Award Goes To....

“Maaaaammmmaaa!”

It is 11:00 pm this means one thing. Our house has contracted another virus. Make this number seven in six weeks. If housing viruses is a sport we place first. I walk into the boys’ bathroom. There is little dude on his throne. His eyes again hollowed. We have a sick one.

I clean him up. I clean up his bed. The back half of the house smells like a dirty dog kennel in the sunshine. What happens inside these kids? It is as if they are rotting away from the inside out.

I plop him back into bed. I walk down the hall and little man is back in the bathroom. I am rubbing his spiny back. He is such a thin boy doing this bare skin gives me the willies.

Boys you have Mom of the year.

I ask if he has been feeling this way all evening or if he woke up because he felt yucky. He tells me he has felt this way. He has felt this way since he was four. He does not believe he has had “diaweea” the entire time. He cannot recall.  

In the awards arena I am three for three.

I snicker. He catches me. All I had, “Laughter is the best medicine”. I was asked to be “more funnier”. He jumped off, grabbed ankles and waited for the wipe. I realize the joke is on me. 

                                                                                                           

I don’t wait for gifts. I never have. Thankfully, I am Mother of The Year. The award presentation is swift.

“Maaaaammmmaaa!”

I stand over Kade as he pukes out everything he has ever eaten. I mean EVER.

I hear no laughter. I am surprised by my voice, “Happy Mothers Day”.

The Big O

Like a school girl I anticipated the night. There is much to prepare. It has been so long since I needed to worry about the small details. You know, the ones giving sparkle to an expected magical night. I calculated everything. I trusted my heart. I was finally ready.

Let me regress.

Mom and I had the talk. Over-and-over she assured me I could not be in safer hands. It was important I trust. Awakening what is there. I would be cared for. A beautiful experience waits. One I was assured to be forever precious. The mental strain is intense. Yet I commit.

It is going to be my first time.

I adore being dressed up. If ever there is an occasion to doll up and get my pretty on this is it. I marched into Nordstrom purchasing five dresses. I use my living room as a runway. After a one-on-one consultation every single one returned. There is not a keeper in the bunch.

I ask Mom to join me in returning to the drawing board. Together we dive in choosing an ink colored dress. It is form fitting in all the “right” places. I really want a dress knee length to compliment the three inch silver/gold glitter heals. Two words: Irresistible and swanky. Pretty much damn hot. I am in LOVE with these heals.  

Next to choose is jewelry. Dress for a wedding. What to wear? I want to shine, but not be overdone. I need a necklace not one cutting off my neckline. If it is to long my perkiness will swallow it up. How will I wear my hair? If it is up the dangle is important. And I wear it down will my hair fall over my face or tangle in swinging earrings? The considerations are endless.

I cannot start in on the unmentionables dilemma.

This covers the background.

I count down the days. It is as if it would never arrive. I basically quit sleeping. Soon enough there will be time to cozy up into bed. As days will do it arrives right on schedule. I am a bundle of worry questioning my preparedness. I go forward in my daily routine. A couple weeks prior I arranged to have a hair appointment. The purpose was to kill two birds with one stone: keep me busy as well as create beautiful.

Forty-five minutes later beauty is accomplished. I chose a swept up style. It is a solid compromise of put together and tousled. If it falls from place it will seem fitting. A lady needs ready for mishaps. Together the dress, hair, makeup, jewelry and heals is alluring. I accomplish the underlying goal. A sophisticated woman (me for one night) on the outside can be muddled on the inside. We stand guard.

It is time.

It is 5:30. We meet. The butterflies start fluttering. Palms are sticky. Mouth is dry. Holy shit! What am I doing? Here I am. Here I will stay until the end. The single thought getting me through is I will finally do it. Finally! It will no longer be hope, but reality. I will leave new and different from when I came. Really, it is thrilling. It is a tease all night.

It is 8:15. I go into the room earlier than expected. It is dark. I mean really dark. There are curtains hiding the space. I am shaking. Repeatedly, I ask myself not to hyperventilate. If ever there is a time not to lose my shit it is now. Everyone says it is in and out. I take comfort in this knowledge that completion from start to finish will not take long. A calmness takes over. 

It is finally the moment. I hope it is not an out of body experience. I do not want to be outside looking in. I want to be present.

The lighting is perfect. I can hardly see past a few feet. The silence makes my heart race. I try holding back tears. I wonder if what I said was clear? All in all, I held it together. Together as in meaning I did not pack it in leaving in the middle. My worst fear!

I could hardly believe it. It is beyond anything I imagined. I had the Big O.

They stood. They clapped. The noise grew in number. I am able to see over the lights enough to make out caring wonderful human beings. I trusted turning over my story to Listen To Your Mother. It was supreme magic.

Tonight changed me. I am braver. In seven minutes all I have been working for arrived: The Open Balance. I felt honored to share freely with strangers and those who came to support little ole me. A night we will not soon forget. Trust me The Big O is transforming.

r 

This is show biz, people.

I left Alberta Rose Theater with a blaze of fire.

I am a story teller. I can call myself a writer. I am found.

I give Listen To Your Mother its very own Big O.

I hope it was as good for you as it was for me.

Thank you, Portland. It was in a word: exquisite.

70 Years

Nine years ago (today) I clipped this out of the paper. Strangers to me, yet it has hung on each refrigerator in every one of my homes for nine years. I look at it and smile. I read it and get lost in what this life, their life, has shared. 70 years of marriage. Boy, what a privilege to be a witness to a marriage like Mr.and Mrs. Johnson. These two are blessed in understanding this thing called marriage; and what it truly means. Marriage is not romance as society has us believe. The romance births and grows from commitment. Romance is staying true to your commitment of choosing your person through the beauty and ugly as you journey together. Hardship and the unexpected are a guarantee. Giving and receiving  security and found shelter is rare. This is what I think of every day I see this clipping. It makes me sigh and reflect. I smile and more times than not I have a little clarity. Assuming the announcement stays intact (through your young adult lives) I hold hope it will symbolize something unique to each of you.

May the vulnerability of love find you. May you hold it with grace. Respect the boundaries set forth. Give love back out as you want for yourself. Keep it in good health allowing growth. Above all else remember love works. Here is proof:

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