Living La Vida Alpo

Leah's dream from Monday night, as told to her mother.

I dreamed that I was on the bus and I fell asleep and all of my friends got off the bus.  And when it was my turn to get off the bus I was still sleeping and I was bleeding.

points to a point under her ribcage, right where the Roman soldier shoved a spear into Jesus

And bleeding, and bleeding,

seriously, she's signing this like she's gushing.  How much blood does that girl think she has?!

and bleeding, and the bus driver and the bus aide saw and were surprised

*home alone face* Seriously need to cut that girl off TV.

and they didn't know what to do.  So they called mommy... my mom

oh, YOUR mom?  Thanks for the clarification.  And BTW? YOUR mom is deaf. Just so you know.

Yeah, they called my mom and she came and she saw me and the blood

oh, god, more gushing.  Make it stop.

and she was sad.  Then they called daddy

hey!  Howcome he's not YOUR daddy too, but just daddy?!

and he came and he saw me lying down and he was sad.  So they both took me to the grass, you know, where they bury people, dead people, and they dug and dug a hole and put me under the grass and put the grass back.  And then they went away.  And then I opened my eyes and I looked around.  I was surprised.  I opened the lid and I didn't know what happened.  Where was I? I was scared! 

YOU were scared? Try standing here and listening to your kid talk about this.  Aren't you supposed to be begging me for a pony and cotton candy instead of dreaming about your death?!

So I went to my mommy's house and I knocked on the door.  My mommy was sitting inside and she was sad.  She was crying.  When she opened the door, she looked at me and said, "But you're dead!"  I smiled and said, "No, I was teasing." 

Someday, this quasifeminist pseudoparenting is gonna blow up in my face.

"Need Daddy," grunts L'il Red this morning as she struggles to open a new bottle of apple juice.

"...What did you say?"

She ignores my raised eyebrows, grabbing our rubberized gripper thingy from the utensils drawer instead.  Yanks again at the top.

"Ugh.  Need Daddy. He's really strong," she says.

I grab the bottle of juice from her.

"We do NOT need Daddy. WATCH."

And no matter how hard I try, my lungs about to explode, my biceps whining, the damn cap will not come off.

"Daddy's arms are really strong," she says, pointing at her arms to illustrate for her stupid mother. "And he's really tall."

"Well, I'm really strong too," I say quickly.  I give up and grab our cap-gripper gadget.

She giggles. The audacity. "No, Daddy's strong.  And big and tall."

"Well," I say, groaning now.  "You know who's taller? Mommy.  You just ask Daddy.  Mommy's taller."

"No you're not!  Daddy's tall and big and strong!"

"No, I'm taller.  You go ask him."  The cap is slowly giving way.

"You're silly."

"No! ASK YOUR FATHER!  I'm taller!  Really, I am."

I hand her the cap in a flourish of triumph, waiting for her to celebrate with gratitude and to see whether she'll yield to the idea that her mother is, indeed, self-sufficient in some ways and therefore does NOT need a guy around.

"This cup is dirty," she says.

Eight years in a wink

Dear L'il Red,

Today you turned eight.  To you, that meant presents and parties and squeals and giggles.  To me, it meant another stake in the ground to mark how far we've come.

When I gave birth to you, I was a young, naive mother who didn't know how to get you to put your damn mouth on my goddamn teat, much less parent you.  And somehow, with the help of a really incredible daddy and a pretty cool family, you've become this rambunctious young lady of whom I couldn't be more proud. 

Yes, even when you're throwing a sobbing fit in the middle of the parking lot on the way to your birthday dinner, and yes, even when you demand, just before bedtime, that I sing happy birthday again, and again so that the dog can see it.  (Because the dog -- the DOG!!! -- was clearly upset at having been excluded, and he proceeded to show us his discontent by dragging his ass across the carpet while eyeing us.)  Yes, even then.

And when I told you today, for the seventeenth time this week, that I won't give you a freakin' baby sister, you pouted and said, "FINE!  Daddy will marry someone and give me one!" 

And darling, that's just fine.  Because no matter how many other cute babies there are in the world, you'll always be mine, all mine.

I love you.  Happy Birthday.

Mom

A post about my vagina. But alas, no porn.

So I'm getting metal springs shoved up my hoo-ha.

Or, to be more appropriately circumspect about about it, later this week, I'll be taking advantage of a relatively new permanent birth control procedure wherein "an Essure trained doctor inserts small flexible micro-inserts™ through the body’s natural pathways (vagina, cervix, and uterus) and into [the] fallopian tubes."

Whatever.  The point is, I'm getting the female equivalent of a vasectomy -- the pathway between my baby-incubator and my little baby-making seeds will forever be sealed off.  And I couldn't be more thrilled.

When I went in for my consultation, they took one look at my birthdate on my chart and asked me over and over again: "You sure? I mean, really, really sure?  You do understand doing this means no more babies?"

Yes. 

"Ever."

Yes.

*eyebrow raise*

Yeeeeesss!  I do know how to read, y'know.  I may still be under 30, but my brain is still pretty darn tootin' good, thankyouveddymuch.

And while doing the preliminary exam they asked about sexual partners and somewhere in the conversation found out I was newly separated. Apparently that throws up red flags for medical personnel who deal with vaginas: "What if you meet someone else and..."

"Let me stop you right there.  I've thought about it, don't worry.  I've already done the childbirth and mama thing and I love my kid to pieces.  No problem there.  I'm SURE."

"Okay, well, we have to ask."

Uh-huh.  Because clearly, meeting a hot, potentially partner-worthy sperm carrier someday carries with it the inherent danger of suddenly changing a woman's life goals.

Seriously? 

Methinks the problem with THAT anxiety about my reproductive goals -- or any other woman's, for that matter -- is much bigger than my teeny weeny vageeny.

I didn't know Essure existed until a few months ago when I went in for my annual pap.  I've been on birth control pills for forever, and hate them with a passion.  Hormones, hello?! But I've also tried the patch and the shot, and while I like them, hate the sticky residue on my skin (not to mention the visual reminder every time I get naked), and for the shot, was horrible about remembering to go in every three months.

So when I told my midwife I didn't want any more babies, she asked if I'd considered "more permanent options."

"Like what?" 

No, no.  Let me revise.  I said, "like what?!"  With my chin up in the air, ready to do battle and everything.  Because when you're talking about doing stuff with my body, I get a little defensive.  It's fortress QueenAlpo over here, yo.

"Well, the IUD."

Oh lawdy.  So I regaled her with THAT old story about the time years ago when I tried to get an IUD -- first visit they didn't have any IUDs left and needed to order them.  Second visit, they forgot I was coming FOR the IUD and had to send an emergency courier out somewhere to get one 'cause they felt bad about me coming twice.  And then I don't remember, I got sick or I waited too long, so I left.  Third visit, they finally had the damn thing and showed it to me.  That thing is like the size of a quarter. Sheesh.  And all this time I'd been envisioning giant braces and brackets to shove up in me.

Then I get on the table and spread my legs, breath deeply, relax, that whole thing you're supposed to do when you have a strange woman coming at you with cold sterile tools and latex gloves.  I am a champ at that, let me tell you.  It is an acquired skill of which I am proud, yes, oh, yes.  Anybody can shove their hands up in me without me even wincing.

Wait, I promised no porn. Ahem. Never mind.

So anyway, lady's fiddling down there, and I feel lots of pressure, pushing, fingers prodding, and I'm pretty sure at one point I felt a *sproing*.

And then she looks at me and says hesitantly, "Um... you're too small."

And that's how I found out that it doesn't matter if you've shoved a gazillion babies out your wazoo or if you're six feet fall.  It IS possible for women to have small vaginas and small cervixes and small uteruses.  So I went home, me and my tiny uterus, a third time sans IUD and destined for a lifetime of freakin' pills.

Until a few months ago.  And once that midwife explained to me what Essure was, I screamed, "SIGN ME UP!"

Anyway, so....

So I know the topic of birth control, or more specifically, asking a woman what birth control she uses, is kindasorta taboo (why?!).  But I'll tell you right now... I am so looking forward to the next time someone asks me about babies, and I can say:

"Oh, I'm good, thanks.  I had them shove metal springs up my hoo-ha."

Bruised fruit

It's been close to a year since I came home one day and announced I was done with my marriage.  That day surprised me almost as much as it did him.

Although in the months of retrospection and introspection, I've convinced myself it wasn't that surprising at all.  The signs were all there, in that elusive, intuitive, only-I-can-see them way.

Still, I've been told over and over again that it's easier for me; I was the one that made out, the one who got to do what I wanted to do, take control of my destiny rather than deal with the ashes I left behind. 

And maybe that's true.  Who knows?  I'll never be able to try on his experience of this whole thing, like someone else's coat from last winter.  I can only try to imagine, try to push aside my own feelings to sympathize.  But when I do -- and believe me, I do -- I find myself screaming to put my own moth-eaten coat back on.

My marriage was to a wonderful, supportive, extremely dedicated husband and father.  That has always been true. 

So why did I leave?  Well, those reasons are between me and him, so if you're reading this looking for dirt, fuck you and your little doggie too.  Go find the dirt in your own life and thank your lucky stars that you own it and no one else does.

In a community as small as ours, though, it's hard not to feel the eyes on me.  It's hard not to feel defensive, to want to explain. 

And in some ways, that's a good thing.  If I can explain, after all, then the rightness of the new direction in my life solidifies for me.  Still, the marriage that is quickly fading into my past is a semantic puzzle for me.

People leave marriages because there was something wrong, don't they?  Someone cheated.  Someone lied.  Someone wasn't committed to making it work. 

But none of that happened with me and my ex.  We were the best of friends, volatile lovers, and among the things we liked doing together, our favorite was making a home for our daughter.

I'm still at the point where I deal in metaphors.  Maybe years down the road, I'll have a blunt, straightforward way to describe what happened, but for now, the best I can come up with is bruised fruit.

What was it like leaving my marriage?  Like deciding whether to eat bruised fruit. 

Holding in your hands a gorgeous, ripened peach.  Smells delicious, and you know anyone would be lucky to have such a treat in front of them.  But in washing it and preparing to eat it and claim it for your own, you drop it.  And when you pick it up, there's a bruise on one side. 

And that's what it was like for me, that choice.  Knowing I was lucky to have the marriage I did, but also knowing if I went ahead and ate the damn thing, I wouldn't be able to avoid that bruise.  I'd obsess over it, wait for the mealy consistency that comes from eating the bruised part, ignoring the ripe, juicy flesh of the rest of it.   

And knowing that no one deserved to have to share that peach with me, thinking I was savoring it when I wasn't.

Doing it my way.

Week one of being officially in my own apartment went by in one supersonic, sleep-deprived blur.  But I do remember a few things.  Allow me to impart my hard-earned single-woman wisdom:

1. When a spider marches nonchalantly across your chest on its way across the living room floor and you do nothing but stare at it, you know that a) you're officially home, and b) your lack of screamage says you're growing up all by yourself.
2. Hissing "THERE ARE PEOPLE DOWNSTAIRS!" at a seven-year-old does nothing to deter the screaming, the jumping, the running, and perhaps most of all, the brattitude.
3. People who live in third-floor apartments with a dog are either dumbtards or gluttons for glute workouts.  GUESS WHICH ONE I'M VOTING FOR?
4. Never ever move into your own place without at least one chair.  The toilet does not count.
5. When you're worried about paying the bills, or when your legs have fallen asleep or your back is aching from sitting on the floor, or you're hit all over again with the realization that for the first time in your life, you are truly, honest-to-goodness, on your own, take a look around, remember all the good people in your life that helped you get here, and...

shut the fuck up.  You're doing pretty damn good so far, lady.

Negligent mama - check.

I let Leah spend the night at a friend's house before her first day of school.  Exciting times!  Fun!  Whoo!

Leah's been on a gazillion trips this summer, which means she's earned her official Diploma of Bag Packing.  Usually I can just tell her to go pack a bag and we'll be out the door.  She came downstairs as I was getting ready to take her to her friend's, and I asked: "underwear?"

Check.

"Toothbrush?"

Check. 

"Shirt and shorts?"

Check.  Rolling eyes.

"Shoes?"

Check.  Impatient sigh.

"No, I mean shoes that TIE."

Check, accompanied by a look that says: MOM, YOU'RE BEING BOTARDED AND PARANOID AND DELUSIONAL.  AGAIN.  NOW STOP IT.

So we were all good and I dropped her off, no problem.  Off to work the next day, excited about meeting her bus and hearing all about her first day at her new school.  Sat in the parking lot with other jittery parents, and the big yellow bus rolls up, YAYYY!  There's my little girl!  There's my boy!  How was school?  Did you have fun?  Did you make new friends?   All that yuppie hipster soccer mom/dad crap.

Yeah right.  Not in MY life.

Leah hops off the bus, and my head jumps off my body.

LEAH RAIN, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU WEARING?!

I swear to you, internet elves, I did not know my daughter was capable of dressing like that.  Like THAT.  I can't even describe it, I can only point at the screen as I type -- THAT.  My daughter wore THAT. 

And I am such a horrible mother I could only stand there with a smile frozen on my face, absolutely, positively sure the other parents were giggling and pointing at the dumb young mama who didn't know better than to dress her daughter in more than three square inches of fabric.  Hello, junior high.

I've seen women -- grown women who make a living shaking their booty, that is -- wear hot pants before, but who knew shorts with a negative inseam existed?

I'd post a picture, but then I'd feel guilty and icky about posting it and I'd have to pixelate her entire body. 

Now, that's just asking for way too much future karmic debt.  Not to mention the therapist bills for her someday: "So tell me, why are you here today?"

"Oh, because I was raised by this crazy woman who blogged about my life peppered with the word 'fuck' and posted pictures of me that she had to censor.  But it's okay, she did it out of love."

That's right, future Leah.  I did it out of love.  Because when you go to school wearing THAT, love you is all I can do, my precious darling.

Child mutilation -- no further comment needed.

What I know about me

Okay, so my ovaries went into conniptions when I first read MoCo native Tori Amos' piece out of the UK, "What I Know About Men."  It's too easy when reading that thing to see the entire species of men as this ambiguous yet omnipotent force that shapes a woman's life. 

I decided long ago not to be a male-basher, and to be pretty overt about it -- masculinity is a societal pressure in and of itself, so holding a guy responsible for being... well, a guy?  Well, that logic lost its effectiveness pretty much the moment I hit puberty, no matter how many times people told me boys did this and wanted that.

The poor wankers, right?

But what keeps me coming back to Tori is this line: "I will never give myself over to anyone."

Well, fuck.  Add on "again" to the end of that sentence, and Tori pretty much just stole my mantra from the last seven months. 

It isn't quite that my ex-husband did anything wrong.  Rather, it's that I gave all of me to him, body and soul, quite literally, so that there was nothing left over for me.  It's a romantic idea, really, but quite miserable in the living. 

I am just now coming to fully realize, seeing now the changes in me (and, I hope he won't mind me saying, in him) what a huge burden that was for both of us.

More profound still, the realization that this is far from the first time I've done this to myself, laid my whole self in someone else's hands.  Like Tori, I've been assaulted, bullied, and abused.  And yes, the huge majority of the people who committed these violences against me happened to be men. 

But the worst criminal was a woman: me.  The men who laid their hands on me or told me lies about me only existed in my life for the briefest wink; I was the one that let those ghosts stare me in the face for years.

And, like Tori, I've found my daughter's presence in my life to not only be healing, but the incentive I needed to take ownership of myself.

So, yeah.  Sucks that Tori feels the need to author a piece that, at first glance, centers around the men in her life.  Or that I need to read it that way, anyway.

But in the end, we're all interdependent, aren't we?  And the only thing that's gonna keep me from losing myself totally to that web of humanity and the hegemonic spider that sucks our souls when we lose ourselves?

Yeah.  Duh. 

Me. 

Obvious as it may be, it's a lesson I gotta learn... over and over again.

But it's definitely not because they're pink.

L'il Red: Look!  We've got pink flowers!

Me: Yeah, they're called gladiolus.

L'il Red: They're happy?

Me: Heh.  Well, they ain't sad, that's for sure.

L'il Red: Oh.  Wow.  *shrugs*