"Yes, Mother. I can see you are flawed. You have not hidden it. That is your greatest gift to me." In winter, in darkness, I sometimes pull my feet onto the bed swiftly. I feel the swipe of a hand just missing my heel, the blood flooding my heart despite the unfounded fear that something is lurking and hidden beneath where I sleep. Summer is different. We see the monsters, sharp in the light. Anchorage, Alaska. Sunrise, 4:24 am. Sunset, 11:41 pm. A total of 19 hours and 17 minutes of daylight. A loss of 1 minute and 11 seconds from yesterday. The sun is persistent and we do not sleep. A recent morning, this exhausted petty thing: 9-year-old boy, with sweeping gesture: "You aren't taking enough care with my breakfast." Me: " ... ?" 9-year-old boy, with the gestures: "Your plate always has extra stuff on it." Me: "Uh huh, like last night's brussels sprouts and kim-chi? Or maybe you're referring to the dietary fiber I'm sprinkling on my eggs." 9-year-old boy, with glassy eyes: "No ... you're food just looks nicer. You make it look nicer. Just for YOU." Me: " ... " 6-year-old girl, turning to boy: "You're being mean to Mom." 6-year-old girl, turning to me: "I don't want fried eggs, I only like poached. Don't make me fried because I won't eat them." I do not feel like defining the term "short order cook." I do not feel like cooking. I do not feel like eating. I do not feel like feeding these children. I do not feel like chasing after the stomping 9-year-old. I do not feel like resuming the school-morning breakfast schedule (M,W = oatmeal, T, Th = eggs, F = cereal). I do not feel like rinsing dishes. I do not feel that cold cereal every morning is the answer. I do not feel like being here. I do not feel like deciphering baby talk. I do not feel like being angry about this. I do not feel like being honest. I do not feel like I'm cut out to be a mother, the tipping point a god-damned plate of food. I do not feel like feeling all of this. My creative work has stalled and I'm snapping and swiping at heels. There is no satisfaction in my clawed-for bursts of production, in this hunt for artistic clarity, in what feels so selfish on my part. Time. Tomorrow it could all just disappear. It has for other mothers. I know this. I fear this. I lose my mind to darkness. I lose my mind to light. Every year, twice a year. Here, in this northern place. I know this. Monsters hidden. Monsters revealed. Leviathans surfacing. Time, measured in minutes and seconds, slips away. Here. I know this. It doesn't make it easier. I am a mother, a woman, with flaws. Related posts: "Into darkness" & "Soul fever."
19 Comments
Christine Byl
6/28/2015 03:28:18 am
And therein lies...everything.
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6/28/2015 11:36:41 am
Christine,
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6/28/2015 11:37:49 am
Mo,
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6/28/2015 06:58:02 am
Amy,
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6/28/2015 11:42:24 am
Roxanne,
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6/28/2015 08:50:36 am
Can I save up and buy this one?! Love it - I always think to myself, will this be cute at 16, or if my mum was standing next to me? If not, I know I have to do something - unfortunately - too often!
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6/28/2015 11:45:04 am
Shannon,
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6/28/2015 11:55:27 pm
Kate,
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kate
6/29/2015 04:27:52 am
Colloquial "excrement" with a long rather than short "i", ending with an emphasis on the "t". Enjoy! X 6/28/2015 11:08:00 pm
Ya~got it. Post show thingy~this ebb and flow of the juice is a biggie..it's still there, just simmering a bit.. I'd take Roxanne's advice. And oh, yeah, teens..heh heh...
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6/29/2015 12:03:37 am
Lorie,
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velma
6/29/2015 07:48:33 pm
well, of all this, and yes, we artist moms all know it, those wonderful sea critters in your kid's hands move me. you will always know those hands.
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Thankyou as always for your post, you write with such clarity and insight.
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7/1/2015 10:41:24 am
Helen,
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Ingrid
7/2/2015 06:43:56 am
I raised a daughter with flaws? Impossible task.
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Michelle
7/6/2015 02:25:29 am
Amy...I can so relate. Your honesty, as always, is refreshing (for lack of a better word) and cause for much self examination. Thank you!
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Amy MeissnerArtist in Anchorage, Alaska, sometimes blogging about the collision of history, family & art, with the understanding that none exists without the other. Categories
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