Daddy.

I want to be showered with confection.
I want powdered sugar to land on my face like snowflakes from a Sweet source.
I want to lay down in fields of cotton candy daisies
and eat them, petal by petal.
You love me, You love me not.
I want to bask in the sunshine of your loving
as if it were only for me
and to feel it soaking into my skin
like a suntan.
I want to wear skirts made of pink tule
layers and layers of pink tule
and tiaras that you bought for me
at the state fair.
And I want you to hold my hand and notice that I
am by your side.
And want me there.

Hematoma

This thing appeared on his head immediately, all blue and alarming, after taking a header into the coffee table. I held him and tried to soothe him as he wailed and wailed and wailed, his legs kicking me as his body twisted in pain. My friend brought me the bag of pees and I pressed them against his head and realized that in doing so I had become my son's torturer. He looked at me with eyes full of confusion and terror: Why is my mother hurting me? Why is she doing this to me? I released him from my lap and he backed away from me, a good four or five steps. Big, thunderous sobs still wracking his little body, he surveyed the faces of those in the room, searching for safety. He looked at my friend and then at her husband and then back at me and fear registered on his face. "Everyone in this room is out to get me," he thought. "They ALL want to hurt me! They're all crazy like my mother!" He ran over to his diaper bag and tried to find something to comfort him there. He settled on his knit beanie since I had forgotten his blankie at home and stumbled back into my lap. And as I scooped him up again to rock him in the comfort of my arms, my friend's seven year old daughter said- with such genuine compassion and tenderness that it took my breath away- "Poor Jack. I wish I could take his place."

You Know What the Monty Python Boys Always Say...

My backyard looks like the Easter Bunny went on a bender last night and threw up all over my patio. But it was just Jack, feeling his artist wings and doodling with sidewalk chalk. He has been totally engaged with this new expressive medium, chalk on patio (and walls and chairs and slide and sandbox and sliding glass doors and Berber's curtains and couch), and loving it so much that he's been eating it. He's now ingested so much sidewalk chalk that I called my pediatric nurse friend just to make sure he wasn't going to develop some crazy chalk-borne disease. No, she said. Just purple poo. Which he had. Which was weird.

I know it's been pretty depressing around here lately, my blog becoming a place where good moods go to die. But I'm deciding to shift gears a little bit and take a word of advice from my friend Traci who- in much nicer words- said, "Shut the fuck up with your whining already!" And as if I needed to hear it again, I pulled some cards for myself the other day and one of them read this:

Stop isolating yourself and dwelling on your misery and go outside. See the Divine all around you. Focus on the beauty, power, and holiness that nature affirms. Breathe in the Divine. You are in God and God is in you.

So, this post is my attempt to move out of the dwelling on the misery part of things into more of the beauty, power and holiness part of things. Or, at the very least, to the funny part of things. Funny, I can do.

I mean, purple poo is funny.

Bloom.

It's cold and gray here in San Diego, like my mood. I lost my job and my crush and I feel uninspired. I'm finding it hard to trust that if I just keep pushing I'll hit sunlight. I'm growing tired of hitting my head against a rock.

I want to feel the sun. I want to unfurl and grow tall, open the soft petals of my heart toward the world and allow myself to be seen. I want to be embraced and loved and caressed, scooped up and my scent inhaled into the body of another.

The effort of life is making me weary. I am tired of efforting. I want to be tugged along by the natural flow of a life of ease but instead I flail and thrash around. I'd like to find that current, the one that I can maneuver and stay afloat in, and feel myself hit my stride. But maybe that's a fantasy fueled by motivational speakers and spiritual infomercials. I don't know.

I'm ready, God. I'm ready to really take off. I'm tired of this small town living. I'm ready for my big break, that one role that gives me the leg up into the industry of my life. So go talk to your people and then get in touch with my agent.

Thanks,

Amber.

Best Comment Contest

Guess what, everybody? I found Jesus! He was in my inbox.

This was posted in response to my Dear Jesus letter:

Dear Amber:

I can't help you, because I don't exist. If I did exist, it would probably be a much nicer world. But, you should you get out of incredibly small mindset, look around, and realize believing in a deity makes absolutely no sense at all. Intelligent people don't believe in god - amber, are you intelligent?

Sincerely,
Jesus

Here are a few of the ideas that I went through my mind in response to Jesus:

Jesus,
Como Estas? Tu Ingles is muy bien. Puedes cantar, tambien? Mucho gusto Tijuana por tequila barato y los discos. Te gustas tequila? Gracias por leyendo mi blog, Mantequilla de Cacahuete y Cigarillos.

~or~

Jesus,
How can you be writing me if you don't exist? Maybe if I wasn't so unintelligent this would make sense...

~or~

Jesus,

Welcome to my blog. Maybe you should take a quick look around to get to know who you're shooting off at the mouth at before you spread all of your issues around. Because, if you had you would discover that I employ something called irony every once in a while in order to make my writing a bit more interesting and fanciful. You should look it up- I provided a link. Furthermore, to state that one is small minded and unintelligent to believe in a deity is, well, small minded and unintelligent. While there are god-believing people who live their lives with little self-awareness and stubborn ignorance (like this guy and this guy and this guy) who would easily prove your point, there are also people like this and this and this who have changed the world through their brilliance, consciousness, and their belief in-yes- God.

Yet, I know that there are so many more brilliant responses that could be made to Jesus and to have just one or two or even three just doesn't seem to be enough. So, I have decided to host a Best Comment Contest to allow all of you to join in on the fun! Please submit your comment to Jesus and allow the creativity (and profanity) to flow! More than one submission is encouraged! A winner will be chosen and a grand prize awarded! Comment away, bloggers!

Bite me, Alpha mom.

I just got should on all over by an alpha mom in the parking lot of my favorite Mexican food market. She ambushed me as I approached my car, totally unaware of the surprise attack hiding in the minivan. And she got me, right where I am weakest: in the you're-a-bad-mother-artery. It could have been a fatal blow, had I not come off of a great day with Jack.

This was not the post I had anticipated writing this evening. I was going to write about how I took Jack to the beach today and how we played in the sand. I was going to write about how I realized that I live a charmed life where days like today exist; days where the sun is shining a glorious 75 degrees in early February, where I have a whole afternoon to waste burying my son's feet in the sand, where I wear long, flowy skirts and flip flops and feel like I am part of the earth, itself. I was going to write about how, in a moment of inspiration, I realized that I am living the life that I want to live and feelings of not-good-enough and lack were chased away by gratitude.

I drove home from the beach, sunkissed and sandy, and it dawned on me that the perfect ending to this summery winter day would be to bar-b-que carne asada in my backyard. So, Jack and I ran a few errands (including three movie rental stores to find the very coveted Elizabeth, the Golden Age) and then stopped by La Tortilleria, a convenience store by my house that always has perfectly marinated carne asada and just-ripe avocados. Because I found a parking spot right in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, and because I knew I would be less than five minutes, I decided to leave Jack in the car. I have done so before, like every other mother I know, because I understand that the difficulty of getting Jack out of the carseat and into a stroller and then back out of the stroller and into the carseat is greater than any risk there may be of leaving him safe in my locked car. However, momma bear parked next to me felt otherwise.

I came out of the market to find her craning out of her minivan window and looking at Jack (who, by the way, was happily playing with a toy). "Is that your baby?" she asked when she saw me walking to my car. "Yes," I responded, ready to hear the usual Oh, he's so cute or I remember when mine was that small... Instead: "You really shouldn't leave your baby in the car."

"Oh, I know-" I started, jovially.

"It's illegal," she said, with false concern and very sincere superiority. "Not only is it illegal, but it's very unsafe. She could suffocate in there!"

I stared at her, dumbstruck. Was she really doing this to me?

"Ma'am, I know you love your baby, but someone could come and kidnap her and you would never see her again. She could be in Tijuana before you knew it!"

Feeling defensive and very annoyed, I threw my avocados and carne in the passenger seat and said, "Okay, thank you. Goodbye."

She continued. "It's illegal to leave your baby in the car, even for a minute. You just never know what could happen."

I slammed the passenger door and walked away, shocked by how condescending this woman was. Who the hell does she think she is? And what the fuck does she know about me? Does she know that I have spent the last year and a half of my life giving up everything I am, everything I know, everything I do to be available and present for my son? Does she know that I spent eleven months not sleeping so that my son would feel safe and cared for in the middle of the night? Does she have a fucking CLUE that I gave up my career and became a nanny so that my son could spend the first years of his life with his mother nearby? Does she know what kind of mother I am? Apparently not, because if she did she would have stopped to shake my hand.

"Don't get mad at me because I pointed out that you are doing the wrong thing to your child! It's not safe to leave her in there," she shouted. "It's ILLEGAL!"

"It's none of your business," I said back, leaving much unsaid. "Goodbye!" She let out a big sigh of exaggerated frustration, rolled her eyes and drove away. I got in my car and realized I had a choice. I could let this superior-mom-mugging ruin my day or I could say, fuck you, you crazy bitch and go home and eat some carne asada with my son.

It was some good carne.

I'll have another long island, please.

I don't miss Jack. I've been gone for five days and I could stay gone a lot longer. Now, I don't mean to beat a dead horse, but I am sure that this means that there is something wrong with me as a mother. I know mothers who had to come home early from their vacation because they missed their kids so badly. I know mothers who refused to take jobs that required that they travel becuase they didn't want to be away from their children. I was just reading a post about a woman who was "dying to get back to see my kids" while she was on her vacation.

Me? Not so much dying to see my kid. More like dying to extend my travel plans. I know I shouldn't compare myself to other moms but I'm just trying to find my way here.

Being away from Jack these past few days has made it clear that I am ready to go back to work. For those of you who don't know, I have been working as a nanny for a family with three toddlers and bringing Jack with me to work. So, it's all day, every day, babies all the time. I believe that this is greatly contributing to my insanity. The idea of putting on nice clothes - a suit, heels, and jewelry as opposed to yoga pants and spit-up Tshirts - and driving to my office to sit across from clients sounds SO glorious. No Dora the Explorer. No Candyland. No looking for snails. No diaperchanging. No kissing of booboos or explaining why to a three year old. Going back to work as a therapist sounds so civilized.

So, in between the glasses of long island iced teas, sleeping in until noon, and taking naps at three in the afternoon, I have been sending my resume all over San Diego county, begging for someone to employ this burned out momma. It's been a great week, and I'm not ready for it to end. But I have faith that the tides are turning, that I will once again like my son, and that all will be well. All is well.

Lisa and I wrapped as Carrie's birthday presents, deliverd to her door.It was a fantasy fulfilled to pop out of wrapping paper and yell, SURPRISE! (Hey, notice the dystonia hand)Yeah! Cheerleader clap!The ladies, out on the town. Becky, Lisa, Carrie (looking quite royal, or bridal, maybe), me and Jhyle.Mandy and I gettin jiggy with it. It's hard to look at this picture. In my head, I looked a lot better.I have no idea.