Posts Tagged ‘life’

What is ‘died’?

In the car.

Mama: I had four cats when I was a little girl! My favorite was Puffy.

Avi: I like Puffy. I want to meet Puffy.

Mama: I’m sorry, honey.  They’re not around anymore; they died when I was a kid.

Avi: What is died?

Mama: Well, animals and people only live for a while.  When they’re done living their life, they die. We say goodbye and tell them we love them.  And I believe, not everyone does, but I believe their spirit turns into a new animal or person. Every animal and person has a spirit.

A couple days later, cuddling in bed.

Avi: I want this…I want this to be always…

Mama: You want to cuddle forever?

Avi: I want this to be forever.  I don’t want us to be spirits.

Mama: Oh, honey, don’t worry.  You have plenty of life ahead of you.  Mama’s not going anywhere.  We won’t be spirits for a long time.

And it was with saying this to my child that I finally believed it myself.


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Beauty is truth, truth beauty.

My child has just been kicked out of daycare because I refuse to pay a $25 late fee that I don’t owe.

This is not the first time that my daycare provider has been inconsistent in her communication.  It is the first time I’ve called her on it, and as a result, she’s kicking us out.

It’s a long story–actually it’s rather short since this all happened so quickly–but I get so angry talking about it that I have a killer stress headache and just about puked several times, so I’m not going to lay it out for you.

Sure, $25 may not seem like much money.  But, at the moment, it represents a significant chunk of my checking account.  And, even more importantly, it has come to symbolize something far greater: trust and honor.

I am sick of people who claim to be honorable but don’t really know what that means.

When honorable people speak, the words that issue forth have absolute meaning.  They are promises without using the word promises.  It might as well be the origin of the phrase, “I give my word.”   My words are truth.  My words have moral value.  This, in turn, engenders trust.  I trust that you are speaking the truth; I trust that you will honor your statements.

I am angry that so many people in my life believe that speaking words of honor have no meaning, even when they speak at length about “family values” and “looking beyond the corporate response.”  I am angry that my daycare provider spoke word after word, and I took her on her truthful word, and she turned around and threw them in my face, using phrases like “occasional courtesy.”

So, I’m not budging over this $25.

And, someday, I will tell my child, “You were kicked out of your first daycare because your mama believes in honoring a person’s word as truth.  And when you go back on that truth, or only consider it an occasional truth, it is no longer a truth and you no longer have honor.  Tell the truth and stick to your word and expect others to do the same.”

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Following Directions

When I read directions (which is pretty frequently, actually) I try hard to follow them.  Even if I doubt them, I follow them…because by taking a chance and following directions that I think are inane, I might actually learn something.  And, yes, I almost always think the directions are inane.  I don’t know who writes those things, but they rarely know how to simplify—let alone explain—stuff.

And so, sometimes, when I insist on following inane directions, something like this might happen:



Delightfully alien-like, is it not?

They are much happier now that they’ve been transplanted:


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Dream Lost

I used to be an actress.

A very talented actress.

I got cast in good roles; I got good reviews.

I was young and excited and brave and going places.

But I was unhappy.  I dreaded rehearsals.  I dragged my feet to shows.

Once on stage, I was perfectly fine–indeed, I was glory incarnate.  But, getting there, that was another story.

So, slowly but surely, I left acting behind.  I focused on teaching, on administration, on directing, on producing.  But I still find myself missing being an actress.  I find myself missing what I could have been.

I stare at bios, pictures, and websites of the women and men I know who have continued to live their bohemian actor lives and a knot rises in my chest.

I wish I was that.  I wish I could have been that simply because I was good at it.  I could have been something.  Actually, I was something.  I was talented.  Now, the thought of auditioning leaves me shaking in my boots.

In the darkest, smallest room in my heart, there is a promise to myself that I will act full-time again, when I’m fifty.  I will retire early and go back to the theatre.  And then I will play the great roles.  But, for now, it is a dream lost to life, time, circumstances, and choices.

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Date #1:

Local Psychotherapist with greying black hair curling half way down her back.  She likes to tell me I’m right and ask me my opinion on why my live-out-hubby made the choices he made.  She brings up my parents and also comments on “how amazing it is that so many couples with little kids separate unnecessarily…you can speak your mind.  i’m not judging you.”

I cried, of course.  I was really fucking nervous. I’ve never sat in an office with someone who was diagramming my personality in a little manila folder and expecting me to re-hash my decisions and then affirming them for me.

By the time my “hour” was up, I was crying because I was angry.  She was supposed to be the one.  I wasn’t supposed to have to go on a hunt for a fucking counselor.  I was supposed to be able to go see this woman, we’d click, she’d help me figure out why occasionally I’m sad, why my body is in revolt, why I feel a little stuck even though I’m actively moving forward.

Instead, I got affirmations about choices I already know were right.  I got a raised eyebrow when I mentioned naturopathy and yoga.  I got a shocked “oh” twice when she discovered my live-out hubby and I are dating other people but neither one of us started dating other people until we’d been separated for almost a year.  I got judged by the fact that I have a better relationship with my ex now that we’re separated than we ever did as a couple.  And I was told repeatedly that if my husband and I ever decide to “give it another go” we should have couples counseling.

  • Some people actually know who they are before therapy and just need a little help occasionally.
  • Some people believe that alternative therapies are valid, important contributions to health and well-being.
  • Some people end their marriage because “it’s just not working” not because we were cheating on each other.  Some of us do, indeed, have honor and scruples.
  • Some of us are better parents when we don’t have to spend all of our time being angry at each other.
  • Some of us really are okay being separated and moving on.

Some of us = me.  I can’t be that fucking unusual, people, so cut me some slack.

So now, I have to go through this whole fucking thing again with another counselor, and another, and another.  If I have to fucking cry every single time, I don’t know how I’m going to get through this.  I promised myself and several people that I will find a counselor but this is a very bad start and I’m not feeling good about it.  However, I think I’d like to write the word fuck one more time.  Because, oddly enough, that makes me feel better.


I hate doctors.

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toddler walking her wheeley dog

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Avi stayed with her dad for three nights in a row this weekend.

Scheduled for an absurd number of back-to-back meetings and rehearsals with simply no conceivable way to cover it all with babysitters, Dada time came to the rescue.

Oddly, a meeting and two rehearsals were canceled last minute leaving me with some unexpected downtime which I promptly used up by going out to two movies and spending time with Mr. Dad of Two.

I left all my dirty dishes in the sink, neglected the long list of chores I was supposed to accomplish, abandoned my cat for many hours on end, and had a damn good weekend.

Today, Monday, real life came barreling through bringing my care-free weekend to a crashing end.

A 6:30 wake up call from a screaming toddler (now officially weaned, by the way).  A mess of nausea-inducing scrambled eggs that I forced down because I was famished although had no appetite.  A morning of errands.  A snack-like lunch which she didn’t eat anyways.  A nap that actually should be called “falling onto bed like a ton of bricks and waking up two hours later covered in cheerios, board books, and milk.”  A groggy afternoon wondering why my stomach hates me, why I feel exhausted, why my child won’t stop whining, and why my kitchen smells so foul finished up with a delicious dinner which she didn’t eat and made me feel sick.  A few splashes in the tub and we were off on our two hours of bedtime routine.

How do I do this everyday?

Did I forget to mention that the afternoon nap time crash happened even with a mid-morning espresso?

How can I do this everyday?

And what’s with the nausea?  It’s driving me nuts.  We’re going on close to a year here of on and off food-induced regular nausea, indigestion, and general discomfort peppered with feeling starving in between these bouts of nausea.

My only consolation is that we’re going camping this weekend.  Oh, wait, no it’s not.  They just told me we’re going to get rained on.  Yay for camping in the middle of nowhere in a water-logged canoe with a toddler and a live-out hubby.

Life just gets better and better.

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