Sunday, August 5, 2012

a muse and a million.

every blog begins with a muse. something that crosses my path, be it one of the few paths i walk in real life (around the house, around the park, around the mall...clarksburg, land of going in circles) or one of the many paths that cross and criss-cross my mind like highways. except each time i travel a highway in my mind, the trail erases behind me, leaving free space for all the new ones to come.

the adventures of mamma d
or
how motherhood didn't change nothin' but my tax return

that title crossed my path recently. i envisioned it, as above, as if it were on a leather-bound cover, while i was driving...in an almost-circle, around my almost-circular neighborhood. i looked in the rear-view mirror at my fat baby, his poofy lips looking even poofier as they hung from his position of sleepy surrender. we had just come from walking at the park, where i saw fake billy corgan on the trail. we see him often. i wonder if he knows he looks like billy corgan. who, btw, wrote the song that always brings to mind my senior-year trip to the state basketball championships in charleston, where i had too many screwdrivers and couldn't get out of bed for breakfast at bob evans the next morning. one of my classmates brought me biscuits, though. a real pal, whoever it was.

life is unimaginably altered once you've given birth, or, on the real: once you've lain writhing in a hospital bed for 15 hours, then were wheeled down to a room where your dead-weight body was transferred by multiple strangers like a dead whale onto a metal table where they gutted you like a deer, and, upon them reinstating your innards, you insisted you couldn't breathe but the anesthesiologist insisted that bc you were speaking, you could, indeed, breathe. your self, however, doesn't change once you've given birth. well, unless you're a person inclined to lose your self. the only thing i lost post-motherhood was weight: in the form of a few pounds and the habit of entertaining unworthy men. bc, you see, now there's a fat baby sittin' like a gatekeeper at my heart. and any man who wants in had better be worthy of that boy.

that boy, he is sure like his mamma. headstrong. living life on his terms. people often exclaim, upon meeting my fat baby, "isn't being a mom wonderful!" which translates roughly to: you aren't allowed to be mad about sleep deprivation or your everlasting dark circles or the fact that a hot meal no longer exists in your world or how your boobs look great now but once he's finished they'll look like shrunken rutabagas or how daily plans are mostly laughable bc all things are now subject to the almighty nap and length thereof. i wish people would instead say, "do you love him endlessly, ruthlessly, mercifully, wholly, incalculably and despite how immeasurably difficult it is to raise him?" and then i would smile and say, unequivocally, yep.

my boy didn't sleep well last night. and i awoke wondering if this month-long neck-and-shoulder spasm would ever subside. like every morning, though, i made sure my smile was the first thing he saw. i made sure of it, beyond the aches and beyond how angry i was about a particular other thing that gets under my skin that i have yet to figure out how to transcend. i wish i could take that unpretty circumstance and transcendtranscendtranscend until it becomes a million drops of rain, soaking into the earth, making way for something more beautiful to grow.