sunday.
a failure at the party a failure at the party a failure
control yourself this is the priority of all mothers
for clean counters and the figure you will endure
or white teeth or properly respectful children or
the friendly face most of all the friendly face
your son is miserable making us miserable where
is your friendly face
fail
monday.
trapped in his teenage brainstorm: and mom
the way he mouths it into something grotesque
someone squall faced and bitch balled and far,
someone with a broom who says why did you
leave this mess pressed flat with the arguments of
everyone i love and everyone who loves me and
wants me to
tuesday.
you didn't call me back and my grandfather has cancer
you were fifteen minutes late
you never emailed the address
you forgot to buy butter
you never gave your husband a blow job
you don't have enough money for her club meeting
you never you always you don't you didn't
your face is miserable i'm going to watch tv i can't
wednesday.
i can't talk about this anymore.
thursday.
stop crying.
STOP CRYING
friday.
we called you and never heard back
i'm sorry your boss didn't like those interruptions
but someone has to deal with this
*mrs. this is simply the only date and time we
are available so let me know if you can make it
i'm sorry your boss is frustrated but you have to decide
please bring your child early to school tuesday, late on monday
but you have to decide what your priorities are
saturday.
a failure to control yourself a basic failure
of infrastructure a noticeable lack of control
a wife needs to a pregnant woman must a mother
has to a friend requires a daughter should always
your son is absent third period your son is weeping
your son is screaming your son is drowning where are you
you are not a martyr get it together fail
blow control email pay listen smile stop crying
stop.
maggie may ethridge
My Published Memoir
About The Writer
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"What would happen if one woman told the truth about her life? The world would split open " M.R.
she's precocious / and she knows just what it takes / to make the pros blush
The Mr. & Mrs.
what i thought love was is so much less than what it is
Our Pack: Dakota Wolf, Lola Moon, Ian Oliver and our baby, Ever Elizabeth
Someone may have stolen your dream when it was young and fresh and you were innocent. Anger is natural. Grief is appropriate. Healing is mandatory. Restoration is possible. -Jane Rubietta
you can stand under my umbrella
the light is on for you
My dear child, who can tell? One can only tell that, by remembering something which happened where we lived before; and as we remember nothing, we know nothing about it; and no book, and no man, can ever tell us certainly.
Some couples don’t ask much of one another after they’ve worked out the fundamentals of jobs and children. Some live separate intellectual and cultural lives, and survive, but the most intense, most fulfilling marriages need, I think, to struggle toward some kind of ideological convergence. Norman Rush
Pray For Kate McRae
click for link
I Believe In Nationwide Health Care
E Pluribus Unum ( Out of Many, One )
"I pay no attention whatever to anybody's praise or blame. I simply follow my own feelings." - Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart
yeah. i can feel this one.
Listen- I swear- all of this will be a distant memory some day. All will be well. Just get through it. And stop beating yourself up. I MEAN IT!
That was beyond deep... that was humbling. Life raw, life with demands.
Sharp inhale on my part.
This is like a diamond-bladed scalpel.
Hard. Cutting. Impression or reality?
Let's both breathe now.
It's tough out there, and you describe it all so succinctly, Maggie.
What a calander of events, of impressions, of experience, of words and emotions. What a week.
It can only improve on this, you/we/I hope, but then again will it?
I wish I knew how to make it better. Try to find those small moments when you can rest, in your mind, if not in your body. You have yourself, these lives outside yourself, and that tiny life within; you are doing all you can- you will not be perfect- and when you are not perfect, it is okay. You have a right to get upset and angry. You have a right to react. As you fight for your son and for your family, you have a right to fight for tiny moments of calm. When things are not okay, you don't have to pretend; and it's okay to let people know in a general sense, without going into detail, that you are feeling less yourself than usual- it's up to them to understand. I know it all feels overwhelming, but it's still step-by-step.
This, too, will pass. It will, Maggie. It will. Put your head down, feel us around you, and march forward.
Why/how/when did I realize that the tips of my fingers feel electric when I read your posts? Not only my fingers, but the tips of my heart, the part where everything matters?
Someday, Maggie, you will write a glorious book. Or maybe that book is your son, your baby in utero, this thing called a blog, your other son, your other daughter, your marriage, your heart.
(I love you.)
I send you my mantra:
Nothing is final.
Everything changes.
Be gentle.
everyone comments on your life,,,, i always comment on art, on your poems... THIS IS AWESOME, and healing of course!! i love how you write your life or a fictional life, i don´t care, this is pure poetry....
of course i care about you, dearling!!
i wish life was easier....!!!
love, love, love!!!!
yolanda
You are loved, Maggie.
Wow. SPECTACULAR poem. You have so accurately and beautifully captured the utter despair of parenting a teenager. Thank you for this.
i like this, write the one between these lines
Hang in there, Maggie. One day, one hour, one minute at a time. It's good to write this all out, to breathe the words then spit them all over the computer screen. Love & Blessings!
tough week.
you are not alone.
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Keep loving the journey because all of it is the journey.
Sending soft waves of love to you Maggie.
Big safe hugs,
pf
My heart.....
....whomp.
oh, i know this. i know this. and i'm battling it hard. beautiful and raw and aching.
i hope you'll join me for imperfect prose on thursdays.
peace, friend,
e.
wow. yeah. you have a gift, maggie, that is rare and golden.
I'm reading. Trying to somehow hold you up. You're writing is stunning.
Maybe we all are martyrs.
mar·tyr
/ˈmɑrtər/ Show Spelled[mahr-ter] Show IPA
–noun
1.
a person who willingly suffers death rather than renounce his or her religion.
2.
a person who is put to death or endures great suffering on behalf of any belief, principle, or cause: a martyr to the cause of social justice.
3.
a person who undergoes severe or constant suffering: a martyr to severe headaches.
4.
a person who seeks sympathy or attention by feigning or exaggerating pain, deprivation, etc.
really enjoyed this, the way it portrays the hectic nature of the week
Incredible piece, Maggie.
Incredible.
I'm not even going through the same things you are - but I can so relate to this. So much. Not that knowing that does anything epic. But know that I feel you.
And I echo Ms. Moon. It's a problem a lot of us have.
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