Because He Reaches For Me In The Night

There are days. Lordy, I say, there are days. August is two, and there are days, that the rapid-fire succession of my name being whined in the most ear-curdling tone, the dog food strewn from room to room, the constant invasion of my personal space, and too urgent desire to rearrange the button pattern of my shirt combine with the never-ending sticky grasp of demands.

I tell you those are days too.

I don't get breaks, no one really does, but us single mama's, we definitely don't.

Some days I sit in my bathroom, that doesn't have a lock, and pray to just make it to my next school day for sweet relief, and adult interaction.

But, in the darkness of the night, the tiniest of fingers reach for me, the littlest feet scoot along the flannel propelling the littlest man body you have ever seen until the crown of his golden head rests neatly in the den of my neck, the way a cat curls on the braided rug before the hearth. And we are warm.

And in those moments there is no cry that he is just "manipulating me" and I don't wonder the humanist vs. behaviorist approach of his development. I'm not ashamed of the avocado, kiwi, and chips he had for lunch. I certainly am not thinking about whether or not Carl Rogers would notice the unrealistically Ideal Self I am creating for him.

In those moments I'm smelling the smell of his hair and noticing the way the street light laps at his cheeks and dances upon the pout of his perfectly kissable lips.

There are days, that I have a paper due, a test coming, 4 hours of home work, not a dollar to my name and not a sitter in sight. Those are the days I kick myself for not owning a T.V. because I wish to anything that would listen that I could make use of an electronic baby sitter, to save my grades, sanity, and the overall morale of our tiny household. Those are the days that I know if he touches the tool box, or tries to climb on the bathroom counter to get to his vitamins one more damn time, I'm going to implode.

And then he says, "I luge you mommy!" or tells me about how his "big belly is full of water," he has been drinking out of the faucet, mind you.

But mostly in those moments in the middle of the night I see the truth in his love. I feel the ancient honor of motherhood radiate through me. The knowing that this tiny little creature in his most raw and spectacular form knows so little of the world around us, but knows with the utmost certainty that I am warm, and soft and will love him fully. So in the middle of the night, while his conscious mind rest, his sweet subconscious reaches for me, and it is indisputably the greatest gift I could ever accept.

*As a side note, I am also perfectly equally ready to end co sleeping and stop begging for the edge of my bed to not give out and leave me on the floor ....... The duality of man is real.*

My life is art, so who's buying?

I have always been a drifter, a social side-liner, an artist, a creator.

Before having a child this existence fulfilled me. I roamed our urban jungles looking for the next inspiration in the wrinkles of my sheets after a one night stand, and in between the notes of my favorite musicians. The sun rise brought me to my knees, or at least into crisscross apple sauce, with a blanket over my lap and a cigarette between my lips.

Now I feel horrible about smoking, because I know that children who are raised with parents who are smokers have a much higher chance of smoking and I want better examples for my son. Now I only watch the sunrise through my windshield as I race to whoever's house who has agreed to watch my seed while I delve into my 8am psychology class.

Once I stayed up all night long, spinning yarn with the best of them. In that world the ability to make a great pun or a clever association deemed me worthy of social contact.

Now when I think I am being clever, the lady at Food Lion rolls her eyes as I buy my $12 of organic produce, that I may or may not cook by the time all the other responsibilities are finished at the end of my 16 hour day.

I feel lost in this world. For the first time I don't want to walk the borders of society, I yearn for community and stability. But, here I am still who I am and that doesn't seem to cut it any more.

I don't want to drop out of school just because I thought after 3 years of raising our son alone, I could depend on his "father" to watch him while I was in class. I only needed 16 weeks. He made it three before he "couldn't hang" any more. Now, when Spring Break is over, I don't know how I will find child care to re-enter school. I am a straight A student for the first time since I was in 5th grade, and yet may still fail.

My life has always been art. Any job I have ever had my co-workers beg for the stories of the hours between our last shift together and now. Because I have an adventure every where I go. But yet, as fulfilling and amazing as all that may be, how do I use this to grow? Am I destined to be lost forever in this whirlwind of social construct, and if so, where does this leave my beautiful little gem, with a heart like a cool night in August?

I guess people like me were meant to be mothers, if nothing else I will show my son there is another way to live, even if it hurts more than the standard, at least you can feel it.

Thank You, Dr. McStuffins

Last night, after reading The Jungle Book six times in a row, it was "nuggle time." This particular nuggle my son turned to me and said, "I feel your heart Momma?" At this point he began to pat and squeeze my chest as a sleepy smile crossed his face.
"Yes, my love."
His eyes began to flutter, but the smile remained pasted to his sweet chunky cheeks.
"It's comfy Momma," he said.

And in that moment I thanked everything I could thank that I was a momma, his Momma. My breath left my chest and I wouldn't inhale. I wanted to be sure he could feel my heart beat strong and solid, in half time to his own beautiful fluttering organ that we associate so deeply with love. I wanted him to feel my love, my life force that flows through me so I can in turn share it with him.

Thank you Dr. McStuffins, for being there when I can't. Thank you for teaching my son where a "strong heart" is. Thank you for your oh so fluffy ways.

How Do I Teach You To Shake It?

The first time my son peed in the potty! What a glorious day! Right?

We were staying in Oregon this summer visiting some friends. It was a hot day, Oregon in July isn't all that much different the North Carolina in July, just a little less humid. So, we were down at the river. Suddenly! My son is grabbing at his jewels feverishly, and I think to myself, "By God, he has to pee!" I scoop him up like a hawk grabs a desert mouse and begin flying to the closest port-a-potty. In just seconds, I have his swim trunks off and his diapy removed. He is sitting there and boom! The tinniest of trickle releases from my sweet toddlers urethra.

That's when it hits me- boys don't wipe.

As I am staring at my beautiful womb-creation I begin to wonder how the hell a single mother could ever raise a man. How in all of god's-green-Earth was I supposed to explain to my 2-year-old, looking at me patiently for my next life lesson, that he was supposed to grab his teen-tiny and vigorously shake it back and fourth until no dribble of urine remained.

I froze....I stuttered....I couldn't do it.

I took a single square of 1-ply and I dabbed the tiny tip of his one-day man-hood.

It has taken almost a year to reverse the trauma. He insist on wiping even though so many of our wonderful pseudo-uncles have stepped in and delivered instruction on proper technique of the "shake."

Here I am, one more example on a motherhood fail.

One day boys may tease him as he awkwardly waddles from the urinal to a stall for his single sheet of hygiene. But, it will be he who has the last laugh when they all drop trouser in gym class and every one of them hides their dirty little pee-spotted boxers and my son bare ones so fresh and crisp that (still wouldn't but) one could eat off of them.