Dec 25 2014

Happy Birthday, Supergirl

loubIt’s peculiar thing to be the mother of a twelve year old girl. I don’t know that it would be strange for everyone, but to me, it is. Maybe it’s because my 12th year is incredibly vivid to me. It was the year that my parents plucked me from the public school and turned me over to the Sisters of the Sacred Heart, so the nuns could teach me how to wear a skirt and fill in the spiritual holes my parents feared they might be leaving behind due to our busy lives. And yes, there was the education too. But I’ve been told that the uniform was the biggest draw – a surefire way to soften my tomboy ways and teach me to sit like a lady. Query whether any of it worked at all.

So I have this very vivid memory of this very vivid year in my life. A year filled with angst, emotion, new girls, all girls, intense schoolwork and shrill, obnoxious laughter. And what I remember of this coming of age, is not quite jiving with the kid in my house. Supergirl also switched schools this year. And yet, she is so much more self-possessed than I ever was. I can’t get in her brain, I can’t truly know what she’s thinking or feeling, but man, from the outside she’s as centered, happy and easy as they come. Will this be the year she remembers as the year her mind kind of woke up? I wonder. She seems like she’s been awake for a long time.

It’s funny to me that my parents thought they might be able to effect some change on me, my ways, my persona. When it comes to Supergirl, I can’t shake the feeling that she landed on this earth holding within her all the tools and talents she would need to become who she is. I’ve said it before, but I can take very little credit for her. This is not a kid who has needed much in the way of molding. Dash and I pretty much sit back and watch as she makes her way through, vicariously enjoying the ride and watching her grow up in a world where (to her) every one is a potential friend, or at least someone worth having a conversation with.

As my girl embarks on her 12th year, I feel as grateful as ever – I am lucky to call this little chick my friend. As of now, she’s game to pal around while I do errands, keeping me entertained with a seemingly endless stream of amusing stories and quirky observations. What I notice with her and my friends’ girls around this age is that they really are like little ladies. They look like kids, but all of a sudden they have this capacity to communicate and understand that makes them really fun to be around.

But I’m also excited. She’s the kind of person with slightly off-center curiosities and she finds a way to go deeper. I’ve always admired that in other people. This past year I’ve watched her explore the worlds of jazz, yarn bombing, succulents and cacti, cartooning and entrepreneurship based on human connection – the latter a pretty successful sidewalk “free advice” stand that yielded copious tips and some new found friends and fans. She was like Lucy, but nice. She also became kind of Jewish for a while, joining a group of kids for snacks at Lady Tabouli’s before Hebrew school on Wednesdays. I can’t wait to see what else she decides to explore and try her hand at. I can’t wait to meet the people she connects with. I can’t wait to see what comes next for my Supergirl.

Happy birthday, to my dear sweet girl.


Dec 21 2014

On Devil Baby

MLP!

The first order of business after my long hiatus will be to give Devil Baby a new pseudonym. She is a Devil Baby no more. What was once a little bullet of a girl, who raged through life like a hurricane seeking snacks, stimulation and full operational control of any kind of shopping cart is now a sensitive, irreverent, musical, funny, bawdy and kind girl. My Little Pony is a true friend – to me, to those lucky enough to be in her class or in her life. She’s leggy and loyal. Spirited and graceful. And there’s that mane, that splendid ponytail that I’ve watched my friends grasp in their fingers, to feel it’s weight and circumference. And that bike helmet. Anyway, there’s never a perfect name but there’s a perfect not-name and that’s Devil Baby. It has been a long time coming.

My Little Pony wears her heart on her sleeve. Other peoples words, expressions and experiences affect her deeply. While Supergirl sails through life on wave of laid-back, presumed goodwill and unflappable positivity, MLP is sensitive to every day vagaries and the small slights and assaults that are the stuff of life as a human being. She absorbs things, she feels them deeply. And while that can be maddening and challenging, the flip side is empathy and kindness. She does not tease, she does not taunt. She is a defender. She is a laugh-maker. She is a goof and a true friend. She operates on a different wavelength. She’s acutely tuned in to that frequency that many of us choose to ignore, if we can even hear it at all. She hears and she sees through her heart and that tender beating muscle of hers cannot, will not look away.

If My Little Pony happens to be your corral, you are lucky indeed. Just be kind to her and treat her well. She needs love and petting. She needs big laughs and constant sweet melodies. She needs to be cherished. And she needs snacks -many, many snacks.


Dec 21 2014

On Peevish

leaf

For a long time now, I’ve been thinking it may be time for me to wrap up Peevish Mama. But I need to wrap it with the tenderness and attention it deserves rather than let it snuff out in a whimper of neglect.

After all, this blog allowed me to keep my sanity through the toddler/little kid time of life – years which ironically hand you the most glorious volume of baby fat and kissable cheeks with a hearty side of monotony, busy-ness and loneliness. This blog gave me a place to think and create and breathe when my life was all about the doing. Wiping butts, reading cardboard books with less than five word on a page, ripping turkey slices into ragged pieces to be scooped up by fat little fingers off a plastic yellow highchair tray.

It allowed me to, quite literally, create a new identity for myself. Here I could tell the truth. I could vent. I could be utterly and unequivocally peevish. It was a secret for a long time, so I was free. Also, through many years and many more posts and even more words, I began to call myself a writer. At the beginning, talking about this blog brought a flush of mortification to my cheeks. How dare I presume? What a poser. Who the fuck cares what I’ve typed? And now I can say it with a straight face: I’m a writer. I’m a writer in my heart. I experience my life through words. I take things in and my brain starts to put letters together – in order to enjoy, to understand, to remember. When I think, when I write, I weave long strands that have their unique tempo and timber, they might be studded with profanity – hyperbolic and salty, cynical and romantic. Always wordy, much too wordy. But my wordy.

My words.

This blog got me friends. It got me writing jobs. Because of it I received some of the sweetest and most heartfelt tentacles of gratitude and support from people. When someone tells you they love your writing they are telling you they love your innards, your thoughts, your very soul. At least that’s what I hear. Because this blog is my innards. It is my thoughts and my soul. Hearing that something I write resonates, that it lingers or amuses, is the highest compliment. More humbling and beautiful than almost any other thing.

I’ve got some things left to say through Peevish Mama. For Peevish Mama.

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