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Sleep for the weary/And dreams for us all/Rest your head on a pillow /And I’ll tell you a tale


412508_3138324459150_354613367_oSleep for the weary/And dreams for us all/Rest your head on a pillow /And I’ll tell you a tale

Oh! An oldie but a goodie. I remember then-kindergartener Zeke walking around slowly on Back to School Night with the magazine in which this appeared, solemnly holding it open to my article.

I was looking for something to cheer me, as I just lost a sah-weet summer writing gig that would have covered my part financially. <pfft.>  Steering the schooner a different direction, avoiding rocky waters.

 

I Am Crumbly All Over


I’m forty-freaking-four years old as I write this in the spring of 2014. And NO, I’m not surprised by that. The years didn’t “fly by,” I don’t still “feel like a teenager,” I don’t “wonder how I got this old,” and I roll my eyes when people say, “I just don’t know where all the time went.” I allow myself to feel flattered when I’m carded for alcohol, and my pat response is, “I’ve been legal to drink since before you were born, young cashier-friend,” because they are almost all in their early twenties, at least at Trader Joe’s, where I get my fancy two- to three-buck Chuck. Once, at Grocery Outlet, a slightly older woman carded me. I quizzed her as I sometimes will, do I seem under twenty-one to you? Really? At times I think it’s because of my nose piercing and penchant for dying my hair blue or pink, or affinity for glitter-covered accessories. So as she considered my question, I was looking down, fumbling through my wallet, searching for my I.D., and when I looked up, we made strong and steady eye contact. (I’m good at that, I think it’s important.) It was then that she said, “oh. Oh. Now I see it. It’s in your eyes. I can see the life you’ve lived.”

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I remember every cycle ’round the sun. There are whole epochs I’d just as soon forget, but no such luck. I do what I can to look better out of sheer vanity, not to stop the passage of time. I use the oil-cleansing method, keep my brows plucked, and treat/moisturize with some pretty-damn-potent AHAs (picture me dressed like Walter and Jesse in full hazard gear while I pour from flacon to beaker.)  I buy the medical grade goooood shit you can’t get in stores, so don’t even ask, it’s like super serious and stuff. And sure, I soften my profile photos to flatter my visage. I’ll do it for you; I’ve got apps and I’m not afraid to use ‘em.

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And of course during all this silliness, I’m charged with the raising of the first of my hunnert-summat babies, one of the most blessedly gorgeous teens I’ve ever lain eyes upon, who does not seem to be suffering through any sort of awkward stage, that lucky little sumbitch, my tawny balladeer Rainer, who is built like a Barbie who mated with a fairy and who also has the personality of a poetic, dreamy, musical drama geek who loves watching science fiction TV with her dad and reading, and who cares little for make-up and artifice, and she’s watching my every move like I’m supposed to be teaching her what it means to be a woman. No! Just no, because my high school memories (I attended the infamous Northport High School in Long Island at the time of the murder with the boulder in the center of town that was spray-painted “SATIN RULES!” and shopped at the–NOT JOKING Walt Whitman Mall) are fraught with a face so awfully, oozily, bumpily textured with acne I slathered eighties-era orangepink foundation from stem to stern and held my head down, long curtain of blond hair to cover, combat boots and black coat threatening anyone to say ONE THING, JUST ONE THING. I left after eleventh grade because none of us could take it anymore. Here is Rainer. Can you stand it?

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But in real life, I don’t mind my crinkly smile lines, or as my youngest kids say, the way I look “crumbly all over.” I don’t mind my swinging boobs and “imperfect” butt and legs, the ridges that have shown up in my fingernails, etc. I DO mind the molars I’ve lost and cannot afford to replace, and if $6 or $7K extra just shows up in my lap (HAH), I CANNOT GUARANTEE I won’t run to get implants for the holes they’ve left that, when I smile widely, make me look like I did a dance with meth at some point. (Double Breaking Bad reference, go me!). But never, ever, any plastic surgery, even if millions came flying through my front door.

Molly says, “I’ll be old like you someday.” I say, “YES! Yes, you will be. And I’m not even that old. But I remember having everything feel and look soft and new and perfect. But that will change, Love, that will change. You will change, and each experience will etch itself on you. Have great experiences. Build your old woman.”

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photo credits of two above images In Her Image Photography

And then sometimes I sing to her one of my favorite Michelle Shocked songs, “When I grow up I want to be an old woman . . . when I grow up I want to be an old woman . . . oh, an old, old, old, old, old, old, old, an old WOMAN. Then I think I’m gonna find myself an old man . . . then I think I’m gonna marry myself that old man . . . an old, an old, an old, an old, a really old man. We’re gonna have a hundred and twenty babies! A hundred and five, ten, fifteen, twenty babies. Uh huh, that’s what I said a hundred and twenty babies. We’ll raise ‘em on tiger’s milk and green bananas . . . mangoes and coconuts and watermelon . . . we’re gonna give ‘em that watermelon when they starts yellin’. Here’s what they’ll yell [then I imitate the harmonica solo.] In the summer we’ll sit in a field and watch the sun melt . . . in the winter we’ll sit by a fire and watch the moon freeze . . . me my old man and a hundred and twenty babies. Me my old man and a hundred and twenty babies.”

And one of the sexiest things about my husband is the way his eyes crinkle with smile lines when I truly amuse or please him (not so easy!) And the gray that shows in his beard, and how I get to be there for each new one that appears. And the other thing is knowing that long after those hundred and twenty babies finally leave our banana patch, I’ll be walking down to the end with that skinny fella, “dreaming of the pleasures I’m gonna have watching your hairline recede my vain darlin’ . . . watching your hair and clouds and stars, I’m rocking away in a sleeping car . . . “

Ahhhh, yes. I don’t mind growing old, because it means I get to do it with dang ol’ Larry Joe Hightower, Junior. The man I married with our wedding song the realistic and thus, incredibly romantic “Old College Try,” by the Mountain Goats. “But I will walk down to the end, with you . . . if you will come all the way down with me.” And when he dies, I’mma do the crappy pappy dance on his grave while I swig xx moonshine from a bottle in my tall boots and petticoat. I’ll cackle, “he finally GONE, goldurnit, YEEHAW!” And I’ll kick the dirt and spit. “See ya down in hell, darlin’! Save a spot for me baby!”

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Get Her Done


I have a complicated and confusing confession to make. And to top it off, it’s couched in a question of sorts.

I distrust laziness, yet I am bad at work. I’m a putterer. I don’t find it easy to sit still for a long time, much less meditate. I never became a pot-smoker because I can’t stand the couch-lying, cartoon-watching immobility it creates. I am a coffee fanatic–I’m all about the productivity-enhancing aspects of it.

Let me describe for you the perfect day, which is filled with cheerful industry: when the music’s loud in the house, windows and doors are flung open to the day, the kids are rowdy and happy, and Larry and I are T.C. of B., you know? Rearranging furniture and vacuuming the deep secret places, scrubbing everything to its factory setting, beating the shag rugs, whipping crisply cleaned cotton sheets onto the bed, hanging pictures, getting the good goddamn heart of everything flushed, purged, polished, and like that. When the house and yard have been preened to perfection, and the dinner’s cooking and the wine’s uncorked, THAT is a happy day. Shower the sweat off, put on cozies, paint my toenails, and look around–with peace and a sense of a job-well-done–at my tidy, pleasant home and garden. That trumps a romantic dinner out, partying, fancy dining, going to the movies . . . pretty much anything.

THAT, to me, equals time perfectly spent. I surround myself with things that amplify this interest, including checking out books on organization. Visiting websites on the subject is like porn. Pinterest is homemaker erotica, full-on.

I wouldn’t describe myself as a lazy person. You know what my hobby was for a long time? Lifting heavy weights. That’s right: weightlifting. (I like to think of it as a feminist issue, and woe be the woman who can’t put the full five-gallon water bottle onto the dispenser without calling a man over. That’s in the Rule Book For My Daughters–be able to change out the water without being a princess, but doing it with glitter-painted nails is encouraged.) 728490_10200260626780434_1179896792_o

Living without a car gets eyebrow-raised consternation from my friends and acquaintances, still. People wonder how we do it, here in suburbia. How in the world we strap our kids into bike trailers and ride miles over hill-and-dale to take care of any and all errands. Rain or shine, in blistering heat or frigid cold . . . we are on our bikes, doing hard things. I even rode my three-speed cruiser ninety miles to Napa Valley while towing a hundred pounds, just to say I did it.

So here is my conundrum: why can’t I make days like the one I described happen more often? What is it about me that remains motionless by default?

I had a grueling job for almost two years, one that required punching a virtual time clock and toiling over a hot laptop as a comments moderator for a news website, to the tune of a 270-comments-per-hour quota. And I did it at a standing station, taking breaks to literally sprint to the bathroom or get a drink of water. At the end of my shift, my whole body would be tense from the effort, with sweat beaded on my brow and trickling down the back of my neck.

And now, I will stay up until three in the morning, either writing or proofreading or editing or pitching stories, relentlessly looking for work, and if there is nothing available that pays, I will do it for people who need it but cannot afford to pay, because WORK. And volunteering. And picking up trash alongside the streets of my neighborhood. What threatens me most? The grief of sloth, sleep in the day, closed blinds and too much TV.995906_10201447602054074_480156052_n-1

But that is where I’m left: knowing that the simple work of life is what I take most pleasure from, but looking around me at piles of laundry to be folded and put away, mounds of garbage bags full of things to donate to charity, rubble-strewn floors, unmade beds, a half-painted master bedroom, and a backyard that is so overgrown that the grass has gone to seed and blows in the wind like a field of wheat. Adding to that is the fact that I know I function so much better when things are beautiful and organized; how it tempers my mental and emotional distress and makes me a more competent and capable individual.

I’m grumpy about this cognitive dissonance. I don’t handle it well. I get judge-y when I see people being outwardly lazy, like circling for the absolute closest parking spot. Yet why is it that I will run six miles yet I won’t bring a stack of laundry upstairs for five or six days of it sitting right in the middle of the dining table, inhibiting all ability to eat a civilized meal?

In short, WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?

If you just look at what we choose to do with our time as being a simple effort-versus-reward equation, that should still equal me taking care of home and hearth. Every time we have one of those days–usually when we have visitors coming–I will at some point tell Larry how much I love cleaning the house, how happy it makes me to take care of this simple work, and to please remind me of all of this so that I do it regularly.209499_1912147605495_6532837_o

I’m typing this amidst piles of rubble, in a happy but decidedly chaotic house. It’s a good life, but one that could be so much better if I could just do what needs to be done.

We Are Totally Not Supposed To Talk About This AT ALL


I go back to work in a few days after psychiatric disability leave. I’ve been going to the strange little Indian psychiatrist in the broken-down office with the half-star on Yelp where I sometimes wait in the waiting room for three, four, five hours . . . who mutters to me about things unknowable, because I sense good in his heart, and because his small smile pleases me, and because he lets the tears roll down my cheeks and says, “Yes, Corbyn, SSRI meds might have blocked your ability for orgasms, for sneezing, for easy laughter or anger, even for crying. You’re doing all the grieving you’ve been prevented from doing for . . . what, a decade? Two decades? Likely more! For as long as you’ve taken them, your emotions have been on pause.” We talk about why the newer generation of medications I take now let me emotions break through, and that’s why I’m crying.

And even though he speaks of “the homosexuals” with something of a sad (but compassionate) shake of his head, I choose to forgive that (and please forgive me for that, as an active, “out,” bisexual woman with so many gay friends and family, because he is trying to love and to be professional, and follow the guidelines of his profession . . . and because his culture is unknowable to me, and his generation is also older and less-enlightened at times.) And even though my insurance pays for 45 minutes once a month for me to see him, he often sees me for two- to three hours every week or so, and he lets me cry in all sorts of ways. Deep wracking sobs, gentle tears rolling down my cheeks while we talk about the science of the brain. And I don’t know if I am getting this right because he speaks in heavily accented English . . . and so quietly . . . and I am partially deaf in one ear . . . but he speaks to me over and over of the chemicals that cause us to build neural pathways that are like broken Plinko boards that cause us to repeat patterns that don’t serve us. How we can rebuild and redirect those pathways through proper medication, rewriting our stories through new versions of old experiences with new and better outcomes, and through simple things like long walks, regular sleep habits, and charitable acts. Today he made me cry in a happy way (I do that, too, because what the hell? why not CRY,) while we chatted (yet again, because it’s his favorite story these days) about the teenage scientist who is busy perfecting a way to diagnose pancreatic cancer through a simple blood test.

I’ve lost fifty pounds since I’ve been going to him, because I guess crying out my pain and eating to stuff it away cancel each other out, once you get the pesky nutrition part taken care of–at least in my case. Food has become a tedious chore that I get out of the way, minimally. Then I get on with this work I am doing.

 A couple weeks ago, he said if I lose my job and/or my insurance, he will never stop seeing me–for free, and he will make sure I continue to get my medications even if he has to pay for them himself. That the wait is long at his office because he does this for others who cannot pay. After having lost so many friends to this illness I have and the person it turns me into sometimes, this made my body crumble in on itself and broke me down into a big ugly cry. To feel that protection, that devotion. Oh, and did I mention? My doctor has rheumatoid arthritis and his body is breaking down quickly. He confided to me he worries about leaving all of us behind.

I’m good at losing people. I can tick them off on my fingers: one hand, two hands, and where’s that other hand? I am able to disappoint dear and valued friends in ways that surprise even me, as I’m in the process of doing it . . . and even the most cool-headed and steady have bunted me over the highest, pointiest barriers. I’m good at breaking people down until they kick me the out of their lives.

 Today I told my doctor I’d been “pretending” to kill myself at my darkest moments this year. That I have asked my husband to just to let me drag the knife along my arms–and that I promise not to “really” do it, because oddly, for me (for most people?) my children are insurance against that; I shan’t leave that grief and that legacy for them to painfully process until they, themselves, finally die. They are reason enough to be here, and I won’t leave them, even though what they get right now is a broken version of a mother. I wonder how it feels for them to see me cry so much.

And to my comfortably-atheist self, he brought up “God” yet again: “you see, Corbyn, there are things that are the domain of God. God has given you a gift bringing life into this world! You had no control over that, that was from Him. And your departure from this life is His decision, too.” And I don’t know if I’m getting all of his words right . . . I often just kind of let his soft, Eastern lilt flow over me like an embroidered silk blanket. But the message was received. It is a sort of gift that I won’t leave this world of my own hand, and yes, that gift comes from my children, who came through me but are not of me. It just so happens I call that a scientific miracle, but in the end, it’s the same thing. 

Ironically, he says there’s no way the company that permits or denies these sorts of claims would never extend my leave beyond this point, for Major Depressive Episode with Suicidal Ideation and Generalized  Anxiety Disorder. That diagnosis merits 42 days. 42 days is what you get. That’s how long Noah dealt with the flood, about. That’s how long he had to reckon with a vengeful God who wanted to fuck shit up on a global scale, so I guess I should be able to get my act together enough to sit at my laptop and click “Delete. Publish. Pass,” on behalf of the news website that employs me.

And my doctor’s wife (who helps in the office) said reassuringly, “well, Corbyn, you work from home. You can do this,” but the isolation is what kills a depressive. On this leave of absence, I’ve left this dark living room and gone out to my community. I’ve tried to be more of use. I’ve helped. I’ve socialized. I’ve connected. I’ve shared laundry-folding times with lonely new moms. I’ve spent time on the porch at night, drinking wine and laughing with people I’ve ignored for too long. I’ve steam-cleaned dog poop from a friend’s carpet.

 So in a few days, I need to figure out a way to bring my job out there into my world. It’s always about something stupid like the WiFi connection is too slow at the library, or I don’t want to spend money unnecessarily at the cafe. But that’s my medicine, I think–my town and the people in it. Just to be near them, to look at their faces and maybe smile and get a smile back. And if I get too skinny, someone please tell me, and maybe I’ll stop crying and start eating a little more food. For now, there’s still more crying to do. And climbing, and climbing. I’m partway up this rock wall and I look down to my small doctor, standing in a half-crouch in pain due to failing knees and shout, “belay?” And I see a grin through his beard and a raised arm holding a rope and a hear a faint, cheerful, “belay on!”

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I’ll Take Your Halloween and Raise You a Thanksgiving


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I’m grateful for garden gnomes, cuckoo clocks, climbing trees with gnarled branches, and moss. For coffee and chai, nutmeg and cinnamon. For citron yellow,  magenta, map water blue, chartreuse, and a bright orange shag rug in the living room. For oatmeal, bananas, green smoothies, my husband’s Magic Meals, and enchiladas. For kids finding fennel and chewing the stems all day like Huck Finn. For lanterns hanging in trees. For all the libraries I have known and loved, which became my hiding spots and my fantasy corners and the places where I built myself. For Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers singing “Islands in the Stream.” I’m thankful for vintage lamps. For the freshly-brushed teeth. I’m thankful for tall glasses of cold water, and Mason jars of whiskey sipped with friends on the porch in the nighttime. I’m thankful for the pleasure of walking aimlessly. For thrift store velvet. For striped socks, picture books about witches, and for snow-capped mountains I can see from certain vantage points in my neighborhood. For the remarkable cities I have called home. For fireflies. For my chickens: Mary, Rhoda, Phyllis, Chamomile, Clover, and Hilda. For stacks of books on the nightstand. For Jitterbug Perfume and Even Cowgirls Get the Blues. For low-watt incandescent bulbs. For patches on old embroidered denim. For star-printed fabric and pictures of the moon in all its phases. And I’m thankful for our wall heater that’s like a fireplace and a gathering spot for our family when we hear its click-whoosh. We meet there. I’m so thankful for them–my four, my loves. And our heat, and our home, which is strung with lights and filled with magic.

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What it Feels Like to Sell Your Family’s Only Car


When the cable and Internet got shut off, I could hide my shame and embarrassment from the kids, who were oblivious to the threatening collection letters. None of us had to face the person sent out to sever our connection to the world, since they can do it all externally without having to enter the house. I knew scrappy Molly would be okay. Molly takes everything in stride, and embraces change. I worried about Rainer and Zeke, who take such comfort in things reliable, familiar, and stable. Having access to TV shows and the Web was something they’d never been without. But still, I could reassure myself it was not a forever thing, that we would eventually breach that financial stranglehold and it would all be turned on again, as though nothing had happened.

But selling the car meant no turning back. Our Honda SUV was only three years old. It was the first new car I had ever owned. I traveled from city to city to earn money for my family when I worked at my sales job, and this was the capsule that carried me along to the accompaniment of satellite radio and my own self-important chatter on the Bluetooth. The leather seats smelled like the expensive purses I had started to carry as my commission checks swelled. I spent more time in that car than I spent anywhere other than home, and I made sure it reflected my success. Twice a year, I got it detailed to shining perfection. I remember once grabbing the worker’s red towel and buffing off a small spot of road grime I spied on an edge of the license plate, with an apologetic smile.

Because we didn’t yet own a house, this was our most visible claim to the comforts of our income level. Emerging from the frosty air conditioning of my stalwart Honda I would arrive at meetings in the morale-sapping endless Texas summers as pristine as when I had left home. Having a nice, new, big car made me feel like an adult. It made me feel like I deserved my job. Like putting on a power suit, it made me act differently. I felt more in-control, businesslike, and competent. Walking to my car with my keyless-entry fob in hand made me feel cared for. My car looked handsome in the parking lot. I liked that it was luxurious while also being (relatively) fuel-efficient for an SUV. I sometimes congratulated myself at having made a good choice. On the rare occasions when I had to get it serviced, the sybaritic dealership had employees who called me ma’am, and brought me coffee in a china cup and a copy of the Wall Street Journal while I waited.

It was also our family vehicle, and when I wasn’t working, we clicked the children into the fanciest and safest car seats money could buy. We idly visited big box stores under any pretext. We took long drives to the rolling wooded hills outside town, often just meandering leisurely, filling the gas tank without concern. Of course those long days of driving without a specific destination would involve eating dinner out, as well. It just seemed a fitting end after the hours spent acquiring. None of this seemed indulgent; it seemed more just what families did on long unplanned weekend days. Nothing we were doing felt extravagant at the time.

I identified with my car. I felt peaceful knowing my children saw it, dent-free and shining, when I pulled up to the curb to pick them up. When I was growing up, my mother drove a station wagon and when I waited to be picked up from somewhere—school, ballet class—I would feel comfort at the sight of the burgundy Pontiac with its blandly reassuring stare. It offered the sort of comfort I associated with my mother.

The Honda was completely paid-off, but the costs associated with insuring, maintaining, and fueling it were taking us over the edge. A few times we had considered driving out to the coast, or maybe into San Francisco for the day . . . but the money required to fill the gas tank was galling. It got about twenty miles per gallon, but with gas prices increasing, it was getting closer and closer to a hundred dollars to fill it up. We were $500 to $750 in the hole every month, and we couldn’t see where else to cut. We figured selling the car would cover that margin for at least eighteen months, if we could sell it for the $15-20K that it was worth. Accomplishing that would, we hoped, give us time to establish new income streams. We analyzed the numbers and seeing them in black-and-white made the choice a clear one. Larry had always indulged me by calling the Honda Corbyn’s car, the car I paid for with my sales job, the car I lovingly shined and kept vacuumed, and the car that it would ultimately be my own decision to sell. In the end, though, this wasn’t a decision I needed to make or we needed to make. The decision was being made for us.

As I posted my ad on Craigslist I felt a combined anger and sadness. (“Excellent condition 2006 Honda Pilot with leather interior. Silver. Seats seven, or eight in a pinch. Clean title, impeccably maintained . . .”) And then, a breaking sort of goddamn it, we don’t need this car, this car doesn’t define me and it doesn’t define my family. The safety it represented was an illusion. Or rather, the safety it offered now was in what it could give us financially. Once I had accepted that this was the best (only) solution, I felt like a pressure had released and, in its place, I felt more-or-less peaceful resignation. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t afraid I would change my mind. Here it was: I could let go (all at once!) of the stresses of not making ends meet for the past year. I could know we’d have enough to survive on for the next eighteen months or so. I cried after I wrote the ad, not because I was grieving. Mostly I was regretting having waited so long. The release of tension felt like a balloon popping—not a slow realization of growing relief but an instant, dramatic one.

It turned out that even after we’d made up our minds, we had to suffer through a panicky few days worrying about whether we were even going to have any takers. Alarmist news outlets had been talking about how previously easily-liquidated assets were not getting bought, leaving the downwardly-mobile class sitting on a pile of luxury items that no longer fit within their means. Eventually we got a serious offer from a young family. We played phone tag, traded banter, and became friendly. In a nod to safety-consciousness, I arranged to meet them at the parking lot of a nearby office building, empty after-hours. I stood next to the car in a way I hoped looked casual. I thought better of it and decided to sit in the passenger seat, door open. I opened the glove box and pulled out the thickly-rolled stack of onion-thin paper, pink and yellow and white, marked with the faint hieroglyphs in duplicate and triplicate that formed my car’s journal entries. I flipped through them and re-stacked them, arranging them in a way that was far too fastidious, like a new mom slicking her son’s bangs down as he prepares to board the school bus for the first time. I put them back in the glove box and gently pushed it until the hardware made that satisfying “chink” of connection.

I recognized the handsome dark family in their gleaming white sedan as soon as they drove up; we made eye contact and shared smiles of greeting. In the awkward giddiness that comes over me when I’m nervous, I pretended I was one of those airport employees with the short orange lightsabers, guiding them into the parking spot. We introduced ourselves—mother Rhonda, father Andrew, and their son, Joseph, who was surely not even two years old yet. I suggested there were probably more kids in their future, and they agreeably let me pry in this small way. “Yes,” Andrew said, “and it would be hard to fit more than just the one car seat in ours,” he gestured.

He walked around the Honda, feeling for tell-tale body repair work. “By the way, it didn’t come up at all on CarFax, which was weird.”

“That’s because it’s a ghost car.” Andrew and his wife looked at each other and barked quick, appreciative laughs. I had put them at ease, which had been my skill in sales. I knew I wasn’t selling them a lemon, but rather a great car at a good price—and I could see them slowly concluding that as the minutes passed, and our smiles became genuine.

I suggested we ferry the cars over the couple blocks to where we lived, so we could go through the paperwork and make the necessary transactions. I turned the key in the ignition and buckled myself in to my first new car for the last time, and still felt nothing but relief. My sentimentality is so rarely eclipsed by my practicality; I kept waiting for the inevitable tears. I was at peace with this decision, and I was excited about the dramatic change and how it might alter our family’s life story.

But still, that evening, they handed us a cashier’s check for the deposit. They would be coming back with the difference and trading that for the pink slip of ownership, but for now they were preparing to drive off in our last real asset. Rainer and Molly gave exuberant hugs farewell to them before they left, as if this little family were long-lost friends we had finally made the time to see. The sky had a green-gray cast to it, and everything looked and felt just a little different when I walked slowly up the porch steps. I was sad, and yes, I was a little jealous of this successful young couple that had weathered these tough years better than we had. Zeke was quiet. He watched from a small window that overlooks the driveway. He saw Joseph try to heave himself up into this high vehicle, and ultimately get efficiently carried up and into the car seat and buckled in. He looked out the tinted window and in at Zeke, watching him. And with no notice, Zeke hopped from his vantage point and ran outside to the front porch as they made their way down the street, Andrew following the Honda in their smaller sedan. I kept gently herding him into the house, trying to discourage him from that moment of loss, but he wanted to see it. He needed to see it and say it out loud: “They’re taking our car. They’re going to have it now. That’s not our car anymore.”

Some quiet reflection and then, “Are they bringing it back later?”

No, Zeke, they’re not bringing it back.

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My Husband Had a Vasectomy and All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt


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My husband is the introverted type, so out of respect for his privacy, I’d like to talk to you about his vasectomy.

We put it off longer than we should have. I guess the ideal time might have been between baby no. 2 and baby no. 3, but we’re super happy with the one that slid underneath the closing door, all Indiana Jones-style: “Waaaaiiiiit you have one moooore!” But at some point you have to just make the arbitrary decision that you’re done meeting new offspring.

So we finally made the call that it was time to turn the spigot off. An informal survey revealed that getting a vasectomy was the birth control method of choice among the vast majority of older parents in our circle. It’s minimally-invasive, complications are rare, and (who knew?) our insurance covered it. Seemed as though the only prerequisite was a few days’ freedom to convalesce on the couch and several bags of frozen peas.

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We described the procedure to our children, the youngest of whom is five, figuring they’d naturally wonder what was going to make Daddy walk around the house in a half-crouch in a Vicodin-created fugue state. We spent some time describing the vas deferens, and the special seeds that help Mama’s egg become a baby, carefully playing up the benefits (no additional sibling rivalry!) and downplaying the discomfort (it won’t hurt more than getting a shot).

Yet still, the very next time I brought my youngest, Molly (who’s five) out in public, she announced to any and all within earshot: “My daddy’s getting his penis cut off.” I protested with nervous giggles the first few times, but after awhile took great satisfaction in merely raising my eyebrows and glaring silently.

In honor of the procedure, my husband’s coworkers served two types of cheese balls with carrots and celery sticks, artfully arranged. Oh: and mixed nuts.

I kind of assumed I’d be on The Pill until menopause rendered my womb a windswept desert nurturing nothing but a bleached rock outcropping and occasional tumbleweed, but lo! Verdant and lavishly fertile, and already relieved of the threat of childbearing. It’s a medical miracle.

I’d like to chalk up the following unsuspected side effect to the array of painkillers my husband was on when he came home from the surgery: when I arrived from taking our Molly to her first dance class, I sat next to him, all propped with pillows and sipping water through a straw, and flipped through the photos I’d snapped on my phone. Molly’s leotard and tutu are far from new — like all of her clothes, they’re hand-me-downs several times over. So the crotch hangs to mid-thigh and the tutu is torn and hanging low on one side. There’s a small rip in one knee of the black tights. At first glance there is nothing pathetic about this picture; she’s a happy girl, hands on hips, looking off to the side. She has the sort of hardscrabble disposition you would expect from the youngest of three. But of our children, she is the only dancer. Music moves her physically. My husband slid past this picture and then slid back and regarded it silently for a moment. I felt the wonder and grief behind his simple words: “That’s my last baby.”

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And in a flash: my own times of bed confinement, postponing early labor. Cups of crushed ice and marshmallows, surer signs of pregnancy than a positive test for me. Vernix-covered little red crying faces, one after the other, lain against my chest. There was the cutting of the umbilical cord, always a bittersweet moment, giving that baby over to the world and all its variables, the concept of protection an illusion. And then there is this last cut. A “relatively pain-free procedure.” And just like that, we say goodbye to all of it, say with certainty that we are done, we are parents to these three and no more, no longer getting to rewind the tape with each newborn, to relive that particular kind of falling in love.

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epilogue:

The things we have LOST, oh the things we’ve lost. Big, important things. But you know what we STILL have? The most interesting accessory that was ever made for a Barbie doll: the dog turd that was made to be pooped out, scooped up by Barbie’s fancy dog-poop-picker-upper, and then fed to Barbie’s coprophagia-having kinkster dog to go through the process again. And on and on. The same little Tic-Tac sized/shaped little doodoo-dad that Molly pushed as far up her wee nostril as she could a couple years ago, and Larry, parenting alone, was panicking trying to squeeze her sinus and get it out, pull it out with various tiny tools, etc., until I texted, “do the cartoon pepper thing!” And sure enough, she sniffed a good toot of it, sneezed, and BLAST! The tiny plastic turd flew through the air, and now we find it everywhere, all the time, and can’t bear to throw it away.

Corbyn

Oh, Just Damn It All, I Have Photos Now (and the hurt is less and more)


http://parenting.blogs.nytimes.com/2011/06/15/memories-of-a-fathers-rage/

Dedicated with gratitude and deepest affection to my mentor and friend, the redoubtable Ms. Lisa Belkin

I was five, I was small, with hair as pale as milk, and I was about to become a graffiti artist. I was in Oklahoma, playing in our tidy, treeless front yard in a bare suburban neighborhood. I could come and go like that, there wasn’t any need for supervision in this place.

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I was avoiding the grass on that particular day, because though it was always mowed and edged, it was angry grass, bristly and spiky but nobly drought-resistant, standing stock upright without the courtesy to bend or fold much as you walked on it. It was one of those days that’s so sunny that everything looks as bleached as chalk. I was near the neighbors’ yard, where they had a hedge that formed a small, cool dome that was the perfect size for me to crouch inside. Without much considering, I snapped a piece of a young green branch from that hedge. It hung on with the thin brown skin of itself until my small hands could work it back and forth enough to break it free.

The long walkway to the arched porch entry of our house was as bare as bone, perfect for rubbing wet green designs onto the concrete with the jagged edge of the small broken branch. Spirals, smiling faces, the word “Love,” the only word I could write. There was a bright sharp smell as I kneeled low, the sticky feeling on my fingers, and I remember noticing all of this as I regarded my work with satisfaction. I drew small pointed hearts all around. I did this by carefully making a narrow letter V and then topping it with the outline of a person’s bottom, that’s how I remembered how to do it. But I made capital E’s wrong for the longest time. I gave them so many horizontal lines in the middle they resembled a comb or a many-tined fork.

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There was a throat-clearing my father, David, would make when he got home from his job in sales that meant he was going to have a Bad Night. It was almost imperceptible, but to my ears it was as insistent as that monotonous hoot the television would make when practicing for an emergency, and when he walked from the driveway it was there, and his eyes saw me but didn’t see me. I’m not sure if it was the writing on the front walkway or the frantic scramble I did, saying what I needed to say to try to scamper from his sight and his anger.

My vulnerability and fear brought a kind of red-faced rage forth from him, or maybe I was just the unwitting recipient and had no part in causing it, it was hard to tell. I was as still as a rabbit when it first senses it’s being watched. It didn’t matter that I didn’t know why he was angry, but just that I knew that he was, and that I was first in line, and that the next set of events was as sure and reliable as the heavy roll of a pinball sliding back into its ready spot. It was too late to either mend or escape, and as always I knew that if it had maybe been a non-throat-clearing night, things would have gone much differently. When he came home in a good mood, it was like freedom. Sometimes there would be a trip to 7-11 to get Marathon bars for everyone, or he’d put on the Cream record, or the Janis Joplin one my mom loved so much. He played the stereo loud enough that it shook the walls. When he was cheerful, he wanted all the neighbors to feel his loud, infectious joy. He was grudgingly adored. The type of person people called a “character.”

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But this was not a stereo night, and there was nowhere for me to go.

I stayed as still as possible. My father’s face was purple-red, and it vibrated. You could smell this kind of anger he had. He stuttered when he screamed, and repeated words. I felt far away from this place and submitted; I would always submit. When he would spank me, it was a full-body spanking done in rage, and it was full of other things, pulling me to a place and holding my arms back. There was only this strange satisfaction that it had started and, having started, would end.

My mother could be nearby at these times, but would not hold or protect, or even provide comfort later. I remember the thin straight-across of her mouth, and the way her gray eyes seemed colorless to me. The feeling of having no one in your corner, when you are small and the person who holds such terror for you, who throws you and silences you so completely with fury, should be contrasted by one that will see your side and take it sometimes. If your mother, perhaps, would look at you with the soft eyes of an ally, and maybe back up your explanation for things, just sometimes — just once! Just once, to look into that enraged face and say “stop.” Stop.

David Rothgeb

I didn’t know things were different in our family, but what I did know was to fear evening time and weekends. Turning on the lights made it feel a little better, but the arrival of dusk would often find me skittering under the bed. No matter what other kids said, that wasn’t where the monster was. The monster smells like Coors, and sambuca, and cigarettes. The monster is big and furious and loves you sometimes, holds you in his lap sometimes, teaches you to ride your two-wheeler on those wide treeless streets.

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“O.K., now quickly look down, go ahead. Do you see that shadow? That’s the shadow of a big girl riding her bike.” I risked it, for just a moment, darting my eyes to the left and down. There were no training wheels on my purple big-kid’s bike anymore, I could see that in the shadow. I could even see the vinyl streamers hanging limply festive from the handlebars, they were there in the shadow, too. This bike, these wide quiet streets, this sliver of father I could cling to, when it wasn’t a Bad Time.

A dad’s job is to teach you how swim a few strokes in the overly chlorinated neighborhood swimming pool, while your jolly baby brother crawls and bloodies his knees on the surrounding concrete, oblivious, drool and snot from nose to chest. My father’s handlebar mustache would turn up at each end, you could barely see the twinkling smile under the broom of it. Sweetly: “That was all the way to the edge without any help, that was just like a fish, Corbyn Lee.”

But on this day, all I wanted was to escape his view. I felt raw and unpeeled on the front walk, and kept picturing the jagged stick crayon that had started this mess — where was it now? In the after-hurting, I was almost calmed by the lingering hitching sounds that signaled the real crying was over. There’s a relief in the after-hurting, and I already knew about that at the age of five.
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I had a bucket and a scrubber just the way anyone would imagine it, and I remember scrubbing the green markings off the concrete that seemed like hieroglyphs from a happier part of the afternoon. And for every day that there isn’t the throat-clearing, there’s a feeling of ecstatic relief that’s almost like love.

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What Happens to the Apples


apples Start with a dilapidated but cheap house. Move there under duress perhaps, maybe because it’s cheaper or because you need safe haven from things that are harming you. Make sure the tree is there, in front where it can greet you with low branches, and soften the sun’s glare with its canopy. It must be really big and full of blossoms when you pull up with your moving trucks containing everything you value. It has to have been there awhile, it must have witnessed families come and go before yours.

The house should get abundant shade from that tree. This must be a sort of house that is old and has no air conditioning, a house where you throw open the windows on the first hot day after you arrive and welcome the outdoors in, and even where there are no screens, you tolerate the bug visitors because you can smell your tree and feel the breeze and its comfort. There is no hum of a machine to cool you, only the shouts of neighbors and the bugs and this tree, and a wide open front door.The blossoms need to fall, the way blossoms do when the fruit is on its way, and you should probably feel surprised at the beauty of the carpet of petals that densely covers your porch and front walk. You remember the days that petals on your car would bother you in spring, the way they would cling to your window shield after a rain and get caught in the wipers and then rot. But these are petals, and they’re beautiful, and they’re causing you no problems, even when the children track them in on their shoes.

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When the apples start to fall, they’re green and bitter and they get smashed on the street out front. Bees and flies flutter around the pulp, and neighbors kick the crushed ones back toward your yard with some irritation. This is the work, this is where it starts. The same irritable neighbors come over periodically and help you manage this early growth, irritation is softened, and you climb branches and shake the trunk and all of you laugh at the hail storm of new fruit when it hits the ground with a knocking sound and rolls around like ball bearings, making you stumble like you’re already drunk on its fermentation.

Create games on the fly. Start keeping score: who can pitch the most apples into the compost bin, without missing? Have a running tally with the guy across the street that goes on for days; shout your number with a challenging tone. Welcome the gardening couple who have no children and have time to read about what to do for the tree, let them help you prune and cull and fertilize with compost tea.

Provide beer. Sit on the porch and chat.

And when there have been some days when too many have fallen and there are too many frustrations, go gather. Make the kids do it when your back goes out. There’s always more. Pile what isn’t salvageable into baskets and dump it into the chickens’ feed bin, and stop and spend some time watching them bob their heads and dart their beaks into the crunchiest sections, leaving the mush for you to rinse out later.

What you have gathered is good but needs care. First there’s the washing—be thorough—and then of course much coring and chopping. Leave the peel on, and put the pieces through a juicer. There will be a lot of foam on the top, and it might be too tart for the children at first. Pour it through a strainer and sweeten it slightly with honey or maple syrup.

Then you must strain again. You need to rid yourself of the bitter foam and remember the delicate beauty of those blossoms when the tree greeted you. You need to do the work and make it right, make the sweetness linger on the tongue, soften the sharpness of too much disappointment that led to this bushel of fruit that must be processed in order to nourish you. You freeze some for the long winter that seems far away but that’s really right around the corner, when the tree is bare and scratching against gunmetal skies, relentlessly holding its arms out and waiting for the spark of light to return. Those are hard months and you will miss this sweetness.

It’s bound to be surprising, how many tart little apples it takes to make a quart of golden juice that makes the children smack their lips and stop what they’re doing to savor. You pour it out in measured doses so it’s not taken for granted. Each mouthful contains some small story of the year that’s passed.

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corbyn hanson hightower wrote

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