Sybil Wilen: The Bolly Mama

Long Night's Moon

2011-12-10T20:46:00.002-05:00

What an awful week I've had. Or time lately. I think I'm on the verge of almost figuring something out, but what it is, I haven't quite discerned.

I tried to delete my Kickstarter. I figured it best to put a bullet in it and not have it suffer, but I learned that Kickstarters cannot be deleted. Funding can be canceled, but that seems a tad bit unfair. It seems most of us would want to see how close we could get to achieving our goal, so I left it alone. Instead, I sent out a message of my attempt. Three people pledged after that. It is heartening to see that people don't want it to fail. But then again, perhaps they simply know it is going to fail and this gives them the opportunity of looking like they do indeed care. Of course, I could just be looking into this way too much.

I think too much.

I almost died a week ago Friday. Some sort of Lidocaine allergy. That sandwiched with the rabid fox attack on Theo and I over the summer has me thinking that someone is trying to send me a message. With my pig headedness, I might need another message.

Theo turned four on the sixth. I no longer have a baby in the house.

We celebrated the Full Moon tonight with vegan Alfredo, champagne, and moon bread. Sam and Theo had apple juice and the girls respectively went to spend the night at friends' houses.

The semester is almost over. I think I'm running on empty.

I feel melancholy and I really wanted to write something profound, but I don't think I can anymore.

Blessed Be!

Kickstarter for Now Look What You've Done

2011-11-16T11:04:00.003-05:00

What am I working on? Putting a collection of short stories together. Want to help? Please support this venture by checking out my kickstarter:

Here's a exerpt from one of the stories, "Flood":

I thought of all the alcohol I had consumed the night before. Monica persuaded me to chance spirits by pouting. She was shooting back Grape Crushes and Tequila with lemon and salt. I ticked off a list in my mind the damage drinking would do to my baby. Low birth weight, Fetal Alcohol Syndrome, premature birth. It read like the warning label on a bottle of beer. Monica’s girlfriend still hadn’t returned to Boston.

“Let’s dance.” She handed me a Long Island Ice Tea.

“I don’t know if I can drink this.” I reached out to brush at the glitter dusting her eyebrows. She took my hand and kissed it.

“Drink up, I love this song.”

I tilted the glass to my lips, forgoing the straw. Monica ran her tongue over my knuckles as I felt the cold alcohol slip down my throat. She was pulling me out among the other people while the thick glass clattered against my teeth, ice tea sloshing down the front of my dress. I let the cup fall to the floor, waiting for it to shatter, but it merely rolled into the crowd.

Monica danced behind me, her hands traveling up my legs, pushing the maroon fabric higher up my thighs. She slinked around me, arms dashing in and out of my vision, fingers playing at my lips, hips pushing against mine, legs forcing me to follow. I turned to her and wrapped my arms around her neck. I kissed her, trying to slide my tongue between her lips, but she only pushed me away.

“I want to dance.”

“What’s wrong with me?” I shouted over the music.

“You’re not my type.” Her arms flashed back and forth before my eyes.

“What’s wrong with me?” I yelled again just as the music broke up. My voice sounded shrill

“You’re fat.” She rubbed her hand over my stomach. I felt my flesh ripple beneath her touch.

“I’m pregnant,” I told her.

“So?” Her fingers tapped my five months worth of fetus to the beat of the music, “You’re still fat.”

Monica and I had stumbled through Boston after the lights came on in the nightclub. People poured from Lansdowne Street with us. Some hailed cabs, others stood by the closed sign at the Kenmore T-station, confused. The colors of flesh, neon, and dirt swirled before me. We headed up Boylston Street. Her apartment was there, teetering between Boston and the city of Brookline. She said it made her feel rich to pretend she lived on the other side. I felt my stomach lurching as I climbed the dusty stairs. I scrambled by Monica as she bolted her front door and collapsed onto the small bed. She sat down beside me and rubbed my back. I held my head in my hands, hunched over my knees.

“I’m so sick.”

Monica’s hand traveled up and down my spine, pushing sweaty hair from my skin. “I wish you were the one.”

“I don’t feel good,” I told her.

“You’re not really fat.” she said, “You’re face is really very nice, and your hair...”

My head felt like it was burning and I couldn’t decide if I wanted to lie back in the bed or sink onto the cool floor.

“I always wanted a girlfriend with blond hair,” she said to my back, “Real blond hair, not bleached. I’ve seen that before and it’s not right. You’ve got the coloring for pale hair. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I think I’m just jealous.” She twirled strands of my limp hair around her fingers. The gentle pull on my scalp seemed to irritate my stomach more.

“I wonder if I could pull off hair this light,” she said.

I looked up and caught her reflection in the mirror across from me. Her eyes were closed and she was puckering her lips. Her mouth moved like a fish. I dropped my head back down. For an instant I believed Monica and I shared the same image of her as a blond Aphrodite rising from the ocean. I wanted to say something, but I could only manage a groan. She went silent and still, except for the tugging at my head. I imagined her taking a deep breath, swallowing her disgust, and then I felt heat travel up my spine and the wetness of her mouth on my neck. My stomach rumbled up and through my lips.

Long Time No Write

2011-11-05T11:03:00.003-04:00

I'm a bit surprised at how long it has been since I've blogged. I guess things have been really busy since 2009. Well, obviously.
Here are some links to things I've been busy with:

Sam starting school.

Deirdre moving on to middle school

Working at two different colleges teaching one full load and one nearly full course load

Supporting Drew in his business venture: Art House Picture Frames

Dancing

Writing

Housekeeping

Going Vegan

Meeting new people, making new friends

And here's a sample of a project I was working on with Drew, The Love Sutra, a collection of art and flash fiction based on Kama Sutra positiions:

Blow of a Boar

He shook his hair out as he stretched beside her on the dirty mattress. She let him lay his head in her lap and sighed when he cleared his throat.

She ran her fingers through his dark curls as he pontificated about the recent election. He was angry. She didn't know what so many were angry about.

"It's the immigrants." he slapped his hand on her thigh to punctuate his thoughts. "They come here and don't want to work and take money from those of us who are working hard!"

She thought he had said he worked at a gas station. It didn't seem like it could be that difficult to pump gas. Well, maybe when it was cold. She didn't say anything though because she liked the caramel color of his skin and his chestnut eyes flecked with gold. Besides, his penis was larger than average and she had been with enough men to know this did actually matter regardless of what they told themselves.

"I could take them all down in under fifteen minutes." He was drunk now. She rubbed his temples with her thumbs and sang a lullaby that her mother once sang and waited until his eyes closed.

After tripping her finger tips through his lashes, she gently lifted his head from her lap and laid it on a silken pillow.

Within minutes she found her scissors and relieved him of his strength.

Eastern Melodies

2009-11-19T11:47:00.003-05:00

An evening of Carnatic Music with Maestro Vittal Ramamurthy and his students.

The journey to the November 14th’s Carnatic concert was a test. Rain pounded us as we ran for the van from the house. I have terrible night vision so the drive was even more harrowing than normal. Water rushed over the windshield as we barreled to our destination.

I missed the turn as I usually do but in the dark I was more concerned about it. I knew there was another way in coming up or if worse came to worse, I could swing by my mother’s street and weave in backwards. But, I made the second turn and while whooping with my daughter, I pulled into a parking space and turned the car off.

We sat for a moment contemplating the show we were about to see. Neither one of us knew what to expect. I had played some Youtube videos of Carnatic music performances so that we would have an idea, but this show proved to be different as Maestro Vittal Ramamurthy would be playing violin accompanied by his students. My daughter plays violin, but Western style and had never heard of the instrument being used for classical Indian music. We were both anticipating a learning experience.

Finally, we reached over our seats for our umbrellas and cracking the door, we ventured into the storm. The night sky was barely visible through dark clouds. Water sparkled when the rain hit the street lamps and for a moment, it felt as though we were entering a realm of magic realism.

As we approached the line of doors, I noticed a sign instructing us to use the other door taped to the middle. Thankfully, a young man opened one and beckoned us in. It did not take long to determine where to go as Ms. Indhra Rajashekar and her group, Eastern Cultural Heritage Organization (ECHO) had done a fantastic job of putting this event together. We were immediately greeted by an array of color and warmth.

Bangles sang out as a young woman moved by us in a whirl of red and green, a faint amber scent descending. As we drew closer to the auditorium we were struck by a myriad of images. Men handed us our tickets and programs, a young girl in a deep red lengha choli pressed her palms together and murmured “Namaste” and offered us to choose from a tray of artfully arranged Starburst candies. A drawing made from colored sand sanctified the space. It was impossible to not be swept up in the bustle of energy and excitement in the air. We headed in and found seats.

I could tell right away that this was not going to be like any of my daughter’s concerts I have attended. A platform had been erected on the stage and covered in white. Four violins and a keyboard were placed strategically in a half moon shape with two different drums on either end. An altar with a statue of Ganesha and offerings resided to my right of the platform.

After the introductions, Maestro Ramamurthy and his students took the stage. I knew only one of the students was near my daughter’s age. Harini Rajashekar was a year older. The other two violinists, Aditi Ramesh and Neha Krishnamachary were both in high school. I was hoping they would prove to be an inspiration to my child, who was leaning forward for a better view. The violinists were joined by Maheetha Bharadwaj on keyboards and Arjun Raghavan on the mridangam and Subhang Srinivasan on ghatam, both South Indian style drums. Each artist sat cross legged on the platform and began to tune their instruments. One of the first things we noticed and commented on was that the musicians propped their violins with their legs instead of holding them at arm’s length while sitting on a hard backed chair.

The silence was pierced by an array of aural color as the first notes slipped from Ramamurthy’s violin and cascaded through the auditorium. As each student began to join him, music swirled around me until I felt a slight tugging at my chest. A longing grew to be a part of something I was separate from and an overwhelming urge to break down and weep washed over me as the music soared.

As the drumming picked up, I felt the desire to dance. I knew I was not the only one. In fact, the floor reverberated as the audience foot tapped to the beat. The man behind me kept rhythm by clapping and sang creating a cocoon that was enveloping.

Throughout the evening, the audience clapped and moved their hands through mudras while the musicians moved us with their polished technique. Most of the music was improvised according to Maestro Vittal Ramamurthy. His students followed his cues seamlessly. The ending music allowed the drummers, Subhang Srinivasan artfully playing the ghatam and Arjun Raghavan mastering the mridangam to have a sort of drum off that was powerful and truly showcased their talent. The finale of the evening was one of Mahatma Gandhi’s favorites. This was only time that Ramamurthy lent his vocals and combined with the gentleman seated behind me, this was by far the most moving moment of the evening. Encased within the envelope of their voices and the engulfing music, I truly felt part of something. I snuck a look at my daughter and she too was experiencing the same ecstasy.

Ms. Indhra Rajashekar took the stage again to thank everyone who had participated in putting the event together as well as presenting the students with plaques and Maestro Vittal Ramamurthy with a token of ECHO’s appreciation. Afterwards we were all invited to join Ms. Rajashekar and the musicians for a reception. We were fortunate to meet both Maestro Vittal Ramamurthy and Indhra Rajashekar. My hope is that ECHO continues to bring traditional and authentic eastern culture to Southern Maine as my daughter and I left not only musically educated, but spiritually and emotionally educated as well.

March Madness!

2009-03-28T20:23:00.005-04:00

I think I am as crazy as a march hare or a mad hatter. Or, I don't know. It has been a long time since I posted. Why? Because I am pretty freaking busy these days. I will vent about that later though because I want to talk about our upcoming move.

Yes!! Yes!! We are moving to South Portland right after April vacation.

No, we didn't tell anyone what we were doing. Why? Because we both are the youngest and youngest kids are supposed to be spontaneous and risk taking. And we are neither of those things anymore. Or perhaps never were. It has been ages since I ran away from home, experimented with anything other than diaper brands, or even washed my hair, so who am I fooling? Anyway, we decided we were going to move years ago before we even knew each other but never got around to it. Now, Drew and I are married and have added two more kids to the party and one thing I have noticed about boys is that they need running space.

Moving was not an easy choice for me. I have wanted a house since my youngest daughter was born but had no idea how to get one. See, I am poor. Really poor, as my good friend Kristin Boyd used to say, "We are po, that is so poor, we can't even afford the R."

I do have an MFA and teach at two different colleges. But I am adjunct. That means I teach whatever classes get thrown my way, make a pittance, and have no benefits. I do have a lot of student loans though. And five kids in my apartment and one needing regular child support payments round me out. Yes, my dear husband owns his own business. And this means he has no benefits and brings home cash sporadically after business expenses are paid.

We have a pretty sweet deal where we are. All of our utilities are included in our rent. We have four bedrooms. We do not pay more than 1/3 of our income. We can walk quickly downtown if we want to. We have a small patch of yard. We have parking.

But that is not all. Oh, no that is not all. We also have to prove our income annually. This means allowing people to dig through our tax returns and request information from our employers. This very act cost me a teaching post last year because I had to terminate my adjunct status to prove that I didn't have any classes. When the girls' father ditched the country and abandoned them, I was told to prove I was no longer receiving child support, I would have to have Child Support Services draft a letter saying that the deadbeat loser would not be paying any support for the upcoming year.

And then there is the stigma of all of our neighbors knowing we live in subsidized housing. Reactions vary from those who are irritated that socialism is abutting their property to those who are proud of their ability to rub elbows with their "multicultural" neighbors.

My kids have experienced the range too, from being "one of them" to being touted as so and so's less fortunate charity case.

When people argue that we are foolish to turn our back on such a great deal, they are either too blind or ignorant to see the real cost of our living quarters. So yes, yes, we are moving down the line.

Alice: I've had nothing yet, so I can't take more.
The Hatter: You mean you can't take less; it's very easy to take more than nothing. ~ Lewis Carroll

The Bolly Mama’s Survival Guide to the Holidays

2008-12-20T07:07:00.002-05:00

It has been a long, long Fall! With winter right around the corner (well, tomorrow anyway) and snow covering the ground, it definitely feels like Christmas, or Yule, or Kwanzaa, or Hanukah, or Ramadan, or whatever you're celebrating this year. I will not go on a rant about the pathetic state we are in by trying to remain politically correct over the winter months. I am not even certain if the term PC really counts regarding this time of year. Anyway, I have some tips and recommendations for getting through in one piece with a boatload of children.

Cut back on the amount of money spent on each child. Yes, I know that is obvious in the tumultuous economic times we are in, but do people really follow this rule? Can you say you have honestly cut back? I can't! I think I run through the holiday season blind, refusing to look at my bank statement, figuring I will clean it all up in January. Where does this leave me? Hyperventilating after all of the tinsel and wrappings have been thrown away. I promised myself that this year, I would get on top of holiday spending. And it is difficult in my household where three of the six children celebrate their birthdays in December. So, what did I do? I created a Christmas Club (now, that's not PC, is it?) at my bank and made a budget and then promptly blew it around November 15^th.
Skip online shopping. Now, forget about PC, this is environmentally disastrous. Trucks are flooding the streets this time of year with packages galore for each household full of children. I love online shopping because I can take Sam & Theo without worrying about a S.W.A.T. team being called in to negotiate Sam off of the rocket display and to pull Theo out of the ball bin. Unfortunately, online shopping means more money spent because of shipping and handling on top of taxes and actually being able to shop. When I am forced to go into a store, I have two options, fill my cart quickly and impulse buy or go in with a list and buy only that. I have tried both tactics and must say, the latter saves money, the former is more fun. Who knew why I needed that hot pink argyle table cloth that Sam added to the cart when I was not looking. It is mystery shopping at its best. So, yes, I prefer online shopping except when it goes awry.

For example: my favorite place to shop online is Amazon.com because of the price comparisons and all the different vendors. I would like to say shopping there has always been a pleasure and for the most part, it has. Amazon has wonderful customer service and I feel as though my purchases are protected and they are always polite and quick to ship even with the super saver shipping (my favorite thing about the site!). I usually do not venture out to the marketplace because I am timid. This year however, Sammy wanted a rocket for his birthday. Well, I don't know if a three year-old really knows what he wants specifically, but he likes rockets. So determined to find one, I scoped out the internet after realizing I couldn't find one for his age group at any local store. Oh Toy had just the thing. It was red (his favorite color) and came with an alien (everyone in our house likes aliens. Come on, I almost tattooed "The Truth is Out There" back when Duchoveny and Anderson were making big bucks on the X-Files. Thank the gods, I came to my senses. I wonder if everyone should have to be broke when they have a tattoo idea for at least six or seven month).

Oh Toy also had a little wooden tool set that I thought Sam would appreciate and perhaps this toy would distract him from Drew's real tools. Since Amazon.com itself did not carry the toy, I ordered it on November 18^th. Ten days later, I received an email from Amazon stating that the item had not shipped within the designated timeframe and I should probably contact the seller by replying to the email from Amazon. So, I did that. It was November 28^th by this time, and figured there would still be a chance it would arrive. I wanted it by the 6^th of December.

Oh Toy did not respond to my email. I was busy busy busy over those weeks with Deirdre's performance in Portland Ballet's The Victorian Nutcracker. In between rehearsals, Thanksgiving, and my grandmother passing, I kept checking my emails and there was no response from Oh Toy. I emailed them again after Thanksgiving inquiring whether or not the toys would arrive by December 6^th and still received no response.

I began to get nervous when I noticed the negative feedback showing up on their page for failed order fulfillment and lack of communication. Finally, I could wait no longer and canceled the order. I left negative feedback regarding my experience and luckily I did find another vendor on Amazon.com, Grim Reapers! And the rocket arrive within days.

And then the unthinkable happened, a box from Oh Toy arrived, shipped the 5^th of December. I emailed the business and requested a return label. I was promptly answered with instructions to view the return policy at the website. Irritated that there was a 15% restocking fee, I called Oh Toy to discuss my dissatisfaction as a customer and was told that the manager would have to make the determination whether or not to allow me to return the items. Then I received an email demanding that I remove the negative feedback before Oh Toy would send me a return label. Of course, I am a feisty Aries and this set me on edge. I refused to remove the feedback because it was true and suggested that Oh! Toy send me a return label via email or that I would be forced to take it up with Amazon.com. I never heard another thing from Oh Toy.

In the end, I did report the incident to Amazon.com, who did refund my money. That is one of many reasons why I do so much business with them.

Yes, I could have bought a rocket near my home and saved myself a whole lot of headache. Now, I must persuade our local toy store to sell toys that my kids want. Sammy wants to be a spaceman. Or has Camille says, "Sammy is already a little Ass – tranaut".
Go away. Yes, you, go away, stop reading my blog. Leave me alone!. No, no, I mean take the family and get the hell out of Dodge. We were forced to do this due to Deirdre's commitment to the Victorian Nutcracker. See, she had performances in Portland, Lewiston, and North Conway, NH. We decided to book a room at Purity Springs Resort in Madison, NH for those performances in North Conway. It was one of the best decisions we have made. It was a pristine setting against a snow covered forest and frozen water. We were forced to do the unthinkable, INTERACT with each other from teenager to toddler. And it was great. Well, for everyone but maybe Dee, because she was working. But, I think she enjoyed the pool and breakfast buffet.
Make decorations for the tree. This was Camille's idea. She wanted a Victorian Christmas Tree like Samantha from American Girls. She likes Victorian and gothic things. I do not have any idea if that will still be trendy when she's a teenager. But, she planned our tree from paper fans, glittered pinecones, and beaded ornaments all in burgundy and gold. It is breathtaking, the quarter of it that is finished that is! I popped corn kernals, grabbed a bag of cranberries and sat down next to Sammy thinking I would have a meditative experience while Theo napped. Hah! Sam wrapped thread around his arm and leg until he cut of the circulation and looked like a giant popcorn ball while I yelled at him that he was ruining my trip down memory lane and then I remembered how much I hated stringing popcorn and cranberries when I was growing up! I have noticed over the years, my mother strings her tree with wooden cranberries. Wise woman.
Ignore unpleasantness. When someone leaves a nasty message on your answering machine because you were out with five children doing Christmassy things like grocery shopping, dance lessons, Nutcracker rehearsals, finishing up your final week for one school of classes and preparing vacation for the other, cleaning, decorating, baking, cooking, nursing, do not, I repeat, do not respond. Do not call the person back, do not rise up to their bait. You will regret it, especially if you have to see this person at a holiday gathering!
And finally, do what you can to create memories for your children. Bake cookies, even if this means making dough that sits for days or buying premade dough. Kids love cutting out cookies. Play in the snow, even if means making a snow angels with the three year-old, while the one year-old stands in the middle of the yard crying because he can't walk in his boots (at least, I think that was what was bothering Theo). Or just hang out and watch Dr. Seuss's "The Grinch Who Stole Christmas". It can't get any better than that.

Nana's Eulogy

2008-11-23T08:38:00.001-05:00

My mother and Paul would point out the farm nestled in the hills as we crept down and up winding roads in our blue Chevy. It always seemed like a long drive packed into the car squished between Jenny and Christmas presents. The view of frozen trees some years with snow, others bare are all meshed in my head. We spent our childhood Christmases with Nana and Bumpa Fogg and because of that, my memory of the holiday will forever be entwined with travel, snow, woods, old sleighs, blaring fire trucks with Santa perched inside, cowbells, and family.

Not that it was only winter that we visited. I specifically remember rambling up the dirt driveway when summer was still in full swing. There was a tire dangling from an ancient tree, the white of the house sparkled, and the grass was almost too green against a sky that shone too iridescently in a way that made it feel unreal like a blue screen for a movie. In the center of nature’s exaggerated hues Nana was sunbathing. Her bronze skin twinkled against her blue swimsuit. She stood up to greet us and I was struck by her beauty. It was a mixture of Katherine Hepburn and Rita Hayworth. My nana did not look like other kid’s grandmothers. She was young, lean, raw. Her hair was full and lush with color. Her face was free of wrinkles, her eyes were alive with thoughts that went beyond baking us cookies and treats. I used think that was why she was “Nana” and not “Grandma”

I told my mom that I wanted to speak of memories of my Nana. Then I sat down and began to sift through them, sketching ideas here and there, jotting down notes, talking to my husband and children. I remember Nana’s zombie walk. She rolled her eyes to the back of her head, dangled her long fingers in front of her outstretched arms and she moaned better than any actor in Night of the Living Dead. Jenny and I ran from her squealing like piglets, laughing into our cupped hands, and clutching each other’s arms.

There were Christmases too many to count spent at the Fogg Homestead. Sleeping in that small room off of the dining room, I could hear the adults laughing, speaking in sharp whispers, glasses and bottles clinking as they wrapped last minute gifts. Nana slept on the couch beside the wood stove that held our holiday stockings. A camera was tucked tightly in her hand as she waited for Jenny or I to wake her up as we snuck over the creaky board to collect our treats.

One summer, we visited and Nana brought us out walking in the fields to see the cows. Jenny and I liked to name them all Joanne for our mother. I was lagging behind watching my feet move in my mother’s tan sneakers through the tall grass. I was surprised that these feet had already grown to her size and soon would surpass her. Ahead of Nana and Jenny, I spied a tree stump that called out to be jumped upon. My big feet started moving and I passed the others. Nana hollered for me to watch out for the cow dung just as my mother’s sneakers left the ground and I cascaded through the air, yellow hair breezing behind me. For a brief second, I felt exhilarated and free and then it was over as my feet met with what should have been solid wood and my mother’s sneakers sunk into manure.

I spent this past Tuesday filtering through a couple of photo albums and a box of loose pictures looking for images of Nana for the memory board. I worked with my three daughters, Claudia, Camille, and Deirdre while Theo tottered around and Sam cruised like a rocket. It was a difficult task for the four of us because of the memories wedged in of our previous family. This has been a year of departure for us; fathers leaving the country, lost pets, and our family matriarch passing on.

I wanted to choose one memory to speak about that captured my Nana as I remember her, but I was scared that I would recount it wrong, that others who had been there would
remember it differently, that I would be perceived as lying. I have always been too concerned with how others think of me and what I say, so I don’t speak. I write. But, I write fiction because I worry that I do not remember things correctly, that no one remembers things correctly. I am convinced that our memories are tempered and transformed by our thoughts, feelings, and time.

For example, in my mind, I remember places I have been in either bright light or shadows. My first apartment is an array of dark dancing from wall to carpet to dirty window. In contrast, my memories of the Fogg Homestead are glitter and sparkling snow, every room lit up with enchantment, each door ready to take Jenny and I some place new like Oz or Narnia.

That’s how I remember Nana, dark curly hair with bronzed tips, eyes the color of sun bleached denim, small stature with large giving hands and feet like my own, big and strong. In my mind, I will always seen Nana in a bikini pulling herself up from her lounge chair, stretching to greet us, bright, feisty, and magical. Our memories are what we are left with. And it does not matter whether I remember it exactly like everyone else does, because our memories are sculpted by our individual experiences, thoughts, and feelings. My Nana lives on within me, through the smiles of my children, the eyes of my Uncle David, the shape of my face, the lips of my mother, the temperament of my sister. She will be with me and you always.

Spooky Samhain

2008-10-24T18:20:00.004-04:00

What would the season be without a blog from me, the mother of many and a witch? As most people will contest, this time of year is about children and magic. And yes, the Wilen-Ridge household is full of both. We have been working diligently on costumes. This year, Claudia is performing the ultimate rite of passage; she is going as an Arby’s worker because yes, she is on the schedule. When she inquired as to why she had to work, she was reminded she is still childless and without a family. Now, it may be true that she has not moved from Maiden to Mother yet, but she is constantly surrounded by family. There are plenty of little sibling who need help with trick or treating and our decorations need putting up and there has to be someone to man the door for the neighborhood ghouls.

So, we are forced to put up the spider webs and string the lights by ourselves. I am teaching Camille and Deirdre how to sew and have put them in charge of making their own costumes this year. Camille is going as Sally Ragdoll and Deirdre, Sam, and Theo will be Shock, Lock, and Barrel, all from Tim Burton’s A Nightmare Before Christmas. Before Claudia so solemnly announced her work schedule for the week, we had planned to outfit our home like Oogie Boogie’s house and Drew was going to costume as the honored. That kind of made me a bit nervous I would have to be Santa Claus, but thankfully it hasn’t come to that.

This holiday has been a bane to me throughout adulthood and motherhood. Like other witches, I believe it is a sacred time to honor our ancestors and mystical roots. But, I am not serious enough to condemn the commercialized aspect of Halloween because damn it, I like to have fun and I like to have fun with my kids. One of the things I have noticed in the last sixteen years is the lack of trick or treating and children’s fun. One could argue that our fear driven society is keeping them locked away that night. Perhaps not every mom and dad got the memo that the razor-bladed apple given out by the crazy little old lady is not true. Just check out Snopes. Don’t fret, I am not going to launch into a tirade about how those pesky Christians have taken the sacred feminine and reworked it into evil in an attempt to denounce what is our most solemn holiday.

This world has become a strange place where there is no extended family, just junior, Mom and Dad. Grandparents are not hanging around as they once did and we do not pay any attention to our Aunts and Uncles. I grew up like that, but my siblings and I were close. Both Jennifer and Michelle can attest to that. What I find the most disturbing about this generation is that even those who share the same parents, traveled through the same womb, live in the same house day after day no longer have family privileges. Does Claudia want to be with us for Halloween or as we call it, Samhain? I do not really know. She seems most disappointed that she has to miss Jake’s party. All I can I say is, “Welcome to adulthood, where you will never get All Hallow’s Eve off unless you demand it and present your case that Samhain is as sacred to you as Easter is to Christians, Hanukah is to Jews, and Ramadan is to Muslims”. But I am learning that my children will never understand this unless I demonstrate what I mean, so Drew and I are taking the day off and the kids are staying home from school.

Grandmother's Secrets For the Whole Family

2008-08-18T20:29:00.008-04:00

I am a belly dancer. At least, I used to be back before saggy stretch marks, breast feeding, and stinky diapers. And I was in between all of that too. Belly dancing is a wonderful exercise. It toned my muscles and let me celebrate the parts of my body that made me a woman and a mother. I reveled in it. So much in fact, that I headed up the Maine Chapter of the Northeast Belly Dance Association in an attempt to be part of a growing community of sisterly love. Or so I thought.

Flashback:

I brought my daughters to haflis and events when they were young and we always had a good time. We feasted, we danced, we schmoozed with other families. I held babies, rubbed expectant bellies, and witnessed some spectacular performances. I figured I would do the same with my son Sam once he was past his colicky scream at everyone and everything stage.

When he was four months old, my husband and I packed him and his gear (which was much smaller than his sisters’ because by number four, I had pretty much decided all that I needed was a diaper, a baggy filled with wipes, and a sling). We arrived on time and paid the suggested donation of $5.00 per person that was strong armed from us at the door.

Now, I am going to digress here. In my opinion, if someone is manning a table that blocks your entrance and says loudly enough for everyone to hear within a five mile radius, “That will be fifteen dollars,” while waving a sparkly manicured hand under your nose and you are struggling to hold a baby, a baggy of wipes and a diaper, a fee is being charged. Why not state that up front? It would not be an offense to anyone to pay an entrance fee. It is insulting to disguise this as a mere suggested donation. Especially for those of us with large families who are being nailed for every child in our entourage. Okay, I am done digressing.

We sat down and bounced Sam and sat and shifted and bounced, and sat, and shifted while dancer after dancer performed. We learned that Sam did not like applause as he decided right away to scream at everyone who clapped. I learned that three hours of belly dance consisting mostly of solos to George Abdo recordings is not only difficult for a four month old baby to sit through, but damn near impossible for a thirty three year old woman to sit through as well. I also noticed that every time Sam cried out, or any other child for that matter made a noise, a row of coin bedecked women infused with a lack of maternal instinct (which seems so anti-belly dance) turned and glared or even worse, brought a finger to their painted lips and breathed: “Shhhhhh” at my baby.

Fast forward six months and another hafli that I attended with my entire family and extended included. All and all, we paid a suggested donation of sixty dollars and received the same treatment as before. Not to long after this event, a dancer who hosts these gatherings suggested to me that haflis were not appropriate venues for children, particularly the breast fed infant.

Six months later found me attending a hafli without my husband or Sam because Drew flat out refused to go. I went with two of my daughters and a friend with her toddler daughter. Full circle, right? A group of multi-generational women should come away with a heart felt experience, right?

No, again we were subjected to the donation scheme (though this time we were told children were free, proving my point that these events are charging a fee, not suggesting a contribution!) We sat in hard backed chairs with twitching kids for three hours before being allowed to participate at the end of the show. There was no buffet table because of a fear of poisoning, and there was only one pregnant belly who was occupied with its duet performance. Packing up the car, I was left feeling bored, tired, and determined to have my own hafli. Which I did half a year later. I sought the advice of those who had come before and put together an event that featured live music, an upfront admission fee, children's activities, a mini workshop, food, and a family centered atmosphere.

Flashback Ends

How can a dance that brings together women, regales and accentuates the childbearing and child feeding parts be inappropriate for the product of these parts? My Goddess, I think a hafli is where we should bring our daughters to teach them feminine strength and women’s mysteries. I think our sons should attend as well to learn to honor and respect their grandmothers, mothers, aunts, sisters, wives, friends, and daughters. I find it hard to believe that anywhere else women would gather to dance, feast, and celebrate their bodies and themselves without their children. The belly dance community has changed.

Today's belly dancers no longer revere motherhood as an aspect of feminity. This community has turned to a younger, hipper, flat stomached dancer. The sensual curves created by breast milk and pregnancy have given away to the sexuality thrown at us from Hollywood. Is the Belly Dance Superstars to blame? I do not think so. I think in a time when anyone can and will teach a class because they have taken a class is to blame. Girls are not learning the art from their mothers here in America, they are learning it from other girls who have learned from another girl, who learned from another girl, eventually tracing back to a mother figure perhaps. If the mother is removed from the craft, then it is only natural that the children are unwelcomed too.

My girls perform with me professionally with Sam and Theo as welcomed attendees. Sam will many times breaks the ice with the audience in his eagerness to dance too. Are there occasional mishaps and odd occurrences that come with the territory of bringing a toddler to events? Of course! But even with a baby on my hip and a toddler trying on the bedlah, each performance is spiritual and moving. Probably more so due to the addition of my children, each of them from the graceful teenager to the breastfeeding infant.

Jake the Snake

2008-07-15T22:45:00.003-04:00

She looks different now. Her hair seems glossy where it was once brassy. Her face seems clear from the teenage mark. Her body seems fuller. Her gait is slower, her slumped shoulders relaxed. I knew something was up the minute she walked in and breezed by me to the kitchen. I heard the water and wondered why she was doing dishes at 10 PM. It was a fleeting thought.

Theo stirred in his father’s arms and began to whimper. My eyes briefly half closed fluttered wide. We had spent the day visiting Camille at camp and then drove all over Oxford County checking out potential home towns (okay, not all over, just Norway, Paris, South Paris, Minot, Mechanic Falls, and Auburn). Once home, Sam and Deirdre all but collapsed and I thought Theo was out for the count as well. Claudia was nowhere to be seen but a sheet of a paper was left behind with extra bubbly writing explaining that she was going out to dinner with her boyfriend, Jake whom Deirdre had dubbed Jake the Snake. Whenever she would yell his nickname as he approached the apartment, Drew and I would cringe simultaneously, provoking a “jinx” to screech out in my mind to hide the images festering there. Kids say the damndest things.

Drew bathed Sam and I tucked in Deirdre with Theo firmly plastered to my hip. I nursed him for a bit, but he refused to sleep. Drew was having about the same luck with Sam, so we switched. I will never fully comprehend why Theo will fall asleep bouncing safely in the crook of his father’s elbow, but insist on being nursed if anywhere near me. I was tired anyway, so lying down next to Sam and discussing the moon seemed ideal. And I think I fell asleep before him. I woke up gripping his foot mid massage (Sam has weird habits, I know, don’t berate us for them). He was asleep though, so the pressure must have been what he needed.

Extricating myself from Sam’s bed is always precarious. One wrong slip of a limb, touch of fabric, or jaunt of a joint and it’s a no go and I have to lower myself back onto his mattress and allow his slim arm to encircle my head again. Thank the gods he was exhausted because we were a tangle of pajamas and hair.

I rolled over and slipped a hand under his head to disengage my braid from the side of his cheek. He was sweaty and my hair is frizzy so this was not a simple task. He mouthed O’s at me, but did not open his eyes. I pulled my arm out from under him slowly. When I type slowly, my stomach tightens because I am remembering and it is like walking on a bed of nails frozen in the dead of a Maine winter where no one will come near (most of my neighbors these days are from a place we Mainers refer to as “away” which means they arrive for our warm months and breathtaking autumns, then leave. This may seem intelligent; this not living in a state that eats cars, tools, skin, and soul in the winter, but the sad side effect is that Mainers can no longer afford to live in Southern Maine. I often wonder where they go and think that perhaps someday, I will do a photo journey and find them, the fabled tent city perhaps? But, I digress).

Sam sighed and looked at me sternly. I stared back, holding my breath. The air between us impregnated held still. Suddenly, he arched his back and with his arms over his head, pointed his toes and murmured, “Day O”. Rolling over, his back loomed. But, he was still. I stood up. Raising my arms above my head, I reached as far as I could and felt my back pop.

Exhausted, all I wanted to do was sink back down beside Sam and sleep the night away, but I knew Theo needed to nurse, or would soon. It dawned on me that I had spent my entire adult life twitching that I was going to have to feed an infant soon. This thought permeated every aspect of my existence from feeling that I was putting someone out to use the toilet to spending my nights braless for simplified breastfeeding. I am a proponent of baby wearing, co-sleeping, nursing on demand, and attachment parenting. I also have a collection of well adjusted children to back up my stance. But, I have no life. I mean it. I am not certain who I really am underneath this Demeter exterior. It has been bothering me lately; especially now that my first child is the age I was when I met her father. Sometimes, I feel as if that is when I left myself behind. I always thought I’d get back to living once Claudia was older. But then I had Camille. It seemed like I would get back to worrying about whom I was and what I needed once Camille was older. But then I had Deirdre. Okay, I was willing to sacrifice my 20’s to my children, but my 30’s were mine. I would write the Great American Novel, I would sell one million copies, I would figure out who I was through this pen on paper. But then I had Sam. Okay, I could do this. I wanted a son. My mother wanted a grandson. My Bumpa had wanted a great-grand son so much he uttered he would go make one himself. Unfortunately, he missed Sam by a good few years, but Sam has his name, so it was okay. I danced like mad; I wrote like mad, I could do it all whether or not I had a ton of kids. But then I had Theo.

And here I am, just turned 35 wondering who I am like some hippy lost on LSD in 1969. Only, I can’t go find myself. That would be irresponsible. I have to stay here and figure this out surrounded by chaotic bliss. Is there such thing? And now, my oldest daughter is walking around this apartment, her eyes different, her hair different, her body different, sad because Jake the Snake hasn’t called and it has been three days.

Alone, But Not Alone

2008-06-04T23:44:00.002-04:00

Drew is at his studio, I think. He needed to get some tools to fix the driver’s door on our van. He also needs to get ready for First Friday, so maybe he’s accomplishing two tasks at once.

Camille is at rehersal for her school talent show. Deirdre must have elected to stay and watch. Normally, Camille walks her home and Deirdre is only allowed to walk if it is with the crossing guard. Since it is 4:38, I will assume she stayed.

Claudia is out with her boyfriend. I don’t know where. I don’t know what. Urghh.

So, I’m alone with Sam who is having a dilemma. He is torn by his desire to kill, maim, or at least slightly injure Theo, an overwhelming urge to feed the goldfish until they explode, and watching Bollywood numbers on YouTube.

Seeing as the last option is the least destructive, I’ve gotta go with it. Unfortunately, I am trying to cook dinner and facilitate my online class on my laptop in the kitchen and the YouTube is going on in the living room on Drew’s IMac. This means having to rush in there every 7-8 minutes to type a new title into the search bar. Chalak Chalak and Chaiya Chaiya (yes, I see the theme), only go so far.

5:30 PM

Dinner is boiling over, my fingers are burning from the laptop keyboard, Theo is screaming in his exersaucer and Sam is jumping on the kitchen table. He’s putting all of his energy into it, really pushing for the extreme, trying to push his little feet right through the center, splitting wood and his ankles. No one has arrive to help. No one being: Drew, Claudia, Camille, or Deirdre. I wander out to the living room and type: Aishwarya Rai Nimbooda - Hum Dil De Chuke, Sam’s favorite actress and dance number. The music begins and he joins me. The phone rings and I pick it up. It’s my sister.

6:00 PM

Camille and Deirdre arrive. They are fighting. This means Camille is telling Deirdre what she should be doing and Deirdre is hitting Camille. I separate them. Sam is bored and drawing on the floor with the marker that I had just given back to him because he was drawing on the window earlier in the day.
Deirdre tells me I am the worse mother ever and retreats to her bedroom.
Camille ever so desirous to be the favorite takes Theo so that I may pee.
On my way back, I stop at the IMac and type in: Mudda.

6:30 PM

Camille and Deirdre eat. Sam is crawling under the table. I try to feed Theo his mushed peas, but he will have none of it. I sit down to nurse him. He won’t do that either. I type in: Indian Thriller. Everyone rushes me. This is their favorite number.

6:45 PM

Sam is sleeping on the couch. Camille tickles him. He groans. Camille pokes him, he grunts. I tickle him, he lashes out trying to slap at whoever is interrupting his beauty sleep. Both Camille and I attack him. Sam sits up, glares and takes his sneakers off . He tosses them over his head and hits Camille, who promptly begins to cry. I sigh. I go over to the computer and type in Maar Dala.

7 PM

Sam is asleep again. I hand Theo to Camille and try to lift Sam. He yells at me. (Sam, not, okay, yeah and Theo too). I ask him if he wants to hear his favorite song from Monsoon Wedding. He rolls away. He asks for Camille. All of head upstairs. Camille and Sam sit on his bed and I push the play button on his CD player. Sam gets up and starts playing with his toys. Good, I don’t want him to go to sleep yet.

7:15 PM

Drew walks in. I hand him the baby and head for the shower. I’m sad. My sister told me that my grandmother’s breast cancer is back and in her lymph nodes. But she also has lung and bone cancer. I cry, letting my tears mix with the spray from the shower. I hold my face up to the ceiling and let the water enter my eyes, ears and nose. Everything becomes muffled and I am immersed.

Children and Dancing II

2008-05-27T11:27:00.002-04:00

Years later, I started to work with my daughters, then aged 14, 8, and 6 on a belly dance routine for Pagan Pride Day (http://www.mainepaganprideday.org), which was to be the debut performance of our dance troupe, Luna Wind (www.lunawind.org). I had a piece already choreographed and the girls knew many traditional steps just from mimicking me around the house.

The first day that I was set to do some serious teaching with them, I had the dance choreography written out and the steps highlighted that were new. Due to Deirdre’s age, I had kept the dance simple.

We pushed the living furniture to the sides and got down to business.

“I want to go outside,” Deirdre said after about three seconds of work.

“Let’s get the opening down first.” I said cheerfully.

“I want to go out now.” Deirdre crossed her arms over her chest and stared at me. Deirdre has a way about her that can frighten people. She had just grown out of her feral child stage. I’m not joking. Deirdre was sent home from preschool five times in the first two weeks for fighting. She bit, swore, pulled her hair, hissed, snarled, and refused to wear clothing.

At any given moment, she could be found crawling around the apartment in her underwear cursing anyone who dared to approach her. I called her Smeagle in my mind because she was bone skinny with very little hair and eyes that glowed iridescent. And she obsessed about shiny things. She had matured a lot since starting school, but I was always nervous that she would revert like she did after my divorce when she was four.

I smiled at Deirdre and looked to Camille and Claudia to help me. Claudia wouldn’t catch my eye. I think she wanted to be done with practice too. I’m not sure if she even wanted to perform with us. High school has a way of turning the nicest child into the Kraken. Camille shot a loving glance back at me. Good ole Camille could always be depended upon to be dedicated to me.

“From the top.”

“I want to go out.”

“After we get this part down.” I looked at Claudia, “Then you can all do what you want for the rest of the afternoon.” I was anxious too because Sam, then five months, was napping.

“I want to stay with you until we get it right.” Camille batted her dark lashes at me.

I smiled at her encouragingly even though my stomach was in a knot. Sappy sweetness crawls under my skin in much the same way that obstinacy does, which makes Camille and Deirdre quite the deadly combination. Ignoring Deirdre’s whimpering, I made my way to the computer and tapped the play arrow on I-Tunes. Elaine Silver’s “Calling All Directions” (http://www.elainesilver.com) swirled through the air.

I wrapped my veil around me and motioned for the others to line up behind me. We began our intro-walk to our places and started our first spin. Once turned around, I realized Deirdre was not with me. She stood off to the side, her veil covering her head, arms crossed.

“Deirdre,” I snapped. My head felt hot and my body ached.

“What?” Her slender arms snaked out from the pink silk.

“If we get just the beginning finished, we’ll be that much closer to the end.”

“I don’t want.”

“You don’t want to what?” I lowered my veil so that it draped behind me, rippling like the ocean.

“I already know what to do.” Deirdre turned around, her orange hair shimmering gold under the fabric.

“Then show me.” I spun around and collapsed into the computer chair. I hit the keys harder than I meant to and the music started over. I rolled around and gestured for Deirdre to begin. And she did, dancing every step perfect right up to where we had left off.

The phone rang and Claudia grabbed it, retreating quickly to her bedroom just as Sam began to scream. Camille walked over and leaned into me. “I love you,” she whispered.

“Can I go out?” Deirdre let her sunflower colored veil drop to the ground.

The Really Real World

2008-05-22T12:40:00.004-04:00

Sam and Theo are sleeping. That's an odd occurrence and I'm making the most of it by trying to get my fourth blog up for the week. That's my goal. Claudia will be home shortly and will have to do her homework in front of me. I know, I sound mean, but yesterday, I received three failing notices from her school. Claudia is normally a straight A student, but this year has been hard on her and on me. She seems relieved that she has to do her homework at the kitchen table. She must be tired of this year too.

I say year even though I am aware that it is only five months into 2008. Since I've been a student and/or teacher for such a long time with as many kids as I have, I count years in terms of school years. So, this one is almost over. And it's been hard for Claudia and me.

I remember being 16! In fact, I dreamed about it last night. I've been doing that a lot lately. And, I don't see my teenage years in grays like I do my twenties.They always seem bright when I think back on them, like the settings were all blue screens. Just a little too real to be real. Sometimes I feel like I fell asleep back then and am only waking up now. Things have been very different for me since I met Drew.

I am all over the place lately in my head. In fact, I think I've always been that way. But, I'm really trying to focus now. I've decided that I must deconstruct myself. Like when redecorating, you take everything out of the room and put back only what you truly want or need. That's what I'm trying to do with my head and life. But, I'm confused sometimes trying to figure out what I want. I thought I'd make a list of what makes me happy, but I keep getting distracted when I think about it.

My problem is that it is a terrific challenge for me to slow down and focus on one thing for any given length of time. I'm always imagining about thirty-five different directions something may go in. And I get awfully excited about some of those directions and have trouble slowing down to focus on what I'm doing to make sure it is complete and well done.

For example, say I was to put this on a blog and suppose someone like an agent saw it and contacted me. That would be pretty cool wouldn't it? But in reality, it has taken me almost a week to write this much and it could be even longer before I'm finished. Now, I'm stuck writing like mad to some unknown agent that I would probably hate if I ever met him or her.

And I'm planning her gender, style of clothing, hair color and tone of voice. And I'm stressing because I have to type and revise this before I can put it up on my platform and Ms. Angie Agent will be looking for me and I'm not there and she'll take her long legs, wise ass attitude, and nasally voice to some other writer and offer to represent them.

Now, I'm making a mental list of all of my missed opportunities that I didn't know I had until five seconds ago. Whew. And poor Theo is starting to stir and that's affecting Sam who is twitching in his sleep and the dishes are piled in the sink, the cranky dryer has stopped, and the phone is ringing. Now, I'll never get that agent!

The Chin Mudra

2008-05-21T21:10:00.000-04:00

I'm trying to learn mudras to incorporate a more sacred feel to my dancing. My daughters Deirdre Camille and and I have been working on a piece to Gypsy Caravan's "Awakening". In it, we are telling the story of when Paravati shed her dark skin and became Gauri and her black skin became Kali.

Throughout the first half of the dance, I need to stay in one place to hide Camille and Deirdre. Since I can't move my feet, I figured it would be an ideal time to use sacred hand movements to summarize our story.

There's no one in Maine who can teach me, so I did what any bibliopile/shopaholic would do and purchased a book, Mudras, Yoga in Your Hands by Gertrud Hirschi.

I managed to read the first few chapters while nursing Theo on our cramped patio space. I say cramped because our back outdoors-like area boasts an array of planting items, a mop and it's bucket, bikes, Rollerblades, scooters, a water table, Aiderondak (yes, I spelt it wrong on purpose because it's fake and I don't want to commit copyright infringement) firniture (that I spelt wrong because I' typing with one hand while holding a sleeping infant), and a huge table that Drew had to buy with the intention of fixing about one thousand years ago.

Sam was occupied near me with the empty water table. Yes, I'm a terrible mother for not wanting to fill that thing up four hundred and sixty two times a day so that he can add mud and paint to create art. He seemed content driving his cars up and down the sides, so I didn't want to cause any friction between us that morning.

I got to the first mudra, the most important mudra, the best known. The one on the cover of the book. The one referred to as "The Chin Mudra". The one that Drew calls the A-Okay.

I played with the movement on only one hand because my other arm was fiercely wedged between Theo's head and my lap. I gestured wildly for a long time trying to dredge up a positive memory to focus on.

Sam got tired of playing in his empty water table and went inside. He popped out again and put his cars in the mop bucket and headed back in. I realized that waving my hand around frantically wasn't the proper way to work mudras so I slowed down to a standstill and pondered Theo's birth which may have ended happily, but the ordeal of adding him to my rather large family was painful and messy.

I shifted my thoughts to my handfasting last June, but got bogged down in the stressful details. I paused, shook my fingers, called out Sam's name and was answered with a "Get out of my room," a phrase Sam picked up from his older sisters.

I brought up images of Drew and pushed my fingers back together. I considered the almond shape of my husband's eyes, the way his glasses rest on his thin nose, and his lips that I long to trace the inside of with my tongue. I began to think about the night we met and how it seemed like we had been apart for such a long time that it felt like our bodies were sobbing when they came together.

Suddenly, my mind was alive with memories of our short time together, the conception o our two sons, their births, picking apples with everyone, a visit to Pumpkinland with the girls.

Like my text instructed, I shifted my focus to my fingers to test if I felt anything, and you know what? I did feel a tingling, like an energy was traveling through my right hand. Just as I was certain that an epiphany was upon me, I heard a sloshing sound coming from the kitchen.

Struggling to stand up I dropped my book and knocked over my glass of water. I did manage to keep Theo latched on so by all means, my aerobics were successful and I could count my exercise as done for the day.

I stumbled into the kitchen, cooing to Theo and found Sam standing on a chair at the sink with a full bucket and a running tap. Water dripped over the edge onto the counter, floor, and all over Sam.

"Look at this." Sam smiled.

I looked down at Theo who finally rolled his face away from my nipple. Leaning over Sam, I turned off the faucet.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome." I moved past him and headed up the stairs slowly. I climbed over boxes of Drew's art and the random toy and picked my way through old baby items that I wasn't ready to part with, and stepped over two laundry baskets to reach my bedroom door only to be thwarted by the child safety knob.

It took three tries that consisted of pressing my hips against the door to kind of hold Theo while I jimmied the handle with a sort of free hand to get in. I tiptoed across my room again accosted by an odd array of stuff that we keep meaning sort, organize, and put away.

Reaching the crib was no easy feat and slipping Theo over the rail was something that Homer should have written about. But, I did it and after rubbing his belly, he fell back to sleep and I retreated the way I'd come listening for the deafening sound of a splash that would mean my kitchen was done for. It never came.

Sam was waiting for me at the foot of the stairs with his coloring books and crayons. The bucket of water was forgotten. I sighed feeling relaxed for the first time in ages. I think it was because I kept jamming my fingers together to form the Chin Mudra.

Children and Dancing

2008-05-19T11:17:00.001-04:00

I can’t say that I have any idea how easy it is to teach children belly dancing in the Middle East where it seems to be a natural part of growing up, but I have some tricks for here in America.

A long time ago, I taught ballet, tap, and jazz to 4-6 year olds at a little studio in Saco, Maine in exchange for a tuition reduction for my own classes. What appeared to be a fantastic opportunity to hone my teaching skills at the most basic level developed into one hour of babysitting a group of mini Napoleons weekly.

The first day of class, I arrived early with my music selections chosen, lesson plan worked out, and properly attired in a leotard, tights, skirt, and leg warmers. My hair was pulled up in a tight knot and I was excited at the fact that I was about to be called “Miss Sybil” for the very first time.

I spent half an hour warming up and going over my simple schedule that included stretching, barre work, a short combination, and then onto tap

My students began to arrive while I organized the albums by the record player (yes, I am that old). I knew many of them from my tutoring position at the local elementary school. Three girls that I was specifically familiar with rushed me with hugs. One girl, Genevieve wrapped herself around me and refused to let go.

Amidst the flutter of tutus, ponytails, and chatter, it became rapidly evident that I was not in control of the class. The girls were doing their own thing, one was hanging from the barre and crying, another was humping the floor in an attempt to perfect the “caterpillar” and another was running in circles, an apparent aftermath of a sugary breakfast cereal.

I almost quit that first try. But, I needed the trade off because my mother was getting very tired of paying for all of my classes and costumes. Dance isn’t cheap.

I kept returning and struggling to get those girls to stand in line, wear appropriate clothing (tutus are every little ballet student’s dream, but are unsuitable for practice).

Around the holiday season, I had put together a lesson plan that included sitting in a circle and singing traditional songs. After barre work and some tondues and plies in the middle of the room, we sat down. I put on Frosty the Snowman and started to sing. At first, I could barely hear myself over the talking, but then small voices drifted and mingled with my own. Then Genevieve stood up and pirouetted. A couple of girls followed her example and then more. Finally, I stood up and danced too.

We made it through every song on that album. And when were done, I realized the entire class knew all the steps I had been trying to teach them. When class was over, everyone applauded and their voices rose together, “Thank you, Miss Sybil.” Genevieve hugged me on her way out and I paused to hold her a little bit tighter that day.

Introducing Sam

2008-05-17T09:52:00.001-04:00

Sam is crazy. He is running around this small apartment touching everything with his baby hands. We cut his hair about a month ago and his head and face now look like a big guy's. That's what we call him too, "Big Guy."

He's been up and down the stairs about forty times and he's off again with Camille's lunch box. He's quiet upstairs which means that he's getting into something. All of us in this family know what lack of noise from a toddler means. Actually, it never changes. Whether it's the seven, ten, or sixteen year-old, I know if they're silent, they're up to something. The only door Sam can open upstairs leads to his bedroom. The rest have those huge white balls on the knobs.

He's back again. He is smiling at me, his fingers busy, his eyebrows twitching. He pulls a place mat from under our mail basket and everything flies from the small sorting table.

"Sam!" I don't mean to yell. I know it'll eventually land him in therapy where he can commiserate with his other siblings. But, I'm tired, cranky, verging on killer PMS while I wait for my first period to return since his brother's birth. I usually get them back anywhere from 4-10 months postpartum and the word I'm looking for to describe my mood prior to the first one is unprintable.

"Oh Oh"

"Yes, oh oh is right. Pick it up." I look down at Theo, Sam's five month old brother. He has managed to turn his body in a full circle and appears to be staring at the ceiling. I lean closer, he's watching Sam out of the corner of his eye.

Sam begins sorting through the mail. I'm watching the computer screen as the new machine chokes on uploading Office Mac, a program I desparately need to keep up with school work. In fact, I have one week left of my semester and if I don't get this program running, I won't be able to read my grading book and turn in my students' final grades.

Theo rolls onto his belly and is crying. Part of me wants to flip him back over but I'm conflicted because I'm curious to see if he can do it himself again. He has before, but he yells a lot before he does so. My mother always insists I hold my babies too much. She says it's normal for them to cry. I know that deep down inside and I'm sure there's a therapist out there who will blame my mother for why I have to cradle an infant as soon as he cries.

Sam has gone out back and returns with one sneaker.

"Thank you." He hands it to me and runs off.

"You're welcome," I murmur. I hear clashing and scoop up Theo.

In the kitchen, I find Sam sitting int he midst of all our Rubbermaid containers. The cupboard is open and he appears to be sorting in the way that most two year-olds do. He's throwing lids and bottoms out of his reach, stretching for them, and then screaming in frustration.

I open the dryer door and lean in to check the clothing. There is something wrong with our dryer, but I'm not sure what. It doesn't stop drying. My mother had suggested we have too much stuff piled on top. She hinted by leaving a magazine open to an article on the topic the last time she babysat, when Drew was scheduled to have a vasectomy. Four daughters between us wasn't enough. We wanted a child together, so we had Sam.

When I met Drew, I told him I had a vision that we'd have a boy together. And I did. I did have a vision.

Pizza Pizza

2008-05-02T16:51:00.000-04:00

I have a pizza cooling on the stove. In fact, I think it's going to be as cold as this past winter by the time I get to it. Why am I blogging when I should be feeding my kids who according to themselves are starving to death? Is it because I'm such a dedicated writer that nothing can tear me away from the computer? Is it because I am certain there are mothers everywhere who are dying to hear more Bolly Mama advice? Or is it because I'm trapped in a chair nursing Theo while Sam runs around banging on a pot with a wooden spoon sans diaper, Deirdre is outside playing, Camille is trying to convince me that she broke her arm at school, and Claudia is enroute to in her word: "The Concert of the Year!" As if no one has ever performed live before Panic at the Disco!

Now, Sam has slipped on the sheets still decorating the floor from yesterday's Beltane Pageant and is skidding by me bare bottom in the air with a look of delirium on his face. Well, he is drooling and his already large eyes are a bit wider.

Deirdre has walked in and started screaming at Sam to not touch her food. Deirdre has the special ability of speaking in a high pitched nasal drawl that I can hear no matter where I am. I swear it. I'm convinced if I concentrated real hard during the day, I'd hear her voice travel from her classroom to my living room.

I can't hear Camille anymore. She's wandered into the kitchen to attempt to cut up the pizza into even triangles. Everything must be even for Camille. She was the middle child between her sisters for seven years and still holds on in the middle now that the boys are here. Kind of like how Deirdre still insists she's the baby because there are no girls after her. Camille likes everything to be fair.

"It's done!" Camille has a quiet voice, one that's hard to hear if I don't strive. She will sit beside me and talk for hours and sometimes I never know what was said. Most times that is. She's a writer too. She can put together a 70-80 page story no problem and read it to me. Every word. And ask questions. She always asks questions. I always try to make up exotic answers so I sound more like I'm joking and less like I didn't listen. When she was littler and learning to talk, she'd hold my face and make me repeat everything back so that I couldn't pretend I missed anything. Anything. Did I repeat myself?

Sam's Nap

2008-05-01T12:04:00.000-04:00

I'm not much of a blogger. Actually, I've never done this before, but here I am ready to spread my wisdom (or more than likely my faults) regarding mothering a huge brood. Yeah, huge. I have five children, my oldest is 16, my youngest is 5 months and then there's the ones in the middle.

Right now, I'm struggling to put Sam (age 2) to sleep for a nap. I've never been good at the nap thing. Ever. I mean, I kind of have this strategy of waiting until they fall down somewhere and then scooping them up for the bedroom. If they look particularly comfy, i.e. they're going to freak out if I touch them, I will sometimes spread a blanket over them.

My baby, Theo is in his crib. He fell asleep while I was trying to figure out how to set up this blasted blog. I'm really trying to get this platform thing down, but I'm not sure I understand it all.

Just the other day, I was reading an article in Poets & Writers that insisted that all writers must have a platform.

"Hey Drew," I said to my husband. I am aware that it is rude to start any conversation with "Hey", but I do it anyway and my kids do to. When you're outnumbered in the house, you choose your battles wisely.

My husband didn't even turn to me. He's not the "Hey" type. It's rude.

"Drew, what's a platform?"

"Something you put something on." He's not even looking at me. Even though I can't see him, I can tell. I'm talented like that. I can't see him because I haven't looked up from the magazine and I've got a baby hanging off of my breast that keeps popping off and on. And he's asleep. He's just refusing to let go. He's afraid he might starve to death if he doesn't eat twenty-four/seven. And the doctor says he's in the 95% percentile. Tell that to the baby.

"No, I mean, when a person has a platform."

"Like a politician?" I can hear his fingers clicking on the keyboard. He's looking at houses. He likes to view houses online. Sometimes, he likes to go look at them too.

"I guess, but this article says a writer needs to have a platform."

"Oh. I suppose that's like promoting yourself." Oh. I'm discouraged now. I keep reading the article, but it doesn't make any more sense to me.

Later that week, my Mom Writer's Literary Magazine arrived. Last night when I settled down to nurse Theo, I finally got to browse through it. I've been having a bad week in all areas of my life. Make that a bad month. I want to write and write and do nothing else, but it won't fit into my schedule. Drew wants to do art, but that's not working for him either. We decided we needed a bigger apartment and went hunting, wasting much the week on that adventure, only to learn that we couldn't afford anything more than what we have. I feel so frustrated regarding time, we decided that we needed to create a schedule and make sure every last detail of our life has a time slot. So far, it hasn't happened.

Once Theo was really eating and no longer goofing around the breast, I started reading the interview with Nancy Cleary. She has great tips for those of us who want to be published more regularly. She says all writers should have a platform! That word again. But, I love Nancy Cleary. Why? Because I want her to offer me a sweet publishing deal? Yeah, that would be nice, but mostly because she explains what this evasive platform is.

When Drew returned from putting Sam (age 2) to bed, I explained the entire platform thing to him. We cracked open a bottle of wine so we could sip and talk. I miss the days of staying up all night and really discussing things. In our limited time frame, we decided that we each have two years to get our art going and selling. In two years, Claudia (age 16) will be moving out and we'll be down to four. We hope to have a random adventure then. We'll throw out my CV and go wherever it lands.

Now, I'm sitting here figuring this blog thing out with Sam on my lap drawing a picture and slowly fracturing my wrist because he insists on lying over my arm and drawing next to the keyboard. I'm whispering ever so softly (okay kind of loud like a Bollywood singer), "Go to Sleep Sam, Go To Sleep. Lullaby, Hushaby, Go to Sleep Little Sam".

Finally, I look down and he's asleep. So of course, I hear a small whimper drifting downstairs. The source of the noise seems to be baby Theo. No two children under the age of three shall occupy the same sleep time as each other. Bolly Mama Rule #1

So, here I am blogging. Getting my name out.