Invisible

At the age of four you know that if no one hears you enter a room, if you stay close to a wall and if at least your head is covered you are invisible. So waking up, for some reason, on an early winter Saturday morning with everyone sleeping, I felt more magically invisible than I had ever felt before. I smelt coffee and sensed silence and heavy sleep from my five brothers and sisters. Three of them were teen agers and had entered a new phase of heavy morning sleep. Not sure why I was awake and they were not I crept downstairs to try to round up a little attention. Snuk up to the kitchen doorway and put my love blanket over myself for a better effect. Slunk down close to the ground, popped into the kitchen and hollered surprise to my parents. My father turned and threw his coffee cup over my head to shatter on the wall behind me and splatter around me. Tiger fast I dove under the table that they were sitting at and pinned myself up against the wall. Searching for a different type of invisibility this time, non existance. My mother cleaned the mug and spill up before coming down to the floor to tell me it wasn't my fault and to persuade me to come out from hiding, it was safe. I did not find her argument convincing but was longing for comfort from my the tears. She hugged me a little and tried to tell me that I did not understand and that I did not do anything wrong. Even at four my inner rationale was asking me, "than why isn't he apologizing ?" " Why isn't he telling me that it is not my fault." "Why isn't he holding me and comforting me?" He was not holding me and telling me that he didn't mean to scare the jesus out of me. It was a big mistake. My father did not look at me or apologize.

But I still loved the smell of coffee. I used to come home to an empty house at lunch time. I used this lone opportunity to lift the lid of the Maxwell House container to get a full strong smell. Than I got my next door neighbor in on this lunchtime ritual. We would linger and sniff and talk about what it must be like to drink this stuff and that it was so weird the way you made it. Poured into an metal coffee maker over grounds with a filter made from toilet paper. It smelt so wonderful and foreign and adult to us. Than I accidentally spilt the entire container onto the heavily trafficked kitchen floor one noontime. Momentarily paniced than quickly swept it up and put it back in the can. Shook it a few times for some unknown reason and returned it to the shelf. I have always thought that this somehow evened the playing field in our kitchen. Again, no one had seen it, nothing had happened. Invisible. A day later I confessed to my sister who did not react but promptly told my parents when I was not home. That evening my dad sat me down and explained rather nicely and with understanding that it was it was unhealthy for my parents to be drinking something that had been scraped off of the floor. He was talking to me. Eye to eye and with regard for my fear of the circumstances. Somehow I was not invisible anymore.

Ode to my Foot

Ah to be into my 40's
to worry and complain
ponder the ailments that baffle us
to sleep with an orthotic boot at night
because my muscle can not remember how to work quite right in my foot
It seems to have forgotten
Did I let it down?
It needs to learn how to stretch out again
We wonder what we have done to our bodies as they fail us
but we have spent 20 years
hunched over
skipping breakfast
skipping lunch
dinner at 10:00 and bed after midnight
eating our 1st meal at 2:00pm
staying up late
going to work sick
not sleeping on weekends
drinking when we are sick
dringking rather than eating as we can only afford one
and we make the wrong choice for our poor body
poor lil foot
we are not uber bots
we are human
our bodies spoke to us
we did not listen
but now we have reasons
there are little bodies
they need our larger ones to care for them
feed them, love them
read to them
We make these decisions now
for the right and wrong reasons
For the love and hug and the feeling
The little hand on your arm when you are sitting near
just checking that you are there
that you love them most
Oh if I had only gone to bed at 10:00 in my 20's
so that I had more to give my 40 year old body and soul
and in return I would have more for my 6 year old
and for myself and my foot
asleep in the boot like a child in a cradle
knowing that I am there and that I will take care of it
This time I will

Ode to the Om

Ode to the Om

Yoga kicked my ass
and I'm feelin it in my bones
I haven't found my center
and I'm feelin no damn Om

God help my hamstrings
cause my Yogi can't
Tell me why did I pay
20 bucks to chant

I thought that screamin when I'm drivin
really got it off my chest
now I'm moaning from the twistin
and so sore I just can't rest

I wanna camel, cow and table
beat Madonna at her game
Cause I'll never let no girl in tights
make me feel ashamed

I will tree pose like a mighty oak
and cobra till you cower
just help me turn the water on
so I can take a shower

Yoga kicked me good
and I think that I'll go back
maybe this is S & M
and I'm a little whack
_____________________________________________

Life in songs

My life as a mom is compartmentalized so much so that it is close to comical. It would be great to film any day of any mom’s life and edit it down to a few minutes with no voices just play “The Barber of Seville” over it. You would bring a theatre full of parents to their feet with a roar and laughter as this would capture life between birth and 18 perfectly. No words just full steam ahead free flowing organized, mishaps, chaos with three meals a day.

I often play music on the radio or it streams in my mind over my daily life to make it more entertaining. Recently as I was completing my evening sojourn of the take 2 trains, get the car, get a snack, run to two different after school programs to pick up kids, give said snack, pick up a healthy dinner, make homework happen, check homework, heat food, serve food, try to eat food and spend quality time with kids, have a conversation, find out how their day was, make sure guitar is practiced, little bodies bathed, all are read to, loved and listened to, try not to fall asleep w/ child while reading.

Through all of this I have music playing over my life on either the radio, iPod or in my head. It dawned on my that I break my life into units measured by the number of songs it takes to complete any task. Driving to Emma’s afterschool is a two song commute. Dinner prep is ideally four songs, five if I have a glass of wine, six if I get a phone call while cooking. Bath’s take three songs unless both kids bath together than it’s a five song rubber ducky repertoire. If the radio in our car hits the 3rd song when I am charging from one after school pick up to another than you don’t want to be the car driving slowly in front of me. I have to get there before the after school person has their hand held out for that $10 late pick up fee. The fee that the 22 year old after school counselor tells you how sorry they are in words but their eyes are dancing as they have already spent the money. They are delighted because they think since you drive a car and own a house you are rich. Though in some crazy way you feel like you have less money in this stage of life than you ever have before. Just like the music in my mind every dollar is allotted before it is even earned.

Lullabys don't have a measure because no matter how tired I want those sleepy, nodding off kisses before dreams to last the length of an entire symphony. Just squeeze in one extra hug, because some day down the line those will be divied up too but not by me. The rules will change as my kids grow and they will not need that constant reassurance. So for now I get up from reading after I've told the monster in the closet of my sons room that he was not invited and that he needs to go home to his mommy. I hum a Hannah Montana song as I go through bags see what needs to be signed, returned, paid, Cloroxed and identified. Do laundry, greet husband, find medical forms, find summer camp, make Dr’s appt., think of present for various 5 year old birthday parties coming up, barter with husband to see who is responsible for finding chosen gift, have a life and possibly a career.

It all sounds packaged, planned and pigeonholed. It often feels that way as well. Sometimes when you lay your head on your pillow at night and the lights are off you can see the pages of your life lying open in front of you like a spreedsheet. You are the music broadcaster of your life forecasting drivetime, lunchtime, playtime and even private time. Dividing it all up into songs with their own slots. Life should not be so orchestrated but I've found that background music somehow works to spur me on in the daily duties of managing four people’s lives. One just has to remember to pull off at an unplanned roadside stop once and a while. Stop at that tacky wax museum you’ve driven by too many times next to your filling station. For once don’t just re-fuel and hit the highway. Visit the wax museum and the gift shop too, jump on the beds and have ice cream for dinner. Life is too short and sweet so listen to the music in your life. If there isn’t any playing allow your heart to feel it and your mind will soon catch up. When you hear it grab your children or your partner and dance. The dance and song are short but the memories linger for a lifetime. These tunes and moments will go fast and just like a popular song they will be replaced but others needs and life moments. But hopefully you will always feel the beat and your heart will skip and your toes will tape with the songs of your childs young life when you hear them in real time or in your head as you race down the roadways and hallways towards new vistas and checkpoints.

In your heart your child will always be little and just down the hall they will need one more snuggle and a dance before bedtime. They may be grown now and have children of their own.
Yet we are all children inside and our own children will always be 5 or 6 in some way. We all want mom to dance with us and tell us how much she loves us. To be whispered too that we are special and that everything will be alright as she kisses our cheek and lowers the light.

Hurting Hearts

I drive on through the neighborhood after dropping my two children off at school. After we have just had the 50 minute roller coaster ride of getting 1 adult and 2 kids up, fed, dressed, teeth brushed, book bags, lunch bags, coats, snacks, toys for afterschool out and into the car.

Nine years and running and I am still sad to leave my children at school every day. It is yet

another day that I don't get to spend enough time with them. Still they ask me, "mom can you

leave work early today and pick us up, take us to the park?" My heart hurts just as deeply

as the first time the question was asked.

Help me find the answer. I can't make my heart stop hurting as I know that theirs does too.

My Shelf

My Shelf

Moving quickly into my 40's more and more things are going the way that you have seen and heard them do in others yet somehow you think they won't hit you so quick and hard like a truck coming round a bend too quickly. There is nothing you can do to stop this train wreck. Well the truck hit me in the same way that you have seen it take down countless women before.


So you react by diligently beginning to eat right, try to exercise, try to sleep, moisturize. You have to use eyebrow pencil even when just running out for milk. You are starting to feel a little desperate and pathetic. No not age! Not lines! These were supposed to happen after I am done raising my kids so I can have a life again for a short while. Than I will give in. I solemnly promise to go south hard and fast one year after my youngest turns 18. But life laughs at you and hands you back a note stating, no deal.

So you ache and feel fatigued have new descriptions of exaustion that in reality you just can't describe. Of course these lapses in vocabulary are also new to you and are yet a new concern of your slipping down that aged path. You realize more and more that no man is enjoy the view when you bend over to fill the paper tray in the copier. He is wishing you would move as he needs to get by.

With all of these let downs I should have been better prepared for my visit to the accupuncture office. It's my first visit and I'm nervous and desperate for relief from various ailments. I am laying on a massage table in a questionably heated chinatown accupuncture office recommended by a friend.. A kind and mild mannered asian man has finished asking me questions about my migraines and fatigue. I'm now waiting for my treatment, front side face down, back side face up All that is between me and him is an examination gown. I feel him place all of the sealed needles and some type of adhesives for my feet on my butt. His hands move so softly I can not even feel the needles. I begin to smell menthol and I'm sleepy. But all that I can think is, he is using my behind as a staging ground for his work. I should be nervous about these needles as I've never been a fan. I should nervously be fearful of that prick but there is a ticker tape running across the inside of my eyelids repeating the same public service annoucement over and over... "My ass is a shelf" "My Ass is a Shelf?" My Ass is a Shelf!" It's not being appreciated as a shelf in a J.Lo or Beyonce kind of way. It is a utility shelf. Something you buy at Ikea with a odd name that you will never put up. Not my butt? Oh My God! My Butt. My ass is a piece of furniture.

I came out of my first accupuncture feeling tingly with treatment and relieved as my fatigue retreated. The that had been held prisoner in my body for so long was fleeing by body like it was a ship set on fire rudderless set to drift. I should be dancing and singing my way back to Brooklyn but something about my female appeal is in question. What the hey? Yeah I've had two kids and I've spread a bit. I can still squeeeeeeze into a size 6, sort of. I am not in model shape but I'm not wearing a wide load sign either. Mind you don't confuse my message. I'm not saying the accupuncturist should find me attractive but my ass is a designated on deck area.

After my treatment my skin was fine and my being was great but my ego could not recover. Oh my god I'm a middle aged Mom never have been stacked on top but have always been able to counter balance with a little junk in the trunk. So I"m feeling like every doll in the stores in 1959 after Barbie was introduced. Did I mention my ass is a shelf?

Blank Ship

Blank Ship

Old Friend
Girl Friend
Best Friend
New Friend
Fair weather Friend
Bad Friend
Unreliable Friend
Work Friend
Boy Friend
Best Friend Forever (BFF)
wife's friend
your friend
my friend
friend of a friend
Book Club Friend
Parent of your child's friend
Long Lost Friend
Re-kindled Friend
Phone Friend
Animal Friend
Childhood Friend
Army Friend
Political Friend
Long Distance Friend
Trustworthy Friend
Male Friend
Gay Friend
High School Friend
Reliable Friend
Worthless Friend
Inappropriate Friend
Nobodies Friend
Soulful Friend
Blind Friend
Sisterly Friend
Becky be my Friend
Church going friend
Barfly Friend
Wanting Friend
Lacking Friend
Too much of a Friend
Over the fence Friend
Facebook Friend
My Space Friend
Friendster
Not such a good Friend
former Friend
friend with benefits
Ex Boyfriend
I need a friend
friend to the end
We are all friends by choice, until one chooses not to be.