The things one hears in this house

“…like a crescent roll of adorableness.”  Lincoln, 17

“Blankets bite!”  Rachel, 15

“I’m swinging my dad’s underwear over my head!” Sidney, 19

“I’m a cat, lady, I don’t know everything!” Prairie, 13

“It looks like you’re trying to digest your stomach with your hands!” Prairie, 13

“Have you ever looked around the room for something, and then realized that you’re sitting on it?” Lincoln, 17

“Thank you so much, that’s much helpfuller.” Prairie, 13

My whole purpose

In a conversation with my 19 year old son today, he told me, “You inspired me . . . ”

And

I did not hear the words that came after

because my brain latched onto those 3 words

I looked at his sisters and brother,

“Will y’all carve that into my gravestone?” I asked

She once inspired her son.

Feeling vaguely pleased with myself

until I realized that I had rudely stopped

hearing my son, interrupted him even.

Chagrinned, “I’m sorry, you were still talking but I was not listening. ”

He said, “I said that you inspired me to get back to work on building that table for my elements collection.”

She once inspired her son to build something.

I just want to lay in this small puddle of contentment,

happy that in this one breath,

I inspired my child to create,

rather than to fracture or tear down.

 

There is a luxury

in never getting angry, never showing emotion

a privilege of the powerful one,

the one who treads upon,

who has never been underfoot

 

But the one with the foot on her throat

must get angry to fight

or slowly suffocate,

fight to be heard while

the devout one cuts off her oxygen,

lungs straining to supply logic and words

to her brain

 

Her anger, indignation, sorrow

is judged emotional,

drama,

a lack of control

her own damn fault

for not being content

to find a comfortable spot under the shoe

 

She is shamed for not appreciating

the kindly smile and loving way he

corrects her,

for making him feel uncomfortable

with her struggle to breathe.

 

It is exhausting

this struggle to simply be,

this hope of living in love

when there are so many eager feet,

so many vulnerable necks

 

So much security cultivated by controlling another person’s inhale and exhale.

December Snowfall 2018

These are the days of . . .

snow hanging heavy on the trees

wrapping up on the couch with a blanket

catching up on my reading

nothing but the sound of kids laughing

breaking the cold, damp winter silence

 

These are the days of . . .

lights cutting off, the hum of the refrigerator falling silent

A different silence falling on the house

And the kids jumping into a game of bananagrams

waiting on the one who is missing, my eldest, to return home

from far away, with good news

waiting on another good news

 

This is the time . . .

for a lot of waiting

What else can one do with 13 inches of snow blanketing the house

and trees down across the driveway?

But wait, breathing in hope, breathing out fears

 

My independent thinking rabble-rouser

Last night, I picked up three of my kids from the youth meeting at a local church.  The teachings are conservative, with recent discussions on women under leadership of men and election/predestination.  My 12 yo, a self-published author, jumps in the car and says “Mom, I’ve got another idea for a new book.”

“Another book idea ??!!?” I ask jokingly.  She has been working on a book sequel, a rebuttal essay on why women can TOO preach, and she writes collaboratively with her sister, Rachel, almost daily.

“Yeah, and I’ve got a title for it,” she continues.  “It will be called ‘Liberal Thoughts of a Lady.'”