WoW 2/9

The Write on Wednesday Spark:  Possessing Beauty
Write about a collection. Write about something you or ,someone you know, collects. Think about the "why" behind the collection - why is it important to collect this particular thing? How does it make the person feel to add another piece to their collection? Is the group of objects there to be seen, to be studied or simply kept together? Write a real life story or a piece of fiction. Wherever the prompt takes you...Keep your post on the short side: up to 500 words OR a 5 minute stream of consciousness exercise. Link your finished piece to the list and begin popping by the other links. Oh, and enjoy!

She collects hurts like children collect pretty stones.  As she walks along she picks each one up, carefully shining it on her shirt to give it the best luster and shine.  She takes them home in her breast pocket, cuddled close to her heart, and places them on the shelf so that the cracks and fissures a best displayed in the murky light. And I know they must be heavy, these rows and rows of offenses, real or percieved.  I know that they must be tearing down her walls.  Yet, she cannot seem to pass one by.

The Courage to Turn it Off

I once heard a quote, and I can't find it no w to credit it but I'm sure that whomever said it was brilliant, that went something like; "I used to have zero children and a lot of theories.  Now I find that I have four children and zero theories."I love that. Similarly, my husband and I often talk about the times when we were perfect parents. You know, before we had kids.  I had a lot of theories back then. They were great theories, too, firmly rooted in the best information that child development experts, parenting books and articles, and the perfectly coiffed and adorned moms in the checkout lines had to offer.  What they were not, though, is based in reality.  One of these theories is that I would NEVER, EVER, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES allow television to babysit my children.  I really truly believed that this was the best decision for the children I would someday have.  Fast forward several years to what we refer to as the catastrophic twos of my oldest son.  My oldest, whom we'll refer to as Diesel is my whole heart.  He is a source of endless joy and quirkiness.  He too, though, is a hard kid, and until we were able to put our finger on the issues that were leaving him in a constant state of frustrated rage I would spend more days than I care to admit doing the kind of crying that makes your face blotchy and snotty and makes your contacts fall out.  But, man, the kid loved TV.  I found that if I would turn on the noisy light box I could, in effect, just turn the volume down for an hour and a half at a time.  At first, that's just what it was; a way every now and then to give him, and me, a break.  But, like any drug and let's not kid ourselves, television is a drug, we found ourselves slipping.  Then we moved,and while we were packing and unpacking it was just easier to leave the TV on more.  Then I had a rough last trimester and couldn't move around much and so we left it on more.  Then I had a newborn, and then and then and then until I looked around and realized that, even when the boys were asleep, our TV was rarely off.  Ever.  I think I knew, even then, that things were going to have to change, but I just turned up the volume and moved on.  You see, turning the TV off was scary.   If I did that, I was going to have to actually parent.  I was going to have to address some issues, with my children, with my marriage, that I just didn't want to deal with.  Plus, I was just so motherlovin' TIRED, y'all.  But, God wasn't about to quit; He had a plan for our family.  It started with a feeling of shame.  I was afraid to have friends over; you see, we would have to turn the TV off and Diesel would get overstimulated.  Or we would have to leave it on and people might know how much that thing rant in our house.  Then I started noticing that most of Diesel's communication is lines from TV shows.  And it's great, you know, because he IS communicating, but I want to hear his thoughts, not Daffy Duck's, which brings us to the next point.  Even in kids' shows, those cats are MOUTHY.  It's hardly fair to punish him for parroting what is modeled as okay, but at the same time, man that stuff is ugly coming out of my little dude's mouth.  Still, though, it wasn't enough.  We were addicts, remember, and addicts are notoriously thick when it comes to hearing why they should give up their drug of choice.  So, God decided to be a little more clear.  I remember when it happened. The boys were in the playroom watching something, and I was rocking the baby and engaging in what was supposed to have been a half hour of mommy time (two hours ago).  I was watching the pretty vapid girls argue on America's Next Top Model and I heard God as clearly as if He'd been on the screen.  "So, this is what you think glorifies Me. This is what you choose to spend your time on?"  Yes, God, used a preposition at the end of his sentence, which is just further proof to me that American English is spawned by the devil, but I digress.  And that was it.  I turned off mine.  I turned off theirs.  It was just as scary as I thought it would be.  I hadn't taught my kids to play without me, so at first it was superhard

The Write on Wednesday Spark: Agent Chin- Wag
Pay attention to the conversations around you: at the dinner table, in the supermarket, while DVD Returning, wherever. You are looking for one line, one tiny sentence of dialogue. You may find your words lurking in a D&M or perhaps you will choose a phrase from everyday chatter. Write down your line. Use it to inspire your Write on Wednesday post. Keep your post on the short side: up to 500 words OR a 5 minute stream of consciousness exercise. Link your finished piece to the list and begin popping by the other links. Oh and enjoy.

REMEMBER: Creative writing is still on the WoW cards in 2012 but consider exploring other writing styles as well. Write fact or fiction. Link up a real life piece, a blog post, a Haiku, a letter, a poem, even a photography narrative. Tell us a STORY, by whatever means you fancy. Wherever the prompt takes you...

The linky will be open each week from Monday to Friday. If you are playing the game, try to visit the other linkers, at least three of four would be nice. Encourage, critique and support your fellow writers.

OVERHEARD:  So then you get hooked up to tubes and you can't really feel your legs and it doesn't hurt.  Otherwise you just push the baby out.

This caught my attention first because I'm a midwife and that was an interesting description of the difference between a natural birth and one with interventions.  Also, because it was the first time I'd heard the birthing process referred to as "just push it out," which struck me as hugely oversimplified.  Finally because of the body language; the two women were the same age, same size, but the pregnant woman's (who already had a child) body language and tonr of voice were all different: more confident, older, wiser, more relaxed, more aware of her body.  So, this little poem is what came to mind.

After all the waiting.
After all the pain.
After all the work.
After all.
I watched her stomach heave as she rode another wave,
beautifully (though she'd never believe me).
I watched the baby push through
bruised and tender flesh.
Not the first pain of motherhood, but the worst
yet encountered.
And I saw in that moment
in the sweat slicked brow
in the strength she didn't know she had
in the core of iron
in the boundless love
in the spurt of blood
in the two wails that join as one
the birth.
Not of a child, but a woman.

Weaving Together the Threads

I am a wearer of hats.  They are myriad, these hats, enough to send the fabled hatter into a frenzy.  Mother. Wife. Daughter. Midwife. Writer. Friend. Leader. Teacher. The list goes on and on.  I wouldn't have it any other way.  Long ago, though, in a coping mechanism, I taught myself to compartmentalize.  I have more compartments, and they are more watertight, than the Titanic.  When I would transition from one role to another I could almost hear the sccccrraatcch THUNNNNKKK of the door slamming shut and the pressure valve spinning.  But, lately I realized something.  Much like the Titanic, I was going under.  I was sinking.  The hats I mentioned?  Suddenly they didn't seem to fit correctly.  You see, life is not so well defined as the roles I was trying to play.  Life colors outside of the lines.  So I had former clients who wanted to be friends and I couldn't...quite...do it.  I didn't know how to engage in that kind of exchange.  I began to be very uncomfortable with touch.  After all, I massage and hug others as part of caregiving.  To receive a hug is to receive care and as a perpetual careGIVER I could no longer receive a hug.  Also, I was always working at the eleventh hour because I couldn't bring myself to start one project until I'd completed the last.  As big as my head is, I couldn't seem to fit more than one hat at a time.  My websites reflected this; one for my writing, one for my business, one for my hobby and never the mane shall tweet as the joke goes.  Sometimes there were things I wanted to say, but I couldn't; I didn't have a forum for random thoughts after all.  I've been thinking and praying quite a lot lately and one of the things that has been revealed to me is that it is time to start weaving the strands of my life together (have we hit maximum metaphor density yet?).  It's time to take those roles and turn them into a wife.  This website is part of that; a little bit of everything, like me.  I used to make macrame necklaces, now I'm trying with my life; take the strands, wrap them around each other and make something beautiful.