Once upon I time I learned that glass slippers are surprisingly comfortable.
Just one of the lessons I learned from Disney’s latest “Cinderella” movie.
The movie was magical for me, for all the reasons I expected and for many I didn’t. The 5 Lessons I Learned From Disney’s Newest ‘Cinderella’ are on Kveller.com today.
I hope you’ll give it a read. And I’d love to know if there’s a movie that has had a lasting effect on you.
One of my earliest memories as a new mom is when I dropped my newborn son on the bathroom floor. I don’t talk about it much, but I will never forget it. It was a horrifying, heartbreaking moment.
As he has grown into an independent, self-assured teen, I think about that awful morning often. I am so grateful to share this difficult memory on Mamalode today, in my essay I Will Never Forget That I Dropped My Infant Son. I hope you’ll give it a read, and let me know if you’ve had a similar experience.
Every night she turns on the light in her closet and leaves the closet door open exactly one inch. She arranges the pillows and stuffed animals just so, and comes to find me wherever I am in the house: stacking the dishwasher, on the loo, plotting my next Word With Friend (turns out “yids” is an acceptable word), inspecting the lines around my eyes I could swear those three were not there yesterday…
“Mom will you come kiss me goodnight?”
Every night she asks.
I smile. Say of course in a sweet voice. Or yes with a hint of exasperation. I’m tired of this question, night after night. Or I mumble okay. A word in the affirmative. Every night.
And every night, after I’ve kissed her, she asks, “Will you tell Dad to come kiss me goodnight?” Every night.
I felt, this week, that I was drowning in words. Goodnight words, request words, instruction words, necessary words, words of love and words of thanks. Ridiculous words, hopeful words, fighting words. Written words, words of encouragement, crying words, and words from faraway.
So many words. And none of them my own.
I read extraordinary essays about complicated children, and confusing experiences and thwarted relationships. I listened to the doctor tell me how to treat poison oak, and to the pharmacist promise to let me know when those meds are available. I heard about little boys who tell white lies, and big boys who make me proud, and I didn’t get to talk about her Math problem because the conference was canceled.
I cursed the man who flipped me off as he pushed me into oncoming traffic, but only in my head. And on my way back I half-heartedly tried to find him so I could remind him a Stop sign means Stop even if you’re in a hurry, and that speeding cars and crashing glass can break my bones but giving me the bird will not harm me… but of course he had safely vanished down the tree-lined street and I never got to use my words.
I thought about these lines from a poem I studied in high school, “Not Waving But Drowning”:
Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.
I wondered whether the poet, Stevie Smith, could possibly have meant the man was drowning in words. Of others. And of his own. Words that he never got to say, or think about, or write. Because he had writer’s block. Or his children’s words drowned his out. Or maybe they needed his words before he had even created them for himself.
Or because there was no one to hear when he slammed his bony elbow into the doorpost, so he whimpered “Fuck.” But only in his head.
I stood in the shower and drowned in words that were around me and on me and in me. I felt them buried in my heart and ringing in my ears. They tumbled and splashed, cascaded through my hair and clung to my eyelashes. And by the time I reached for the fluffy green towel, they had slooshed down the drain.
I have been drowning in words. I wished they were my own.
“Will you tell Dad to kiss me goodnight?” she calls softly to my retreating back. I sigh. Yes.
We pass each other in the doorway to her room. His brown eyes lock with my green ones. He smiles. I smile back.
Sometimes, no words are the lifeline you need.
With love and deepest gratitude to Jena Schwartz for giving me a space to hold onto my words, even as they sloosh down the drain. Inspired by the poem “Not Waving But Drowning” by Stevie Smith:
Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.
Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he’s dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.
Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.
Thick, swirling fog is caught in the bare branches of the trees. It sits on the slated angle of the roof. Creeps against the window panes. It is close and quiet. A duvet of the palest, whitest, gentlest gray. It conceals the Bridge and the mermaid Bay. Keeps them secret, hidden. But I know they are there. The hilly streets. The tall buildings. The colored houses. The wild Pacific beyond. And then palm trees and pineapple rain and more Pacific. And then and then and then…
It’s all there. I can’t see it, but it is out there. Big. Vast. More than I think I can imagine.
And I am here. Where it is small.
Where there is a faint alarm waking him up in the room next door. Will he wake up? Will he turn it off?
Where her door squeaks open as she makes her stumbly, early morning way to the bathroom. We should oil that door.
I am here, quiet in my bed, looking out through those windows at that soft, heavy fog slow-dancing over the vastness that is the world out there.
I am here, in my world where there is a boy who says everyone, everything is “annoying”. I don’t know what that means anymore. I yelled so loud yesterday my throat hurt for hours.
In my world the skin around my eyes is more wrinkled than ever. “I look old,” I say. “Not old. Just tired,” she replies. I burn my finger while cooking the stew.
In my world he wraps his little arms tight around my neck. “Love you too,” he murmurs against my cheek. His brother yells good night from behind the bedroom door.
In my world I go to a funeral. How is it that you go to bed one night with your life one way, and when you go to bed the next night it is completely, nonsensically, unbelievably different? We say psalms and share memories and I am thankful for religion and ritual.
In my world I have a car accident. It’s not my fault. I am wearing a seat belt, and have both hands on the wheel. I am not speeding. “Fools Gold” by Fitz and the Tantrums is on the radio. I love that song. I sing. I see the car about to hit me. I swerve, but not enough. I am fine, but my car is not. Sometimes even if I do everything I’m supposed to, there is still impact. 
In my world the jasmines have started to bloom. They are beautiful and fragrant and full of spring. They’re my favorite and I stop to take a photo. I smile and I’m warm in the January sun, and I forget that they’re early. Too early.
In my world I think about the friends who have silently floated away and I wonder if they’ll ever come back. I miss them. And I drink tea and watch TV with the ones who are always here.
In my world my sister makes me laugh every day. My son tells his sister she’s an idiot. I look at them, exasperated, and wish my brother lived closer than 10,000 miles away.
In my world I drop my husband at the airport. “Thank you for taking me,” he says. “Will you be okay without me?” If I tell him no, will he stay? I selfishly wonder for the shortest, most amazing second. “Yep!” I smile. Kiss him. He’s gone a lot.
In my world I visit a friend in hospital. I’m nervous and worried about her. The machines beep and swish and her hair is frizzy around her face. Her eyes light up when I walk in the room. They twinkle like always. I touch her bruised hand and I’m not nervous anymore.
I look at the swirling, gray fog and notice what I can’t see. It dissolves slowly under the yellow sun, and now there is a narrow slice of the brightest, clearest blue.
In my world.
This is a Finish the Sentence Friday post, inspired by the prompt, “The first thing you must do to take over the world is…” Hosted by Kristi from Finding Ninee, and co-hosted by Michelle of Crumpets and Bollocks and Anna of Fitfunner.
Once upon a time I was a runner.
If runner means that I woke up every morning when the sun was just lighting the African sky. If runner means my sneakers hit the sidewalk in time to spring birds chirping, or summer raindrops falling, or followed the heady smell of burning woodsmoke on the dry winter air down quiet suburban streets. If runner means a breathless goodmorning, a hand raised in quick hello, as I passed a fellow crack-of-dawn runner. And if runner means a few 10k’s, a couple 15k’s, and one half marathon. Before I kinda, sorta, definitely quit.
That half marathon kicked me in the ass.
I trained. I carbo-loaded. I ran up hills and down hills and on the flattest roads I could find. I lifted (very light) weights to pretend I knew how to train build strength. I took a rest-day the day before.
My dad was my running partner in those younger and fitter days, and we ran the 10k’s together. They were short(ish) and mostly on a Sunday, so they didn’t interfere with his Saturday work schedule. He has far greater endurance and perseverance than I do, and was the perfect runner-in-arms. A regular half-marathoner, he would coach me gently, remind me to pace myself, encourage me up the hills, and he never let me finish a race alone.
This, my first half marathon, was a much bigger deal than the races we’d run before, in distance, time and emotional investment.
He couldn’t do it with me. He had to work.
So there I stood at the start. Feeling pretty much alone in the muted crowd of anticipation. Every muscle trembled with excitement and nerves, and I thought I would throw up before the gun even fired. I knew once I started, once my legs were moving and my arms were pumping, I’d be okay. Maybe even cruise a little. The endorphins would kick in and I’d actually feel good.
I’d never run a 21k before. It was brutal.
I did okay until about 15 kilometers, at which point the endorphins decided it was time for a beer. They abandoned me and my aching hip right at the bottom of an incline. I was left with my dragging Saucony’s, chaffing thighs, and seven more never ending kilometers to go.
But I wasn’t alone.
A guy I knew from high school rescued me from my marathon of misery. We’d never run together before, and certainly didn’t plan to run this race together. In fact, had he known that running with me would mean his personal worst time ever, he probably would’ve sprinted right by without so much as a goodmorning. He was a decent runner, a good runner. Definitely a serious runner. Twenty one kilometers was more than doable for him, and that race could well have been one that he was clocking for a full marathon or longer.
He did not leave my side. He slowed his pace. He wouldn’t let me give up. He coaxed me up every goddamn hill, sprayed cold water on my burning hip, and crossed the finish line with me at the very bitter end. He even let me limp ahead so that I wasn’t the absolute last.
They had stopped giving out medals by the time we made it, but he fished one out of the long abandoned box and gave it to me. For finishing. For doing it.
Exhausted, aching and disappointed in myself, I tossed my running shoes to the back of my closet. I swam, tried aerobics, and took up yoga and barre classes.
But the other day I stood on the path surrounding beautiful Lake Merritt. The water shimmered in the light, misty air and the buildings of Oakland stretched their gleaming, precise reflections right across the lake. “Good morning,” people smiled as they passed.
Two decades more wrinkled and wiser, I didn’t care how fast I ran, how long it took, or if I was slowing anyone down. I only wanted to run all the way around, without stopping. To finish right back where I started.
So I did. I did it.
And that’s what runner means.
This is a Finish the Sentence Friday post, inspired by the prompt, “When I think Epic Fail, I think…” Hosted by Kristi from Finding Ninee, and guest hosts Allie from The Latchkey Mom and April from 100lb Countdown.
Red Boots 