Grown Up Christmas List

It's funny how as a kid you make these lists for Santa, place them in your parent's eager hands and wait for the magic to happen. Now, as an adult, we ARE Santa. We keep the magic alive, albeit poorly, we do what we can to make things happen that no fat man in a red suit can conquer. This is the first year in many many moons that I've had panic creep up because I'm not ready. Normally, under non-pandemic conditions, I would have had gifts and stocking stuffers stashed away for months now. Today, barely two full days before Christmas, I had to venture out on my lunch break to snag Santa's gifts.

This isn't like me. I like to be prepared and aware; two steps ahead of schedule in the case the unexpected arises. This is also the first year my kids BEGGED me for money. They know that I stick to a strict "Want/Need/Wear/Read," one "big" gift from Santa and a stocking full of goodies. Y'all. I struggled. HARD. Sure, I was able to knock out the needs, wears, and reads... but they just want money. That's it. It's taking the magic out of my parental duties. And knowing they just want money? What is the fat man supposed to do with THAT??

Two days ago, Little discovered where I'd hidden their gifts. Granted, I found MY gifts every year and would sneak peeks under the edges of Christmas paper. I have never liked surprises, they made me increasingly anxious and I needed to know what kind of reactions to have. But Little? Little is different. He was just built that way. He opened the HVAC closet door, found a package with his name on it and unwrapped his "Want" gift while I was in the next room. My baby, the last kiddo to really show any excitement (in his own way) towards Christmas? He opened the one gift I was super excited about giving him; the coveted "My Partner Eevee" Pokemon animated over priced piece of plastic. Because it was underwhelmingly overpriced, I bought Eevee AND Pikachu. Because what's one annoying toy when you can have TWO annoying toys??! Through my tears -- shut up, I'm hormonal -- I managed to get an apology out of him for opening his gift before I could fully appreciate his glee and an agreement that mommy could wrap Pikachu back up and he wouldn't open ANY MORE gifts before Christmas.

This kid. He didn't know any better and he didn't know what he'd done. But it broke me. It could have been so much worse, and it really wasn't that terrible. I think it was knowing that those stupid plastic Pokemon were ALL he wanted and honestly, were the only toys I got him. This is a kid who's harder to please than he looks. I mean, for the last 6 years of his life I had to keep tabs on which Beanie Boos he already had as he collected a menagerie of animals, but specifically those big eyed creeps. There were Beanie Boos, small plastic animals (think Fisher Price Little People style), visually altering fidgets, light up toys, musical instruments... But Pokemon were his first REAL "special interest." I don't want to get into what special interests are for autistic kiddos, so research it yourself. It's a nightmare if you're not in the least bit interested and have a hard time faking interest for the sake of keeping the peace. But it's also mesmerizing to see his brain categorizing and digesting every little bit of information he can find.

Today I went on my lunch break trek to find Santa's gifts. I applauded myself for making it across town in under 15 minutes WITH holiday traffic, and as I sat through a third green light cycle at the turn going into the shopping center containing my beloved Target, I watched as a beat up Hyundai started merging into my lane with absolutely NO notion that she had any idea that uh... well... I was already in line and barely moving. She ended up dislocating my front bumper and fucking up my wheel well, but surprisingly good old Florence (my beautiful ruby red 2017 Nissan Pathfinder) survived the damage with nothing more than a glorified "flesh wound" that will need a bit of front end body work, but we were able to walk/drive away with no issues. Raise your hands in praise, y'all, because Mama ain't got the money to be throwing around for Uber or hitching rides. Florence was purchased as a fix to my major car fixing budget. I was able to power through Target as I mapped out where all three items were while waiting for the Cop to write up the police report. I was in and out of Target DURING THE HOLIDAYS in under 30 minutes AND I was only 10 minutes late coming back from my lunch break. Thank heavens for small miracles.

I really am grateful that nothing terrible happened when shit could have gone sideways a multitude of ways these past few days. Little didn't unwrap or destroy everyone's gifts and Florence drove away in (mostly) one piece and it was an obvious error on the other driver's part... I just. I'm trying so hard to not slip into the seasonal funk. I feel like I'm holding on tight to this rope and the skin on my hands is on fire trying not to let go. So, if any of my kids ask what they can get me for Christmas, here's my semi-selfish adultish Christmas list in no particular order:

• Florence needs to be detailed in/out with Little's seat sanitized and spit shined.
• I want a full body deep tissue massage that leaves me feeling like a glow stick that's been popped and shaken up real good.
• 3 nights alone on a beach. Ok, maybe not ALONE alone. I can have a visitor to tuck me in each night or to fetch me drinks.
• The house cleaned top to bottom with a hoarder version of Marie Kondo to organize all the things.
• A week off from work while the kids are in school so I can work on my mental health.
• Insurance that actually PAYS for mental health help.
• Anything from Tiffany & Co. I'll even settle for a receipt or empty shopping bag. 
• Art supplies. I know that's vague, but I'm not sure what kind of supplies I need. I lost ALL of my art from my young adult years when we moved out of the "Divorce House." I've got some supplies still, but not my printmaking tools or fire hazard heap (paper scraps for collage work.) I want to work on some art, but at the same time, my carpal tunnel is over there leaning against the wall filing her nails sayin, "really girl? You sure about that?" And honestly, I just don't know. Maybe I'll start slow and just start cutting paper and see how the scissor work affects me.
• A fucking nap. Jeez oh man, just let a girl sleep. Uninterrupted. No Little body slamming me 20 minutes into a good doze, no MMA happening in the next room when Little decides to play superheroes with Big. No Middle getting sassy and waking me up out of spite. I need these kids to work together to just let me rest.
• A personal chef to feed these children.
• $1000 loaded on a grocery store gift card to make up for the BS these kids have put my pantry through. Little ate EIGHT yogurt tubes yesterday while I was at work. EIGHT. His good bacteria levels are probably ON POINT right about now.
• A Torrid shopping spree.
• A shopping spree, period.
• Another nap.
• On a beach.
• With a cabana boy to appear with every snap of my fingers.
• A mom can dream.

I worry.

I worry one day Middle will tell someone the bruises came from me.

I worry that she will tell someone that the bruises came from me and they will take my children away.

I worry that all the time and energy I've spent trying to help her and her brothers will be for nothing.

I worry that someone WILL actually hurt my babies and I will not be able to do anything.

I worry that Middle and Little will be institutionalized because I missed some vital clue that I could have seen if I had just been present instead of at work.

I worry that I will have a position forced upon me at work that will rob me of more time from them.

I worry that there will never be enough time to undo the harm that was done to them before I was able to use my voice.

I worry that the 36 hours they're not in my home every two weeks, that they are putting words in their mouths and giving wings to false accusations.

I worry that no amount of sugar coating and biting my tongue will save me from the snakes lying wait.

I worry like I'm getting paid to do so.

***

We went to Callaway Gardens tonight. I'm sure it was beautiful, but instead I was too busy sobbing silently in the dark of my mother's SUV to notice the scenery surrounding us. In my 38 years on this earth, 34 of which was spent here in South Atlanta, I had never been to the Christmas Lights show at the Garden. Nor do I think I've ever actually BEEN to Callaway Gardens.

The drive there was uneventful until Little threw up everything he ate for dinner after we hit a few curvy back roads. Being that we hadn't been on a long drive in a minute with him, I didn't think to pack extra clothes. Why would I ever be prepared? We had to buy some emergency clothes at a Dollar General in the middle of nowhere so he wouldn't have to wear vomit covered clothes or be naked the res of the evening. This meant that my baby came home in women's yoga pants and a hot pink t-shirt. The comic relief is NOT lost on me given how the rest of the evening went.

We were corralled into a congested holding area for 30ish minutes with other running vehicles before entering the site. That's when Middle's brain failed her. There was hair pulling, screaming, hyperventilating, speaking of self harm, actually hitting herself, threatening those around her... for 30 long minutes. Nothing we said would soothe her. Nothing we did would calm the beast that roared within her. All I could do was cry. Until I snapped and wrapped my hand firmly around her knee to try and bring her back. When I pulled my hand away I ended up pinching her flesh above her kneecap and I realized then what I'd done. I'd pinched my child. The way my mom used to pinch us on the soft part of the backs of our arms when we'd act out of line in public. This was not the way my life was supposed to go. This was not the person I wanted to be.

When I finally gave in and called her father (it was either him or emergency services), I had to place him on speaker phone so she would actually listen to him. Hearing him ask her if he knew why she was acting like this and if it had to do with what they'd been talking about was the straw that broke me. A.) she refuses to talk to me unless it's superficial. B.) I can't have her hate me any more than she already does. C.) I absolutely cannot have her one other biological parent use me or my parenting as the reason she acts this way when she only gets this manic within the few days post visitation. It broke me.

There. Are you happy? I could hear your silence when I would try and stifle the sobs. I could hear you stroking her ego and reasoning that her behavior was due to others and not due to her own actions. Are you happy? Do you remember telling them that you would always respect me and have my back? Do you remember telling them that you "always picked good mothers for your children?" I may not be the best mom, but I am HANDS DOWN the best mother to our children. I make mistakes. I own up to them. I love them and yes, I discipline them. Discipline does not mean corporal punishment. Discipline can mean structure, stability, consequences for their actions, cause renders effect... Bad mom's don't feel guilty for pinching their children. Bad mom's don't ask to see if they hurt them and talk to them about WHY they did that and WHY they won't be doing it again and actually NOT doing that again. Because they have to learn that humans make mistakes, and even if their actions aren't forgotten they are recognized as continuously striving to be better and not using "sorry" as a bandaid.

Maybe someday years in the future or even a few days from now I'll think back on what we experienced as "I can't make this shit up" material during this already shitty unforgiving year. Maybe someday my daughter will curl up on my sofa chair and just exist in my presence without any of us walking on eggshells. Maybe one day I will be able to wrap my arms around her without feeling as if I'm handling a bomb.

I just want her to be a good human and know how much she is loved.

I just want her to be happy.

DIY Boozy Fudge

I don't think y'all are ready for how easy this recipe is. Like, legit, I could make it in my sleep if my carpal tunnel would let me. And those of you awaiting the fudge I made you? You're freaking welcome. It's your turn to make ME fudge now. (I prefer Baileys or Fireball just FYI).

Mama's Boozy Fudge

• 2 Cups Baking Chips (semisweet is my go to, you do you fam.)
• 1/2 Cup Sweetened Condensed Milk
• 1/4 Cup Liquor (or Schnapps)
• 1 tsp Vanilla Extract
• optional pinch of salt

Dump chips in microwave safe bowl, add sweetened condensed milk. Nuke for 30 seconds. Stir. Repeat until the chips have FINALLY melted in their entirety. Add your alcohol, extract and maybe salt if that's what you like. Spread into 8x8 pan. Cool. Cut. Diabeetus. Wilford Brimley would be so appalled.

Combos I've tried:

Baileys Dark Chocolate

Mexican Hot Chocolate (Fireball and semi sweet)

Peppermint Bark (Peppermint Schnapps w/white chocolate topped with crumbled candy cane)

Kahlua

Coffee

Sweet Nothing

You found me. Forbidden. I broke my own rules.

Your hand slipped under the back of my shirt in passing, your finger grazed the waist line of my pants. Not here. Not now. You brought your arms across your chest and leaned back. “Then when?” As I passed you again, your hand came up and caught my wrist, “when?”

I shouldn’t have responded. You’re forbidden. You came over anyways; caught me in your snare. I fluttered anxiously like a frightened bird against you. Your mouth hot like fire, secrets whispered across the nape of my neck. My hair swept to the side by your fingers, lingering behind my ear. We’re alone, but anyone could come around the corner and see us and I’m conflicted. 

Do I want this or do I need saving?

You are forbidden and this is cursed but I shave my legs anyways. “I’m here.” The door is unlocked for you, “open it.” The neighbor calls out that someone is upstairs. I pull you inside and you drink me in. I can’t read your expressions.

Wine warms my throat, my cheeks and ears. They are red with knowing there’s no going back and the words not yet said ring in my ears. The hum of you deafens the room as you unzip my jacket. “It’s too warm for this.” Your eyes close as I wipe my wine kiss from your lip. My shirt falls to the floor, “this is also unnecessary.” My rib cage fits up against yours and your hands undo the clasps of my bra. “Impressed yet?”

The neighbors hear my laughter and my mouth is dry. This was not meant to happen. We aren’t meant to happen. I’m out of wine and one glass was not enough. Your hands are magic and I bend but don’t break by them.

I am glowing. By guilt? By bliss? By shame?

I upend the bottle for just a drop more; longing for the taste of it... of you... of this sin. More, now, again. 

“Next time.”

Allow me to reintroduce myself...

I am a proud card carrying member of a tribe of humans who care too much, but don't know how to show it.

I am a mom.

A filthy smoker.

An occasional wine drinker.

A lover.

A writer.

I am inspired, spiritual, an occasional Siren.

I drink 2+ pots of coffee a day.

I am compassionate and empathetic and I have a terrible memory unless you ask me about something random that happened 22 years ago.

I have a hard time stringing my thought processes together to keep my mental train from derailing.

I am forever 17, but we'll get to that.

Is this just a dreamlike state?

I am not responsible for how you react to my actions, my words.

And you are not responsible for how I react to life.

I am allowed to wallow in pleasure.

I am allowed to appreciate the sense of touch, smell, taste...

I am allowed to curl into myself and acknowledge my grief of a life I spent a third of my life cultivating, praying for the best.

I am allowed to close my eyes, face in the sun, embracing what little bit of serotonin pops like popcorn in my brain.

I don’t need your permission to tell my story, my truth.

Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals. This is possibly a work of fiction, but it is the author's story regardless. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are the products of the author's imagination and may be used in a fictitious manner and does not require your explicit consent to tell their version of their story.

The divine in me honors the divine in you.

You wouldn’t know what to do with me if you had me wide open 100% all for yourself.

Your hands would feel like strangers, like they belonged to someone else. Or maybe like divining rods seeking the water within me. They’ll float, hover, until you feel the pull somewhere under my rib cage. You won’t be able to let go once you get there.

You’ll tell me that the divine is within me and I’ll hold up a mirror. No, baby... it’s within you too. 

I’ll wrap around you like a firm hug; something you didn’t know you needed. You’ll melt and know that you were home all along.

Comparison is the thief of joy.

The widow in me hates that his ghost is so visible; that he does all these things for her and her children that he promised to us me all while I was killing myself to support all of us.

The widow in me wants to thrash, scream and tear down walls. This was not the life I had ever imagined for our children, for myself as I stood across from him and vowed my life to him or as I squeezed his hand and cried silently with that last push that brought our children into the world.

The widow in me is on her knees. She is tired. She wants to escape. She wants her children and herself to be “happy” too. Whatever “happy” even is.

The strong independent woman my mama, grandparents and ancestors raised her to be wants to scream, “THIS IS BULLSHIT. This is NOT what I’ve worked so hard to provide for.” But this comparison is the thief of all my joy.

If I closed my eyes tight enough... I would open them to see that I have the ultimate prizes. I have my babies. I built them brick by brick inside of this amazing body. I have my health. I have the ability to provide a roof over their heads, food on the table, a vehicle to get us from this place to the next.

Shit could be worse, and I know because I’ve lived it and don’t ever want to look back.

Raised by the Music

Growing up, I was raised by the Big Chill and Dirty Dancing soundtracks. I can still see the dust whirling through the air on the weekends my mother would deep clean the house belting out "Tears of a Clown." 

We didn't drive anywhere without music. I associated my mother's mini van with Marvin Gaye, The Bangles, Fine Young Cannibals, George Michael... I associated my father's truck with Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, The Beatles, Roy Orbison, Lynyrd Skynyrd... 

Music was everywhere, and then one day it wasn't.

It became my job to fill my room with The Cranberries, Nirvana, Foo Fighters, anything Fat Wreck Chords put out, all the local bands tapes and CD's that littered my purse post show.

I don't remember the exact time frame that I realized my mother's car radio stopped playing. I don't know why she stopped. I don't know how she could get into her car and not subconsciously start pushing buttons on her dash until something that resonated with her became her soundtrack to drive to. I know that it makes me sad to slide into her passenger seat with a palpable silence between us. 

Little has a bad habit of screaming "Alexa/Siri STOP" whenever I play music and I want to hand him earplugs. I need the lyrics to sing to me and to speak to me. I need all that noise to make sense of my world. I feel the bass, I resonate with the words.

I used to joke that mine and Gwen Stefani's lives paralleled. As I expanded out of my teenaged cocoon, we both left our teenaged loves behind for the hot bad boys of our lives. We got married, each had three beautiful children, our Husbands had affairs with women who were too easily accessed, we found love again... and then the parallel's stopped. As she announced that she was engaged to her big country boyfriend, I was announcing that we were over.

A part of me worries that I've upset the balance of the cosmos. Every album had spoken to my heart and brought words I couldn't find to experiences I was going through. I'm almost anxious to hear her new single because what if we are no longer experiencing the same seasons in life together?

It's trivial and ridiculous to think this way, but... what if I'm right?

What if, the reason no single genre or song is currently speaking to me because the music is dying in me the way it did for my parents?

I don't know that I could handle the loss of relevance music has in my life.

For my parents, the music died and they are still very much alive.

I cannot tell a lie.

Do not ask me to tell you the truth or I will tell you how I have become a confessional for the secrets men keep. 

Their truths come in waves washing over me as I stroke their hair and shush their cries. 

I mend their hearts and return them back to you good as new.

I am black and white and where the colors meet are contrasts that stipple until they overlap and you cannot tell day versus night; there is only now. 

The now is heavy with the words I do not speak because their secrets are so loud. 

The now is like Jack Frost inching up my spine while their truths heat my ears, my cheeks.

I bite my lips, my tongue to keep their secrets inside of me.

I do not ask for their confessions... their secrets, half lies, brazen truths. 

But they come to me, weary with words and set them free where I do not interject or give my two cents.

I allow them to free their inner demons and wipe their slates clean.

The hardest part is not knowing whether they are leaving their problems for me to unpack or if they are letting them slip out the door as they leave.

Siren's Songs

I'm not the marrying type.

I've been married. 

I fine tuned myself to be what he needed, shedding the leaves of myself along the way. I shared space, WE shared space. We made ourselves believe that one person's yin was the other person's yang. Instead, we were chasing ideas of what the other should be so we could complete each other.

But we were not puzzle pieces cut from the same puzzle. We were two pieces that felt right, like we might connect and complete some whole beautiful pictures. We wanted to work, for a long time we wanted to work. In actuality, we were two whole different puzzles with missing pieces of ourselves.

I'm learning now that I'm single. I'm learning that I'm a whole human with no missing pieces. That I only needed to step back, slow down and quiet my monkey mind long enough to enjoy the beauty of a complete puzzle.

But now that I'm enjoying the silence and learning myself as this whole human, I see my heart as a Siren. I catch her singing and luring individuals in as if she calls the shots. I see the words that form in my mind like lyrics, whispering sing song hushed whispers directly into their ears. Part of me wants to stop her, but the other part of me says to enjoy the attention and enjoy the heart flutters of the fun parts of new friendships. The fun part of any new relationship whether romantic or otherwise.

In knowing that I don't want to coexist/cohabitate with another adult, I'm allowing myself to enjoy what's meant to be temporary living for a more long term arrangement despite the disappointment this brings to Big. It disappoints me too knowing that he won't have a house to look back on as his childhood home, but instead he'll think of the community I worked for and that we lived in for half his childhood.

But to me, this has never felt more like home than any of the other places I've tried to make "home" for them. So far our sleeping arrangements work for us here and we're able to create space for each other individually. It's not the big house we left in downsizing to this, but it's intimate and complete in so many ways good and bad. 

I got sidetracked.

My Siren heart reminded me of this. She sings her little diddy and suddenly I have others - like myself - who are uninterested in settling for less than we want for ourselves. Others who love themselves in an unselfish and not even a self centered way, they are simply compassionate with what their bodies and minds have survived and are no longer served by compartmentalizing their "self" to make others more accepting of them. They said, "NO MORE," and became the best selves they could be.

Big Distraction Pt. 2

I set intentions, lit the sage, cracked some windows North, West, South. Willed you up the stairs, through the door, follow the breeze and/or my smoke signals. 

Hear your name on the tip of my tongue. Feel the heat of too much too fast like a raging fire. I don’t know how to want small. I don’t know how to tone down a sensory experience from “fever dream” to “background music.” Theres not a dial on me anywhere like a volume setting on your dash. I’ve never been able to “enjoy” in moderation.

I want more. Now. Fast, loud, a rip tide that doesn’t let me back up for air.

I hold my breath letting your hands speak, I breathe in I breathe in I breathe in and my lungs are on fire. My eyes are saucers, black cat dilated, hungry for more. You signal release and all life radiates from here.

“We broke so many rules.” I draw my finger down the stress of your forehead, willing them to calm. Down the strong defiance of the bridge of your nose, I rest my fingertip on the bow of your lips. The nerves electric between the silhouette of your lips and the skin of my fingers. This is Vegas, baby, Dubai. Foreign and aggressively blinding. 

Waves upon waves. I am overcome with gratitude and pleasure like a hot white light warming my hands on your mouth, I know words are in there and I look and look “cold, warmer, hot, hotter, you’re there you’re on fire can’t you feel that? Can't you hear me say your name?”

The bones of you are support beams; there are earthquakes but you’re made for aftershocks.  You hold me together, scooped up into you. Big hands like Atlas, you look into me like I’m your world. My hair winds through your fingers. Burnt by the sun and this drought, corn silks kissing your cheeks; lips cooling the sun streaming from my chest.

There are moans caught in my throat stuck like stones making it hard to swallow, speak.