t accomplish anything what with the weight of all I feel I have to accomplish at hand.  

I can’t concentrate on anything but loathing life when the house gets too out of hand in the untidy department.  But if I were to spend everyday picking up after my girls, there would never be time for anything else, so the house does get messy. And it does effect my mood.  I HATE my home being messy.  It brings me loooooooowwwww dowwwwwwn.

I’m not rich. I don’t have a maid. So there’s not much I can do about it except do the best I can. And, the best I can fluctuates to sundry degrees great and small.

Thinking about it now. If I did have a maid, she’d have to have an accent. Preferably, an English one. Because what could be more cheery than that?  

All this talk of anger.  Least I am aware. And I’m trying to let it go. 



Hesitating Suzanne

Here’s a song i’m singing in my head as I work on cleaning the house up when I’m not distracted by something else.  Like the guitar. Or the children and their hunger. Their thirst. Their arguing with one another.  The cries. The stopped up kitchen sink. The cats and their meowing.  The call of the computer. The thought of something more. 

Here’s the song:

I’m not a fan (I’m not a fan)

Of Suzanne (why’s that man?)

I think she can

do better

than she does. (i hope she does)

I think Suzanne (i think Suzanne)

Should get a plan (get a plan)

Get herself together while she can (yes ma’am)

I ain’t a fan (ain’t a fan)

of Suzanne (c’mon man)

she don’t do anything that

she’s dreamed she can (aww man)

Come on Suzanne (Suzanne)

I think you can (Suzanne)

Don’t think you can’t

Then you won’t

and you never will. (and you never will)

The Day of Reflective Goals & Paper Notebooks

I came in from sitting on the porch and thought, “I don’t ever write anything down anymore.”

My younger self came supplied with notebook and nice pens, ever ready in the bag of dreams, to whip out and.  I haven’t kept a serious notebook now in, what?  3 or 4 years.  I found myself immediately blaming the computer for making me a slave to it, and thinking the only suitable format for writing was kibbling on it’s square letters and symbols. 

But it’s not the computer’s fault I don’t write. It’s my own fault.  Or. It’s circumstances.  You know.  

I wish there were some form of magic where I could just say snap and everything be way way easier.  It’s nine o’clock and I am exhausted.  I want to write more.  

I’m challenging myself to write something. Anything for the next 5 days.  I am always so long winded I intimidate myself.  But. I need to practice 30 minute writing spells for the next five days to complete a goal for myself. I’m not really a goal maker, so this is a big deal. Because you’re supposed to set goals, right?  

I remember being taught that in elementary school, but it didn’t translate to real life for me.  

I need to start making goals and lists. Crossing things off gives you a buzz, right? Sure. I’ll believe that.  

But I’ll need a notebook for the lists and goals.  I need to start writing more. With a pen.  Like I did in my previous life. 

Before children and struggle.  

Anyways. That’s all for the night. 


Go the Chirp to Sleep

As I type this, little Fern is in the crib screaming a fit because she was given water to drink at bedtime instead of juice. It’s actually way past bedtime. A whole hour past eight o’clock.

I am tired and all I want the girls to do is go to sleep. I want to go to sleep. Sometimes I put the girls to bed early when I find I am at my wit’s end for the day. Sometimes they go to bed at 7:30.  Last night, I put them to bed at 6:30, because I could not cope with them dawdling over the food they’d been starving out loud for since 4 in the afternoon. I was ready pull my hair out and bang my head on the wall.  Sometimes the frustrations of single mommy land overwhelm and overtake me. Like yesterday.

They’d seen me crying that afternoon and were good little girls to just conk out like they did. They must have been tired, to sleep so quickly at that early hour.

I went to my first PTA school get together this evening. Ollie was performing in her kindergarten’s musical skit. She was a cat.

Before the meeting, the children were both giving neon signals that they needed a nap, especially Ollie. When your 6 year old bawls for half an hour because the pants you wanted her to try on are too tight, a good nap is in order.

When your two year old breaks into tears and wants to “pick you up”, well, there’s a nap needed there, too.

But I couldn’t get either one of them to rest. They were both too busy crying.

When they cry, I really sometimes feel like a dragon about to burn the house down and stab a forked tail over and over into the plaster wall.

There is crying every day. I’m assuming this is normal for children, siblings.

I am the only one who hears it. I am the only one that gets cried at. Gets cried on. Gets temper tantrumed upon. Is the cause of the cries. Is the healer of the cries. Is the wipers of the cries.

I am the bearer of the cries. And crying is the worst noise in the world. Sometimes I scream that last part, when I’ve had enough.

Fern is no longer screaming. She did not get juice and she gave up after a good war of wits. She’s a determined young thing, stubborn as a tick.

The crying started again soon after we’d arrived home after the PTA meeting. Worn out and frayed as I’ve been feeling of late, the first complaints of my children were met with the declaration of bedtime.

Whines of disagreement cut short.


I tried to make it special, at least. I tucked them in and made houses out of their beds. Gave Fern’s crib a blanket roof. Hung blankets to cover the sides of Ollie’s bunk bed. Gave kisses.

Night night. Sleep tight. Don’t let the bed bugs bite. Sweet dreams, I love you.

Love you too. Their voices are sugar.

Lights out. Deep breath sighed, eyes closed in brief meditation, standing outside their door.

“Mama, I want a glass of waterrrr.”

GAAAAHHHH! I JUST WANT THEM TO GO TO SLEEP! When I turn out the lights, I want them to just shut off their little request system, close their eyes and leave me be until the morning. Honestly. Just go to sleep! GO!!! TO SLEEP!!!!

I’m typing loudly on the keyboard for emphasis.

I get the water. I take it back. Fern has crawled out of her bed house into Ollie’s bed house. I pull her out. I put her back in her bed. I cover her up. I tell her to stay in her bed. I do not rebuild her blanket house.

A few minutes later, “Mommy, Fern’s in my bed.”

Back into the room. Fern extraction and crib replacement occur. A slight slap on the leg to tell her to stay in her bed.

It was not a hard spank. It was hardly a spank at all. But it brought the cry. And oh, I dislike the cry, but this one was short. No legs were stinging, no babies harmed in this disciplining.

A few minutes later. All the lights in the house turned off except for in my room. “Mama, Fern’s in my bed.”

I don’t say anything. I don’t care anymore. I just want them to fall asleep.

“Mama, Fern’s in my bed.” Again, I say nothing. Do nothing. I just want them to go. to. sleep.

“Mama, Fern’s taking off her diaper.”

hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh (this is a long loud sigh)

I go into the children’s bedroom and, yes. Fern is on her sister’s bed with her diaper half off. She has her pacifier in her mouth and she says she has to pee pee.

Her diaper is dry so I believe her, and without a quip we go into the bathroom to sit on her potty.

“Can I come, too?” Ollie has such a sweet innocent voice.

Yes. We all go into the bathroom. Fern sits on her potty. I sit on the big potty. Ollie pulls up the step stool, and we sit in a triangle formation, in loving support of Fern trying to use the potty.

Ollie says, “Tell a story, Mommy!”

So this is the story I told….

Once upon a time there were three crickets. A mama cricket, a sister cricket, and a little baby cricket.

And one night after a long long day, the mama cricket was very tired, and all she wanted was for her little crickets to close their eyes, put their heads on their pillows, and snuggle up under their fuzzy blankets and fall asleep.

After a good meal of corn chowder, homemade bread and fresh milk, Mama cricket felt sure that her babies would soon fall fast asleep.

She tucked them into their beds, and kissed them upon their heads, and played them a night night lullaby, the kind that crickets are known for.

Mama cricket closed the door to her children’s bedroom and went around the house, blowing out the candles, and turning the locks in the door. She put on her old purple and blue nightgown and yawned a very slow and beautiful yawn.

She lit the lamp by her bedside, crawled under her big brown blanket, and opened her book to begin reading.

And then she heard it. Chirp. Chirp, chirp. Chirp, chirp, chirp, chirp chirp. Chirp Chirp! Chripchirpchirpchirpchirrp!

Mama cricket closed her eyes and let her head hit with a defeated little bump against the bedframe. She sighed. She whooped off the covers, slung her legs over the side of the bed, lit a candle, and shuffled down the hallway to the bedroom of her children.

The chirping got louder the closer she got, and she knocked three times before entering.

When she entered the room she found that baby cricket had crawled into sister cricket’s bed, and they were both giggling and chirping and kicking their legs in the air in a fancy glee, an excitement in the air.

Mama cricket, tired, didn’t say a word. She picked Baby cricket up, put her back in her crib, covered her up, and gave a little sigh.  She turned and tucked Sister cricket back under the blankets and said rather quietly, “I am very tired. I want to go to sleep.  Please go to sleep. ”

Sleepily, Mama cricket walked back down the hall to her bedroom, settled down under the covers, put the closed book on the nightstand, blew out the lamp, and closed her eyes to go to sleep.

She heard it again. The chirping.  The chirping of her children. Chirp, chirp, chirping so happy and loud. CHIRP CHIRP CHIRPING! CHIRP CHIRP CHIRP!

Make it stop, Mama cricket thought.

The chirping did not stop. So Mama cricket, lit the lamp, to light the candle, pushed her covers back, rolled out of bed and down the hall, where the chirping was even louder and more hearty.

Mama cricket knocked on the door of her children’s bedroom again three times.  Much, much, louder this time.

This time she found Sister cricket had crawled in bed with Baby cricket, and they were making silly cricket faces and singing silly cricket songs.

Mama cricket was not happy. Mama cricket was tired and her patience was as small as a loaf crumb. Mama cricket was firm, her tone serious. “It is time for bed.  I am VERY VERY TIRED and I need YOU CRICKETS to cut out ALL THE CHIRPING and GO to SLEEP!!  If you stay up too late, you will miss the snow that will be here in the morning. By the time you wake the sun will be high in the sky and all the good snow will have melted.  So get some sleep! You don’t want to miss the snow, do you?”

Sister cricket took an excited breath, “SSNOOOW? EEEEEE!!!”

“Yes, snow” Mama cricket confirmed.  “So get some sleep now. Go to sleep.”

Everyone tucked in and quiet, satisfied, Mama cricket walked back down the hall to her bedroom where she promptly flopped on her comfy mattress, covered her head with her pillow and went fast asleep.

Mama cricket slept so soundly that she did not hear the whispered, and occasionally not so whispered chirps of her children as they slunked under the covers of Sister’s bed and spoke of all the wonderful things they would do when it snowed.

Sister cricket said, “Baby cricket, when it snow in the morning we can go sledding on Turtle Hill! And we can build snowmen, and dress them up!”

“I want to build snowman!” Baby chimed in.

“And, Baby Cricket! We can make a whole army of snow angels! And we can make jewelry for them out of pine cones and branches and rocks!”

“And we can paint them!” Baby cricket added.

“Paint them? YES! We can paint them PINK! And purple!”

“And red!” Baby chirped way too loudly.

“And blue, and yellow, ” Sister continued. “And, Baby!  We can make snow igloos! Do you know what snow igloos are, Baby?”

“What’s that?” Baby cricket wondered.

“A snow igloo is a house made out of snow! And when it snows we can build one! And we can make a snow fort, and snowballs! And Mama can make snow cream! And we can help! And we can make a snow tunnel! And a snow slide!  BABY! I’m so excited it’s going to SNOW!!!!”

Baby cricket chirped and chirped a singsong, “Snow! Snow! Snow!” and soon Sister joined her in a long song of excitement for the morning snow.

Mama cricket did not hear her baby crickets as they chirped excited about the oncoming snow late into the night and into the dark hours of the morning.  She slept deeply and soundly and for a long long time that night.

When she awoke the next morning and looked at the clock it was mid-morning, almost 11 o’clock!  She had not heard, and still had not heard a peep from her children all morning. Very odd, she thought.  You see, her cricket children were usually fresh and bouncing out of the beds by 7 o’clock at the latest! Mama cricket did not remember when the last time she’d slept so late into the morning.

Curious, Mama cricket donned her slippers and slipped down the hallway, where she still did not hear one single chirp coming from her children’s bedroom.

She did not knock.  She creaked the door open very very slowly, and stuck her head in.

She saw Sister cricket and Baby cricket curled up and snoring softly next to one another on the bed, and she smiled and went into the kitchen to make herself some toast and tea.

She was just spreading some delicious marmalade on her toast when Sister cricket came into the kitchen rubbing her eyes, trying to break the spell of an all night awake.

“Good morning,” Mama cricket welcomed her cricket daughter. “You slept late!”

“What time is it?” Sister asked.

“Quarter past eleven, dear!”

With a desperate realization, Sister loudly drew in her breath and rushed to the window to see the sun high in the sky and the little bit of snow that had fallen during the night melting into puddles and mud. Sister cricket began to cry because she’d missed the chance to play in the snow.   So loud and true was her let down disappointment, that she woke Baby cricket, who then, too began to cry. Because sister was crying.  When Baby cricket found out that the reason Sister was crying was because the snow was mostly melted, the crying from the two sisters became an extended wail of sad sad chirps.

Mama cricket, sensing an opportunity for a lesson told them, “I told you to go to sleep and get a good night’s rest so you would not miss the snow! Perhaps next time you should listen!”

This did not make the cricket children feel any better, and they sulked through their late breakfast.  They were cross crickets for much of the day, too crabby for much fun of any sort, though Mama cricket tried to bring their spirits up by playing games and reading books with them.  They were just too tired and out of sorts, and too sad that they had missed the snow to make much good of the day.

Sister and Baby cricket went to bed early that night. And easily, too. “Night night. Sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.  Sweet Dreams. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

All Mama cricket had to do was kiss their foreheads and tuck them into bed, blow out the candle and close the door. She could already hear their soft sweet snores.

She padded up the hallway to her bedroom, knowing that tomorrow  when her children awoke, they would be the happiest crickets they could be.

The night was still and silent. The morning took it’s time to come around.

Sister woke early the next morning, right as the sun was peeking in through the window beside her bed.  She rubbed her eyes and stretched and yawned. She sat in her bed a moment, letting herself slowly blossom this new day. She looked out the window, and….

She looked out the window and, “SNOOOOOOOOOOOOOW! SNOOOOOOW! Baby! Baby! Wake up! SNOOOOOOW!”

Baby cricket shot up like a bolt from her crib and questioned, “SNOW? SNOW?” and looked out the window where Sister was jumping and pointing.

The cold night had brought with it a blanket of snow that covered the ground with a deep precision.  Not one stalk of long grass rose above the crest of the new fallen snow. There was untouched snow as far as the eye could see, and it was a wonderfully beautiful scene.

Hearing the excited chirps of Sister and Baby, Mama cricket put on her robe and slippers and smiled as she walked down the hall to where the commotion of chirping was coming from.

Upon seeing their Mama enter the room, Sister and Baby cricket ran to hug her saying, “Mama! It SNOWED! MAMA! IT SNOWED!! Can we go out and play in it? Please? PLEASE?”

After a quick breakfast of oatmeal, Mama cricket dressed Sister cricket and Baby cricket in many layers of their warmest clothes, tied their hats and boots, stuffed them into their gloves, wrapped them in scarves and sent them out to play in the snowy snowy day.

Sister and Baby made a snowman. And then a snow woman.  Soon their cricket and bug friends were all out playing in the snow, too!  There were snow bears and snow rabbits being made.The meadow was turning into a garden of snow creatures!  Soon everyone turned their attention to Turtle Hill and Sister and Baby cricket joined their friends to go sledding down the long slope over and over again.

Sister and Baby cricket did not want to miss anything on this snow day and when Mama cricket called them for lunch they told her they weren’t hungry, and pleaded with her to let them stay outside.

Mama cricket smiled, consented, and went in to curl up on the couch by the fire to read her book, nap, and eat cheese sandwiches.

Sister and Baby cricket ran to make snow angels with their friends. They made a whole flock of angels in the snow, and decorated a few with some sticks and rocks.

Mid-afternoon brought out some of the older bug children, and some bug parents, and the whole bug neighborhood built ice forts and igloos.  Sister and Baby helped roll snowballs for the fort they were building with the Catipillar children, and soon there were snowballs and laughter flying in all directions on the meadow.

It was almost time for the sun to begin setting when Mama cricket called Sister and Baby into the house. She greeted them with cups of hot cocoa and helped them hang their wet clothes by the door.

Mama cricket dressed her children in the winter pajamas she had warmed by the fire and sat the children down at the dinner table for a hot filling bowl of dumplings, and she listened to the stories of the day that her children told.

After dinner Mama cricket sat the children in her lap to read a book, and then she carried them one by one and laid them in their beds.  “I’m glad that you’ve both had a long fun day.  You must be worn out, get a good night’s sleep, okay?”


“Night night. Sleep tight. Don’t let the bed bugs bite. Sweet dreams, I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Mama cricket kissed her children on their foreheads and made sure that they were tucked good into bed, blew out the candle and opened the door to go to bed herself when Sister spoke sleepily. “Mama?”


“That was the best snow day ever.” Sister rolled over onto her side and brought the covers over her ears.

“I’m glad you had a good time, dear. Night night.”

“Night, night.”

And with that, Mama cricket made her way to bed, curled up under her brown blanket, and slept as soundly as a Mama whose children are fast asleep can.

The End.


Yes. That’s the story I made up as we sat in a triangle formation waiting for Fern to poop in the potty.

And she did poop! Fern pooped! In the potty!

Annnnnnd all over the back of her nightgown. I was so involved in story time, that I did not notice her bottom cheeks were rested squarely upon the back of her gown.

Poop all over the gown.

But not as important (or as exciting) as the poop in the potty!

Got this Mama chirping, ya’ll.

…Night night.

Seriously, Dude. Blues & Cupcakes.

I’m in the new house now in Greensboro. The house is finally settled. We’ve been here since September, mostly. I’ve been drowning in a great depression for a month now, a rather heavy one. I’d like to think I’ll be able to shake it off, but I haven’t been able.

The year always starts with a bang. A new place to start counting from, now’s the perfect time to do what you’ve been putting off, let’s get skinny again!

I’ve gotten fat this past month and a half of 2014. I’ve stuffed my face with pretzels dipped in sour cream, in sweetened condensed milk. I’ve squirted Hershey’s chocolate syrup into the carton of strawberry ice cream and finished off a quarter size box of Breyers. I’ve eaten my children’s leftovers, used two bags of oatmeal at breakfast, and sprinkled lots and lots of salt on my single serving microwave popcorn. I’ve drank orange soda and milk and juice straight out of the bottle and put it back in the fridge. I went out for a burger and fries at Hops Burger Bar and had the most tasty burgers I have ever tasted in my life (get The Big Truffle if its on special), three days in a row. I’ve eaten my children’s candy. Cookies have been made and I have been the monster.

I shower hardly ever. I cut all my hair off. I am slowly slinking into being a blob on the couch til I’m dead.

Who am I kidding, I’ve been depressed for a while. It’s easy to say it when you just say it instead of putting it off.

I’m depressed! Okay then? Yes. Yes you are. Depressed.

Reason’s I’ve been depressed:
1. Children’s father is a nightmare to deal with. I’ll keep that explanation short and simple for now. No details. Just the thought of a tangent makes me scour. GRRR SERIOUSLY, DUDE.  I see now why some mothers opt their children’s fathers out of their lives. And I don’t want to do it. But I am convinced you are a psychopath.  And I’m not using that word to be funny. SERIOUSLY, DUDE. Look up the definition and deny deny deny who you are some more

(oookay)(back to the lissst)

2. General lack of healthiness. Can’t find jeans that fit right.

3 Can’t seem to wake up at 6 a.m., which for some reason, I have equated waking at that time to achieving happiness.

4. There is no music going on in my life. Unless you count me singing to The Little Mermaid Soundtrack in the car and my daughter shushing me.

5. I don’t see my friends as much as I thought I would after I moved back. I fully accept some blame for that. Life happens, like a nail gun on repeat.

6. This house I’m renting is okay but the oven and the tub and the kitchen sink suck.

7. I haven’t been writing, and writing always helps. Always helps.

8. Children are difficult to take care of day in and day out and day in and day out and day in and day out and day in and day out and day in and day out. It’s one of the joys of single motherhood.

Yeahhhhhhhdepression. So what now?

I dunno. There’s this blog post I guess, which is something good come of it. I’m writing. #winning


Somebody give me a fucking cupcake.

SERIOUSLY. Need cupcakes. Gourmet with neat flavors.


Maybe I should make my own cupcakes and apply that thought to life.  Make my own way, and do the things I need to do to get myself out of this got-dog depression. I started this blog saying I was going to get up at 6 a.m. the following day, and I never did. Maybe tomorrow I will.

Seriously doubt it.  Maybe. I’m depressed.  And it’s supposed to snow. Maybe I will start writing in this website I paid for more, though. Maybe. Hopefully.  Writing helps.

So do snacks. Snacking my way through the depression. Gotta stop doing that, too. But not tonight.

Wash Your Feet

I’m sitting on the floor right outside the bathroom door as my girls take a bath. A few feet, far enough away to capture a moment to myself. They are having a rare quiet, calm moment. They must be tired. There are half minute bouts of silence, a pause in their singing voices, the waving of the water only audible.

Whenever I leave them to play by themselves for a moment in the bath, the floor is a splash. I wonder which toy that was that hit the floor? A hollow hard bounce. Perhaps it was a boat cup.

boat cup



“Can we have some more water?”


I took the moment to wash them. They smell of coconuts and apples. Sometimes the children are cooperative with their washing, some nights it is a struggle. Tonight it was a dumping water on the head kind of yelly wash as Fern did not wish a traditional and relaxing dip of the head in water. Ollie wished to briefly mock her for my reaction:  a stern stare and the statement of her name.

They are both tired. And I’m sitting down, the same. (drop head, sigh.) Oh.



“Will you wash my feet?”


“Will you wash my feet?”

Ollie loves to have her feet washed. She slouches in the water, smiles and giggles and sings songs about stinky feet, stinky feet. Fern, not stubborn just now, let me wash her feet, too.  She babbles a whisper, she is a breath of sleepiness now.

“Mama? Everybody has feet right?”

“Well, no. Not everybody has feet.”

“Why not?”

There was a brief explanation of prosthesis, and a genuine concern for the footless.  Therein discovered, an appreciation of the limbs.

Some people don’t have feet, and I am lucky to only have been chased out of time.

The girls are screaming now and and whining breezes, too loud for my corner. The short peace of bath is over.

I’m going to go mop them up.

Brush them up. Dress them up.

Give a sip of water. Bookend them.

Kiss their jolly heads, lay them down.

A Kingdom Cover for Dreamers and Believers

I know I keep telling ya’ll I’m a songwriter, this thing that I have figured out about myself.  But I haven’t supplied  much proof beyond links to a few songs.  A few songs does not a songwriter make. Bear with me as I get my ideas into action, and you will have the bread of my soul laid before you as proof. Grab a chair, stay a spell.  Believers and Dreamers go hand in hand.

When my youngest nibblet, Fern was born, I bore the idea of  recording my songs as videos and uploading them to the YouTube.  Stall as I may, that has never happened.  I did make a few videos, and I posted a couple to Facebook, but the sharing never crossed over into the YouTube channel, as I did not fjord that stream.

Mostly, I found that the making of the video made me nervous. Cameras make me squeem and make me lose focus. Couple that sentiment with the gallop of children wearing requests on their tongues like thirsty donkeys, interruptions during the video taping processess were abundant.  There are frequent short takes where either I have deemed myself too mistaken to press on, or I am competing babies crawling over my shoulders, into my lap, and emitting noises that are the funniest in the world, apparently. ( I tried to upload a segment of the silliness, but had technical difficulties. )

Last night, I had a revelation.

I decided to record  the Lucinda Williams cover I have recently learned how to play.  I don’t know how to play many cover songs.

I started to teach myself how to play guitar when I was 23. I taught myself not by learning chords and other people’s songs, but by writing songs myself.  I played the guitar strings with one finger, that I would move to hit and make the right note.  Gradually that became me playing with two fingers. When someone informed me of a way to cheat,   I began playing with three fingers and chord formations that made veteran guitar players have to pause and use their musical theories to figure out what note it was that  I was strumming. I certainly didn’t know, only that it sounded like it worked. I wrote perhaps twenty or more songs using my simplified chords.

Jon Flanary taught me how to play “Dead Flowers” by The Rolling Stones with my cheating chords. That must have been when I was 27,  four years after I’d started playing and building up my song arsenal. A couple years after that I learned how to play “Greenville” by Lucinda Williams using those same substandard chord formations.

Now I play just regular old chords, and I know their names, as I’ve picked them up over the years. I still don’t know how to play a good “B” without a capo, though.  I have bones missing from my wrist that make playing a B-chord a curse worthy task.

The revelation is this. When I decided to record this cover of this Lucinda Williams song last night, after a few rounds of singing a few bars and making excuses to start over, I stopped.

I looked at myself in the screen of my computer, saw myself staring right back at me, and I told myself it was time to get down to business.  I told myself to make a change, and to stop being so dag on aware of the camera. Since I heard that a camera steals a little piece of your soul every time it takes your picture, I’ve been a hesitant participant of the lens.  I make awkward faces, I drop my eyes.  I make a noise that mumbles, “iiiidohwannaahh”.

This all changed last night, with a quick breath.  I hit the record button, sang and played without hitch, conquered the red eye.

Proudly, without procrastination, I decided to come share the video on this site, but questioned what sense it made for a person claiming to be a songwriter to have their first musical entry of their site be a cover song. While questioning the point, I ended up writing something entirely different about business school, staplers, and the moon gods.

Throughout the day I’ve considered the logic, and concluded that one reason it does makes sense to have my first foray into the video-blogosphere be a cover song is that everybody likes cover songs. They are safe, they are known. They are bridges that build a connection. They are sung in the hearts of many. They are interpreters of human connection.

I’ve explained myself well enough. You all are all hip.  This is one of three covers I can play. It’s “Learning How to Live”, by Lucinda Williams. Presented to you with real chords.  Sponsored by the Dell Inspiron.

That’s it for now. It’s bedtime in the kingdom.