Wake up.

Every morning I awake at 5:00, brew up some coffee and check my facebook while my eyes try to slam open and get ready for the new day.

This morning I hit my snooze button, which....I never EVER do.

I am not ashamed dear readers, to admit to you, the fact that I still have my happy cuppycake christmas tree standing on my bedside table.

Why?

Simply because Emma and I just were not ready to give it up. I have to say that the twinkly lights both make me happy, and serve as an UBER happy nightlight.

So at 5:10 am I jump out of bed...And by jump, what I mean is...I creak. But whatever, don't judge me.

I pee, brew coffee and head to the shower.

Between the pee and the coffee, I have started the dishes and then walked away because I forgot that I was doing them.
I plugged in my MP3 player and left it dangling off of my computer desk.
I let Karma outside to pee someplace that is not my house.

Today I am running late because of the fucking snooze.

I head out the door showered and zipped in my blue hoodie by 5:50.

I start my car up, (it squeals because it is so cold.) I mutter an apology to my neighbors, but it is halfhearted, since most of them have been up for 3 days straight....and head down the road with my body hunched all of the way in the passenger side because that is the only part of the windshield that I can see properly out of.

I pull up to Brandees at 6:05 and I meet her at her door. We do not talk. It is too early.

She smiles and I have to pee...AGAIN. I do so and her dog follows me into the bathroom. I greet her (Because she is my favorite) and she stuffs her head into my underwear while I pee. "Tinky! That is SO RUDE!" I say and she backs up. But not for 15 seconds.

We head out the door and walk with out ears stuffed full of music. From what I can tell, Brandee listens to a lot of old school and Fergie.

 I listen to Eminem, NIN and Tupac.

At the bottom of the hill, she snaps a picture of us both. We smile. I am wearing the chewbacca hat that Dinga gave me, and she is adorned in the rainbow sock monkey hat that Deanna gifted me with at Christmas time.
We don't usually where hats, but it is fucking freezing that early.

We point our water bottles at the top of the hill and away we go.

Today we see alot of men.

Men walking together, chatting about who knows what. I'm so curious that I want to follow them just to listen.

We see joggers without monkeys and chewbaccas on their heads. They smile at us.

We see a man walking with a newspaper, and Im confused but we keep walking.

When I change my music I can hear Brandee singing to funky comadina. (or whatever the fuck that song is)

 I smile. And flinch when a biker spins past.

Usually I can just walk and nod. But if perchance Tupac comes on, I cannot help it.
I try.

I reaaaaaally Try.

But I fail every time and spew out the lyrics to ONLY GOD CAN JUDGE ME.

I cannot help it.

I may be a honky, but I love Tupac.

And if Limp Bizkit comes on, forget about it. Not only will I sing, but I have to dance too.

While I walk I think about what is going on that day. I laugh at Brandee dancing and I watch the world wake up.

The moment.

"I CANNOT find the color I am looking for!" Brandee sighed under her breath.
It was a lady like sigh, and not like the ones that I do where there is a slight whining involved and a sort of epileptic movement.

"Let's look again."

I move to stand beside her and survey the array of hair color. I am looking for a bigger package, since she wants highlights.

Down and to the left we found it. It took 5 seconds by the way.)

We turned to survey the makeup isles. The shelves were ridiculously bare. Mandy kept coming up to us and offering Brandee different shades of eyeshadows.

I felt a tap on my shoulder and an incredibly short, INCREDIBLY pregnant woman stood there.

"Hello." she said in a very soft voice. "My children used to go...I don't know if you remember us..."

"Foofy!" I said

She smiled. "YES!"

Foofy's name, of course was NOT foofy. It was a nickname for a child that could not say anything other then "Foof" when we met him.

Dawn named him foofy, and quite like the name she named ME (Beanie) It stuck.

The first time I saw him, he was in the toddler room at KinderCare, and I worked in the Two's room. I would notice him sitting by himself and staring off into space.

Each day I would watch him.

He interested me.

At this time, I had only been working at Kinder care for maybe 6 months. During one of my breaks I opened the door and called out his name.

He did not react.

I picked up a hardbound book and threw it at his feet.

He did not react.

I crawled across the floor and lay down in front of him. I whispered his name, I said his name, I sung his name.

He did not react.

The teacher who was in the room with him, told me "He will never do anything." in a very negative voice.

I picked him up and he turned his head.
His body was still against my hands. I lifted him up over my head and his eyes connected with mine.

He smiled.

"There you are." I whispered to him, and I fell in love.

I would visit him often until he finally became a part of my classroom. Brandee was with me by that time, and we enjoyed teaching Foofy how to color.

OKAY. We tried to teach him how to color, but he would rather climb the beds and lay on the very very top one.
He would move his hand between the beds and watch everything from there. (He wasn't supposed to be up there, but we would let him stay up there as long as we could.)

Sometimes during art, he would steal a pencap and walk to the wall. He would put the pencap on his finger and move it over the wall. For an hour.

We would sing to him, and he would smile at us. But mostly only when I lifted him above me. That is when we would connect. For a moment.

Brandee and I finally knew we had to approach his mom about his behavior. But how?
Our boss got us the paperwork for Sierra Vista and  they handled the rest. Foofy eventually left our classroom and joined a special school for Autistic Children.

His mom now stands before me and I hug her softly so I dont squish the baby that resides inside of her.

She pulls out her phone and her fingers are shaking. She shows us pictures of him walking in the autism walk, dressed up for halloween and playing baseball last summer.

He looks the same. Just bigger.

He is 7 years old now, and I can hardly believe it.

She is almost in tears as she thanks us for loving her son. That she has never ever forgotten us, and that we changed his life.

"I think of you both often. You made such an impact in our lives.We have put him in so many different schools, but no one was like you. Thank you." Her eyes wetten and her lips tremble as she reaches in for another hug.


And this folks, is the moment.

The moment when your heart fills with pride and love for a child that you have not seen in 5 years. The moment when you realize that loving a child that is not your own, matters greatly.

Take a moment.

Definition of LOVE

1

a (1) : strong affection for another arising out of kinship or personal ties love

for a child> (2) : attraction based on sexual desire : affection and tenderness felt by lovers (3) : affection based on admiration, benevolence, or common interests <love for his old schoolmates>

b : an assurance of affection love>

2

: warm attachment, enthusiasm, or devotion <love of the sea>

I have been asking everyone that I know about Love.

When did they know they were in it. How long did it take to admit it. Who did the admitting.

I  love to hear the stories....To watch their cheeks pinken and thier eyes remember.
I love to watch their body language. A folding of the arms, a tilt to the head.
The smile that hitches the lips and the indrawn breath.

I love to see the long stares off into space as they remember that moment. That feeling.
Of awe, of fright....of Magic.

Do they recite a story told one too many times. Monotone voice and barely a hitch to their lips...

Or do they transform.

Eyes glazed over, fingertips on lips. Remembering the feel of the first kiss. Of the fright that sat in their belly. Of their throat tight with emotion. Or the disappointment. Do lips smile? Or teeth bite at them?

Did love creep up on them? Or were they begging for it. Asking for it. Did they NEED it to go forth and smile?

 It's all beautiful to me.

Take a moment.

To remember why you are where you are. Why do you fall sleep next to the one beside you? Push away the babies and the job that stresses you out. Peel back the day to day chores. Strip away the 20 pounds you have accrued....or shed.

Until you are raw....And remember.

 The touch of their hand against your skin and they way they look when they are knee deep in laughter. Head thrown back and throat squeezing around it.

The way their lips form the words that founded your life today. Why do your hands tangle in her hair each night as you sleep. Or fuck. Or both.

See the beauty founded. And don't forget it.

Duh.

I farted during circle time and Mason looked over his glasses at me. "Bless you butt."
Brooklynn giggled. Her smile eating her lips and her body shook and flopped over to the left.

"Thank you." I murmered to Mason as I sat Brooky upright again.

"When you say Bless You butt I laugh for 4 hours." Brooklynn giggled.

"But Mason said it this time."

"When Mason says Bless you butt I laugh for 3 minutes." She declared.

Her body still shook and her hair swung forward into her face.

And people wonder why I can spend the entire day with 4 year olds. DUH.

I do.

"I wish you were here with me. Watching the stars move like this. It is quite amazing."

"I will close my eyes, Tell me what they look like....so that I can see them too." He whispers into my ear.

I'm laying on my back, My head is cocked to the left, so that I can keep the phone in place. My hands are busy skimming the cool grass that shoots up from beneath dark, rich soil.

It is soft. Almost as soft as the curls on your head. (They do not clutch my fingers though, as your hair is want to do.)

The blades of the grass tickle my palms. Which, in turn, make goosebumps erupt along my forearms. I can almost feel the earth alive beneath me....feel the creatures, worms and beetles alike, push and nudge against the raincoat I am wearing.

My eyes gaze up to the sky. It is black. Like ink that has spilled from an inkwell. It spreads and spreads until the night is thick with it...Until the only thing that peeks through is the clean white paper beneath.
The whites of the wizened eyes of a thousand fathers peeking down upon me.

Wondering, why I am laying beside you like this.

Why do only our heads touch, while our fingers feel the grass beneath us.

There are roads and pathways built inside of those stars, passageways for Gods and deities. They are a thickening of stars. A cluster. Packed so close together that they resemble highways and byways and exits.

The stars move.

They dance with a heartbeat that matches my own.

Watch them move.

ThumpThump. ThumpThump. In cadence with me.

ThumpBump ThumpBump. In cadence with you.

BumpBump Bumpbump. In synchronicity they move.

But not all.

Not all.

Some stare in awe of us. Of the trees and of the grass. The changes that come and pass and do not take a billion years to do so.

Jealous eyes.

Eyes that watch us live and die...then live again. All in one blink of them.

Now close your eyes. And listen as the stream comes alive, as if on cue.

As if it has been waiting, with baited breath for us to close of one sense, and tune into that one.

Close your eyes.

"I am." is whispered into my brain.

And I hear it.

Do you?

The thick cool water bouncing off of the rocks.
You can almost hear the chill of it. The zing of the water slapping itself. Trying to stave off the winter oppression. The frost that will come in the night.

You can hear the suction of the water as it bite off chunks from the bank of the river. Greedily trying to make headway there, only to be denied that pleasure.  The river moves too fast, and it soon looses grip and slips and swirls beneath itself once again.

Hear the crickets sing to the moon. Grating with their legs and competing only with the hoot of a great own. The footstep of the mountain lion.

"I hear it"

Do you feel the wind as it slaps at your cheeks, pinking them. The air bites at your lips and causes them to chap.

Wind kisses, like hour kisses, make your mouth hurt.

The air tickles your eyelashes and moves through your curls. It whips my hair around us.
The earth steals our body heat, taking it deep inside and nestling it around the groundhogs and the ants.

We are cold. Chilled. Shivering.

"I feel it."

Now open your eyes and mash them all together.

The sight.

The sound.

The feel.

Look at the stars cutting across the galaxy...trying to find someplace to land.

Someplace hidden, where we can not watch.

They slide and fade and watch from over there. Only now they are invisible.

Do you see it?

"I do."

Mean it.

My children do not look like me, I think.

Shane looks exactly like his father, but his head....oh my his head. It is huge. I cannot get over it.

Emma looks like her daddy too. She has blonde hair from me, and blue eyes from my birth mother. But aside from that...nope.

If you talk to my children, or spend any time with them at ALL. THAT is when you see me. Their humor, their strength...their love of the gays..... ALL me.

There is a moment in every parents career as a parent, that fills them with insane pride. Better then any drug, is the pride that you get when your child is doing......something.

For Shane it is when he is on stage. I scream his name, my heart is full and I am amazed at his ability up there. INSANELY amazed at his skills. The first time I saw him in a play I was in awe of the feelings that coursed through my body. The chills his acting made pop out on my skin.

For Emma it has always been her brain, She is quite simply, a genius. She can outwit most adults, and she enjoys a good well thought out argument.

Yesterday we were lounging around at home and Emma was practicing her cups. If you have seen the movie pitch perfect then you know the song and the 'cup' playing that I speak of.

She was playing the cups and I was singing, trying to memorize the words to the song.

I kept getting them wrong and I asked her "Why don't YOU sing it."

Her eyes widened. "NO!"

"Why not?"

"I cannot sing! No mom I cannot. YOU do it."

"waitaminute. I can sing, and your brother can sing....so, by process of DNA I think you should be able to too."

She shook her head vehemently and her cheeks pinkened.

Emma has not mastered the art of never being embarrased, like her brother and I have.
It's sweet.

"Emma Elizabeth."

"Whaaaaat?"

"Just try. I won't look at you."

Her shoulder sagged, I turned my head and she started playing the cups.

At first she sang fast.

"Emma."

"What mooooooooom."

"Mean it."

*sigh*

And she did. She sang and played the cups while my head was turned to the wall.
I hushed my breathing so that I could hear her better.

Goosebumps ran along my skin. And tears popped into my eyes

Emma did not simply sing. She sang beautifully.

When she was done she stood there, a look of trepidation on her face. Tears ran out of my non-bell palsy eyeball.

"Why are you crying?!" she exclaimed

"Because you can sing! And I did not even know how beautifully."

I cried because I just saw, in my teeny tiny daughter, a piece of myself.
An important part of ME.
Something that has become imbedded inside of my soul.

I sing. ALL of the time, and I ALWAYS have.

I sang to myself when I was small, to quiet the screams of parents who fought.

I sung quietly to my 17 year old pregnant belly, that housed my precious sunshine.
I sang when he was small to get him to sleep.
I sing when my heart is broken and I need to coat it happiness and light to make everything better.
I sing when I am happy.
I sing when I do not even know that I am doing it at all.

And I hope, that music will strengthen her heart, give birth to dreams and live inside of her soul JUST as deeply as it does me.

Relationship Status: Without Penis.

I am confused by the part of Facebook that asks for your Relationship status. I do not consider myself single.  I am not one. I am three...plus Karma. So...three and some change.
I would like for my Facebook status to read: Without Penis.

Today while texting a 'friend', he kindly (*snort*) offered to set me up.

Me: Sure... make fun of sad sexless Beanie.

Him: I could set you up.

Me: I'll shank you.

Him: You'll thank me.

Me: NO THANK YOU!

Him: Your loss

Me: Yep, and I'm cool with that.

And I am.

I feel sad for women who wait day after day for "The man who will change my life. Who will complete me."
My question: Why can't you change it yourself? What are you waiting for?...why are you not complete?...I'm confused.

Now that I put that out there, let me explain....I do not mock love. Believing in it or living in the thick of it. I LOVE love.

I love watching it happen all around me. I believe in it, most definitely. I JUST believe that my most wicked awesome imaginary man does not exist.

On Friday Brandee and I stopped off at her house, to let her out and for me to take the wheel.

This time though, I hopped out of the car and followed her inside. Mandy had called on our drive home, and she was "Sooooooo excited" about something that she had bought Brandee.

I am nosey...and so I followed her inside.

Mandy leaped off of her chair and ran outside for the gift. Brandee lifted her shoulders and whispered "What did she buy for me?" Her look was one of...concern. Probably because all the way home I convinced her that Mandy bought a puppy, which, would not be a gift for Brandee at all.

Mandy hurried back inside and held a bag out to Brandee. She opened it and the look on her face changed from one of confusion...to one of ...awe.

"Ohhhh my god." she whispered.

Mandy smiled and hurried back to her chair. It was cold in the house, and she replaced the blanket back over her legs.

"I went to the thrift store to find toys for the boys and I saw one....I dug in the bin for an hour, looking for more."

Brandee just breathed in slowly and opened the cover to her favorite childhood book series. Her hand slide over the cover and she let the pages flip slowly open.

"It's my favorite books!" She excitedly stammered. "I haven't seen these in forever!"

Mandys face beamed and Brandee hurried over to thank her with a hug and a kiss.

 "And THAT my friend, is LOVE." I said as I turned tword the door to make my exit. They waved their goodbyes and as I stood by my car and glanced inside their window, I saw Brandee bounce up and down on the cushion of their sofa.

I stood there for a few moments, smiled and Soaked in that amazing feeling of love surrounding those whom I love.

SO until I find my:
incredibly tall,
incredibly well dressed man
who rarely smells bad,
leaves the bathroom door CLOSED after he takes a dump,
has a respectable job,
is NOT an alcoholic, drug (or porn) addict,
who does NOT shave his armpits, but DOES trim up his neither regions (really...that is just polite, right?) who is Hilariously funny,
Amazing with children,
intelligent,
not bald,
does not have a hairy chest,
Is not a fattie (Go figure right)
Who loves to read, conversate and fuck...

...then this is all the love that I need. The love of my friends and family.

SO when you feed me, shop with me in your jammies (Simply because I am)
have sword fights with me in restaurants, ask how my Chewbacca that Mason gave me is, Accept the fact that I will go out in public WITH said Chewbacca and make him wave to everyone,
Go to all of my sons plays, answer all of my questions, understand what "bless you butt" means, Understands me when I speak YODA, or better yet, talk back to me like him too,

 .... That's you loving me. And THAT, my friends, is all I really need.

Twinkle (Archive 12-04-08)

When I was small the one thing I remember most about Christmas was the sparkle of it.
The twinkle, the glitter, the glow.

My parents would bring home a Christmas tree and each of us 4 children would get our own box of tinsel. We would gob, and splatter and drag it down the branches.
We would throw it and place it and hide it in the thick, green boughs of our Christmas tree.

Our trees were always fat and thick and rich smelling.

Our lights were big rainbows of color.

My step-mother would open the box of decorations and we would smile and glow with glee. The kids were in charge of the Christmas tree, you see, and it always ended up sparkly and messy.

Happy and rich with color.

There were always entirely too many red ornaments placed in one single clump and it was never orderly or perfect.

It was happiness.

I find myself each year looking for that happy mess. That perfect mix of clump and color.

We would bake cookies and fudge rich with nuts. We would bow our heads at dinner, my eyes were always drawn to our tree. A Christmas tree is one of my earliest memories.

And the feeling I remember is excitement.

Happiness.

On Christmas morning our living room was transformed into a child's dream. stocking and presents both wrapped and unwrapped.

Every year I would get one of these giant dolls with yarn hair and rosey cheeks. It seemed each year the one I got was bigger then the last.

The plastic had a distinctive smell, and it would always be perched on top of the highly stacked gifts.

My breath was always lost on Christmas morning. Our tree seemed taller with the packages littering its feet, like some old queen, dried and done. But still sparkling.

Still towering.

Brittle and fading.

The lights, still lit brightly, as if they were the jewels that adorned her.

This is what I look for every year. This is what I work for.

This,That was never thought about, it was simply done.

By small hands but bigger imaginations.

The magic.

The twinkle.