hey selkie.

hey.

right now you are sitting in the bathtub, sobbing quietly to yourself. your big blue eyes are red from crying, and every once in a while when you catch my eye you stick out your lower lip, as if to emphasize your plight.

you miss your big brother.

he just left for a five-day trip to Washington, D.C. with his class. he's going to see so much stuff, little girl, it's pretty amazing; and it's not even going to be that cold.

ten minutes ago i watched you guys say goodbye to each other. you threw your stick-arms around his neck and cried into his chest, saying "i'm going to miss youuuuu" over and over, while your 11-year old brother blinked back his tears and responded in kind. since he walked out the door, you have repeated how much you miss him already five times.

"i want him to come baaaaaack" is your latest plea.

i'm doing my mom-thing here, saying "i know" and "take a deep breath"--lots of back rubbing and cuddling to ease the pain. the truth is, i'm a little shell-shocked myself at the thought of that kid being gone away from us for so long.

i'm all for it, you know. someday you'll go on these kind of trips, too, and it will feel right for you, just as i know it does for milo. i know he's ready for it. this past week was peppered with breakdowns and anxiety in between moments of clarity and excitement, although since he comes from me he'd never actually admit that part. he's scared, and he's going to miss us, miss you, little girl, so much, but he's going to have a great time, and i know he can do it.

and we'll be okay too.

you might not remember this later in your life, if you have my memory; then again, you might remember every detail of this night, such as the fact that despite my best efforts there will be no bubbles in your bath. you might remember that milo had soup and bread before he left, then proudly told us he dropped a big poop so that we could remember him by his smell. you might look back and feel yourself hugging him so tightly, convinced that if you could just lock him into you, there would be no letting him go.

i hope you do remember, for reals. because watching you two tonight was one of the proudest moments of my life. no matter what, you two love each other, and he takes care of you like no other. he'll do anything for you. like today, when he spent some of his xmas money buying you a littlest pet shop wii game. you might think lots of big brothers do that for their sisters.

you might think that, but you'd be wrong.

your brother has a generosity of spirit that has lived in him since the second he started to breathe on this planet. you are touched by this. he has taught you well.

i miss him so much, right now. i wish we could hear him playing the recorder in the room next door, the very sound that i curse at most nights of my life.

he's a really good person, selkie. and so are you.

let's take good care of each other this week, ok? i'll be good to you, and you be good to me.

in the meantime, little girl, i'll think of your big brother right now, sitting in the backseat of the car on the way to the airport, calling on every reserve of strength and self-confidence that he has to make it through another goodbye before he embarks on this journey. those big blue eyes that are yours are also his, and i can see him looking out the window at the lights of Los Angeles, knowing he's leaving this place for a while.

chop.

when in doubt, i cut my hair.

this week has been full of things i can't control, full of seconds that swirl around me like dervishes, filled with all-things nervous and anxious and upset.

you will often find me in moments like this moving furniture around. rearranging books. working on some long-forgotten knitting project.

if this time also coincides with the bit of me that feels old-ish, unpretty-ish, unattractive-ish, then you will find me contemplating cutting my hair.

i don't actually go through with it each time the mood strikes me. a good friend once told me to ride out the wave of hair-change-longing, just to see what was really at the root of the craving. usually it was mired in self-doubt, loathing. not being able to see past the ugly and rely on the pretty that always lives in me.

sometimes, though, a haircut is the only thing to get me through my cloudy head that is filled with naughtiness. you know, being bad to myself in the way that only i can.

and the risk of a haircut (bad, loss of cool status, look like a mom) is worth the possibility of walking out of the door with a clear mind and a new outlook.

the weight of me, just lifted. scissored away for a bit.

in now.

today i sat with my fellow teachers as we listened to a emergency-preparedness expert tell us about how to be when the shit goes down.

i heard him talk of the big earthquake that will hit us soon, bigger than we can imagine--shaking for more than 2 minutes. he spoke about shooter protocol, lockdown, doors barricaded by tiny kindergarten chairs, amassing whatever weapons we could find, such as pencils, pens, notebooks...

he talked about fires burning up the school, children laying crushed under bookcases, toxic blood to protect ourselves against.

i sat there with my hands folded, prayer-style, just trying to keep the panicky feeling of dread at bay. trying to rationalize my sadness. trying to ignore him whenever he said, "i'm just telling you this because this is the world we live in now."

the world we live in now.

i swung back and forth between trying to be reasonable and trying not to lose it. i hung onto the "why am i still here in this fucking state" hook and meshed it with the "we don't have a will-a plan for earthquakes at home--any money saved for retirement--the bookcases could fall on the dogs--climate change is killing us all and we don't even fucking care--" while the guy told those of us who took medication to have three days' worth on hand at school, just in case.

just in case. just in headcase. in case of emergency, please break glass.

i'm okay.

i realize that this world of ours is only what it is. that i am all i am, just here, just breathing it all in, doing the best i can with this moment right now, or the moment that happened as soon as i walked in my door, where both of my children met me in tears over wronged monopoly moves and sadness that clay has left. that moment i could handle. i handled it. i took the kids in my arms and just covered my body over theirs, wrapping my legs over their torsos, trying to keep them as tightly wound to me as i could, if only for that moment.

this world of ours is big and scary and sad, sad, sad, sad. i am always one tiny little leap away from reeling in that feeling, that awareness. i keep it at bay, but i have to acknowledge it as well. i am part of this ocean, too; part of all the waves of sorrow and fear that encompass us all, and to deny that part of myself would be denying that piece of the world.

i will lay in bed tonight, trying to drift off to sleep, and i know i will have that thought about my little piece of this place, the one that is with me today... "is there going to be an earthquake right now? right . . . now? right NOW?" i will try not to worry about my children twenty feet away from me or my dogs in the living room, sleeping under the tall bookcases, not knowing about the danger that is hovering right over them. i will try. i will try. i will try.

for now, though, i will snuggle in this next moment with my children, listening to the same two coldplay songs they've heard for the past four years, trying to synch my breathing with their heartbeats, knowing that we are safe together.

this world, right now. that's what it will look like tonight.

there is a moment every single day when i stand there staring at my darling little girl while she throws an ungodly fit about one thing or another and i think, "what is this creature i see before me? and what poison has seeped into her brains, causing her to lose all sight of reality, logic and consequence? who has made off with her understanding of how easy it is just to agree, acquiesce, accept?

and i breathe before i yell at her again.

and then later i am able to realize that the stubbornness that kicks my ass daily--the very trait that i loathe about her right now--this is the thing, the very thing, that will illuminate her strength to the world around her. she'll be a beacon of power.

and oh, how she shines her mad, mad light these days.

sometimes

sometimes she feels just like the succulent on the shelf.

the morning sun warms her up and makes her feel young again, despite the broken leaves and cat hair that covers her.

she feels not desperate, not needy.

she feels a bit ravaged and broken, but alive nonetheless, and grateful to her roots for the morning light.

sticky web.

so i make a meal and it is a mild failure.
so i tell my children to give me a fucking break.
so i stew in my own wallowness of what's-wrong-with-me-and-us-and-the-world.

where is my groove?
where are my people?
where can i find the constancy i crave?

why can't i see it here, arm's length away from me?
why am i riddled with guilt?
why am i my own punching bag?

how can my daughter eat while running around on the furniture, and what kind of parent am i to not be able to stop her?

there are things that are mild, worthless. there are thoughts that make it necessary for me to shut down my brain. there are many, many, many worse things in the world.

last night i dreamed we were inundated with lice, giant lice attacking us. i woke up in yet another swamp of cold sweat, wondering where all the good sleep has gone. what have i done to deserve this?

i am so tired of all the questions. i know there is a simple answer, which is to just shut the hell up and listen. the answers present themselves every moment, yet i seem to be too dense to let them penetrate me.

i wonder what its like to always be the happy one.

i yearn.

these little ramblings are not worthy of me, nor are they worthy of you, reader, but i hope you can find the compassion to know they are not all of me. just a glimpse, a passing car that speeds by you in the wrong lane. not worthy of your time, but grateful nonetheless for the fact that you spotted me and saw something, anything, that might live on the common tangled web between us.