birthday card

" You can't run away from trouble. There ain't no place that far. "
_ Uncle Remus, Song of the South


father you are crowding my poetry.
i am typing about stairs and they become
the escape from your bristle brush, mustache ends.
whatever you do don't throw me in that briar bush

i am typing about the Civil War,
dead soldiers make mountains of dead girls.
my arm pokes in broken attitude from nightgown,
a slight acknowledgment i existed.
bullets lodge in body's private spaces, beyond removal.
lordy please don't throw me in that bush

years later marrow wraps round the thing
humps it with those stone cold bones
leeching out metal, filtering blood
through a service of peculiar hell:
if the onslaught didn't kill you, the survival will.

every metaphor bowing head in subservience
to your huge Southern self,
a chain gang of fucked, a long drawn out sick-up.
i see your martial arts in my rhyme schemes
your bellicose grandiose incredible shredding voice-
making way through my flickering
mantra: i have a choice.

i dry heave every morning
the children raise their eyebrows,
they are now realizing
their mother is a briar rabbit.
ohpleasepleasedon'tthrowmeinthatbriarbush!

tiny violence- i am in control of this mutilation.
dig small graves, pull fat scabs
leave the dug up holes ugly, hot bed babies
never put to rest,
a natural deterrent to love.

oh my darling, you were lost and gone forever
why can't you stay missing?
i killed you enough.

the phone screams, the cat heaves,
the dogs are barking all down the street
my babies set up a long howling
the mailman rings twice
i have no government team

testing this envelope, enveloping me in gas mask.
only the thin bloody line of paper cut
lies between your signature
and my survival.

maggie may ethridge

The Three Stages of Nursing A Toddler

Eight of Ever's Favorite Books

Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See? Slide and Find (World of Eric Carle (Priddy Books))

Mickey Mouse Clubhouse: Up, Up, and Away!

Little Blue Truck big book

Kisses for Daddy (My Little Library)

Doctor Maisy

The Best Mouse Cookie (If You Give...)

The Napping House

People In Your Neighborhood

Take a seat and read!!

Chris Beat Cancer I found this website researching something, and loved the inspiration of the story of this young dad's diagnosis with colon cancer, and his recovery with surgery and nutritional therapy. He did not do chemo or radiation.

I used to dye my hair regularly, and Hair Talk is the best source of information I've ever found on any question you could have about dying hair and a host of other hair information. The specific advice saved my head a few times when I had messed up with the dye or wasn't sure how to proceed with something.

I want to make this sweet Valentine Day heart tree with Lola. 

Mealtime Bootcamp is a series by Sheri Silver in which she instructs an overwhelmed mom how to manage dinner time. This is the first post in that series, and I'm loving following along and picking up ideas. There is something beautiful about organized stacks and containers of prepared ingredients!

A heartrending post by a mother who lost her oldest son, on how talking about him is one of the most important parts to being able to go on without him: Say His Name

This was the first poem I ever had published online. I'm still proud of it.

Some mornings, Ever and I watch You-Tubes together. She loves this ABC and so do I, it's so mellow.

Dakota's middle name is Wolf, and when he was maybe 9, 10, 11, he was interested in learning about wolves. We signed him up for a membership at the California Wolf Center and went up there twice to visit. Once we went and it was snowing; the combination of wolves and snow was magical. We actually saw quite a few wolves prowling around... they are magnificent. 

The Daily Home Evening Schedule

Scheduling is a prerequisite of parenthood. Even the cavemen probably had a designated time to pick fleas off the children and bang rocks to scare off predators. I've always been in charge of our family schedule, to our benefit and our detriment. Sometimes I come up with schedules that seem a perfect balance of needs and wants: we get to watch American Idol AND do our homework and have family dinners. Other times I completely lose track of the whole shebang when things change ( someone gets sick for weeks, we go on vacation, school break ) and don't re-arrange things to meet our new circumstances. One of my finest moments in scheduling was after Ever's birth. At home with a new baby and three older kids, I was experiencing post-partum anxiety, as was Lola. I made a schedule for the evenings that included healthy, comforting family dinner time, homework, a half hour of family TV viewing, bath, reading time with Daddy, a before bed walk and then all of us piling in bed to the exact same Harry Potter movie playing on almost mute, which was completely comforting to all of us. We four- Mr. Curry, Lola, Ever and I- fell asleep all together every night for months. 

Including the little things is important for me, because those little things- take vitamins, floss, sign Lola's school calendar, update the family whiteboard calendar- add up and make life run more smoothly. Making a list of what matters, big and small, keeps me ( kind of ) on top of things.

To Include In Family Schedule

Reading time

Outside time- a walk or just hanging out on the porch and talking

Dinner all together at mimimum 3x a week, shoot for 4-5x weekly

Homework

Half hour TV for Lola, can be longer is we are watching a show all together every week like American Idol. For a while we watched one episode of Happy Days and one episode of Doogie Howser every evening. Random, and awesome.

Vitamins- We all take daily fish oil and during Fall/Winter Vit. D. Mr. Curry and I also take various other supplements depending on what our needs are. I give the kids probiotics regularly, also.

Make lunches- This year I began asking Lola to make her lunch a few times a week. Otherwise, I make a lunch for Mr. Curry and Lola, with basic sandwich or protein, mixed nuts, fruit and snack like Baked Lays or pretzels, and water.

Laundry- so. much. laundry. Six people live here off and on, and the laundry is epic. I do loads every day.

Take dogs for a walk or just hang out outside.

Check calendar for tomorrow's need to know.

Exercise- I've begun exercising in the last month and doing yoga as well, minus the week we were all sick. Sometimes Lola does the workout DVD or yoga with me, and if Mr. Curry hasn't taken Ever out, she stands in forward facing bend like a champ :)

Tidy up- wipe down kitchen counters, put shoes in shoe shelves, throw toys in proper baskets. This usually happens but if it doesn't, now that I don't leave home to work, I don't get upset. I let it go and do it in the morning.

And you know I'm forgetting something!!!

What does your schedule look like?

everkins

this is my youngest child, my youngest daughter, my last baby
i am blessed to the oceanic depths and
to the tail of a comet in the last universe.
blessed.

Wabi Sabi { Scenes From A Marriage }

I wake and move downstairs without my body's approval. Ever still nurses at night. Ever loves nursing more than any human child has ever loved nursing, and without my intervention could easily become the adolescent King boy in Game of Thrones who hangs off his mother's nipple as she perches on the throne. Mr. Curry's black and yellow zipper shoes ( as I have come to think of them for no apparent reason ) are on the table. This is new. Usually he irritates me by leaving them out, instead of shoved inside the four shoe shelves in the dresser feet away, but this day, he places them on top of the table, proudly. Look wife. I have left my shoes where our children eat. This is good, yes? 

As Mr. Curry comes out of the fog of bipolar, I am lifted. The long struggle has ended for now. He is back inside of those large hazel eyes that I adore, of which our baby has one. One of his, one of mine. If I was a cartoonist, I'd like to draw you two line illustrations, one of Mr. Curry during bipolar, and one when he is himself without the disease. The bipolar illustration would have downturned mouth lines, sloped and hollowed cheeks, rounded shoulders, clenched jaw, eyes that are full of terrible clouds so dense and so chaotic that were they the clouds of smoke from a fire, no one could reach through them to save anyone else. 

Nothing is as simple as a diary entry, a blog, an article, a summary, a log book, a psychologist's notes. Not my relationship with my husband, not our marriage. Records are for black and white, not shades of grey. Records state high and low, density, clarity, weight, power. Records do not state the dance of sunshine on the leaves when he pulled you through them laughing, the winking of sun on water at the lake as he kissed your forehead, the thundering of your heart as you lay alone in bed together and the entire world was distilled into that one dark and beautiful moment. Perhaps an index comes closer. A dictionary. A thesaurus. 

I don't lie when I write, as far as I can control. If I lie to myself, I pass it onto you; forgive me in advance for this contagion. How does one tell a story and always tell the truth? By leaving out whatever parts you choose. This makes it bearable when life is unbearable. This makes it safe when the truth would be dangerous. This also leaves an incomplete story. As I write about my marriage here, I am always thinking of all I am leaving out, and sometimes, I am sure that I have never properly conveyed how much I love my husband. I get those fears about people I love, that they don't know, so that I have to find them wherever they are and hold them and tell them. The truth Mr. Curry and I have to face and face again is that our marriage comes with an unwanted, uninvited guest: bipolar. A disease that sounds so common, easy to say, heard more frequently now. To my ears, ears that know, the word is thick with exhaustion, pain, confusion, desperation and heartbreak. Nothing that I understood- which was more than the average person- about mental illness prepared me for watching the love of my life being taken away and replaced by a stranger, one thinner, more volatile, irrational, hurtful and ten times less thoughtful than my actual husband. If I could capture in time shots the change of his face as he becomes ill, then, I believe, you would begin to understand. This might be the worst part, but it is not. The worst part is not knowing when he is coming home, or if. 

Before, if I could lie with him alone for long enough, and press my face to his close enough, and look hard enough, he could come back. Things change over time, this is marriage: what is hard will only become harder. You've solved a problem, found a solution: but is it a solution you can repeat and endure and carry for the rest of your life?  So perhaps when I say 'things change' it was a cowardly way of saying 'I've changed'. 

I've changed, and perhaps more the truth is that our circumstances have changed greatly, and this is also marriage: what shape your marriage takes in one set of circumstances is not a lifetime form. You keep shaping it, or it shapes itself to meet the moment, and this can be shocking. Our circumstances are now more absolutely engulfing as far as mental, physical and emotional space than they ever were before. Or perhaps I would have needed to find other ways of handing this on my end, regardless. Either way, we are left with the ways time changes us that are unexpected and at times, frightening. Yet despite all that is painful and terrifying about bipolar, every time my husband gets better, I am- even when I am so angry and hurt I fight it- as in love with him as ever, and he I. I still love his face, his smile, his laugh, his smell, his touch, I still feel ridiculously happy when it's his voice on the end of the line, when he comes home early. 

I fight hard for this while he is sick. I work to understand this challenge put into our life, and how we are meant to deal with it. I work to resist the temptation to turn away and steer myself to ask the hardest questions of my marriage: What do we owe each other? What do I owe myself? What do I want to do for my husband? What would I want done for myself? What do I want for our children? What do I believe is the nature of suffering and what purpose can it bring to my life? How can I transform fear and pain into transcendence? How can I act in love? How can I see this story differently? 

In Japanese culture there is a an aesthetic called Wabi Sabi. Wabi Sabi is the adoration and enjoyment of all things imperfect, old, beaten down. Arielle Ford wrote a book on marriage that centers around this idea: that in marriage it is the art of Wabi Sabi that must be practiced. Here is what Ariel says about this in an interview:

Well that’s really the essence of Wabi Sabi love, is finding a way to laugh, to take the significance out. Stop making everything such a big deal. Because that’s where we’re getting tripped up all the time. And, you know what, it’s not all going to matter. So let’s make up a new story about it. And since we’re making it all up anyway, let’s make up stories that empower us and support us and inspire us.

I come downstairs and see those zipper shoes and I think of 5:30 am and day after day after day after day of Mr. Curry coming downstairs. He is tired, with a long day ahead of him, often stressful, always hard work. He works six, sometimes seven days a week, and he does this because I am at home with Ever. He does this with an open heart. He does this with love. Those shoes are an emblem of his devotion and love to his family, on the floor or on the table, and that's how I chose to see it. Wabi Sabi.

People In Your Neighborhood

take a seat and read!

CJane made me so happy with this post. This kind of involvement in the lives of other children- not our own- is essential to our progression on this planet. If we want things to get better, we have to step outside our comfort zone and be willing to help those who can't ask- much less demand- for help from us. We have to be willing to feel things that are hard to feel and face things that are hard to face. If they have to live it, how can we turn away from hearing about it?

The first comment after this post is the funniest comment I've ever read.

The information in this short article is so important for every person to take in, so that we can have an idea of what the reality of homelessness is, and not simply our grab bag of perceptions. Why people end up where they do is often more complicated and more simple than we like to believe, meaning that while the way each individual person's life leads them to be able to handle certain challenges are unique, the things that bring them there are similar and often beyond their control.

How To Enjoy Bacon Without A Gallbladder is very specifically titled, but there is a wealth of information about how the human body works and interacts with food in this one article. This is one of the most helpful and informative pieces in this vein I've read in a long time and personally helpful for me. I plan to read it a few more times and see if there is anything I need to be doing differently for myself and my family. 

My friend Adrienne made this incredible tee pee for her daughter. Just gorgeous.

An informative piece on why this nutritional expert won't give his daughters the HPV vaccine. I myself will not allow my children to have it. I have had pre-cervical cancer and went through a cryo-surgery to remove the pre-cancer, so I am coming from a place of understanding personally that cervical cancer is a risk in modern life for young women. I was 19 when I had the pre-cancer. 

One of my favorite blogs to visit for years now. She does a series called ' Just Fill-in-blank-of-famous-person ' where the famous person is doing something unexpected and awesome, like below, where Picasso is just dressed up like Popeye....no biggie.

With All The Love We Can Do It With

Mr. Curry gets home and I am a soaking wet washcloth dripping over the side of the counter. I am the washer's white cottony teeth thumping in steel and paint against the dryer. I am the tipped dog bowl. I am the dripping faucet. I am the half opened microwave, the damnit toe, the i'm sorry i cursed again burning of fingers like pink fat sausys through the holes of the over gloves: each glove has one hole. Ever runs to him shrieking Daddddy as if she read the book on the best things about having children and will follow, point by point, beginning with her fat little booty and so far ending with her fat little arms wrapped round our necks, her sweet baby breath against our cheek as she whispers I love you soooo much. Lola sprawls on the couch like a colt. I see her only in mustang metaphors lately: she is long legged, gangly, a bit unsure on her feet but picking up speed, glorious in youth, vitality, radiant with the beauty of young wild things. Her enormous blue eyes, the color of denim tucked just underneath. 

Days were confusing and short and long this week. Since Michelle died I think of her constantly. I was not close with her and yet I think of her constantly. How could I not? She was sweetness, she was good, she was a young mother, she was put through hell and then taken. I am the person who quit my job because I could not be five feet away in a different room from my Ever. To leave, forever... all week I have made mistakes with my children borne of human reason- on the whole, sleep deprivation due to two sick girls, myself being sick, Ever regressing with the amount of nursing. Just tired, tired, tired. The feeling of a circus. The voices of Ever and Lola asking, asking, asking, the dogs guilting me with their not walked eyes, the messy rooms, the burnt dinner, my side, back ribs hurting, normal things that lack of sleep stirs with crazy fingers and makes inscrutable: what is anyone saying? when do i get to sleep? The spirit wants to be good, free of suffering.  and calm. The body wants what it wants: sleep, sex, food, air, touch. Michelle has died. I walked into Target with Lola, Ever and Dakota early this week and the big bright T A R G E T filled me with consumer dread and horror: we do die, despite trips to Target, despite pretzels with cheese, good movies, laughing until we drool, orgasms, drunken nights, weeping, ice water, foot rubs, the perfect shoe, manicures, the grocery aisles. I felt the assumed burden of the living: live better because you are alive and they are not. As a theory we hear this our whole lives. In reality, when we care for when we love someone and they die, we feel a deep sense of carrying their particular loss into our living. Michelle cannot go to Target with her children and buy bread and a yellow wind up duck from the dollar aisle. Ever again. Maybe she hated Target. Maybe she was phobic about ducks. But surely, she would trade anything to have more moments with her family. I sat in my closet tonight before her viewing, crying. I was a little afraid. I've never been to a viewing alone. Mr. Curry had to stay with the kids. I imagined Michelle hovering over me and wondered what she would think. You are pathetic. Get up! You're alive. That's what I came up with, and I got up and got dressed and went to the viewing. 

I keep seeing her face in my mind as she was before she was sick, and I never even knew her then, only pictures of her, big bright smile, bright light blue eyes, big eighties hair, a truly American face. You'd know she was an American girl from a mile away. 

She's a good girl, loves her mama
Loves Jesus and America too
She's a good girl, crazy 'bout Elvis
Loves horses and her boyfriend too

Mr. Curry gets home and I curl into his arm and neck and the smoky, warm scent of hard work comforts me. The house takes a step back and the oven mitts fold their hands. For one moment, I am alive and I am in the arms of someone who loves me more than anything. For one moment, the voices of our children do not need to be understood or responded to. They simply sing behind us as we hold each other, and prepare for another evening of doing what is in front of us to do, with all the love we can do it with.