LJ Idol S11: Week 0. Introduction :)
In an old house in South Carolina, a mother looked out the window to see her daughter, red curls alight in the sun, dressed in overalls, raising her fist to the fence. "YOU WANT A PIECE OF ME, BOY??!" the 3 yr old shouted through the fence in response to the next-door neighbor-child's taunts. The mother smirked. You tell 'im, she said softly.
* * *
In second grade, in suburban Texas, a fellow second grader asked the girl with red curls, "What church do you go to?" by way of introduction, as was the norm.
"We don't go to church," the redhead said matter of factly.
The other girl looked positively scandalized. She touched her tiny gold cross hanging around her neck and said, "Well... Have you let Jesus into your heart??" She looked hopeful.
The redhead creased her brows at the strange girl. "Pfft... How would that even WORK? Jesus is a MAN. My heart is like this big," she mimed her hands close together. "How would a grown man even FIT in there?!"
* * *
In second and in fourth grade, there was a lot of hand washing. A LOT of hand washing. A lot of worry. A lot of asking younger brother not to tell their parents or older brothers about the fear of touching certain toys that had been touched by a kid she didn't like. A lot of hidden confusion. Eventually, a diagnosis of OCD. And a lifetime of struggling to understand it, feeling both upset at being plagued by it, and guilty for feeling bad about it, because it "wasn't as bad" as what others had to deal with. Feeling afflicted and not, all at once.
Minimizing it. Learning to cope with it.
* * *
7th grade was the Year of The Hamsters. "Mom can we get this one?"
"Are you really going to take care of it?"
"YES I PROMISE!!!"
[6 days later]
"MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!!!!!!!!!!!!"
"What?!!? What's wrong?! What's wrong?!?!"
"NOTHING!!!!!! MY HAMSTER HAD BABIES!!! THERE ARE SO MANY BABIES!!! THIS IS THE BEST DAY EVER!!!!!!!!"
"Oh... jesus christ.... really? Oh no, oh my god...."
"THE BESSSSSSSST!!!"
Two of them sadly passed in the first two days. The rest did wonderfully. I kept studious notes on all their behavior on a long yellow legal pad for the six weeks I raised them. Homes were then found for 8 of the babies. We kept the remaining two. (Who lived for 4 years!)
Just like we kept the cat that followed us to our car in the bookstore parking lot. And the puppy who our friends found and gave to us to find a home for. And the dog we saw hit in the street, so my mom stopped and had the woman who'd accidentally crashed into the dog load the dog into our car so we could take her to the vet, and take good care of her.
At one point there were 6 cats, 4 dogs, 2 chinchillas, 4 hamsters and 3 guinea pigs at home.
My horse lived at a stable.
* * *
But what about the notebooks? So many notebooks. So many fiction books. Reading, writing, writing in journals, writing poetry in school binders when the teacher's drone threatened to lull us to sleep. Writing fiction. Lots and lots of fiction. Lots of procrastinating too. But an ever present love of words, that much was for sure.
* * *
dooooooooooooo, beep beep beep boop boop beep!
....weeeeeeee-errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr-BEEEEEEEP-ka-BONG-ka-BONG...KKSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH..........
"Check it out!" little brother beamed proudly.
"That's... wait, is that it? Are you sure?"
"YES, that's IT! This is the internet!!"
15 yr old me stared at the screen. "But nothing's moving."
"What are you talking about?"
"Nothing's moving, like, aren't words supposed to be scrolling or something?"
"This isn't a CHAT ROOM, it's the WHOLE INTERNET!" he said with exasperation, waving wildly at the words "Netscape Navigator" on the screen. He was 13, and he'd just set it up completely by himself, linking us to the entire worldwide web, and we?
Well, we, Mom and I, that is, we both looked again. And Mom said, "How does it work? Are you sure this is it?"
"Oh my god, you guys," he whispered, and rubbed his hands down his face. This was going to take more time and patience than he'd predicted.
* * *
I met my husband on that internet!
And lots of friends, too, for that matter!
* * *
And along with some of those friends, I worked with lots of animals. A lemur who used to lick the inside of my nostrils and enjoy receiving armpit scratches. I've fed hippos, pet an okapi, raked the tapir exhibit while said tapirs sniffed at my shorts with their prehensile noses. Most of this work was unpaid.
At the zoo where I actually was paid, there was a day I was scrubbing out the turtle pond. The turtles were locked away safely, the pond had been drained, I was wearing gloves and safety goggles and I was scrubbing algae away with bleach water.
An older man walked by and said to the little kid with him, "See? That's why you go to COLLEGE, so you can get a better job than that."
"I have a Bachelor's in Psychology and fought like hell to get this job!" I wanted to yell, but I just yelled it inside my brain, which has become a very, very longstanding habit. Nowhere near as outspoken as I was at 3, I guess!
That same week, I was standing with the goats in the goat yard outside the barn, making sure no one did anything they weren't supposed to (like riding them, feeding them rabbit food [yes, really]), and a woman said to me, "WOW, you have the BEST job in the world!"
It has always struck me as funny that I had such different reactions from the public on the exact same job, just based on different duties of the day. Zookeepers do all sorts of different stuff, y'all.
(An aside: I rarely actually say y'all. I may have lived in Texas, but my parents are from Philadelphia; I speak more like them, and "y'all" is not generally known as a Philly coloquialism.)
* * *
When I found out I was pregnant in my late 20s, I walked over to my friend's house two blocks away. This was one of my friends who knew how many years I'd hoped, waited, longed for this. And we both burst into happy tears when we hugged.
A different friend from LJ sent me a baby blanket.
And a different friend, also from LJ, sent me books for my baby. One of them ends with the lines: "We are so glad you've come," sang the people of the world.
When he did come, I held him in my arms. "We are so glad you've come," I said to him.
I really did say that. But first, I maaaayyy have said, "HOLY CRAP, baby!! We did it!! How about that?? We really did it, and here you are! Oh I love you, I love you so much..." And then, after a few minutes of staring in awe, I remembered the line from the book and recited it to him. Because I really am just as likely to yell HOLY CRAP as I am to say something more deep and reflective. (My doula told me she'd never heard anyone say "shit" or "jesus christ" as much as I had during my birth, and I was somewhere around her 67th client!)
* * *
A few minutes ago, I told that same baby boy (who has had the audacity to grow taller than my shoulder now, I'll have you know) not to get so sassy with me, and reminded him if he wants his cold to heal quickly, he ought to really pay attention to his bed time and stick to it, so he'll be rested enough to attend one of his best pal's birthday party tomorrow. They're in third grade now. They met on the first day of kindergarten, when they saw each other on the playground, and both talked about missing their moms, and then both broke down into tears together and shared a good cry. Such close buddies ever since. I love them.
* * *
Back when my son was 2, I nearly gagged looking at a tomato, and gleefully confirmed my suspicion with a positive pregnancy test. For 12 weeks, I planned and hoped and cried happy tears again, and fretted, but not overly so, and dreamed about what life with two was going to be like. I smiled as I laid one hand on my belly, and wrapped the other hand around my toddler, still nursing, still small enough to put the bottoms of his feet on the tops of my thighs as we slept side by side. I loved falling asleep like that.
But then, there was only one heartbeat whooshing on the scanner, and it was my own. People promised rainbow babies would come my way, but six years later, there hasn't been one. I could take extra steps to make it happen, but the adults in the home would BOTH have to be on board, and that's proved difficult. Likewise with talks of adoption. It's not really possible when the hopes and longing only occur in one half of the couple.
In the months after the miscarriage, my thoughts raced faster and faster, and sometimes I couldn't slow them. Sometimes the world felt entirely not-real. It scared me. So now I take a tiny beige pill daily, and it's helped. so. much.
* * *
Sometimes, at night, when it's dark, and sleep is soon to come, my little boy and I talk about life, death, video games, pets, my childhood, his childhood, and anything and everything in between. And when we listen to music, and his breathing deepens and he's sleeping like a rock (as he does), I kiss him one more time, and sneak out of his room. Sometimes I go back in and feed the lizard, because sometimes we forget until late. My son never wakes up when I do this. I even turn on the light, and he just stays sleeping. He's amazing. I think he's made me laugh every single day since he's been born.
* * *
These days I write when he's in school. And volunteer at the school. And at the zoo. I still get to give friendly goats happy scratches and rubs. This zoo doesn't pay me. But maybe it still is the best job in the world? Or close enough.
* * *
Often, when I'm out walking my dog, I look up at the sky and marvel at the moon and stars. Sometimes I still make wishes.
* * *
In second grade, in suburban Texas, a fellow second grader asked the girl with red curls, "What church do you go to?" by way of introduction, as was the norm.
"We don't go to church," the redhead said matter of factly.
The other girl looked positively scandalized. She touched her tiny gold cross hanging around her neck and said, "Well... Have you let Jesus into your heart??" She looked hopeful.
The redhead creased her brows at the strange girl. "Pfft... How would that even WORK? Jesus is a MAN. My heart is like this big," she mimed her hands close together. "How would a grown man even FIT in there?!"
* * *
In second and in fourth grade, there was a lot of hand washing. A LOT of hand washing. A lot of worry. A lot of asking younger brother not to tell their parents or older brothers about the fear of touching certain toys that had been touched by a kid she didn't like. A lot of hidden confusion. Eventually, a diagnosis of OCD. And a lifetime of struggling to understand it, feeling both upset at being plagued by it, and guilty for feeling bad about it, because it "wasn't as bad" as what others had to deal with. Feeling afflicted and not, all at once.
Minimizing it. Learning to cope with it.
* * *
7th grade was the Year of The Hamsters. "Mom can we get this one?"
"Are you really going to take care of it?"
"YES I PROMISE!!!"
[6 days later]
"MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!!!!!!!!!!!!"
"What?!!? What's wrong?! What's wrong?!?!"
"NOTHING!!!!!! MY HAMSTER HAD BABIES!!! THERE ARE SO MANY BABIES!!! THIS IS THE BEST DAY EVER!!!!!!!!"
"Oh... jesus christ.... really? Oh no, oh my god...."
"THE BESSSSSSSST!!!"
Two of them sadly passed in the first two days. The rest did wonderfully. I kept studious notes on all their behavior on a long yellow legal pad for the six weeks I raised them. Homes were then found for 8 of the babies. We kept the remaining two. (Who lived for 4 years!)
Just like we kept the cat that followed us to our car in the bookstore parking lot. And the puppy who our friends found and gave to us to find a home for. And the dog we saw hit in the street, so my mom stopped and had the woman who'd accidentally crashed into the dog load the dog into our car so we could take her to the vet, and take good care of her.
At one point there were 6 cats, 4 dogs, 2 chinchillas, 4 hamsters and 3 guinea pigs at home.
My horse lived at a stable.
* * *
But what about the notebooks? So many notebooks. So many fiction books. Reading, writing, writing in journals, writing poetry in school binders when the teacher's drone threatened to lull us to sleep. Writing fiction. Lots and lots of fiction. Lots of procrastinating too. But an ever present love of words, that much was for sure.
* * *
dooooooooooooo, beep beep beep boop boop beep!
....weeeeeeee-errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr-BEEEEEEEP-ka-BONG-ka-BONG...KKSSHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH..........
"Check it out!" little brother beamed proudly.
"That's... wait, is that it? Are you sure?"
"YES, that's IT! This is the internet!!"
15 yr old me stared at the screen. "But nothing's moving."
"What are you talking about?"
"Nothing's moving, like, aren't words supposed to be scrolling or something?"
"This isn't a CHAT ROOM, it's the WHOLE INTERNET!" he said with exasperation, waving wildly at the words "Netscape Navigator" on the screen. He was 13, and he'd just set it up completely by himself, linking us to the entire worldwide web, and we?
Well, we, Mom and I, that is, we both looked again. And Mom said, "How does it work? Are you sure this is it?"
"Oh my god, you guys," he whispered, and rubbed his hands down his face. This was going to take more time and patience than he'd predicted.
* * *
I met my husband on that internet!
And lots of friends, too, for that matter!
* * *
And along with some of those friends, I worked with lots of animals. A lemur who used to lick the inside of my nostrils and enjoy receiving armpit scratches. I've fed hippos, pet an okapi, raked the tapir exhibit while said tapirs sniffed at my shorts with their prehensile noses. Most of this work was unpaid.
At the zoo where I actually was paid, there was a day I was scrubbing out the turtle pond. The turtles were locked away safely, the pond had been drained, I was wearing gloves and safety goggles and I was scrubbing algae away with bleach water.
An older man walked by and said to the little kid with him, "See? That's why you go to COLLEGE, so you can get a better job than that."
"I have a Bachelor's in Psychology and fought like hell to get this job!" I wanted to yell, but I just yelled it inside my brain, which has become a very, very longstanding habit. Nowhere near as outspoken as I was at 3, I guess!
That same week, I was standing with the goats in the goat yard outside the barn, making sure no one did anything they weren't supposed to (like riding them, feeding them rabbit food [yes, really]), and a woman said to me, "WOW, you have the BEST job in the world!"
It has always struck me as funny that I had such different reactions from the public on the exact same job, just based on different duties of the day. Zookeepers do all sorts of different stuff, y'all.
(An aside: I rarely actually say y'all. I may have lived in Texas, but my parents are from Philadelphia; I speak more like them, and "y'all" is not generally known as a Philly coloquialism.)
* * *
When I found out I was pregnant in my late 20s, I walked over to my friend's house two blocks away. This was one of my friends who knew how many years I'd hoped, waited, longed for this. And we both burst into happy tears when we hugged.
A different friend from LJ sent me a baby blanket.
And a different friend, also from LJ, sent me books for my baby. One of them ends with the lines: "We are so glad you've come," sang the people of the world.
When he did come, I held him in my arms. "We are so glad you've come," I said to him.
I really did say that. But first, I maaaayyy have said, "HOLY CRAP, baby!! We did it!! How about that?? We really did it, and here you are! Oh I love you, I love you so much..." And then, after a few minutes of staring in awe, I remembered the line from the book and recited it to him. Because I really am just as likely to yell HOLY CRAP as I am to say something more deep and reflective. (My doula told me she'd never heard anyone say "shit" or "jesus christ" as much as I had during my birth, and I was somewhere around her 67th client!)
* * *
A few minutes ago, I told that same baby boy (who has had the audacity to grow taller than my shoulder now, I'll have you know) not to get so sassy with me, and reminded him if he wants his cold to heal quickly, he ought to really pay attention to his bed time and stick to it, so he'll be rested enough to attend one of his best pal's birthday party tomorrow. They're in third grade now. They met on the first day of kindergarten, when they saw each other on the playground, and both talked about missing their moms, and then both broke down into tears together and shared a good cry. Such close buddies ever since. I love them.
* * *
Back when my son was 2, I nearly gagged looking at a tomato, and gleefully confirmed my suspicion with a positive pregnancy test. For 12 weeks, I planned and hoped and cried happy tears again, and fretted, but not overly so, and dreamed about what life with two was going to be like. I smiled as I laid one hand on my belly, and wrapped the other hand around my toddler, still nursing, still small enough to put the bottoms of his feet on the tops of my thighs as we slept side by side. I loved falling asleep like that.
But then, there was only one heartbeat whooshing on the scanner, and it was my own. People promised rainbow babies would come my way, but six years later, there hasn't been one. I could take extra steps to make it happen, but the adults in the home would BOTH have to be on board, and that's proved difficult. Likewise with talks of adoption. It's not really possible when the hopes and longing only occur in one half of the couple.
In the months after the miscarriage, my thoughts raced faster and faster, and sometimes I couldn't slow them. Sometimes the world felt entirely not-real. It scared me. So now I take a tiny beige pill daily, and it's helped. so. much.
* * *
Sometimes, at night, when it's dark, and sleep is soon to come, my little boy and I talk about life, death, video games, pets, my childhood, his childhood, and anything and everything in between. And when we listen to music, and his breathing deepens and he's sleeping like a rock (as he does), I kiss him one more time, and sneak out of his room. Sometimes I go back in and feed the lizard, because sometimes we forget until late. My son never wakes up when I do this. I even turn on the light, and he just stays sleeping. He's amazing. I think he's made me laugh every single day since he's been born.
* * *
These days I write when he's in school. And volunteer at the school. And at the zoo. I still get to give friendly goats happy scratches and rubs. This zoo doesn't pay me. But maybe it still is the best job in the world? Or close enough.
* * *
Often, when I'm out walking my dog, I look up at the sky and marvel at the moon and stars. Sometimes I still make wishes.