I didn’t want to sit in the classroom crowded in with other parents, knee-high desks and the smells of assorted papers, spoiled apple juice, chalk and playground dirt. The idea of kid boogers, wall crawling germs, the sounds of ear-piercing squeals, and idle chit-chat with cheerful parents all made me feel like I’d had too much caffeine-a heart racing, heat producing electric current vibrating through my body feeling -just plain uncomfortable.

The thought of being at the kids’ school fills me with dread, leaves me feeling put upon, like I’m being robbed of something precious, and I was, I just didn’t know what. And this bothered me. Why couldn’t I just be happy about it? I couldn’t figure it out, other than my usual sensory overload excuse.

But it was the “Moms and Muffins” Mother’s Day event at school; I had to go, right? So I decided to show up, do what I usually do which in most cases is the bare minimum. I do it so that I can say I’ve done it, that I’d been there for my kids, like the rest of the moms, to be able to say, “I was there for you.” But what kind of state of my just physically being there is actually showing up for my kids? How is that saying, “I was there for you.” It’s not. It’s bullshit.

In keeping with my desire to be a good mom, I went, bad attitude and all. My son was excited, on the way to school he told me, “Mom, I’m going to serve you breakfast.” I said, “Ok, but I can’t stay long.” I didn’t want the calories of a muffin, was he crazy? And besides, my workout was waiting on me, (and one more workout was definitely going to decipher the code to my happiness.) Plus I had clients that day, and groceries to buy; and a band concert of his to attend, and a gymnastics performance of my daughter’s to watch at the end of the day. The thought of breakfast was killing me softly.

By the time we reach the classroom I was sweating and grinding my jaw (drug free, just courtesy of my normal-school- anxiety).

Miles said, “Mom, sit down. I’ll get you breakfast.” “I don’t want breakfast. I’m not really going to stay much longer.” “Please mom.” Ok, I’ll take some cantaloupe.”

I was sitting in the corner, refusing to make eye contact with the other parents as a way to stave off their conversations. I was a mess, but why?

My little buddy brought me back a plate and the Mother’s Day card he’d made for me, he was so proud, smiling, shining, loving every minute of being there with me, and this made me squirm.

He asked me, “Mom, will you stay for the video?” Avoiding his eyes I told him, “No babe, I’ve got to go. I’ve got clients, and other work.” He begged, touching my leg “But please mom, please. You have to stay. You have to see the gnome hats.”

I didn’t want to stay, honestly I didn’t. And this felt awful to me but I couldn’t explain why. “Buddy, I can’t stay. I’m sorry, I’ll be back in a few hours for your band concert.”

“But mom, please, please, please don’t leave.” I caved, “Ok, I’ll stay for a few minutes.” Feeling like someone had taken something from me I said, “But that means I’m going to be late for your band concert.” This hurt me to say it, but I said it anyway.

I felt so confused and emotional. I wanted to want it, but I didn’t. I decided to try something different, to take an action that went against what I was feeling. I got up and went to his teacher and hugged her. I told her, “Thank you so much. This is lovely.”

And then it happened, everything changed. Another teacher came up to me and said, “I just want you to know how much I’m going to miss Miles next year. You’ve done such a good job raising him. He’s a great kid, a jewel really. Keep up the good work Mom.” I beamed, but almost felt like I couldn’t take credit. “Thank you so much, most of the time I feel like an animal.” (Why I said that I have no idea-weirdness.)

A moment later I caught the eye of another mom I know, a mom I respect, admire for her parenting style, and sense of grace.

She came over, we hugged and then she gave me my second gift of the day. She told me, “Your writing is so honest and refreshing.” I thanked her and listened to her talk, while in the back of my mind thinking, “Why is this freaking you out? Look at all these wonderful things happening.” She wasn’t upsetting me, my emotions were. They were creeping to the surface like an oil spill, dark, and destructive; but nevertheless still rising to the top before the cleaning process begins.

I stayed for the film and said my goodbye, I of course was the first parent to leave, but I had put in my time, and that was all I could do. I told my son, “Bye buddy, I have to go, I’ll see you at noon.” We hugged briefly and I left.

I got to my car feeling heavy, but knew better than to sit and stew in a pot of victim’s brew. I called a friend. I started in, voice already cracking saying, “I just feel so put upon, like I have no time for my self.” She listened as I got to the bottom-for the first time-to what was really going on with my disturbing feelings about being at school with the kids.

I told her, “I think it all just feels too much for me because I never had anyone do these things for me. My mother didn’t show up for me. I never learned how to do it. She couldn’t, her disease wouldn’t let her. She missed out on me, she didn’t get the chance to see me at my little desk, or watch me interact at school, see my sweet blue eyes sparkle when she walked in the door. She didn’t get to enjoy me, she missed out on knowing me, and I missed out on her too. I missed out on knowing what it’s like to have my mom be there for me on every level. And that makes it hard for me to do things like be at school with my kids because it reminds of my pain, it forces me to see it, to face my feelings, the feelings of loneliness and abandonment.

She said, “ Yeah, it makes you realize how profoundly disappointed you are with your childhood.” Her words literally tumbled over me and knocked me down like a gust of knowledge. She said, “You’ve spent your entire life-a full time job really-trying to repress and ignore these feelings. They’re surfacing for you now because you’re opening yourself up to them.” All I could do was cry. She was right. I’ve been using up so much of my energy- a job’s worth-trying to ignore the pain.

And at the price of something that means the most to me, my children. I fight so hard to give them something other than the childhood I had, but I end up giving them something close to the same by just showing up, rather than actually being there for them, and there’s a difference.

But with this new-found knowledge, this insight I allowed myself to see, by being curious about my feelings and behavior, and by working hard on getting to know myself through a program, I’m able to view something I’ve never seen before. I can stretch beyond my bullshit, and into the blind spot.

This was just a side of me I always pushed away, I never got the chance to know, a place I put out of mind, out of site, and out of harms way. Now that I know it’s there- and preventing me from being close with my children- I can do something about it. This doesn’t mean my fear- valves won’t open, that the awful feelings won’t come rushing in during times, and events that remind me of my childhood, but what it does mean is that now I’m aware of it and can act accordingly. I can remind myself of that the discomfort is an opportunity for growth, a chance for me to heal, to raise myself, and my children in a way that feels good to me.

Having the courage to pick through my bullshit, and stare into my blind spots is the only way I’m ever going to find forgiveness, and freedom from the pain.

It makes me sad knowing that she never got to know me, and that I didn’t get what I needed, but I know she suffered too. I can’t imagine not ever really being able to be there for my kids. I’m sure it’s hard for her.

It was for me, but I’m glad I’m learning how.

My history, like being wrapped in a paper bag, left me un-naturally ripe with curiosity about what my children really know. And it makes me wonder if I’ve ever inadvertently exposed them to anything inappropriate, and the answer is probably, (um, yes.) To what extent, I can’t really say. Luckily for me, and them, I have age on my side and experience, wish I could say the same about my mother.

My mother, (cue sarcastic southern accent, “bless her heart.”) poor thing, was either too young and naïve to notice how bright, precocious, and tenacious I was, or she was just too wrapped up in herself to tune-in until it was too late-I’d already picked up on everything I needed to know about how to get fucked up and pregnant. Once she realized whom she was dealing with-the prodigy of nosiness, she started calling me, “Bugs.” (As in Bugs bunny with the big ears who hears everything.)

It happened one day when she was on the phone-her personal Jesus-talking to one of her friends about a child molestation case. I froze in my tracks, held my breath and listened with all my faculties. They were talking about her friend’s son, a kid I knew well. I heard my mother say, “Don’t you dare let that mother-fucker ever see those kids again. I didn’t move muscle, listening so intently to the silence, wondering what her friend on the line was saying. My mother appeared in front of me with the length of phone-cord pulled tight behind her. “Shannon, What are you doing?” My toes tingled, the muscles on my head pulled my ears back from my face as I spoke, “Nothing.” She barked, “Get out of here, Bugs!” My fear left me as confusion took over my left eyebrow rose, as the other dropped, “What is Bugs?” I asked her. She pointed for me to get out and then walked away.

The next day we packed the Capri Classic and headed out to the country to see her friend, and her friend’s four kids. I was buzzing all over like Nancy Drew with a clue, so excited to be on an adventure. Driving along, I knew my mom was in a good mood since she was going to spend the weekend talking about all her shit with her friend.
I asked her, “Why did you call me Bugs yesterday?” She glanced at me, “Because, Shannon, you hear everything. Nothing gets by you.” I giggled, please with myself.

I loved nothing more than being part of the adult drama of my mom’s friend- a family life that seemed more fucked up than mine- and visiting the doublewide trailer they called home. I found trailer life exciting and entertaining in a way mine wasn’t, it seemed exotic and free, like a summer night at the carnival.

We drove a while and then turned off onto a red-clay-dusty road that caused our tires to spit pebbles, and roll in a trail of smoke. A few bony dogs greeted us by running the length of our car, chasing it, and barking as we made our way into the clearing. Through the field of weeds we saw a few homes in decay, frowning as they sunk into the ground. There were rusted out cars, one wheel, two wheels, hoods open, doors ajar, a leaning tool shed, and other half-standing-unnamable structures. Skeletons’ of old appliances decorated the landscape telling the story of human remains, now housed wildlife. The refrigerators became rodent high-rises, the insides of stoves renovated as opossums’ nests, and toilet bowls served as mosquito breeding grounds, and a waterhole to drown unwanted kittens and puppies.

Settled at the base of the dirt road stood their perfectly upright doublewide, complete with cinder blocks, and covered in stunning aluminum, parked next to it was a used up Oldsmobile with balding tires. Walking towards the front door an enormous web hanging off the side of the roof caught my eye. Sitting dead center was a fat-bellied spider. Heaps of trash littered the yard and random shoes were strewn about. Filth runneth over like a dumpsite, piles of dog shit were everywhere, but to me it was the most interesting place in world. I couldn’t wait to get inside.

TBD. “That’s, that’s all folks.” (for now)

I just got off the phone with a friend who’s helping me over come the side effects of being me. If you didn’t know, I’m in recovery from myself, and oh, being raised by an addict. He asked,” Why are you angry? What are you protesting?” I said, “I don’t know, I just I want to fight. I’m not hungry, I’m a little lonely, and maybe somewhat tired. I guess I’m mad about writing. I don’t want to write, but I I have to. I just feel so insecure about it.” He told me something like, “A creative once said, ” If you’re uncomfortable about the work you’re putting out, it’s probably just what you should be doing.”

I hated it, I squirmed, hand on my hip, pacing, mentally spitting. He was right. But man it was awful to hear, it meant I needed to keep doing what I do. I have to give myself to you, and show up for it despite my protest.

I don’t want to finish this piece, admit my defects of character, or even deal with the new version of my life for that matter. But the fact is I have to, I  don’t have the same financial support as I did before, and now I have nothing else to lose. Time to write or die.

I play the roles of both sadist and masochist, I seek pleasure from the pain I inflict on myself until I break. For me, space and hope is created when I focus on changing my attitude. This happens when I’m out of options, after I’ve spanked myself enough times that I’m forced to call out my safe word.

So here I am,”SAFETY,” home base.

Recounting the events of the day I met the dawn of my humility, I want to vomit. Back to the day when my ex and I went back to the mediator-after being separated for three and half years, and divorced for more than two-changing my life, and challenging the beliefs I have about myself, and who I want to become.

The  attorney met with us both individually and together, during our private discussion he said, “Shannon, I know you’re scared, but what he’s offering is still generous. I encourage you to rise to the financial crisis you could be facing.” This punch in the chest burned and filled the cracks in my heart like smoke, but it also spoke of gratitude, and foresaw love.

Later that day, back home with Susan on the eve of 2013, recapping the story to her, choking on my fears, and a glass of bubbles, I began reconstructing my life. We finished our meal and started our painting project. After I told her everything she said, “Babe, you’ve got this. You’re strong and courageous, fearless and bold. Stop hiding from the world, go out there and give them hell.” I painted over the wood we brought in from outside, brushing layers of paint over the brittle surface, and that’s how I felt, like liquid trying to absorb into a hardened surface-the texture of my new life. My financial support had been yanked out from under me, and now it was my turn to hold myself up to the backdrop of my making.

I called my dad longing for that paternal support I felt I’d lost with my ex. He answered, after the formalities, I said, “Well for starters I’m buzzed, and I’m really sad” my words broke into undistinguishable sounds and sniffles. He listened for a while, and then said-like a savior of reason, “I think you can cut back. You’re still making a lot more than most people. You should be able to afford your life with your income and child-support combined.” I cried even harder, “Dad, I just don’t want to be like my mom.I don’t want to just give up and let my kids suffer. I don’t want to move in order to avoid working harder, and to stay in a victim role. I don’t want to take advantage of anyone, but I’m scared.” He said, “Honey, you’re nothing like your mom, never have been. You shouldn’t have to move. You may need to cut back on your spending, but you shouldn’t have to move.” I quieted down, grateful for my father’s strong, and grounding influence in my life. And I realized how much I still had even though I felt at a loss.

My soul cried and mourned for things to remain the same, internally my heart and demons fought for what was and what is becoming. I kept thinking about what my ex-husband said, Shannon, “You know I’d give you those things still if I could” and he meant it. He cared for me, and gave me a sense of financial security I didn’t think I could manage on my own. It was our language of love, he took care of me, and I took care of the rest. The system failed but didn’t stop working after our marriage ended. And now it was ending.

I told him, “I guess it’s been unfair for of me to assume you wanted things to stay the same. I never even asked you if you still wanted me to be a stay-at-home mom. I just continued that role, while you shouldered the burden of two households. Is that still important to you? Do you want me to stay home with the kids?” He said he didn’t, that he wanted me to work, but I think-knowing and trusting the man he is-if he were able he’d let me stay in that role.

Everything was finalized. Although my actual legal divorce was filed, sealed and delivered a few years ago, I didn’t feel the violent force of the impact until then. He finally took his love away, and in doing so, my identity. The financial support had been the way he loved me, and it also kept me from reaching my full potential. And although this is so hard to admit, but it’s also why I loved him. This understanding of myself only comes in retrospect. I married him believing that my love for him was unconditional, meaning I thought I loved him for who he was, and not what he could do for me. But that was false, and not in an evil way, it’s just who I was, I didn’t know better until I did. None of this was a grand orchestrated event, it was the life I constructed for myself based on my limitations and thoughts about who I was. I honestly didn’t think I was capable of taking care of myself, I needed someone to provide for me. That was my main criteria in attracting a mate. It was to have my basic instinct to survive met, and in return I offered myself.

To acknowledge this defect now fills me with shame, but I fight the urge to berate myself for something I did unconsciously. Not only did I cause harm to myself but I also hurt him. I can only take responsibility for my part, and I’ve had to resist taking on more than my share of the unspoken agreement between us. It saddens me to think about how easily I gave myself away, but I can only see that now.

And then something beautiful happened. By divorcing the final act,and accepting my fate-not fighting him in court,upholding my spiritual principles to be authentic in my actions-to not manipulate, or try to control-I connected with my ability to love him selflessly, I found the love he deserves. The true nature of it was born after I admitted to myself and others the truth about the relationship. I told them, “I relied on him, and my role as a mom as a means to an end. My status kept me in a position to always need him.” Only then-after owning up to my behavior-was I able to forgive and love myself for being imperfect, and therefore more able to love him, the way I’m learning to love myself.

I’m able to step back now and see how well I chose in my fight for survival. I picked someone to have children with who will always be there for me, and in ways that are more meaningful than anything money could ever buy. He fought hard along side me to protect our children from the irrevocable damages they could’ve suffered if we had gone to court over money. He shared my desire to want to shield them from the consequences of adult behavior. We both knew that our friendship would’ve been shattered if we ended up in court, and knew how detrimental that could’ve been to our kids.

As for me, the other gift I received through all of this-the new era of my life revealed-is the opportunity to gain more self confidence, to put my cape on and fly. This is my chance to shove my foot up the world’s ass, and leave my shit behind. I’ve got to go inside and pull out my anger and swollen pride, and let go of my negative, self-doubting ways of thinking. I need to make mad-love to the sweet spot in between arrogance and insecurity, the perfect marriage, and emerge as the writer-offspring.

I’m attaching a song that’s meaning has changed a few times for me since I’ve heard it. I’m dedicating it to myself and all the other people out their who suffer in pain from their own making.

I screamed at him, pleading, “Please, have mercy on me.”

Hurt comes in stages depending on the act.

It was pouring, the rain wouldn’t stop, it soaked through my shoes and up the leg of my pants.   I didn’t feel safe until the loud thug of my car door slammed shut. I cranked the engine, blasting the heat, trying to comfort myself.  It was New Year’s Eve Day, the most ironic day of the year to be at the attorney’s office.  Why we chose that day of all days, I  can’t really say. However, he did say, “I want to get this over with today.” I told him, “I’m not sure that can happen.”

Whenever I hear people say, “I felt like I was dreaming,” I know what they mean, but I’m usually critical of their lack of words or description. However sometimes there are no other words to describe being awake, yet in a foggy-coma like a dream state, and that’s exactly how I felt. The other, more basic word that describes it is denial. I didn’t want to believe what was happening, I wanted to push it down through my body and out, anything not to feel the heaviness of my situation when he told me, “I can’t give you what I was giving you before.”

Driving in my car, hands tight on the wheel, my lips begged to quiver, but I silenced them, I had to remain strong. I couldn’t let her see me that way. This was all too upsetting for her, even though I explained many times that it was nobody’s fault.  As I neared my house I spotted the neighborhood cat I was trying to make my own.

Tinkerbell the cat showed up a few months ago, my neighbor said she’d given her away but was forced to take her back. She made her an outdoor cat hoping someone would take her in for safe keeping. I lured her to my porch with kibble and a plush bed inside a partially overturned rubbermaid-bin. I was excited to have a cat to pet and talk to when I got the mail, another animal to woo, to charm into falling in love with me, and cats are the most finicky of all lovers. My ego expanded knowing that I’d enticed her into my world, that she would give me purrs and knead dough in my lap.

However, on this day she wasn’t at my house, she was up the street at my neighbor’s. I saw her black triangles, and green peepers sticking up and out of an even fancier, fluffier bed than the one I had provided. I saw two little bowls next to the bed, and the long stretch of roof that housed it all. My heart rate increased, body tensing.  I couldn’t take one more thing.

I drove down the driveway, coaxing myself to pull it together. It was New Years Eve, and Susan was upstairs waiting for me to ring in 2013 with her. We had the whole evening planned, a menu of homemade Cuban Shrimp, a bottle of Prosseco, music, and dancing together in the kitchen, wood from under the house to make folk art, and chocolate.

She greeted me at the door, concern in her eyes, “Hey babe, how did it go today?” I shrugged, how could I tell her, what could I tell her? All the thoughts ran through my head, the way I try to control outcomes, I didn’t know my move here. I was out of plays, one because I’m not that girl anymore, and two because nothing is real except for the truth.

I avoided her question, instead I said, as my voice cracked, “I saw Tinkerbell at Tom’s, he has a bed out front for her. She doesn’t want me anymore, she left me.” I went to arms, rubbing my eyes in the shoulder crease of her shirt. She said, “Love, Tinkerbell didn’t leave you, she’s just trying to take care of herself. She’ll be back to visit. She’s a smart cat looking for the best home. Tom told me he’s considering adopting her, he even spoke to his vet.” Through a mouthful of tears, I moaned, ” What? She is leaving me. I thought she was going to be my cat. I’m the one who loves her.” The pain was almost unbearable. I was shaking. She knew it wasn’t really about the cat.

I cried for a minute and then pulled away from her wiping my eyes. She fixed me a cheese plate and a glass of wine. I picked out some music, and folded into my chair, I was exhausted, empty, emotionally disabled, yet my shoulders still clung to my ears,  jaw grinding out an anxious tune. I sat watching her in the kitchen, and listening to Glen Hansard, as he sang, “Echos of another time, playing lightly on my mind. There’s many rivers still to cross, temper the bitterness in love. Though what you say is true, this might be it for me and you, maybe we can draw that line, maybe another time.” His words pierced me, they spoke of the complex feelings I have for two people. My tears continued to pool while she diced the vegetables, and in that moment everything was going to be okay.

I felt so sad, alone, and abandoned by him, but knowing-in the way a survivor knows she’s made it-that this was the price I had to pay to be with her. I hadn’t ever really suffered, everything had gone my way. I mean I struggled a lot with the guilt about  what divorce would mean for my children, but I personally never felt such an enormous loss of the relationship.  I was  just now morning something that should’ve been taken from me three and half years ago, and that’s what made it so much harder. He was finally letting me go, and for once I felt the depth of his sadness at the on-set of it all, as my own, and the pain stung.

I was selfish, I had everything, her love, and his stability, and that wasn’t fair to either of them. It had to come down. The moment I was really able to understand the loss he suffered is when I felt my own, until then I never knew the depths of his pain.  I couldn’t stand knowing I’d hurt him that way, but I also knew I couldn’t have stayed just to keep him from it, that would’ve been cruel, and unjust. It was my turn to taste the hurt, the primal fears in my face, and my chance to give him, and myself what he gave me, freedom, flying lessons.

To Be Continued.

It all started on a Monday night, I was sitting on the sofa watching another ass-clenching episode of “Breaking Bad,” with my girlfriend, Susan. My stomach was bothering me a bit, but only to the degree of mild agitation, I was also feeling, well to be blunt, a slight sensation of pressure knocking on my backdoor, if you know what I mean. Susan has often teased me about the length of time I spend on the throne, and about how often I address my kingdom, for both front and backdoor business. She’s told me numerous times, “I swear you’re going to give yourself  hemorrhoids if you keep sitting there as much as you do.”

You see, I suffer from a sever case of toilet induced stage fright, even when the only person in the audience is me. I have strange bathroom quirks like whistling to encourage urination, or running the faucet on full-hydro blast as a means to prod my bladder. I usually make two, and even three visits to the restroom throughout the night. I suffer from what I like to call, “small, neurotic, and active bladder syndrome.”

I usually laugh her off when she teases me about it, but that night her warnings seemed rather valuable, plausible even. The night wore on, and the discomfort changed to a combination of pressure, and a strange, little tickling, how odd, and yet somehow familiar. I had a funny feeling, but I also had my doubts because of my other syndrome-my love for the art of-dramatic outbursts.

I thought about asking Susan more about hemorrhoids; or even just telling her about my tail-issues, but I remembered how I’d made semi-plans to be romantic with her that evening. I didn’t think hearing about my itching and burning ass would be much of a turn on, so I remained quiet and thoughtful, very thoughtful.

During the commercial break I made run for the privacy-room my body was craving. I tried going but only produced mucus, hmm, interesting. I scrubbed my bottom in attempts to scratch the itch that was now ungodly. I felt pretty good about my efforts, and my symptoms seemed to have subsided for the time being. I returned to face her.

She was just sitting there looking at me. “What took you so long?” she asked. “I thought I had to go but I didn’t.” I responded. We resumed watching the show in silence. Within fifteen minutes my fanny was dancing again. I reached for the remote and pressed the, “I need to say or hear something-mute-button.” I knew I wouldn’t be able to focus on anything else the rest of the evening, making the decision to blow our special time, I finally said, “I think I have hemorrhoids. Something is going on down there. I feel pressure and it’s all itchy.” She rolled her eyes, mainly because of the second syndrome mentioned above. “You’re so dramatic.” She said.
“You don’t have hemorrhoids Shannon.” “Well I have mucus in my ass!” I said. She just looked at me and blinked, we both started laughing hysterically. She said, “You’re such a nut.” “I know, I said. But seriously, there is something wrong with my fanny. I wanted to be with you tonight, but I don’t think I can make love with this monkey business going on in my ass. She started laughing and said, “No, I don’t think of hemorrhoids and ass-mucous-talk as very romantic.” She un-muted the T.V. and we went back to our program. I kept glancing over at her to see if I could detect disgust, and also to see if she recognized my gyrations. I kept having to grip and squeeze my sphincter in response to whatever was going on down below. It was torture, all of it.

My bottom continued to have a party of it’s own, and the nightlife seemed to rock and roll once we got in the bed. I was up and down all night running to the toilet for one thing or another. I was thrilled when the sun came up and my symptoms gradually started to disappear. I thought it was over. I was so relieved.

The next day was Tuesday, and I don’t have my kids on Mondays, or Tuesdays, as they’re with their dad. They were with him over the weekend too when all this squirmy business was going on. They weren’t coming back home until the next day. I had worked that day, ass-free of aggravation until the evening. Susan came over after work, we made dinner, and I had plans for a second attempt at a romantic evening. However spoiled again, low and behold my butt started itching sometime after we ate. The mucous returned, the pressure mounted (no pun intended) and the tickling intensified. It was time to take serious action.

My mind was racing and searching with “WTF?” I covered every corner of my life over the past week. I honed in on two different episodes involving my daughter that happened five days earlier. In one instance, we were walking to school one morning, and I had to ask her twice to stop digging her fingers in her booty-hole. To her defense, she was pawing away at herself over her clothes, but either way, I needed her to know it wasn’t acceptable to walk down the street with her finger in her ass. In my experience, seven year-olds have no problem scratching any open orifice, clothed or not. I feel it is my job as a parent to teach her these things, no discussion.

That’s why I was surprised and thought curiously about why I caught her doing it again. Actually, a few more times before she went to her dad’s for the weekend. I thought maybe her shorts or panties were too small, new school year, time for new clothes. I asked her, “Sophie, why are you digging in your fanny? You shouldn’t scratch your bottom, that’s how you get worms. Are your panties too tight? Are your shorts riding up between your cheeks?” She looked back at me, “No, I just had a little itch.” and she skipped away. I thought to myself, maybe I didn’t buy the right detergent; they did just change the label. How do I know the difference between Oxy-clean with “Fresh Fields, versus Oxy-clean with “Fresh Flowers,” they all look-alike, damn-it. I don’t have time to study every f’n product in the store. I was certain the detergent was the culprit, problem solved. I’ll get new suds. Done.

We all went on with our lives for the next five days, until the moment when I put two and two together: I had a down-under problem, and my daughter had had one too. Very interesting. I wondered if she was still itching. Nobody said anything to me. Her dad didn’t call with news, nor did she mention it when we spoke. I dismissed her itch and focused on mine, and decided that-things were clear-I definitely had hemorrhoids. The pressure, the itching, the burning-all pointed to hemorrhoids I produced by sitting on the toilet too much.

I decided to fess up. It was nearing bedtime and I knew I was in no shape or mental state to even pretend that anything about me was sexy. “Susan, I think I have hemorrhoids, for real. My ass still hurts. It wasn’t bothering me all day, but for some reason it’s messing with me again.” She said, “Go to the bathroom and put some cortisone cream on it.” “Will it burn?” I asked. “I don’t know, but it’s worth a try. You can make an appointment to go see your gynecologist tomorrow to have it checked out.”

I agreed and went to the bathroom to perform an “application” on myself. I prepared by pulling everything out and lining it up on the counter next to me. I decided that first I needed to cleanse and anesthetize the region. I could use Bactine, that should work. I sprayed a cotton ball with the antiseptic, squatted on the toilet, leaned forward and swiped my rear-end with the cool, moist swab, and then dropped it in the bowl. It felt good, repeat. The next phase of my surgery included the cortisone cream and a cotton ball. This part wasn’t at all as pleasant, rather slippery and nauseating. I couldn’t tell if I had actually managed to get all the lotion from the cotton to my bottom, so I decided to investigate, but I paused when I heard something. I left the cotton ball pressed against my sphincter and listened.

Susan walked up and was on the other side of the bathroom door, she said, “What in the world are you doing? You’ve been in there forever.” I responded, breathless, “I’ve been  busy cleaning the area, and now I’m finishing the application. I’m sorry, I’ll be out soon.” She laughed, “Well I’m going to bed, hurry up.” If I could’ve seen her she would’ve been shaking her head.

I listened as she walked down the hall. I went back surgery. I carefully lifted the surgical-tool around for inspection. I held it up in front of my face and as my eyes narrowed in, my pupils grew like full moons, my lips parted and I panted. From the cotton ball, a thin, two-ply, thread like, yellowish/white worm stood erect to meet my gaze. I couldn’t take my eyes off of it. I was sick, and terrified, as every ounce of life left me, time stood still. I think I stopped breathing.

However, as I watched the wretched creature I became really angry, and realistic. The nerve of that worm, I mean the outright brazenness of it to stand up as if I were keeping it from making a meal out of my ass-hole. I knew instantly what it was-it was a Pinworm. I’d had them as a kid. I knew they lived in my intestines and not my ass. But really, I just couldn’t believe it.

What the F was I supposed to do now? Tell Susan? “Hey Babe, I’ve got worms! Yum. Want a piece? I’m so H-O-T.” Hell no, not then. It was late and we had to get up early. I thought for sure I needed an antibiotic. I decided I should either try to forget what I saw and go to sleep, or go the emergency room right then, not for the worms, but for my mental state. I came close to calling an ambulance, but I figured worms weren’t worth my five thousand dollar deductible, plus I’d had them, and knew they were relatively harmless, which helped ease my crazy’s.

I knew I eventually had to the leave the safety of the bathroom and go to bed. I decided that I would make a doctor’s appointment first thing in the morning, or just show up begging for a worm poison-script. I cleaned up my mess and scrubbed my hands until they were red, and burning. I put on a few layers of bottoms-underwear, and pajama pants, and  got in the bed.

Susan was waiting for me, reading my body language. “Are you alright?” she asked. “No, I said, I’m really worried.” I didn’t want to go into the whole story and push myself back down into the psychological-hole I had just traversed. I told her, “I think we should just go to sleep. Something isn’t right with my butt. I’m going to call the doctor in the morning.” She said, “Are you really that worried?” “I answered, “Yes.” And my head said, I almost called an ambulance for a case of Pinworms, but I remained quiet. “Let’s just go to sleep.”

The next morning over coffee I told her briefly what happened. I left out the squiggly details for her (until now.) I told her I thought I had worms because of the research-Googling- I’d done before she got up. I waited until after she left to call my daughter.

The phone rang, J answered. “J, may I please speak to Sophie? I think she has worms.” He was shocked. “What are you talking about Shannon?” I sighed, “I have worms, and I think I got them from her. She was scratching her ass a lot last week. Please just put her on the phone and don’t say anything to her until after I talk to her.” He said, “Gross! Are you sure?” “Yes!” I said. “I saw one.” He repeated himself, “That’s so gross. Hold on.”

Sophie came to the phone, “Hi Mommy.” I went right into it, “Hi Sophie. Guess what? I have worms. Do you have worms?” She responded, “Mommy, how do you know you have worms?” I said, “Because I saw one after I went to the bathroom.” She said, “Yeah, me too, I saw them in the toilet.” A moment of silence passed as I took in this information.

And then, “You mean to tell me you’ve had worms? Why didn’t you tell me? You have to tell me if something is ever wrong or different with your body.” She whined, “I was scared you’d give me medicine. I don’t want any medicine.” I told her with an air of righteous superiority, “Well you’re going to take medicine, or else you’re going to have an infestation of worms in your belly.”

I watched the clock until 9:00AM, the standard time when most offices open. The first call I made was to my internist. I asked the nurse-on-call if the doctor would be willing to call in a prescription. She said, “The doctor will need to see you first. We can’t just call in a prescription. I said, “See me for what? I already saw a worm, and according to CDC they only come out at night? How is the doctor to examine me for worms during the day? “She replied, “I don’t know, Ms. Katz, but you will need to be seen by the doctor before she’ll write any prescriptions. Bullshit. I settled for the late afternoon appointment, agreeing to have the worms with me for a few more hours.

Frustrated, I called the pediatrician for an appointment, “Hi, may I please speak to the nurse?” The receptionist transferred me. “This is nurse-Peggy, how may I help you?” “UM, Hi, this is Shannon Katz, mom of Sophie Katz, a patient of Dr. Know. Hopefully you can help me with something. Well you see, um, well, we have (whispered into the phone,) worms. Do you think that the doc could just call in a prescription, or do we need to come in the office? The nurse said, “Mom, (They always call you mom, when you’re the mom of a patient) you don’t need a prescription dear, you can get something over the counter for Pinworms.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Really, wow! Thank you so much. I just got off of the phone with my doctor’s office and they told me to come in for an office visit. She laughed, “How were they planning on checking you for Pinworms in the daylight? Do they have a dark room or something?” I said, “I know, I basically said the same thing. Thank you again for recommending we take something over the counter. I just assumed this would require some serious drugs.” She thought this was adorable, as in “Bless your heart.” “Mom, Pinworms are like lice. They are dime a dozen. People just don’t talk about them.”

After we hung up, I raced to my car, and drove like an infested-maniac to the nearest CVS. I approached the Pharmacist and asked her as discretely as I could, “Could you please tell me where I can find Pin-X, the treatment for Pinworms?” She acted like no biggie and said, “It’s more popular than you’d think.” I found the drinkable liquid, Pin-X, right next to the Lice shampoo. I paid for it at the Pharmacy; my ego just couldn’t handle a -full on-front register transaction.

I gulped the liquid down, and made a few dreaded calls to all the parents of children my children had played with over the weekend. It was mortifying. I also called the school and spoke to the nurse. She said it was no big deal and that I didn’t even need to call. She, like most others in the medical field, sort of laughed at me, or with me. I was so relieved.

All of our symptoms went away within a few days of the dose. I went beyond the call of duty and gave myself an enema just in case a little Pin-Pal wanted to linger behind, (and that’s a whole other story I will save you from hearing.)

The bottom line is this, after doing a lot of research and speaking the health professionals, it was determined by me that Pinworms are actually more common than lice, and a hell of a lot easier to deal with. However, I did have to wash all the linens in my house, like an OCD-mad-woman, for a week, and I wiped every surface with Clorox, daily for a week. Guilty of going overboard, but I saw it squirm.

I also learned that the worms weren’t actually munching my butt, the females were actually coming down my rectum, and laying their eggs around my sphincter-nice-hence the tickling sensation. They took advantage of my softness, for their breeding purpose, how dare them.

In addition, I concluded, yet again, that children, as loveable as they are, are nasty, germ breeding little creatures of love.

And that I must always, always trust my gut.

It’s the morning after the Fourth of July, and the first day of something new, and outrageous in my life. I realize a specialty item would come in handy in order for me to make it through the day. I shout, “I need an occupational therapy ball, a small ball, or something I can grip and roll around in my hand. I’ve got to keep my hands busy with movement.” Susan walks in and brews herself a cup of coffee, I greet her with a kiss, “Good morning my sweet.” She replies, “Good morning, I may have something in my car you can use.” I smile, “Oh good, you know I need something to keep my hands occupied. I don’t know how I’m going to sit still for five hours. I hate sitting still. How am I going to focus?”

“Mom, where are you going today?” My son asks. I said, “I’ll tell you guys in the car. Do either one of you have a ball in your room I can use? Go look around for something I can squeeze.” My daughter comes back with a small, stuffed kitty. “Here mommy, use this.” Brushing my teeth, my words come out distorted, “No bay be, tha won wrk” toothpaste flies off my vibrating toothbrush, sprinkling little white dots all over the mirror. I turn off the water, snatch a piece of toilet paper, and wipe the mirror down, examining my teeth closely, smiling at myself (and if teeth could talk, they would say, “Zing!”)

I called out to Miles, “Buddy, do you have a ball I can squeeze?” He yells from his room, “Yes, I have my giant, super, duper bouncy ball. Why do you need a ball? Tell us?” I fill a water bottle, pack a bar, and shove a spoonful of peanut butter in my mouth. “I’ll tell you in the car. I’m almost ready to go.”

The backdoor squeaks, and Susan walks in,
“I couldn’t find anything for you to squeeze.” I think about it for a second as I shove hand sanitizer, and a shawl into my bag. I say, “That’s okay, I think I have a marble.” I hug her goodbye and yell for the kids. “Let’s go guy’s, I’m going to be late, I have something very important to do today.” Miles asks, “Like what? Are you going to be on T.V.?” “No,” I said. Susan laughs. He continues, “Is your book going to be in a library? Are you writing a children’s book? I ‘m hysterical, and answer, “No,” I told you I’ll tell you once we’re in the car, now let’s g-o, go!

Like a little sister, Sadie gets in on the action, “Mom, are you guys getting married today?” Susan and I catch each other’s eyes, this time we both laugh. “No,” I say through my giggles, and a flash from the scene from my imaginary “Big Lesbian Wedding,” she in a pantsuit and I in a dress, or would she be in shorts? Wait, fantasy interuptus, a child’s voice, “Oh mom, I know what it is. Are we getting a cat today?” “No” I said, with an emphasis on the O, losing my version of patience. “I told you I’d tell you in a minute.” Just get the kids situated already, damn. We all say our goodbyes to Susan. I load the kids, their bags, my bags, and myself in the car. I crank the car, blast the air and relax into my seat. Sweat traces my spine and down my ass crack, tickling and itching the valley. I’m worn out, and mentally drained; it’s 8:45AM. How am I ever going to make it through this day? I fidget, can’t sit still and have a hard time listening without creating stories of my own.

I reverse out of the driveway, looking over my shoulder I say to the kids, “I’m going to school today.” Silence,” so I continue, “I decided that I want to go back to school in order to be a better writer.” They giggle. I check the rear view mirror and find them looking straight ahead. The girl child speaks, “Mom, I thought you’re yoga teacher.” I shake my head, “Well Sadie, I’m kind of a fitness teacher, and I’m kind of a writer. I want to be a better writer, and I want to make money writing.

She looks perplexed, and starts in at a rapid pace, “Why? Your clients pay you? Are you going to write about us? I think we’re going to be famous.” Miles is snorting, hooting and laughing at his sister. He says, “Sadie, be quiet, mom is just weird. Mom, are you really going to school?” I’m amused, “Yes baby, I’m going to school, but it’s more like a college for creative thinkers. It’s called, The Creative Circus, and it’s going to help me learn how to write advertisements and commercials.”

Silence again, and then wild-laughter before Sadie squeals, “The Circus? You’re going to school at the Circus? Daddy used to tell us that clowns work at the circus, and we’ll go to Clown School if we don’t study our spelling words. Who’s your teacher?” This day can’t get any better, but it does.

I fill in the blanks, and answer their questions the best I can before dropping them off at day camp. I drive to the campus, gathering my composure, and pull into a shady spot. I sit for a moment and meditate; cradle the spirit, and soothe the voice of the person that tells me I’m not good enough. I whisper in her ear, and push the hair out of her face. I rub her arm and tell her how much she has to write about. I remind her that what brought her here is her ability to survive, and that survivors have things to write about. I explain to her again that she has a lifetime of experiences to draw from, and colorful memories to share.

I reach in my bag and pull out the marble. I hold it in my hand throughout the rest of the morning. I find myself squeezing it, griping it tight when the speaker at orientation tell us-the new class- that certified counselors are on staff to help manage our anxiety.
He says, “We push you to give your heart and soul to your craft. Creative types are known to be sensitive and anxious, prone to stress, and are willing to give themselves away when prompted. You should all be proud of your work. It was your portfolios that set you apart from the people not sitting here. We think you have what it takes to make it as a creative.”

I squeezed and cried, and cried and squeezed. I made it to the Circus.

My mother and I moved to our forth or fifth apartments on the nearby road when I was four or five. The apartments are still there though they and many things around them have changed. This was after our summer in Texas, and my mother was out of options. She had to bring me back to Atlanta. She needed support.

We moved into a second floor, two-bedroom, one bath apartment. My bed was against the wall, next to the window. I’d watch her out the window from my bed at night. I’d cry for her not to leave me when she’d go out. “Stay home with me! Don’t leave,” I’d scream as I banged on the window. I wasn’t sure if she was ever coming back. After sobbing, and self-soothing myself to sleep, I’d wake up in a wet bed and in a panic. I was anxious to find her, but also afraid of her reaction. It didn’t stop me from looking-I always went looking- down the dark hall, little feet on brown shag, heart-pounding fear in my night gowned chest.

Her response was never good, hair-pulling and screaming through gritted-teeth, “Shannon Dina, I told you not to EVER WET THAT BED AGAIN. God Damnit! Do you hear me? Do you?” I would’ve rather suffered the consequences than feel alone. She’d grab me by the arm, dragging me down the hallway by my wrist. The sheets ripped with a snatch, and I’d be back in a sheet less bed, or with a blanket thrown down. She’d slam my door and leave me in darkness, but I didn’t care, she was home. I cried at her rage, yet felt comforted by her presence.

She slept a lot, and I spent many waking hours alone. One morning there wasn’t much to eat. I opened the refrigerator and saw only a few slices of wonder bread and a stick of butter. I ate butter sandwiches until there was nothing left. I spent the next two days hungry while she slept. When she awoke, she was angry with me for eating all the butter. She was bi-polar, an addict and only 23; she was also a single mom with a four and a half year old child-an enormous responsibility. It’s hard to admit that now, but it’s the truth.

I was the casualty caught in the middle of her manic spiral. I don’t think she set out to purposefully hurt me. She was only doing the best she could at that moment in time, or until she knew better. It doesn’t replace my pain to admit that, but it does gives it room to move around. I’ve held it for so long, and have continued to let it harm me by continuing to be that victimized child.

In that space I gifted myself, I’m making room for change. I have to be willing to strip it down to nothingness like a bulldozed house. First my house-my shell- has to be torn apart, the walls ripped down, my door- frames as the victim must cave in and collapse. Next, the clutter has to be removed before flattening my ripe ground. My old dirt has to be carted off before the new installation of me can begin to take shape. A new basement has to be dug, a foundation in place, and a house of integrity-my owing of my stuff- designed before a new home for my soul can be built.

There’s a lot of work to be done but I have the willingness, the courage, and the motivation, and that’s what it takes. It has to start with me.

This is the beginning of book 2, my second transformation.

The sound is what I experienced first, a loud rumbling, next I felt myself vibrating as if the earth was moving beneath me. When I stepped outside I saw what was happening. Machines at work, and the biggest one of all parked a the front door with it’s mouth opened wide. I felt like I was about to be eaten, but it wasn’t there for me, only my empathy.

The abandoned house a few doors down was being demolished. It was a grand- beauty, circa 1920, once removed straight from the French Quarter. The exterior was stark putty, with two side-by-side, floor to ceiling porches. Once the construction started, and the outer- drab layer was removed; blossoming like a flamingo, peachy-keen stucco emerged. It was brilliant, and becoming as a birthday cake sitting on the edge of a table, my eyes were drawn to it; the vastness surrounding the color meant nothing.

An enormous piece of equipment-with a toy like claw-lifted the top hat portion of the chimney with the ease of tearing down a Lego town. It scratched the front of the house with steel nails, removing pieces of time, displaying the retro-pastel, before knocking the structure into particles of dust, and rubble.

I sat watching with a bout of unease. The driver of the Caterpillar Excavator sat high in the drivers seat moving the mouth of the vessel, while the sounds of Nine Inch Nails blared from the cab. “You make this all go away. You make this all go away. I’m down to just one thing, and I’m starting to scare myself.” I couldn’t help but to think of the irony in deconstructing. Did the operator purposefully play that song?

A pleased woman sitting nearby on the curb, and a few hyped kids standing around her, I asked, “Is this going to be your new house?” She smiled proudly, “Yes, once the demolition is complete.” I couldn’t help myself, the sadness washed over me like the water-hose to crumbling asbestos; I spoke without looking at her.

“It’s sad to watch something so beautiful being torn down.” She was offended, and rightly so, I guess.

She rearranged herself on the concrete and said with stiffness, “It was condemned.”

I wasn’t expecting a particular answer, nor did I think the house should’ve remained in decay, and unoccupied. However something inside me needed to talk about it, almost like a family member at a eulogy, something needed to be said.

I tried to back up from her interpretation of my statement, I said, “Oh yes, I know. It’s been sitting there rotting for a while now.”

I continued, trying to lighten the conversation, “I asked my landlord to set traps just in case the unearthing of the basement renderers a few rats homeless. I don’t want them taking up refuge at my place.”

She frowned, touched her oversized sunglasses and said, “The city had to approve our project. They required us to treat for rodent and asbestos problems prior to approving the construction. “

I was barely listening, “Really? Interesting.” I couldn’t take my eyes off the exposed doorframes without walls, and the gaping hole to hell, tearing through the side of the house like the set of a horror film. I wanted to go inside but it was too late.

There’s just something eerie, unexplainable about the wood remains and concrete fragments of a torn down house. It stood empty and broken, a staircase divided and leading nowhere like a plank to tragedy.

Cars slowed as they approached, gawking at the house raped of a home.

Where were the lives that occupied the empty rooms?
How many people had come and gone? Were each of the four corners touched by human lovemaking, quarrelling and strife? How many tears were shed on the oak floors, and how much echoing of laughter passed thru the plaster walls?

My discomfort with the new neighbor lady was avoided, like with any funeral, someone appeared with food. A pollen coated-white van- in a yellow haze, overflowing with sticky, sweaty-headed children, came to a stop. A woman shouted out the window to the flock around the house, “I have a bag of cheeseburgers,” as she presented an overgrown Mc Donald’s bag.

The woman stood to greet her friend, I happened to know the Cheeseburgular as well. We said our, “ Hello’s,” and then realized we had a friend in common.

The new neighbor said, “Oh yes, I’ve heard about you from time to time.” (I thought to myself, “I hope you’ve heard not to take me seriously, I’m outspoken and rude.”

I walked away from the conversation feeling odd and misunderstood, when probably she didn’t even give me a second thought. But I re-think everything, and see things in layers, whether fictional or not.

I’ve grown into the person I am now. I haven’t always been this way; my experiences trained me. I added levels and depth, crust and grime as time went by.

There’s a road nearby where I lived as a kid whose scenery has changed with me. Where there once stood my old daycare center-named after a horrible tale about two children being lured into danger by candy- is now an adult novelty store, selling sex tapes, dildos, silicone female-parts, and fetish delights. It, like the daycare, pacifies, and preoccupies. Hansel and Gretel doesn’t even describe grim.

When I was four years old, my mom and I lived in the disco-era apartments across the street from the adult-candy shop. The roofs hug the buildings like square shaped- helmets. I wonder if the helmet element of design was inspired by the hit TV show of the 1970’s, “Chips?” Everything from that era seemed to be brown, and beige like the cop uniforms too.

The apartments look the same from the outside (architecturally speaking;) however they’re different. My mother’s not there anymore. I’m not there, and my sheets are dry.

To BE Continued

In my cool state of soccer-mom-anarchy, I load my two children into my midsize-SUV, wearing second-hand Chanel sunglasses, and $100 workout pants. I reach for the stash of raw almonds in my console, and tune into popular radio.  I’m such a cliché it’s disgusting.  But wait, there’s hope for me after all. My son’s team practices at a field a little further south, and away from my neuvo-hip-85% upper middle class, white-neighborhood. My eclectic factor has risen; my kid is practicing soccer in the abandoned warehouse, and graffiti art side of town. I feel like I’ve got an edge again, yes!

We unroll our Velcro-waterproof-picnic blanket, and unload our canvas totes overflowing with our needy necessities. My son heads down the grassy hill towards his Jamaican coach…score, a real soccer player- assumption based on the fact that he’s Jamaican. I’ve moved beyond cliché. I’m ridiculous. The coach says, “Kiids-kiick da ball dataway!” I laugh and wonder to myself if he smokes blunts and eats goat. I’m pathetic.

While my son runs around the field wild with thin, pale arms a flailing, my daughter finds a stout friend with a head full of colorful barrettes. Her friend is two years younger, and twice her size, and says things like she sees them. I love her immediately.

I ask, “Do you want to come and sit on our blanket?” She plops her warmth next to me and pushes in with a purpose.

She leans over and looks at my bag. “What’s that?” she asks. “It’s our bag of snacks, want an apple?” She smiles big, “Yes.”

I’m pleased. “Go ask your mom if you can have one.”

Her mom is sitting off to the side with a man who’s size is one quarter of her width. She has long reddish black tracks hanging from her scalp; and tight jeans that squeeze her from front and back, over the top of them. She’s got a cigarette in one hand, and an extra large McDonalds cup in the other. She looks over and I wave, eager to seem inclusive; and to appear anything other than the stereotype I embody.

The girl returns, “My momma say I can have A apple.”

My heart feels good,  “Okay, well sit here and have a picnic with us.”

She says, “I had A picnic with my daddy, but he say the juice was hot. We have a dog. You have a dog?”

My daughter replies, “We have a Gooldendoodle. What kind of dog do you have?”

“We have a little dog.”

“Does your dog have curly hair?”

The girl says, “He have dog hair.” We all laugh.

The two girls sit on the blanket eating out of our bag of snacks, as the friend tells us about how her, ” Momma and daddy fight cause the dog go boo-boo in da bed.” We are all giggling and sharing stories about our dogs. I tell her, “Our dog stinks, ouwee, his paws sure are stinky-winky.” She laughs and tells me, “My daddy wash up my dog cause he stank.” I told her I understood how bad a stanky dog could smell. She puts her plump hand on my arm and leaves it there. I can see the eyes of jealousy staring through my daughter as she looks down at my arm. She scooches herself back into my lap. I touch her hair with my free arm.

The sun is leaving us and the sky is lit up with lines from airplanes, and layers of clouds are forming. Sadie points over to an albino, black girl, “Ewe, what’s wrong with that light skinned girl’s hair?” The friend says, “She gots hair like mines.” I then proceeded to explain the genetic disorder. I don’t think they understood. Sadie responds in a tone like I’m an idiot, “She doesn’t have dark skin moommmy, it’s reeeeally light.” The friend agrees.

I feel a sense of pride as my daughter argues with color-blind language. She and her brother both, refer to people as having either, “light skin,” “dark skin,” “brown skin,” or “yellow skin.” I think highly of myself for raising children without the need to label people beyond descriptive words. (That doesn’t mean I don’t do it behind their backs.)

I’m one of those white people who don’t call black people “African Americans,” to their faces, and then say” black” behind their backs. I was the only white kid in my third grade class, and one of a handful of white kids in the whole elementary. You know I wanted to run over to the mom of Sadie’s new friend and tell her all about how black I am on the inside.

The kids I went to school with didn’t call themselves “African Americans,” They called themselves black, or the “N-word” which I’d love to be able to say, but I learned you can’t say it unless you’re black. I almost got my tail beat by a chunky, vending machine happy, black 5ht grader for using that word.

We were out on the playground learning the lyrics to the song,  “It’s A Small World After All.” The song talks about colors of our sight, I may have thrown in the unspeakable word, and that’s when she pushed me. “You don’t say N-e-g-r-o. You white, you a honky.” I went running to the teacher,  “Help! Yolanda’s gonna beat me up.”  Some of my dark skinned friends came to my rescue, one said, “Teacher, Shanna was teasing.” I may have been white and little, but I had a big mouth, and a large posse to back it up. I was set as “Honky Queen,” in the land of Sheba. I was popular and protected because I was the token white. I was like the female version of the only black kid in all white school,  who becomes the star of the football team. I was that kid with the exception of the athletic ability. I was the wit behind the attitude.

The morning of my first “Field Day,” at the all black school I asked my mom if she’d come watch me run in a relay. She did the bare minimum as far as parent involvement at school was concerned, (not unlike myself, however I do a little more, but I’m no PTA mom that’s for sure.) She was stirring orange juice blended with a wheat-like laxative, “This stuff is so growdey, but I’m constipated.”

I ignored her and said, “I promise you’ll see me at Field Day. You know how you’ll see me? I’m on the Green Team, I’ll be the one running in the green t-shirt.” She just fell apart with that statement. She laughed so hard. I didn’t get why she was laughing. I couldn’t see my transparency on the field. She said, “I’ll see you alright, but it won’t be because of your green t-shirt.”

I can’t remember if she came to watch me or not, nor do I remember if I lost or won the race, but I do remember that conversation, and her mixing the breakfast of choice. When I think back, that’s actually the only time I ever remember her being up for breakfast. So maybe she did come as a spectator after all. I don’t blame her if she didn’t, kid stuff can be brain-lame, laborious and exhausting.  I dislike (tremendously) doing things I don’t enjoy, especially when it involves my time.

I’m not the type of mom, or person for that matter, who pretends to like things in order to keep the status quo. I wish I could say it’s because I don’t care what people think of me, but the truth is, I just don’t have it in me to do things I don’t like without those around me hearing about it.  I’m what others refer to as a complainer, or high maintenance.  However, the lighter side of my imaginary- majestic-status is that I’m a woman who knows what she likes and doesn’t, and I’m not afraid to share it with those around me. Even though my confidence sometimes loses me, I’ve always thought of myself as important, and recognizable. Basically, my reality has always circled around me like I’m the main event at every showing.

The night of my son’s practice at the Soccer Field, all loaded down with my recycled bags of insecurities, I wanted the black mom to know I wasn’t who she thought I was. I wanted her to know about my childhood and the diverse nature of my up bringing. The image I portray is what I want the world to believe (most of the time, when it’s convenient,) but I’m a whole lot more than just “What White Chicks Say,” I’m a blend of colorlessness and a collection of colorful stories. I can blend, mold, morph and be comfortable in almost any environment, and damn it, I’ve got a bumper sticker to prove it. (Well at least in my head)

“Writers Do It Better While Writing.”

It struck me as odd to see another luckless raccoon after I’d just seen an injured one on my street the week before. Raccoons don’t seem nearly as common to me as squirrels, or even possum. It had been a virus-dreary day, just yucky, when I noticed the critter staggering around in the street in front of my house. Its little claws were scratching at a utility post, and then it turned its attention to the hubcap of a parked car. It climbed on top of my recycling bin, fingering the empty beer cans and wine bottles with a drunken look on its face. It didn’t notice the joggers passing by, or the families with kids on bikes and infants in strollers.

I didn’t see any obvious wound, but the animal was definitely either sick, or suffering from a head trauma. Its fur was flat and matted, and dull like dead skin, I assumed the creature smelled awful just by the way it looked. I held my nose without touching it (an art I’ve mastered) even though I was standing on a second story porch about twelve feet away.

At one point it sat up on its hind legs in the middle of the road and started clawing at the air.  The kids were watching and laughing from the deck with me. They could hear the panic in my voice. “Stop laughing! There is something wrong with him.”

My son said, “Aw, mommy, what’s the matter with him? Should I take him some water?”

“ No, neither one of you is allowed to go outside. I’m not sure what’s wrong with him buddy. He’s not suppose to be out this time of day, nor is he usually found of people seeing him, something isn’t right.”

My daughter said, “Mommy, go get him.”

“I can’t baby, he’s a wild animal, and he’s sick. I’ll call wildlife rescue.”

She said, “But he’s so cute.”  “He is cute but he needs help.”

I went inside and called animal control. The kids followed, listening in on my conversation. They buzzed and flitted around me, paced the length of my desk, alternating opening the snack cabinet. I hung up the phone, “The city worker said they’re on the way to pick up the Raccoon.” Miles asked, “Are they going to take him to the Chattahoochee River Animal Preserve? I lied, “Maybe.” I knew they weren’t taking the exposed bandit anywhere but the incinerator.

Thirty minutes later we had to leave the house.  The sky darkened and began to melt. I ushered the kids into the car as we watched for our injured friend in disguise. We backed out of the driveway, and drove halfway down the road in silence.  As we approached the first intersection, we saw the little guy sitting on the corner, eyes waiting for death to approach. The kids shouted and pointed out the window, “Look! There he is, Mommy, there he is.” I said, “I know, I see him.” The rain was pounding on his head so hard that it was parting his fur. His little skull dropped in retaliation.

I had to turn away. He was on the brink and in his last few moments the weather was just fucking him even harder.

The idea of the masks I choose to wear resonated with me when I swerved to miss the dead Raccoon in the road.

I knew parts of me had to die, and I was forced to morn them just like the Raccoon had to accept his impending death, It was time for me to say goodbye to a few of my disguises.

“I’m making a fearless and searching inventory of myself.” (Step 4 of 12. AA)

Can you imagine what it’s like to make a list of all the people you resent and then to figure out your part in the resentment? It sucks, I tell you. There’s no fun in letting go of my ego long enough to admit my wrong doings, but nonetheless, it’s freeing.

I’ve discovered for the most part, the things about people in my life that upset me the most are the ideals I’ve placed on them.  I’m saying their inability to meet MY expectations (something I’ve put on them) is what hurts me, not them. I allow other people to cause me discomfort by my reactions to them, therefore I’m to blame.

For example, my children bring out a lot of resentment. I hate admitting that about myself, but it’s who I am at the center of my being. That doesn’t for one second mean that I don’t love them with all I have to give.

Why do I resent them? I thought having kids would turn the sour, into sweet, but it didn’t. Having children just added more of the variety, added pain in the ass, and more to love, additional work, and a richer life, more drippy noses to wipe and bouncy cheeks to kiss. Kids give it all and them some.

I don’t really resent them- I dislike some of the realities of parenthood.  Being a mother, even a part-time mom is draining, demanding, anxiety causing, serious business. They’re the biggest responsibility in my life and I’m scared that I’m going to fuck them up. (That’s pretty stressful, and egotistical on my part.)

When I think I’m going to fail them is when they anger me the most, and even then I’m not really upset with them, I’m mad at me. If I didn’t love them it would be easier for me not to try so hard. But, I do try hard, sometimes so much so that I loathe my efforts.

Good lord, if I could ever find the balance in parenting, and the way to parent without guilt I’d be awarded the Humanitarian Of The Year award. Can you imagine how well my children would grow up without being parented from a place of guilt?  What if I just came out with my shit and acted on behalf of faith as opposed to fear? But, it’s hard to let go.

I saw myself in the innards of the road kill. I held on so tight to the idea of making my children feel my love that it was starting to kill the real love. Real love doesn’t thrive in guilt. I needed to open my flesh and examine my motivations.

Admitting to myself that I was trying too hard and hating it because I was afraid of not showing enough love, and possibly losing their love, was devastating. It made me feel disgusted with myself, but now I know better. I’m determined to love them in the most authentic way possible; even if my love doesn’t add up to what my head thinks it should be.

The truth of my love isn’t disguised as a bandit.  It’s open and revealing, honest beyond my limitations.