Elise Free - The Free Life

The Free Life

Synopsis: Woman (20's, total idiot) moves from Iowa to Los Angeles to become a famous television writer. But before making it big (spoiler alert, she never does) she has a baby. That babe is diagnosed with cystic fibrosis. Two divorces, a majorly hurt ego later, Woman (now 40's, much wiser) returns to Iowa, buys a house with too much yard to raise a teenager, Corgi, two smug cats and spends most days behind this thing called a mower and another thing called a shovel but still finds time to write. Lots of plot twists, laughs, and ridiculousness ensues.

Ordering Medications From A Specialty Pharmacy - "The Innermost Layer Of Dante's Inferno."

11/18/2021

Debby: Hi, thank you for calling Purgatorio’s Specialty Pharmacy. My name is Debby, how can I assist you on this glorious and blessed day?

Me: Um, okay, sure. So I got a text saying it’s time to refill my daughter's medication.

Debby: I would be delighted to help you with that! Can I get your daughter's name, date of birth, address, phone number, social security number, favorite color, the last time she pooped, her grade on last week’s Geometry test, shoe size, favorite Pokemon character and lastly, any new allergies?

Me: I just need a refill. She’s been on this med for 15 years. Do you really need all that information?

Debby: Let me check with the pharmacist.

Twenty minute hold while Kenny G performs “Hark the Harold Angels Sing” and “Who Let The Dog’s Out.”

Debby: The pharmacist does indeed need not only all of that information but because there has been a manufacturer’s change to this med, she will also need to know if your daughter has had any hospitalizations, new medications or new injuries due to a fall from a glacier or cherry picker? Or has she traveled out of the country to regions where people still speak Latin or Middle English?

Me: Nope. No changes. No falls. No, um, Latin or dead languages.

Debby: Okay, that’s good. Any new friends? Enemies? A boyfriend, and if so, is he a good boy, does he have any tattoos or a criminal record? Has your daughter experienced any side effects from this medication, or from the present Presidential administration? Any mood swings or seemingly uncontrollable eye-rolling when asked to practice her violin or do her homework?

Me: No.

Debby: Does your daughter currently have any of this medication on hand and if so how many days would you say?

Me: Not much, which is why I'm calling...for a refill.

Debby: Okay, um, does your daughter prefer homemade Mac n’ cheese to boxed? Has she ever experienced peer pressure and if so, I will need the names of so-called friends as well as their social security numbers, names of first pets, if their parents are still married or ever were and if anyone in your family or extended family has ever suffered from PMS or been a member of the Jelly of the Month club?

Me: OMG, can I speak to the pharmacist? This is really getting invasive. We just need a refill.

Debby: Sure sweet pea, honey bunches of oats, let me just connect you to the pharmacist.

Forty five minutes of Kenny G’s rendition of the musical “Oklahoma!”

Me: (loudly singing) When I take you out in my surry, when I take you in out in my surry with a fringe on top!!!

Pharmacist: I’m sorry?

Me: Nothing. Um, I just need a refill of my daughter’s meds but the amount of information I need to give is kind of ridiculous.

Pharmacist: I am so sorry about this. We’re experiencing higher than normal call volume so I’m going to place you on a brief hold.

An hour and a half of Kenny G’s rendition of Britney Spears “Oops I did it again” and “Here I Go Again” by White Snake.

Pharmacist: Sorry about that hold. I went to lunch at the new Applebee’s across the street. Did you know they have bottomless mimosas if you are in the medical profession or are born in a month that starts with U?

Me: Are you kidding me? Literally no months start with U. What is going on? I just need to order my daughter’s meds!

Pharmacist: Where were we? Oh yes, just gathering some VERY basic information for the refill. Oh shoot, my computer just shut down. Oh no, it’s on. I’m just drunk. Okay, I’m afraid I’ll need to get everything the previous rep had as well as the following: When was the last time your car was serviced?

Me: My car? This is a refill for my daughter’s specialty medications!

Pharmacist: Oops, sorry about that. I moonlight as a mechanic. Right, oh dear. Oh noooo.

Me: What?

Pharmacist: Your insurance is saying that it no longer covers this medication because their lobbyists completely run the government and they can do whatever the hell they want to do so they charge 1000 times more than any other country. Guess we should’a voted for Bernie am I right?

Me: Okay, so how much is it out of pocket?

Pharmacist: I’m going to need to place you on a very brief hold.

Three hours, twenty seven minutes of Kenny G playing “Love Hurts” by Meatloaf and “The Itsy Bitsy Spider.”

Pharmacist: Sorry about the long wait. I totally forgot about you and I’ve been playing FarmVille. Okay, so not great news. Your out-of-pocket is $4,893,430 and 21 cents.

Me: What?

Pharmacist: I do have a coupon for $5.00 off if you respond to a survey at the end of this call. Will that help?

Me: Is there a generic, anything?

Pharmacist: Good question. Let me just place you on a brief…

Me: No, please, please. No more holds. If I hear Kenny G one more time, I will stick my head in the oven and Bell Jar this call!

Pharmacist: Okeedokee artichokee, looks like there is a generic, but it is only approved for albino orangutans living in a very small, protected area of Borneo. Does your daughter fit that description?

Me: No, my daughter is not an albino orangutan from Borneo.

Pharmacist: Well can I help you with anything else today then? Have you gotten your flu shot?

Me: Not yet.

Pharmacist: Alrighty then sweet plum sugar buns, it has been a pleasure serving you and please hang on for the brief survey that takes an hour and a half. And don’t forget to get your oil changed every 10,000 miles or yearly, whichever comes first.

Me: Right, flu shot, oil change. Got it.

Kenny G playing “Baby Shark.”

Here's To The Imperfect Mom

5/12/2021

(Originally published on What the Flicka?)

I'd like to dedicate this Mother's Day to all the imperfect moms...

Here's to you, because you make me feel okay.

Here's to the mom whose kid is sporting a rat's nest bedhead to the park. I like you.

Here's to the mom who lets her child dress in tutu's with overalls, in high heels and purses, in outfits so mismatched, it looks like you brought your three foot bag lady to the park.

Here's to the mom who is too busy to send out 'thank you' letters, too numb at the end of the day to switch from day clothes to pajamas. Here's to the moms who have forgotten to brush teeth. Here's to the mom who looked at their dirty kid and said, "When was your last bath? What's today... Wednesday?"

Here's to the mom who makes Easy Mac, who doesn't cut the crusts off, who has a dirty bathroom. Here's to the moms who sometimes yell, who spanked once and immediately cried afterwards. Here's to the moms who have dropped the f-bomb in front of their linguistically spongy kid. Here's to the moms who bicker with your spouse and who drink a glass of wine when their toddler has a melt down.

Here's to the mom who wonders what it's all about, and goes to bed at night knowing that in twenty years her child will be discussing her in therapy. Here's to the moms who turn on cartoons so they can take a shower, or go to the bathroom uninterrupted.

Here's to the moms who bake from the box, rather than scratch. Here's to the moms who have ever had a screaming toddler stand in the shopping cart at Target with their lip out and arms crossed. Here's to the mom who has felt the judgement from parents with perfect little angels. Here's to the moms who have crayon drawings, like toddler hieroglyphics on their walls, and stained furniture, who have nothing new and therefore nothing to ruin.

Here's to the moms who read all the discipline books and still have 'unruly' children, here's to the moms who have kids that just "take off," that pee in the backyard, that say things in public like, "Why is that man so fat?," and "I can see his butt crack."

Here's to the moms who don't have a dishwasher, or maid, or laundry room, and here's to the moms who do. Here's to the moms who work, who stay home, who give and give and give until they are empty vessels watching reruns of Law and Order at night.

Here's to the moms who go to bed with dirty dishes in the sink. Here's to the moms who have messy closets and dusty shelves. Here's to the moms who haven't shaved their legs since 1972.

Here's to the moms who read, who read to their children, who teach love, who hug as much as scold, who understand that a tantrum is a necessary part of growing up - and so is that glass of wine.

Here's to the moms who have pow wow's and marching bands in their living room, who make tents and do puzzles, who build skyscrapers out of stuffed animals, who will do anything dorky or insane to get a laugh out of their sourpuss toddler. Here's to the moms who would rather their child have messy hair, than ruin the mood. Here's to the moms who sing and dance with their children, who stop the dishes and laundry for a good snuggle. Here's to the moms who can't wrap packages in pretty paper and bows, but can give their child their time. Here's to the moms whose patience has run out, who cries because she feels she is messing everything up, here's to that mom... because you aren't.

Here's to the mom who isn't perfect. And here's to the mom whose child isn't perfect either. There are a lot more of you than you think. Happy Mother's Day to you. Because motherhood isn't a Gap commercial or Hallmark card. And children, just like life are messy. Here's to the mom who fails at perfection, but finds perfection in the messiness of life and motherhood.

A Typical Free Night

4/9/2021

3:20AM: Dog needs out. Refuses to come back in and stares into the backyard like Freddy Krueger is out there, or ya know, a raccoon.

4:30AM: Mabel the cat is banging on a cupboard door trying to get into it. Clearly Freddy Krueger is in there as well and she is protecting the house, or... it's a mouse.

4:40AM: Mable has moved onto eating important documents on my desk. Yes, she eats paper. We all have our vices. I hear the loud crunch and spit from my weird girl. I get up and hide them in the cupboard that I know she will also try to get into.

5:20AM: Franny has to go out AGAIN. Could be Freddy Krueger, or could be the river water she drank the other day. Either way, I don't want to risk it. Again, she refuses to come in. I bring out lunch meat and coax her into the house. It's raining, so now I'm wet and my slippers are muddy. Freddy Krueger still looms. All the raccoons in the neighborhood laugh at us.

5:30AM: Franny jumps into the bed completely wet and before I can stop her, places her entire body on my pillow, butt facing me. Did I mention she has horrible gas?

5:30AM - 6AM: Franny continues to fart in my face, my bed is soaked, the cats play "who can bite Mommy's feet the most." Finn gets right in my face (I turned away from the dog's butt) and says loudly MEOWWWWWW! Mabel, who is now clearly not full after eating my mortgage paperwork demands breakfast loudly in the kitchen.

7AM: I hear the hacking of a hairball (not one, but two) on my bedroom rug.

8AM:I get up, make coffee and now (of course) all the pets are curled up and sleeping. Can you blame them? They had a busy night.

10:30AM: Me, looking at cute cats on the internet who need homes, thinking, "Maybe just one more."

Thank You For Ignoring Us

4/6/2021

Thank you for not inviting us to birthday parties and holidays. Thank you for putting our safety above your hugs, your milestones, your presence. Thank you for reaching out and saying, “Stay home. We love you.” Thank you for letting us know you would never do anything to put us at risk, even if it meant we couldn’t physically be part of your lives.

Thank you for wearing masks and not attending church or gatherings, concerts or restaurants, for choosing us over your "freedoms."

No, we are not social pariahs. We have a strong and loving network of friends and family. But my daughter has cystic fibrosis. Cystic fibrosis affects the lungs and digestive systems and the repercussions of contracting Covid 19 could be life threatening.

Showing up is usually the sign of receiving love. This year, NOT showing up was.

As a social butterfly, a lover of parties, dancing, live music, movies, the theatre, brunches with girlfriends, this year has been difficult. I’m a hugger, a big hugger. Even my friends who aren’t big huggers (you know who you are) let me hug them. When we social distanced in back yards, those 6 feet, the masks and not seeing all of your beautiful faces was excruciating. But it was also an act of love.

I wanted to hold my cousin’s new baby, to nibble on his deliciousness. But I didn’t. We sat in a driveway more than 6 feet apart. We admired his coos and giggles from afar. It took every ounce of crazy-baby-loving willpower not to sop him up with a biscuit.

Because of Covid, we were unable to travel to Los Angeles where my daughter's family lives. She hasn't hugged her dad in over a year. As a parent, I constantly questioned my resolve to keep her safe, knowing that decision of safety was also deprivation of family and friends, ocean swims and mountain climbs.

Thank you to everyone who stayed home, who wore masks, who postponed that vacation until vaccination. Thank you for being patient and knowing we would be able to meet again, dance to live music, to hug. Our friends' babies are now toddlers and we missed it. But we are alive. It was worth a year. It was worth the sacrifices.

I am fully vaccinated now, as are my family and most friends. Soon, my teenager will be too. Safely and cautiously, we will tip toe back into the world. Finally. Get ready for a hug.

Great Was Never Great: Breaking Up With An Abusive President

1/19/2021

It starts out with big promises. He is charming, says the right things, buys you flowers and oil pipelines. He tells it like it is and everyone seems drawn to him, enamored even. This initial wooing is called a “love bomb” and you are his target.

You’ve been hurt in the past and he knows exactly what to say. He’s chosen you for a reason. He’s unlike anyone you’ve ever loved and at first you believe that to be a good thing.

As the months go by and the orange layers peel away, you begin to have questions. But those around him are so engaged, steadfast, loyal, so you wonder, “Maybe it’s me? Maybe that thing in my gut telling me this isn’t right, is actually wrong.”

You decide to stay and suddenly the red flags blow away like a dandelion in the breeze or a bird into a giant wind turbine.

Friends comment on social media how happy you look as your cheeks ache from fake smiling. You pose for the photos and wear the outfits he deems suitable, not too sexy, but attractive enough to adorn his arm. If you look at anyone else, even scanning a room or talk to another man, you’re accused of cheating. You have to be loyal at all times but may never question him. Those are the rules.

You find yourself defending atrocious behavior. It starts out small, little insults masked as humor. He tests you to see how much he can get away with, but after a while the little insults become character bashing. You stay because you believe this is not really who he is.
When you argue, he replies, “It’s a joke! Don’t be such a snowflake. Don’t be such a bitch. All guys talk this way.”

You think, “Maybe he’s right. Maybe this locker room talk is acceptable.”

The world tilts upside down, so to adjust you start walking on the ceiling. Eventually living upside down becomes normal.

It’s a slow transition. At first it is shock, then disbelief, then numbness, until all actions are justified and eventually condoned. He is skilled at making you believe you are the problem. It’s not him. It never is.

You voted for this, you brought this into your life. You are invested, physically, financially, emotionally, spiritually. You are complicit, aligned with his behavior and abandoning him now would reflect poorly on your character, not his.

Admitting this is wrong would mean that something in you is faulty, that you are unable to discern truth from fiction, right from wrong, good from evil. You shouted from the rooftops it was GREAT!

He buys you theatre tickets for your birthday to your favorite show. He brags about it on social media. Tons of likes! What a great boyfriend! Hashtag lucky lady! Tickets in hand, big smiles. But on the day you are to attend, he takes the tickets away and says you don’t deserve them anymore. He goes alone, comes home and pushes you against the wall because you ruined his evening. You made him go alone. You take a bath and sob and wonder how in the world you got to this place. You agree with him in a way, “What is wrong with me?”

He spoils you with nice dinners but punishes you afterwards for enjoying it. He calls you a gold digger. You tell him you’re fine with inexpensive meals, that you’re happy to cook and camp and live simply. But he doesn’t want to. He wants 5 star accommodations but shames you for going with him. You should know your place. You are not in the top 1%. You are not a Mar-a-Lago. You are a Motel 6. You are lucky and owe him everything. You would be nothing without him.

You walk on eggshells. You give praise because praise is the only behavior acceptable. He only asks for your opinion because he knows at this point, you’ve come too far to disagree. He’s groomed you. Loyalty is everything and you are loyal to the end.

He lies of course, but that’s just him. It isn’t really hurting anyone. Image is the most important thing and who are you to stand in his way? Even if he is deeply flawed, we’re all sinners, right? Even though he doesn’t ask for forgiveness, that’s okay too. He says if you ever say anything negative about him, he will sue you and take everything you have. He has already destroyed your self-worth so you believe him.

And then one day you see the playback, clarity hits, the red flags, the lies, the promises, the orange layers peeling down in fast forward to something rotten and vile and you think, “How could I not see? How could I have been part of this awful thing?”

You finally say, “This wasn’t me. Isn’t me. I just didn’t know.”

You realize it is okay to walk away. It is okay to accept that you were fooled because you are not an awful person. He was. You believed a lie. You believed a lot of lies. You believed someone who spent a lifetime perfecting the art of the lie. It’s not you. It’s him.

For a lot of us who have experienced emotional abuse in our past, these past 4 years have caused PTSD and depression as we relive the nightmare with every article, newsfeed and watching, like our lives, our country fall prey to a narcissist.

Trump’s discourse, demeanor, humiliation of anyone who disagrees with him, his isolation of supporters and complete need for loyalty is all too familiar. We lived it personally, not just politically. It was not just in the White House but in our house.

Now, we leave. We move on and know from this point we can recognize the red flags, the fake promises, the grooming, the emotional abuse and we will never stand for it again. We are better now. Great was never great. But the future will be.

I Gave Birth To A Feral Child

12/31/2020

Originally published on Scary Mommy 11/30/2015

My daughter is feral. Not in the way that she walks on all-fours and hissed through infancy, or scratched up her doctors arms and refused motherly affection, but in the way that she is not like other children. There is something about her, something wild. She was born this way and no one could have prepared me for the daunting task of domesticating my own child.

Addie was the toddler we have all witnessed at the playground, who teetered to the top of the monkey bars, pausing for a brief moment before hurling her body into the air like a preschool base jumper. She swung so high on the swings, I imagined, much like a cartoon, one day she would circle all the way around, shooting out into the stars with a joyful “Weeeee!”

The instant she learned to crawl, she began climbing—book shelves, dressers, sinks, counters, desks, any place that was at least a hundred times higher than she was. After baby-proofing our apartment, our dwellings resembled a prison, more than a home, earthquake tethering every heavy item to the wall so she could not pull down the house while repelling off of it.

Before she was age-appropriately ready for a big girl bed, we ditched the crib. Even as an infant, I’d walk into the bedroom to find her straddling the bars like Edmund Hillary climbing over the the top of Mount Crib. At 8 months, she stood in her high chair with a look on her face that I swear meant, “I will not be restrained for strained peas!” Straps were no match for my little Houdini, and the first time I placed her in the seat on my bike, she said in total deadpan, “Just. Go. Fast.”

She was the kid who immediately upon walking into a house would zero in on all electrical outlets and locate something (preferably metal) to stick inside them. I called Poison Control at least 15 times in her first 2 years. And it was not (I swear) out of negligence. All poisons, cleaners and medications were locked up. But on walks, she would reach her little baby hand out of the stroller, grab a flower or plant and shove it into her mouth. My calls were so frequent, I knew the operators by their first name. After a few calls to Theresa at Poison Control, I got smart and printed out a list with matching photos of all poisonous California plants for our walks, so I would know when her appetite for indigenous foliage warranted an ER visit. When that got old, she ate the little packets from shoe boxes that say, “Do not eat.” These are surprisingly non-toxic, or so Theresa from Poison Control assured me. They are just not to be confused with food, ya know, for those people who get incredibly hungry while shoe shopping.

She shoved Mexican Sage up her nose. She ate a sharpie. She broke her ulna and radius on the monkey bars. She had stitches in her forehead from a flying wooden tool box (don’t ask). On walks with our dog, I had a leash for her and a leash for our Pomeranian. And yes, I saw the judgment from other parents as I walked my dog and kid in unison. But those judgy parents didn’t know that just like a puppy, my kiddo, if allowed to roam free, would beeline for the house across the street to shove a marigold or bird-of-paradise up her nose.
She is the female version of Mowgli from “The Jungle Book,” more attracted to nature and danger, than order and safety. She came out of my body fast and loud and that has never changed.

It doesn’t stop at thrill-seeking. She comes up with ideas most children would never even conjure. At her third birthday party, she received a baby doll. Where most girls would cuddle and feed the new babe, my kiddo absconded to the bathroom, with a few accomplices, where they dipped the doll in the toilet (to get her nice and wet) and then rolled her in cat litter. When I walked in, I didn’t have to ask whose idea it was to make a cat litter turd doll. I knew. She is almost always behind the “big idea.” She was the kid who cut all of her playmates hair, played doctor, and encouraged the neighborhood children to embrace their wild sides too. It may come as no surprise that we’ve lost a few friends along the way. You know who you are. I hope you liked the fruit basket we sent.

And like Mowgli, my daughter prefers to pee outside and run naked through the yard. In the middle of winter, she refuses to wear anything but underwear. If I had a nickel for every time I yelled, “Addie put some clothes on, the UPS guy is at the door,” I would be a rich, rich mama.

Despite her wild ways, she is also a very affectionate little beast who is kind and funny and sweet and she has outgrown some of her jungle ways. Fortunately, at 10, she has developed a sense of fear, or caution, or possibly common sense. As much as I admire her ability to take life by the horns (and the bull too, if she had the chance), she has scared the holy crapola out of me more times than I can count. People without feral children, do not understand. They assume it must be lack of parenting or discipline and that I am terrible parent. Feel free to discuss that in the comment section. I’m sure the judgy wudgies with tame kiddos will attribute their child’s disposition to proper parenting. And maybe they’re right. I’m sure they think they are.

But I have had plenty of friends whose first born was a little angel, but whose second child came out with a forked tongue and talons. These are my favorite friends.

One of my girlfriends recently confessed, “I thought I was such a fabulous mom after having my son. He was polite and obedient and I credited myself for his good behavior. And then I had my daughter.”
She said the word ‘daughter’ through clenched teeth like the mere mention of her existence could invoke a plague of locusts or the apocalypse.

“She is difficult and stubborn, unafraid of any consequence or punishment! It doesn’t matter what I do,” my friend confided.

I know it’s awful, but I took great joy in that statement. Not because I was happy she had a difficult kid, but because she of all people gets it. She had the little kitten that would let you hold it and dress it in baby doll clothes and put in the buggy and then she had the feral cat, who hissed and bit and peed outside the litter box. And she loved them both.

She also mentioned something that I think only a parent who has experienced the whole spectrum has the grace to admit, “Sometimes my son is so boring, I can hardly stand it. At least my daughter makes life interesting.”

It’s not easy, but I’m glad I was blessed with my feral girl. She may challenge me on a daily basis and moon the UPS guy, but she’s also taught me that when standing on the jungle gym of life, rather than thinking, “I could die,” she thinks instead, “I could fly.” I can’t imagine a world without the spitfires, the feral kiddos, the piss and vinegars, the hellcats and the Mowglies. They not only make life more interesting, but they make life wild.

Exit Through The Comment Section

12/20/2020

I read an article yesterday about President elect Biden and his wife visiting the graves of his deceased former wife and their baby girl who died in an automobile accident. And then, despite my better judgment, I clicked on the comment section—the Dante’s Inferno of the internet.

“He deserved it.”
“Why is this news?”
“Karma, serves him right.”
“Libtard.”

And I thought, “Who are you people?"

Years ago, I wrote an article about my daughter going through a difficult phase. It was about choosing battles and understanding that little people are human. It was benign mama sharing stuff. While reading the comments, I was stunned to read, “You and your daughter are c*nts. You are what is wrong with America!” My daughter was nine. It was in all caps. It always is.

Who are you people?

Another recently read article was about a woman in prison with a pre-existing condition. Her mother was begging authorities to let her go because of the risk of her contracting Covid. She was there on a parole violation. I clicked on the comments.

“She deserves to die.”
“If you can’t do the time, don’t do the crime.”
“Sorry, not sorry.”

Who are you people?

It’s like if all the bullies from middle school got together and learned how to type just to beat up people online.

I will often click on the profile of the person spewing hateful verbiage. It’s slightly stalker-ish, but I want to know, to understand. Do they have children, pets? Are they a Russian bot named Todd Smith with a faux picture of a polite looking Marine standing next to a yacht? Are they real?

I want to know, “Who are you people?”

But they just look normal, someone you’d stand next to in line at the grocery store. They would probably let you go first if you only had a couple items and talk about the weather. They have family photos with babies and cute Pomeranians and their favorite sports team. Go Hawks.

But who are you people? Really.

Why, when reading an article about a man grieving his dead wife and baby, do you put hands to keyboard and feel obligated to say “You deserved the worse possible fate in the world?”
At what point, as we sit behind screens do we stop being human? At what point did we collectively decide we have permission to be awful, only because we are hidden? Like a child playing hide and seek, covering their eyes while in plain site. We can still see you. We see you.

Who are you people?

I’ve done it. Not to this extreme, but have felt justified in tearing someone’s argument apart, breaking down what I felt was flawed thinking or logic and maybe in the process breaking them down too. I have wanted to be right more than I have wanted to be kind. I have beaten people up with words, not intentionally but because in a furied moment of rapid typing, I felt superior. I was right dammit!

It is a cowardice battle fought outside the ring, without the real blows of a … 3, 2, 1, you’re down, but a winner declared with the most likes. No boxing gloves, just words and pajamas. And maybe that hurts more.

In trying so hard to get my point across, to be right, I have stepped on cyber toes, but hurt real hearts. And I’m sorry.

Maybe the real question is, “Who am I?”

This disconnect, that space between us and the rest of the world is fragile, exposed, vulnerable. Before we choose to enter it, to meet a stranger, to engage, we need to pretend that space doesn’t exist. That person is there, in the room, in their PJ’s, a dog on their lap, kids in the background and they are just waiting for a kind response.

The Hours

12/12/2020

The hours

hold all the power
a pocket watch tucked
away in the tweed coat
of gods

keeping the pace of
us

the only thing constant really
moving forever forward
no matter what

everything ends
but the hours

Even when it seems to stand
still
or slow or speed away

it isn’t true
the hands are right
not us
So we’re told

enjoy this
the right now
because they grow too quickly

that dial is constantly moving
a race against
well you know

what seems like in an instant
is

a toddler becomes
a teen
and you think

where did it go
what was I doing
how did I not notice

the hours

that fragile space between
what was and what is

the only thing it cannot do
is stay

It Will Not Be Easy

11/18/2020

It will not be easy.

From the beginning
you will feel as if the earth has spun
off its axis
and yet
you still have to pack a lunch.

It will not be easy.

You will hold on even when the universe comes undone,
when laundry climbs higher than Mount Olympus
and you become the Sisyphus of dishes
and the Hermes of carpool.

It will not be easy.

You will be okay because
of little hands in clay and dandelions blown
into the wind with big, big wishes attached.

You will be okay because of laughter from the back seat
on a long car ride
and crayon drawings of aliens and cats
on the refrigerator,
messy baths
and sparklers in the backyard,
the made up songs about dog farts
and jelly beans.

It will not be easy

on days when sleep is like an old friend who
moved away leaving no forwarding address
but you will be okay.

Because the music will come on as you watch
a little person
who you made
tap dancing on your freshly mopped floors

and you will find yourself turning
the music up and putting down the mop.
Because something about you has changed.

You will never be the same.

It will not be easy.

At night, after you’ve read the stories
brushed the teeth and answered a thousand questions
about gravity, why cat’s breath smells like tuna and
how do butterflies know where to fly,
why children can’t stay up all night
and what happens when we die.

You will tuck her in and breathe a tired sigh,
one that every mother has known
from the very beginning of time.

It is a sigh that says

It will not be easy
but you
will be okay.

The Secret's In The Ink

11/12/2020

Watching "The Octopus Teacher" on Netflix reminded me of an essay I'd written when Addie was struggling with her health. If you haven't watched it, do. But first, read this.

It creeps up on me like the boogey man or an octopus.

We have great days of playing at the park, dinner around the table where we talk of playground politics and discuss Ben and Jerry's greatest ice cream flavors. After homework and a game of animal rummy, we catch an hour of a Jack Black movie during respiratory treatment, guffaw at his cartoon facial expressions and settle in with a library book about octopuses, cuttlefish and squids, learning how cephalopods exist without skeletons. They are the shapeshifters of the sea, who cannot only change color but camouflage their bodies by the pattern of their surroundings.

The blue-ringed octopus transforms its body to look exactly like the anemones beneath him, same color, same shape, even the same texture. How does he know how to do that, in an instant? How does he paint his pigment in those Van Gogh patterns, without a brush, without a cerebral cortex? How does he inherently know what will save him?

Instead of fighting, he fits in, meshes, like, "Hey dude, just hanging." In essence, the octopus pretends the danger isn't actually there. And it works.

This has been a tough year. Addie's gastronomy tube fell out and had to be replaced surgically, her stomach woes and blocked colon caused months of physical pain and missed school, activities and life. This cold that won't go away created a wet cough that sounds like heavy cement in her lungs. And now the antibiotics that fight the cement are causing diarrhea and night time tummy aches. Sometimes cystic fibrosis feels never-ending. We are fighting an invisible current, a secret enemy who is hiding in plain site, colored and textured like our daily surroundings, but always there. At the end of the day, even when it's lovely, the tentacles are showing.

This is a first, but tonight I was jealous of an octopus and her graceful ability to survive the depths of the sea without a weapon, except ink, writing her story in the ocean. "I WAS HERE."

Even if I were hidden when the dangers lurked above, I fought in my own way. I changed and worked to fit in to this environment that was always against me, that tried it's best to win because patients with CF struggle to breathe, as if air were the enemy, as if they were underwater and born without gills.

Without the metaphors, I'm just sad tonight. I wish my kid could fall asleep without any pain or discomfort. I wish a cold was not something to be feared like a shark or a stingray. I wish I could kiss her goodnight and not think, "She's almost eight, how long do we have?"

I wish I could sink into the bottom of the sea and camouflage myself into pretending we are safe, that there is nothing wrong, that we are just the anemones beneath us. There are no enemies. And whatever haunts us from above will keep on swimming. Just keep on swimming and leave us alone. Safe and shapeless, but happy, under the waves and the sun that seems to always find a way to reach us, even in the darkest of places.