The call echoes down the stairs of the home where Pete hasn’t been able to find his hat since it was a Jays cap.
“On your closet!”
There’s a pause.
“It’s not there! Can you just come up?” and when I don’t teleport, “We’re going to be late.”
I climb the stairs I once carried him up.
I pull down the hat box, and open it with a flourish.
“In a box!” he says, like I hid it. In the box labelled Pete’s Hat.
“God help Maggie, sons can pull this crap, but husbands?”
Extro
Why is it men can look and not see? I vaguely remember there’s some scientific thing about men looking for a specific shape, so they can’t see the ketchup if it’s on its side, for example, but aren’t these the same men who are supposed to outshine us in spatial perception? Anyway, I digress. My story is just a bit of fun this week, because it’s been a week and I could use the lightness, couldn’t you?
My mother was the creative one. Her artwork drew crowds – masterpieces that balanced simplicity with complexity. She mothered us in her own way, but her pride and joy was always her non-living creations.
So I was the rogue. Spun out early, hunted chemical creativity and spiraled further out of control.
When she passed, she left only strands of a home and an intricate web of trauma to unpick in therapy.
At rehab, I had to attend Art Class. Silk Weaving, ironically. I was wary, but the motions came more naturally than I expected and with each strand, the healing began.
Extroduction
What an stunning picture from Sandra. I have been thinking a lot about spiders recently, after an interesting conversation with my therapist about my former fear of them and how I overcame it. Their webs really are the most beautiful of traps.
My story stems from that, and not from my own experiences – my mother was neither an artist nor a spider, and I have never been the rogue. So it’s fiction. As usual. Honestly, just assume everything I write is fiction, it’s easier that way!
I normally save my comments for after the story, but today I’m sneaking in ahead! First, to recognise that I’ve missed a few weeks of posting. Work, family life and everything in between got away from me and there was a necessary amount of hunkering down. I’m back now (hopefully! It’s December, I may have to dash off and create some more magic or shovel some snow at a moment’s notice!), with a story that is sadly true, although also a little tongue-in-cheek. Enjoy!
Friday Friction
“Oh.. bugger!” said Jen as she watched her favourite vase somersault over the laundry basket onto the tiled floor and instantly detonate.
She took a deep breath and sighed.
“Are you OK?” nobody shouted. “Do you need help?”
“I’m fine,” she reassured the cat, who’d skittered off to its basket with a look closer to disgust than fear.
Jen removed Mount Laundry, hoping no spikey shards had landed in the underwear of her solicitous family members. Fetching a broom, she passed another vase – this one a wedding gift. If that one had smashed; she might’ve taken it as a sign.
Thank you to Dale Rogerson – photo credit is hers.
Rock Me
Eleven-thirty. Two-thirty. Four-fifteen. Six.
The hours slipped by in a haze. Sometimes she was nursing, sometimes rocking, sometimes dropping off and waking in a panic.
Had she dropped him?
Always no.
Was he still breathing?
Always yes.
Was she getting anything right? Was she failing?
Again, no and yes. Probably. Her ragged brain could hardly remember the words.
But what good to wake someone else? Ask for help? Only she could feed and settle the little cries that filled the room nightly.
*****
Twelve years later, it’s Mothers Day. That baby asks why we don’t make a fuss on “Children’s Day”.
Extroduction
Happy Mothers’ Day last weekend to those who are, have been, have or had loving mothers (even if you’re in Britain and celebrated back in March. You can have 2 days). We don’t deserve our mothers and our kids don’t deserve us, yet here we are. Why? Because that motherly love is the very definition of unconditional.
My photo today, our lake view, only available during winter.
Silent Night
The excitement has ebbed, the children play quietly – exhausted by an early wake up, by adrenaline, by chocolate for breakfast. The adults are dozing by the fire, full of turkey and wine and yes, more chocolate. Even the cats have settled, their catnip mice vanquished and turkey bits devoured.
All is calm, all is still.
A carol comes to mind, a nostalgic favourite she can almost sing in two languages, and this one line that comforts her now. Alles schlaft.
There will be other days, with their dramas and their energy, but today’s magic is spent. All is calm.
Extroduction
I didn’t expect to be posting today, but there’s a lull in festivities and Rochelle chose my photo so I wanted to contribute. The story above sort of reflects my house right now (although we are pre-turkey), so I am enjoying the calm and reaching for what Christmas can mean aside from presents, turkey and high energy.
Whatever you celebrate, I hope you have space today, and every day, for a bit of calm. It’s so needed in our busy world.
It’s Friday, but I’m Dirt Broke and this Black Sheep has a Bounty, Boys – I’d Go To Jail. Right Round Here, People Know You By Your First Name, so it’s Time, Brothers, I’m Movin’ On to Monterey before this Beautiful Freakshow can Bring Down The House like Canadian Girls in a Foggy Bottom Canadian Summer.
Love Would Be Enough, I’d be on a Little Yellow Blanket, with Sweet Lola. But You Got The Wrong Guy, Wildflower, my Bucket List is More Drinkin’ Than Fishin’ and Your Mama Would Hate Me like Whiskey In a Teacup.
That’s Another Man’s Gold.
Extroduction
The prompt reminds me of Dean Brody’s song Upside Down, and its rainbowness reminds me of our Rainbow Boy, whose birthday is on Friday and who has loved DB since I sang his songs as lullabies. When I was a teen, I used to enjoy making stories out of film titles for a particular actor or songs for an artist, so this story is a Dean Brody montage. 100 words isn’t anything like enough, so a longer version follows (42 songs in total), but rules is rules, so the above version is 100 words and 29 songs.
Good Goodbye [extended version]
It’s Friday, but I’m Dirt Broke and Undone – I Can’t Help Myself. This Black Sheep has a Bounty, Boys, so I’d Go To Jail. Right Round Here, People Know You By Your First Name, so it’s Time, Brothers, I’m Movin’ On, to Roll That Barrel Out Upside Down the Trail In Life to Monterey before this Beautiful Freakshow Underneath The Apple Trees can Bring Down The House like a Mountain Man and Canadian Girls in a Foggy Bottom Canadian Summer.
If Love Would Be Enough – Where D’You Learn How To Do That? – on the 8th Day, I’d be a Dirt Road Scholar at a Bush Party, listening to Bob Marley on a Little Yellow Blanket, with Sweet Lola like a Lightning Bug. But You Got The Wrong Guy, Wildflower, my Bucket List is More Drinkin’ Than Fishin’ and Your Mama Would Hate Me like Whiskey In a Teacup.
She piles the gifts around the tree. Piles is a strong word. Tree too, if she’s honest – the branch someone dropped on the sidewalk, decorated with paper chains.
The gifts came from a local church: beautifully wrapped, generously given. A bounty she could not afford. Not this year.
She puts footprints into the snow outside with shoe tied to a long stick, leading up to the door because they don’t have a chimney. She bites the end off Rudolf’s carrot. Her stomach growls in anticipation, but she puts it into the fridge for tomorrow’s dinner.
The magic is ready.
Extroduction
Rowena’s photo is so many things and none of them Christmassy, but it’s that time of year, so the idea of something being important while ugly and/or putting lipstick on a pig were the inspiration it gave.
A friend of mine refers to Christmas magic as the “Mother****ing Magic”. Partly because she’s annoyed about it, and partly because it so often falls to the mother to make it happen (Not All Men, we love our husbands, we’re so lucky, they grow up so fast, yadda yadda yadda… please don’t argue with me about this, I haven’t got the time or energy right now). So, this post is a love letter to all the mothers out there who are breaking themselves to make the magic happen, and especially to those who have it so much harder than I do, for whatever reason, and are still making it happen.
For musical accompaniment, here’s Mel Moon, who is getting me through December with her songs, laughter and Christmas spirit. It’s a tiktok, but you can listen without logging in (I did!). Her Nursery Whines (available on Spotify) are inspired, and her Facebook page is full of Christmas parodies, well worth a listen.
She’s having fun, young, free, thoughtless. As it should be.
But my brain says she dead in a ditch, passed out in some man’s bed, shipped off to Alberta by those gangs. I’ll never see her again.
Headlights swing into the street. It’s a police car, come to tell me the worst. They’ve lost her. Or they’ve found her.
She slams the taxi door and sways slightly, looks up at me and smiles.
“Hi Mom! Sorry I’m late!”
She retches into the flower bed. I swallow the same urge.
Extroduction
Last week a lot of people left a front porch light on, for varying lengths of time. I went a different way, but this photo took me out onto the porch again, so here we are. Parental Anxiety is a strange thing, people have described it to me as your heart walking around without you, and as our children get older, that knowledge that you can’t be there with them, to protect them; that letting them go is the best thing for them – that mixture of pride and amazement with a dose of fear… it’s a special experience. My two are still little, so my ‘letting go’s are still on a tiny scale, but I get glimpses of what I know is coming.
Back to porch lights for this week’s musical accompaniment.
I wake in the darkness, not knowing where I am. There’s something heavy on my lap. It takes a moment to realise it’s you. You’re breathing. One of us fell asleep first, but I don’t know who, only that I fell asleep holding you and if I’d dropped you… the thought hangs, terrifying, in the air.
But I didn’t drop you. You’re breathing, peaceful, safe.
We were in the rocking chair by your cot, I was calming your fears by rocking gently, breathing slowly, but we both fell asleep and now your breathing calms me. There’s no need to fear.
“Humuhumunukunukuapua’a! Immortal jellyfish, jellyfish and jawfish… Ooh! Mamma, you hear amlance?”
“Ambulance,” I remind him, marveling at how my five year old can pronounce a Hawaiian triggerfish but not an emergency vehicle. “Yes, I do. They’ll be here soon.”
“OK now, Peso on the way with bandages.”
His faith makes me smile, that little penguin can solve almost anything with a bandage. I hear footsteps on the walk outside. “Do you think you can open the door, honey? Give the lock a big twist.”
My little hero reaches up with determination written across his face. “Polar bear strength,” he whispers.
Extroduction
I hope you’ll forgive me a long extro this week (if not, ignore it, the story is above!). Rochelle has chosen my picture of Sebastian’s desk in his bedroom. I offered to paint some animals on the boys’ walls and honestly I didn’t know how it would go. I’ve never considered myself an artist and I was worried I’d disappoint. Instead, I’m really proud of how well it’s gone. Doing them myself has allowed me to meet specific requests like the Box Jellyfish in the picture above, a scuba diving sloth and a flock of rainbow turtles flying through a pink sky.
So this week’s story could have been about having faith in myself, or having kids, or all the things that qualify as ‘part of the job’ when you’re a parent. Or about all the treasures that Sebastian keeps in his under the sea room, or his sense of humour and creativity, or a million other things. But instead, the story comes from my favourite creatures in his mural – the shoal of reef triggerfish on the far left of the picture – whom we first came across in the excellent kids’ show, Octonauts. Which leads me to this week’s song link, and the explanation of the first line in which our fictional kid is singing to distract himself from whatever’s wrong with Mummy. Because let’s face it, one of the many parts of the job as a parent is to keep your kids calm even when you’re the one waiting for the amlance.
elmowrites 