who made mean people?

Jeremy (3 1/2 year old) wants to know who made mean people. Short, preschool-tailored summary of the Nature-Nurture interplay quickly spilled out of my lips while my brain was thinking-"heck if I know. I used to think mean parents made mean people, but now that I'm a parent, I'm a little slower to point fingers. Perhaps mean kids make mean parents (JK!)". Lecture ended with- "and that's why when you spit at your brother you have to go to time out, so you won't turn out to be a mean person when you grow up. OK?" One point for me! 6 years of clinical psyc loans are finally paying off!

Satisfied with the explanation (but eager to move away from any reference to time out) Jeremy then wanted to know who invented dough, whether all coins he finds are his, and if it's really true that chocolate cows make chocolate milk-he's pretty sure that's a mommy joke, but is just checking... Short preschool-tailored summary of the scientific method followed (trial and error, invention out of necessity, how we discard ideas (and recipes) that don't work, don't taste good, etc.  (or kill people, says Nathan (5), like if you make chicken pot pie with poisonous mushrooms). Exactly, we do not make pies that kill people again, says mommy.  One point for the boys! (now they claim the "yucky" pot pie in front of them might have poisonous mushrooms. But candy is safe right?).

Good night all. I hear Nathan doing his ghoulish mid-night screaming (not sure if it's an eyelash in his eye or cramped leg muscles after swimming or a nightmare).  Gotta go. But first, an answer: children who interfere with their parents' sleep or creative expression may not actually make mean people out of cheesecloth, but they can certainly push  a perfectly nice mommy into grumpyness...

up past midnight again

This is not a poem. just a random entry. I was going to have a "Spring Yard sale" tomorrow to honor the ancient rite of cleaning and purging during this time of year (and get rid of what I'm told is "clutter"),  but my brother suggested at the 11th hour that we wait another week. By then, he reasoned, through the miracle of Craigslist, we may not have anything left to sell worth standing around in the sun all day for [grammar?].

The truth is that we were running a little late with our preparations (no signs, no permit, no change, and no lemonade and cookies for the boys to sell) And  even though I was saying "How silly, I know they're going to turn up in the funniest place (by "they" I meant the car keys for the car that was parked on the street where it would get a famous Pasadena over night ticket, thus adding to the not insignificant expense of holding a garage sale) as I emptied and repacked each one of the 30 boxes we had ready for tomorrow, my brother could tell I was about to cry from shear exhaustion. whew-was that a run on sentence or what. but how else could that have been said? It's a run on sentence kind of day.

Anyway. Here I am, at 2 am. the house is full of stuff to sell another day. My family sleeps, and most importantly-they are not asking anything of me. No "what, where, who, why, and how", no bring me milk, wipe my butt, clean the lint catcher, where's the flashlight, did you close the garage door. Nothing. It's finally quiet.

Problem is, I'm now too tired to write something interesting, too tired to get up and put socks on my feet or fetch a cup of tea. Only the fingers moving over the keys I learned to use during the Summer of '89, when I took a typing class (really, on an actual typewriter), at the local junior college. OK, feet still cold, but now I'm getting inspired.

This is how I learned to type (the important part of the story anyway):  My house was hot and noisy when I was in high school, and I wanted out, out of the house, out of my life as a recent immigrant, out of my social class assignment in this new country. So, with determination I have not been able to match easily since,  I found ways out, many ways out. I got a job in an air conditioned office, a law firm, actually.  I used part of the money from the job improve myself during the summers: I learned how to walk like a model, how to put on make up, what to wear, how to cook, and how to use WordPerfect back when you actually had to remember commands (F1 was something, F2 something else, etc).

I learned other things that Summer. One of these was how to manage my time. You see, my typing class ran from 10-11:30,  four days a week. I had to be at the law firm (where I worked under the table until my "green card" came through) at 1 p.m. My boyfriend's house was (almost) exactly on my way to work. So for about 8 weeks that Summer before college, I ran a most disciplined routine that went something like this: type, drive to J's, eat whatever he'd made, fool around, get dressed, drive, pray I don't get pregnant, answer phones or file papers away, pray I don't get deported.  Repeat, repeat, repeat. Perhaps take a break on Friday and go to the beach. 

I smile to remember that time, of not innocence exactly, but possibilities. The whole world lay ahead, and in it almost all good things waiting for us to just take them, aim high, make our dreams come true, and that sort of thing. The Summer of 89. I was truly alive then, in body and in soul, like they say (I actually saw a Descartesian differentiation then).

And now, it's true I don't fear deportation, I am not only a resident but a tax paying, garage sale-ing citizen. Pregnancy too has a different meaning for me now, something to be remembered fondly and with some reverence for the difficult spots, but not something that might ruin my life, my career, my reputation. And certainly (sigh), not something I have an opportunity to worry about on a daily basis.

And so, free of fear and Catholic guilt now, my fingers glide over the keyboard and chose letters that say what my brain is thinking, on autopilot now, since I, the self, the consciousness, is mostly focused on figuring out: "why are my feet so cold and my lips so dry. Shouldn't somebody do something about this?" And, as it often happens, I unwillingly admit that no one's coming to warm up my feet or give me some water. It's up to me now, completely, The grown up is me and the future is here.

So I make myself stop dreaming about furtive encounters of days gone by, and I make my fingers stop typing, and make my tired cold feet walk to the bathroom, where I make my hands brush my teeth, take out my contacts.  And then I walk to my bed, put on those warm socks, and make my brain not think-Is this it? Is this all there is and will be? And most importantly-how long does it take for feet to warm up? And I do pray, a prayer of sorts, directed at nobody in particular, really, just a hope. I pray that tomorrow will go smoothly in my suburban home, in my for now anyway comfortable life-just no fights, one day, no fights.  And as long as I am being greedy and unrealistic, in my wishes tonight, I  send a quick thought to my vegetable garden, and hope for rain not followed by snails.

The transformation in practice 1

I’ve washed this bowl a thousand times before,


A common,

insignificant

ordinary,

bowl.



I’ve washed this bowl a thousand times before,

a dirty,

grimy,

slimy

bowl,

full of cereal, rice, peas, sauce,

at times a symbol of oppression, a woman’s lot.


I’ve washed this bowl a thousand times before,

A bowl soiled with questions,

misguided thoughts

angst, loss, self-deprecation.


And now, after my Transformation,

I wash this bowl again

a chore done quickly, efficiently,

a small step to accomplishing a more important goal.


I wash this bowl this morning and baptize it with soap

And through the washing see IT

A simple, round, small, durable, bowl.


A bowl, free of its past,

Empty, without meaning, clean,

A bowl now Free to Gleam.

To Angie, On Easter

To Angie

Hypnotize me;
Lobotomize me;
Cut me in half.

Tranquilize me,
Re- programize me,
Tell me that I lie.

Tear down the curtains;
Re-route my thoughts;
Clean out the bugs.

The world is empty and meaningless.
The ground we stand on is fickle and sly.

Tell me I’m inauthentic;
Tell me that nothing’s true;
Tell me my life’s story I made up when I was two.

Tell me to call them;
Tell me to write;
Call me a nag, a drag, a cad.

Tell me when to sit,
Tell me when to walk,
Show me how to talk;

Make me laugh;
Make me cry;
Make me sob.

But (and) when you’re done, Angie,
tell me to open my eyes and stand tall;
Welcome me back to my life:
Leaner, Meaner, New,
Transformed.