Wallflower Writing

It’s not easy to admit when we’re on the rocks.

You’re raising kids and you’re the last thing on each other’s task list.

It’s easy to pose for pictures, pick a filter, and get them posted up on Insta.

Not as easy to pretend you’re happy when your husband seems less interested and your kids are plotting against you.

Because who has time to play tit for tat, or getting in the sack, when there are butts to wipe and order to maintain.

It’s less challenging to go to bed early than to risk being touched by the partner we love; because you’re tired of being needed or maybe, your breasts are still leaking.

You don’t share that loving gaze like you did when you were 25; you’re both exhausted with kids, work, and life at home in general.

Now, you don’t struggle over “how it should be” anymore.

Because now, you know what you can depend on.

And you know every single time it comes down to “each other.”

He’s still the first thing you think about in the morning; she’s the family’s full-time director, dedicated, and stitched together with grace.

Part of loving someone is understanding that you won’t always like them; it’s accepting that you won’t always be likable either.

It gets better with small battles, and even better with time; it takes commitment and growth.

You’re not just raising children, as you are evolving, you’re continuously raising each other.

So, don’t fight without saying “I’m sorry,” and don’t go to bed without kisses.

Never leave the house without saying “I love you.” Especially now.

It’s totally okay to be on the rocks.

When the foundation cracks and your love still stands: you will see that together, you’re made of stone.

My eyes crossed when I read the message: “We have a confirmed Covid-19 case in our infant/toddler room…”

I think before I came full circle, I exited my body and had a full blown argument with myself out there in elsewhere.

Why did you let her go back?
Why did you take her to the park?
What if that sneeze had an alternative agenda?

The “new normal” comes with a learning curve; I call it “elsewhere.”

What could I have done better?
What did the staff do wrong?
Who do I have to contact?
What comes next?

But before I came back to my body and got myself together, the staff made a plan.

Before I could ask the 71st question as a mother of 1, they had all the answers as caregivers of 20+.

Before I had to get a swab shoved up my nose to assume my freedom (and my sanity), they quickly lined up to have swabs shoved up theirs.

All I’m really trying to say is the place that you drop your kids off at each day is more than just a day stop.

Especially now, while they’re operating with much more scrutiny, and double the grace.

Your kids are their kids and they’re following a higher standard out there in this “new normal” – for the same pay.

So, if you see those dreaded words and happen to leave your body for a moment- I hope that it’s gratitude that you circle back to.

Just like it’s gratitude I am feeling today.
Because it’s scary out there in elsewhere.

And we are so lucky for the caregivers who withstand what they are withstanding, just for the love of our children.

When someone gives you a book it means they trust you enough to invite you into their world; they believe in your imagination and they’ve gifted you a passport to explore.

When someone gives you a book it might mean they believe in your future. It could mean they want you to read in between the lines.

When someone gives you a book, they’re adding to your collection of knowledge and time. It means they believe you’re worth the read.

When someone gives you a book they are giving you the gift of all time. They understand that stories live on forever; and have gifted you a faithful friend.

When someone gives you a book it means they share thoughts and ideas close to your own it. It could mean ‘I see you.’ and ‘I feel you.’ – or perhaps – “I am you.”

When someone gives you a book, they care about your time and how you spend it; they want you to know that it’s words and time, literally the *thought* that always counts.

When someone gives you a book, you should really thank them.
Because when someone gives you a book they are telling you they love you.

And the size of the heart of a person who chooses to give you a book – will almost always match the adventure between its covers.

“Someday there will be a moment when you can’t recall a moment – so go ahead and give yourself a brief remember.

There will be a time when no thought you can think will bring back yesterday, so please – take a brief remember.

One day each of your own will walk out of that door and into their own, so I challenge you- take in a brief remember.

There will be a life after this, where only your stories outlive you, and they cannot exist unless you speak them into existence.

So go ahead, speak it and take a short remember.

Remember what made you.

Remember the good.

Remember the bad.

Remember each moment.

Remember to that tomorrow is not promised.

Speak of today- tomorrow, of your past when you remember.

Of the stories, the people and places.

Just remember.

That you were lucky for today, and doubly for the chance of tomorrow.

So very lucky for each brief remember.”

Writing and Rhetoric: Anonymous

I am 4 years old and I spend my time with my grandma while my dad is working. She is my first memory of feeling loved – truly loved – as a child should be.

She lets me play and imagine.

She redirects me in a calming way when I can’t help in being but mischief and brown hair. I eagerly burst through her front door and the sound of it closing brings comfort.

The day stretches out but as early morning turns into early afternoon, I start to feel sick, act out, get a tummy ache, and need more attention. It’s almost time to get picked up and go home.

I don’t want to go home.

Can’t I just stay here forever? I can’t say these thoughts out loud and I don’t understand what I am feeling.

Back at home the front door closes and the yelling starts.

I don’t know what I did wrong, but it must have been a crime worse than murder because I’m being yelled at so fiercely that I wet myself on the doormat. Now I’m being yelled at harder because I made a mess. I could clean it up myself but I am frozen in place because I am so scared.

I am trapped and I am small.

I am nearly thrown down the dark basement stairs and there I sit at the bottom as the door closes. It’s dark and cold but it’s quiet and I feel safe at the bottom of the stairs. I had a puppy that got into some antifreeze down here and I wonder if her ghost lingers in this damp space. I pretend she keeps me company.

I sit in the dark for what feels like hours but also feels like not long enough – he hasn’t forgotten that I exist, and that is what I silently hope for.

I am a fast learner, I quickly realize what to never do and what to never say. I learn to be seen and not heard. I learn to smile in public and if I do a good enough job acting the part, then behind closed doors it won’t be so bad.

He uses the love that children inherently have for their parents and my fresh fear of abandonment to manipulate me.

I guess I don’t really know how to do anything right. I never know what will happen behind closed doors.

I am in first grade and I am having trouble with math. I need help counting pennies and I am not understanding what is expected of me so the pennies get whipped at my face. As I start to cry I am ordered to clean them up. I finish the homework and I never ask for help behind closed doors again.

I never ask for help in public either. I learn to figure it out on my own.

It’s very hard to be perfect but I sure try, because behind closed doors I am the reason for my fathers pain and anguish; maybe if I’m perfect he will be happier.

I look like her, you see.

As my brown hair grows more unruly and my big brown eyes shine brighter, I am sure he sees her face instead of my own. I am told from well-meaning grown ups that I look just like her. Inside I get that tummy ache feeling. He hates her. I look like her. He hates me too, but I don’t understand that feeling either.

As I get older I have the freedom to close my bedroom door and it stays closed.

Behind closed doors I now have my own space and there I sit. Alone. But it’s quiet and I eventually learn to hate the sound of someone knocking on the other side. I am being summoned to be yelled at or being summoned to be his pseudo-wife.

There are tasks to preform and it’s up to me to keep the whole show running. I never really get any peace behind closed doors.

I live in a nice house and I am clothed and fed. I get good grades. I don’t make mistakes. I don’t rock the boat. I don’t know how to relax. I have headaches all the time. I am shy and reserved. I am polite and I respect my elders. I am an all-American girl and from the outside looking in he is worthy of praise for doing such an outstanding job.

If only you could have seen what it was like behind closed doors.

Maybe you would have helped.

Now I am grown and he can’t hurt me anymore. I still have anxiety and while I want to shout from the rooftops about what happened behind all those closed doors, I am held in place by fear.

I deserved it, don’t you see? That’s what he made me think.

But that doesn’t make sense.

I look at my own children and I can’t fathom treating them that way.

I catch myself raising my voice and losing my cool because this is the example I was shown growing up. This is how children must be handled, clearly. Except…that’s not right.

So, I shut that door.

I start to turn up the volume on the voices in my head that quietly whisper away the doubts.

I feel the pennies hit my face.

I listen to the girl at the bottom of the basement stairs.

I feel the tummy aches.

I won’t treat my children that way because they do not deserve that.

I shut that door. Because children don’t deserve that.

And when it finally closed, the voices behind it whispered to me – “neither did you.”

Motherhood is honey.

Moms are flowers, and our children, busy little honeybees.

And if there’s one thing I have to say about honey?

Ain’t nobody got time for the sticky mess it comes with.

Yet, we still stick our hands right in the honey jar.

Because it’s sweet and because it makes life interesting.

It is literally what makes the world go round- honey bees and mother’s.

No mommies, no babies.

No bees, no honey.

We take life’s stings with a grain of sugar, not salt.

Because we’re teaching our little bee’s about kindness.

About the sweetness of life.

We don’t always unveil the complicated work it takes to prepare the hive. 

Or what it takes to be the queen.

We just do it.

The keeping of bees is a lot like the keeping of children.

It’s delicate and complicated.

And motherhood?

It’s all the buzz.

Motherhood is honey. 

And really, there is nothing sweeter.

• 

We were taught grammar and language.

Nobody mentioned the proper navigation of emojis and social media would be equivalent to our social ranking.

That a heart, thumbs up or a like button could make us feel fulfilled.

Most of us were taught to socialize and interact and do as we were taught.

Not that the weight of a computer click could change somebody’s life.

Or end it.

In a world of grey area, we were taught not to search for black and white – that there *is no* difference between the two.

So, now – we are so privileged we cannot see what that difference is.

Just because it’s what we were taught, doesn’t mean it’s how it should be.

If a fortune teller told you it was going to be this way, would you have listened?

Anything that might come across as magical, is automatically taken for crazy.

But we cannot continue to settle for convenience.

Mixing black and white was a pivot for mankind.

Identifying that magical balance of life inside of the “grey area” unveiled- hope for a new kind of normal.

For one race: The human race.

But with all the unnoticed red flags and blaring warning signs, I can’t help but suggest that our new normal needs adjusting.

Everyday feels more like 1955 and as for Rosa Parks…

She still sits on that bus.

But instead of writing about it in history books – we pick up our phones and tape her.

Instead of sitting next to her, we drop a heart reaction. 

Now, it’s more rebellious to be empathetic than it is to break the law.

Another hashtag nobody prepared us for.

I’m sad to say a fortune teller can’t tell you what science and history already have.

We must do more then listen.

In a world where we’re beginning to think for ourselves, it is vital to speak up.

Be better.

Do better. 

Open up your eyes.

Extend your arm.

Take a seat on the bus.

At your greatest opposition, you must face yourself and make a choice.

Put the phone down. Eyes up.

You were taught to be the change you wish to see in the world.

It’s time to rise up and be it.

He wants me all the time.

Tied up messy bun, old t-shirts, sweat pants, and kitty cat slippers – sexy as a mother.

I fry the bacon in this kingdom, and he’s my butt-grabbin’ king.

30 looks good on him.

He’s got the gift of bad dad jokes and I’ve got the curse of curves.

It works.

I don’t move like I did at age 23, probably never will again.

My goods sag a little lower now, but they still look good to him.

He saws logs when he sleeps and I’m verbally aggressive in mine.

But we go together.

And he wants me all the time.

I don’t hate having cold coffee.

I don’t hate being needed.

I don’t hate being in demand.

I don’t hate being a stacking tower. 

I don’t hate missing breakfast – or even the fighting back.

I don’t hate being the one to get picked first everytime a hand needs holding or a street needs crossing.

I don’t hate the snot stains on my sleeves that aren’t mine, or being a punching bag for verbal assaults.

Not even the mental or physical melt downs.

Not even the ‘you should get locked up’ level tantrums.

I don’t know how to justify that one – but it’s easier to laugh it off than to be upset.

I don’t hate it, not any part. In fact, I love it. 

And it’s funny because I always hear moms reign it in and say they can’t justify their distaste for this age, or that phase or all of the mess.

But they justify their distaste for these things by simply knowing and understanding it’s what they always wanted, instead of just enjoying it.

I never wanted this. I never even asked for it. But, I absolutely needed it. And all the time – I’m prepared to be humbled by it.

I’m so, so in love with a life that has my daughter in it, that I laugh to think I ever dreamed of one without her.

I know and deeply understand that what I take from these young years, is the only part of any of this life that is promised to me.

So, I’ll take the crumbs in my bed.

I say cheers to that cold cup of Joe, and call it a cold brew.

Bring on the back talk.

Just call me a walking penalty box.

Because there is literally nowhere else in the world I would rather be.

There is no job I am better prepared to do; no person I love more.

I don’t hate a single fleeting second.

I know my little dictator won’t stay with me forever. I’ll happily take her however I can get her, here and now.

I hope my kid remembers all my f-bombs. 

Honestly, you don’t hear that alot– but I hope she does.

Sure, I hope she doesn’t inherit the language of a sailor, but I hope she knows nothing about being a mom came organically to me.

I hope she remembers that even though I was a mediocre baker and rarely made a balanced meal show up for dinner, I still put on bombshell-level living room dance parties on the regular.

I hope she remembers that even though I said NO to 679 treats on the daily for LITERAL years, that I still went to every target in driving distance looking for the outfit she wanted for her birthday party.

I hope she remembers that following every unhinged conversation we had, and through every disagreement, it closed with hugs and open-ended-love.

I hope she knows her mom tried to find balance in a world that offers little of that.

I hope she knows that when we arrive to a scene incapable of balance, to a world that seems almost designed for chaos…

 That we all still deserve a little grace.

When she does arrive, I hope she faces it with integrity, sass and poise.

And when she does… 

I really hope she thinks: “I got it from my Mama.”