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Little Bird

Little bird
Have you come down my chimney
For the delicate scent
Of daffodils on my table
Out of the cold
To this warmth
Of man and burning
Come peck the crumbs
Of my leftover breakfast
Come bathe in the spilled water
Which overturned
With heated words
Of fear and pain

Little bird,
Soft bit of color
Peer at the window
Your twin sits
Equally unsure
Free, but freezing
Or a reflection
Of what you have risked

Little bird
You plummeted down my chimney
Frozen wings stuck unable to move
Prune your feathers
Fluff them at this vent
Still yourself
Celebrate this moment
Of returning from the dead
But still, calm
So I may take this hammer
And strike your little head


I had this written in a dream. I know it’s a silly little thing, but I liked it. I wanted to start posting my silly little things more often.

Upstairs Downstairs.

I do not know how to deal with frustration. I especially don’t know how to deal with my feelings about my downstairs neighbor. I understand when people get upset about quiet time sounds, and i understand how annoying kids and their noises can be. But she bought her condo knowing that it was the bottom unit, and i purposely made sure we didn’t buy a bottom because I can’t deal with sound. if she’s the same, she shouldn’t live there. Because 7 am. I’m not going to tell my kids they can’t COME DOWNSTAIRS or make them TIPTOE at SEVEN FUCKING A.M. Because that’s crap. They don’t fool around, they don’t jump around, they don’t run. They walk, and yes, she’s had an old lady living here for a long time. But it’s time to get used to the fact that we live here. Because if we moved out, a family with a teeny baby, a crying baby, could move in. Or a gaggle of college students.

But I don’t know how to deal with this. I have said we’re not going to do more than we’re doing. If it were midnight or 5 a.m. I would, but not during daylight. But it just makes me angry. I own a noise cancellation device because I can’t stand the neighbors waking us up, why can’t she? I may have complained about past issues, but I did always try to take responsibility for my own comfort. But can you just say that?

And the biggest issue? I can’t stand being someone else’s issue. I hate my husband for making us move here. I never should have agreed to it. I didn’t want to be someone’s complaint. Because I will go out of my way to prevent people from being harmed by my existence. So this is stress. Totally stressed out. Totally unhappy. Waking up in the middle of the night. Which means I should probably go see someone to deal with it. When do I have to choose? When does someone go see a doctor if they’re on the verge of depression? Or dealing with anxiety? I don’t want to seek out a new therapist. It took so long to find one I liked the first time. …but I know I need another way of dealing with the crazy lady and her inability to deal with us (and telling other neighbors how awful we are).


We teach them to sit so quietly in the corner.


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And then we get pissed when people don’t realize they’re stepping on them in the dark.

I suffer, I do. And I’m not the only one with my black dog. And I’m not the only one who has to deal with it, because my poor family has to deal with my mood. Though I’ve recently started talking about it, most of the people in my life don’t know about it.

And then people say shitty things that they think are funny on a dark day. And they’re dumb, these comments, like my brother saying my complaints about my new home are first world problems. Minimizing something that’s really getting to me, something I really care about. And, yeah, it isn’t me feeding or clothing my kids, and, yes, I have a roof over my head, but first world problems means something unimportant like too much foam in your latte. I didn’t think my complaints were similar. But, yeah, dumb. Why on earth would that bug me so much? Because that black dog is whining in the corner, has been for a few days, and he just came in and kicked it. He didn’t mean to, he just didn’t know it was there, and he still doesn’t know, because it’s silent when he’s around.

So, how do I know when to let the dog bark and when to keep it quiet? What mathematical formula? Beyond the fact that some people can’t be trusted with the knowledge, and some friends have already left me for learning about it.

Trying to love that poor thing.

The things we pass along.

I have a serious problem with rules. As an ACOA, people who don’t follow rules make me unbearably uncomfortable. And I police people. If rules are being broken, the world is about to end. Seriously, I stop the asshats that don’t pick up after their dogs, I yell at people on the wrong side of the bike path (especially when afraid they’ll hurt me or my kids), warn people that their shoes are untied, and keep trying to get people to park correctly in the preschool parking lot (it’s already hard enough to drive in there with all the kids!).

And I really need to stop.

Because the parent-teacher conference today, the main complaint, other than Levi being a bit of a goof and talking about things not pertinent, was that he polices other students, that he is looking to lead people to the right way (love the “emergent leadership skills” downplay of “your son is a bossypants busybody”). So crappy way to find out that my idiosyncrasies are messing up my kids. And it sucks, since it’s just another way alcoholism is messing our family. Don’t have kids with alcoholics. Seriously.

So, looking for ways to stop being a busy body. And for a way to tell what is appropriate. (The husband says it’s okay to tell someone their shoes are untied, but not that putting a baby in a baby seat on top of a grocery cart could kill her. I don’t get the difference.) How to stop getting so mad about dog poop that I step in and smell constantly, or roll in when we go sledding. I’m starting with meditation. For myself, anyway. I’ve tried getting the kids to meditate to some adorable kids’ meditation stories, but they are against it. Maybe if I start doing it I’ll be better at convincing them. And I’m going to start giving myself points for not complaining about other people. … or something.

But, honestly, I can’t get past the idea that these are the end times. I mean, how hard is it not to ride your bikes two abreast?


 The Boy has a tic. I’m terrified it will be more. I don’t know how to explain my fear of him not being accepted, because I was accepted. And now there’s this, which may be nothing, but may be something.  


I need to write a post for my beeminder goal. You’d think I’d be embarrassed to write a stupid post like this. But I’m not. Maybe in a year I will be and I’ll delete it. But, honestly, what I really need to do is set up a time where I sit and write, and this is here. This time. Right now.

I’m failing at setting up my schedules and routines at this new place. And I cry nearly every time I’m in the car. Okay, not that much, but for some reason, when I’m sad, it’s much harder not to start crying in the car. I don’t understand why the car is my kryptonite.

Bah! Okay, maybe I’m a little embarrassed to post this.

Searching for Spink

I’m reading Pippi in the South Seas with the Boy. We found it in one of the Tiny Libraries that have been popping up everywhere. I was afraid that it would be … problematic. I mean, we’ve all read those books that are so strangely racist that you just don’t know what to do with yourself. But I figured I’d be able to think quick on my feet if necessary.

And… well, I completely love it. I wish that I could find the quotation from the book about finding the spunk, right where they began the search, at Villa Villakulla. (And I can’t go upstairs because the kids are just falling asleep, maybe I’ll remember to find out and then edit this.) This theme keeps popping up in my life recently. This idea that, to find what we seek for, we must already possess it. Gretchen Rubin has mentioned it, and it’s been popping up in the books I’ve been reading, like here. And of course, I’m trying to heed the lesson.

But, I don’t believe that the answer is that we shouldn’t go seeking. I don’t believe that we will find the answer by staying in place and seeking within. I think the searching itself is necessary. The returning to where you once were.

You need perspective. And you can’t find perspective where you are.

Forgive me for not being able to explain myself. I need to meet my beeminder goal, so I need to post something, but my allergies are making me insane and like my head is full of sand.

Seriously, there’s no excuse

I really can’t blame my inability to do anything on moving next week. I really don’t think that it’s fair, but man, I’m so stressed by the moving, and before that the process of buying a home in an area we really can’t afford a decent home (and yet renting really is just sucking us dry). I’ve accepted the fact that we’re buying a condo away from where I want to live, but that took awhile. I should have posted the journal entry (because I tried to draw every day in a journal and did it maybe twice and then waited a week and then did it three times and then didn’t for a month), I had a nice little illustration of the beautiful blue front door in the new place.

But eventually, after we’ve moved, I want to start living my artistic vision. I’m reading Die Empty, which is good, but focuses on people who already have the creative habits, because they need to, because that is there actual job, as opposed to me. My job is to raise my kids, but I’m dying slowly not having some artistic outlet. And at the same time, I want to take the reins and start moving this… I don’t know.

Anyone look into the POSEC method? It feels like the C could stand for create for me, but then it pushes it back to the ends of my day, which is really my current issue. I need to get stuff done, household, mommy-type stuff, but i only have so much energy. And I really want to do BOTH things… Bah!


We closed on our condo today! We’re homeowners! And now I just need to work harder at starting habits that will force me to draw and do the things that I want to do. Accomplish things. Yay!


I cut my own hair today.

I realize this makes me sound insane. I do, I really really do. But I hate getting my hair cut, and I don’t have a real job, and so I don’t really care all that much what someone may think of me, but there’s more to it than that.

My hair was once gorgeous. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I look back at old photos and realize that it was silky and shiny and red and beautiful. And I shaved it all off because I was sick of being the object of men’s sight. And that’s where I got the nickname bohdel, because I used my own hair to steal the power men felt they had over me. I realize this is a little silly, but it was empowering.

And today, my hair was so dead and full of split ends and harsh. I hate it so much. And the thought of going in and having to chat with a hairdresser for an hour and having a stranger touch me. I couldn’t deal with it.

So I cut my own hair, and not because I don’t have the money for a haircut. I do.

I sort of feel more like myself because of it. Bear with my ridiculous explanation, but there is a part of me that feels a bit more daring about the whole thing. I was the most myself when I didn’t care what people thought and was willing to take risks, when I was wearing my purple coveralls every day. And I wonder who that girl could have grown into. Before I started filing my edges while at the same time unraveling at the core. If I had focused more on the inside and gave up on the outside.

And so part of me is ready to start looking more at my day-to-day decisions in terms of wwBDd. She certainly would have managed to draw every day this week as I had planned. She wouldn’t be ashamed to show things here that weren’t perfect and beautiful (oh, how she loved the idea of wabi sabi). She certainly would have cut her own hair and not felt embarrassed if it looked awful. And she’d rock it, because quite frankly, it looks fairly cute.