Art Food Soul

I’m wandering these days. Until I return please find me here occasionally.

When my ex- moved out, I got this little guy a month later. Almost 17 years together, longer than my marriage. He died Thursday night and I am ripped apart. My heart is broken. The thing about a dog is the unconditional love — they’re always happy to see you more than any other friend you’ve got. I will mourn this little guy for a long time.

Friday afternoon, June 30, 1989 — took my sweet boy for a haircut today. He looks adorable. Bloody blazing hot Vermont summer day. Sat out at the picnic table on the patio with him and talked about the baby. “Please God, I want a baby sister” (talk about pressure! His dad wanted a son when he was born, didn’t think I’d feel that gender pressure again. I was so thrilled with my little boy that I couldn’t picture myself with a little girl, and would have been just as happy with another boy).
“Why don’t you name her Mary Anthony, Mommy? Don’t you think that’s a pretty name?”
(Well, yes, I just haven’t decided on a name yet so we’ll see).

About 0100 Saturday, July 1, 1989 — I wake up, feeling some twinges. Hmmm, maybe it’s labor starting even though I’m not due until Bastille Day. Oh well, no sense losing sleep over it so go back to sleep.

1000 Saturday, July 1, 1989 — up and at ’em…still feeling those twinges, but I’m not going to get worked up for nothing, so we all go strawberry picking with Aunt Jacqueline and Evelyn Gramma. I have to work in SICU (Surgical Intensive Care) at 1500. I mention casually to everyone that if I am in labor it’s a good place to be.

1730 July 1, SICU — quiet eve and on supper break figure I’ll go up to L & D (labor and delivery) to see if much is going on. I luck out and Linda, my nurse midwife is on duty this eve. She checks me out (about 4 cm dilated) and she says I’ll probably have a baby in the next day. Okay.

1930 July 1, SICU/L & D — Finished ordering patient labs for the next day, so all my work is pretty much done. Quiet evening on the unit so we’ll probably sit around sharing our crazy birth stories and so on. I go to the bathroom and as I’m leaving the bathroom, there is a gush of pink water, flooding down my leg and soaking my ankle socks. I exit the bathroom, saying to Lorraine, our nurse’s aide, and Rita, the housekeeper, “I’m really shaky, I think my water broke,” at which point, Lorraine’s swooped a wheelchair under my butt and Rita mops up the floor behind us as Lorraine wheels me right up to L & D. I luck out again (and will yet again when I get the last room on maternity later) and get the last birthing room (most like home), the nurse manager for my nurse (who immediately offers me a unit secretary job there if I’m ever interested), and Linda returns, with love and support. She checks my progress to discover 9 cm now! We’ve called Jason and Jacqueline, and all of a sudden I’m remembering “Oh Yeah! THIS is how much childbirth hurts!” (Yet this time I’m able to breathe through the pain more easily. I’m more centered and know what to expect).

It’s lucky Jacqueline happened up for a visit because she’s also Anthony’s support person (siblings are allowed into the birthing center to share in the family birth experience, they just need to have their own support person). Jac. and Anthony show up soon after we call. Linda supports me until my support person (Jason) finally shows up, smelling of alcohol and looking a bit frazzled and sweaty. I look over my shoulder at Jac. and A. at one point — my 5 year old boy is cool as a cuke, while my 26 year old sister looks like all the color has gone out of her (I feel the humor even if I don’t feel like laughing at the minute).

2048 July 1, L & D — It’s a little gal! her dad announces. Big bro gets the little sis he prayed for, but the name I’d picked out — Rose Elizabeth, now all of a sudden I’m not so sure. She’s so tiny at 6 pounds 9 ounces, tinier than her brother was, but just as beautiful and dark, though wouldn’t you figure? Her bro was born with a mop of dark hair he never lost (old ladies used to tell me I should cut it! to which I’d reply, “I love his hair, chances are when I have a girl, she won’t have much,” and sure enough! She had my father’s receding hairline).

Jason makes phone calls to family, Anthony chats with everyone too. He’s been very calm and cool throughout the whole birth experience, saying there was a little blood but not much.

1300 July 2, Home — The neighbors greet us — 80something Mrs. Ross, Dick, our landlord; Missy and Todd, his kids; Mrs. Shepherd, his mother-in-law; Leitha and the rest of the Breens next door, Gramma Evelyn, Aunt Kathleen, Sophie, Jacqueline and Jason’s friend Nat Witham, with the video camera (we didn’t ever have one, so it was photos for us). Anthony wanting a name very much, me still undecided. Alanna, Tina, Kira, Kara, Moon Unit, it’s overwhelming naming a child so soon! My friend Lisa, didn’t name her son for about a year, in the American Indian tradition of her family.

Late July, Big Apple Circus Week — I’m in tears! I’d bought an inexpensive 35mm camera (cooler than my Kodak Instamatic I thought) and we used that to shoot the birth photos. The take-up reel on the film didn’t engage, so the only photos that came out from the birth were the few that my sweet boy took with his little 110. I was inconsolable as I remembered how sweet he looked wearing Mickey Mouse scrubs, sitting in the rocking chair with my sister while his sister was being born.

1913, July 1, 2010 — My girl’s name is Molly Rose and she’s “legal” now. Her brother is still as protective as ever, wishing her Happy Birthday and telling her not to get alcohol poisoning. How deep and wide can a mother’s love for her children get? It’s beyond measure, beyond words, beyond this world. And I hope their love for each other grows as deep and wide, too.

What I been doin’ lately — for real — in a jam kitchen that’s been around since the early 1900’s — a magical place on the edge of a wildlife and nature preserve — yeah! I be jammin’ — how good can life get? Oh yeah, try working in a flower shop up the road, too — with a great couple — yeah, that’s how good life can get…jammin’ — oh yeah, I hope ya like jammin’ too…

Yes, Sandy’s little boy. I’m captivated with Lou. Ever since I saw them on the cover of People Magazine a few weeks ago. She’s one of the few celebs I “like” in the way one can like someone they don’t really know.

Even got a torn up copy of People from my hairdresser after she’d looked at it — I have it on my porch and every time I look at the cover I smile. Couldn’t get the picture out of my head — so much so, that I even had a dream —

I was babysitting the little guy, and was hanging out in my son’s basement with him
(the babe, not my son; my son doesn’t really have a basement). In the dream, I was spying on my son because I was afraid he was addicted to drugs (he’s not, I don’t even think he has ever done them, I could be wrong, people change, but let’s just say I know my boy. Drink yes. Smoke cigs yes. Drugs? Highly unlikely.).

So there I was hanging out in the basement spying on my son and Louie’s diaper needed a change but I’d forgotten to bring diapers. So what did I do? Turned the one he was wearing inside out — even though it was sopping wet, I figured it was better than nothing. You know how it goes in Dreamland.

There are things I wish I’d done differently with them, but overall, I did the best I could as a single parent with two very bright (and strong-willed) children. The times I regret are the times I listened to others’ wisdom rather than my own. But I want to look ahead and not continue to beat myself up over the mistakes I made.

There were plenty I didn’t make — like my decision to stay home with my son rather than pursue a career.

It’s not a path that’s new to me, it is the one I eventually return to when I’ve had enough. Enough of my dark night of the soul.

May — a new month, the month of Mary, of mothers, of flowers, Beltaine, soft blooms, and new beginnings all staggered according to genus and species. Mine will be staggered according to mood, inspiration and whimsy. Just finished the book The Happiness Project, and I gotta say, I liked it. It got me thinking. About changing my attitude. Which can be slow going when past demons start licking like tiny flames at past hurts that still aren’t resolved. There’s a saying, sh!t or get off the pot. I’ve been in this spot before (the stuck spot), and I’ve turned it around. It really does work. Changing my attitude I mean. And it does seem to change my life — open up more doors, more possibilities. I’m all for my woo woo therapies, and what have you, but sometimes I just need a good (and swift) kick in the arse.Sometimes tenderness and tolerance, time and so on are in order. But enough is enough. It’s time to start my own happiness project. And honor divine inspiration when it hits me. And it does hit.

**photo of bicycle in Thatcher Lane, Yarmouthport courtesy of my writer gal pal Diane…

 I keep putting off this post but every week that goes by I want to write something for Siobhan. I have never watched American Idol except in occasional blips when my daughter’s had it on telly.
When I have caught it, I find it to be a rather cruel show like many of these competition shows seem to be.

That being said, last week was glorious and sunny, and I decided to finally get out and take photos of all the banners around town supporting Siobhan. At the vet a few weeks ago, my son, John and Susan (our vet and his wife) were reminiscing about the high school days when Anthony would be jamming in the basement with Colin, Rory and Mike, while Siobhan ran around upstairs chasing Colin’s younger brother Miles. Molly came home from school one day in high school and said to me, “remember Anthony’s friend, Rory? you should hear his sister sing — she should be on American Idol.” And so here she is today, a big girl on American Idol. Marching to the beat of her own drum. Which is very hard to do in our culture with more “I don’t get you Simons” out there than “this is who I am Siobhans.”

Perhaps Simon would “get her” if he knew the context of this place called Cape Cod, where Siobhan is from. I left for almost twenty years, and when I came back I felt like Rip Van Winkle. Many of the players were older but they were the same players running the show. And when they weren’t the same, it didn’t matter — it was still the same act, just a different face and name. Sometimes, I feel like an outsider here among the SUV and hydrangea painting fans. But there is an underground offbeat culture that permeates the backside of this peninsula and that is where I feel most at home. I’ve found it through music, dance, nature, offbeat cafes and other venues of creativity. I seek the subculture out as best I can.

There’s a dusky mauve Cape in Marstons Mills with a big banner for Siobhan in the yard — possibly her house, as it looks like a house that has lots of kids and energy (she has about 5 siblings). It’s a burst of magic in the midst of the mediocre. Many years ago, when I first saw her dad at one of the boys’ concerts on the town green, I was thrilled to see a long-haired, tattooed sleeves guy (also a musician). The whole family is a quirky, talented and creative blend of renegade Cape Cod natives, something I’ve sorely missed. It’s good to still find it here.

** You  might have to click on the collage to see the whole thing…

Uphill, downhill, do you shift up or down? I never really knew so asked Marty today (it probably wasn’t the first time and won’t be the last). Tried it like he told me and it worked (meaning the chain didn’t fall off as in times past). Kind of like life, aye? Sometimes you gotta ask when you don’t know and sometimes you gotta just try. Oh yeah, and ride.