mother

Living / Screaming / Trying

Love wins, we say, and I believe it. But hate is powerful, too.

When my anger over the sexism I’ve simply swallowed in the past week, past month, past year, past lifetime, bubbles up and makes me want to scream, I look at pictures of my dogs until it passes. Often, animals exhibit more humanity than we humans do.

But now I’m thinking I should be screaming more often.

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I am raising a son. My God, I have a son. There are so many things he must know and do. There is so much work ahead of us.

I wish it were a better world.

Is it enough that I am trying?

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This Fine Life

“She started shakin’ to that fine fine music,” I sing along to the record as Lew and I dance hand-in-hand around our living room. He’s smiling brilliantly, hopping back and forth on his tiny toddler feet, throwing our arms up and down in an arrhythmic expression of joy. I’ve always loved to dance but never before motherhood did I just burst forth like this.

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His ecstasy is contagious and in spite of all the freedom motherhood took away, being a mother has also freed me. We lose ourselves and I feel so full of love, love for this song and this kid and this life, and I don’t understand how my breastbone and thin skin manage to hold
the hugeness of my heart.

Moms, Roosters & New Tattoos

My mother’s obsession with roosters began when I was a kid. I’m not quite sure what sparked it, though there are a few different theories; much like the rooster itself, represented across cultures as a symbolic, magical creature, her passion for them was the stuff of myths. Roosters hung from our ceilings, sat cross-legged on our fridge, balanced on their claws in the corners of our kitchen. She had plates, silverware and salt shakers with roosters, aprons and t-shirts and dresses. She loved them in all forms: detailed and lifelike, polka-dotted and geometric, tall, serious, plump, goofy. If it were remotely a rooster, she adored it.

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While I didn’t personally share in this passion, I delighted in it. The way her face would light up with childlike glee when someone gave her a rooster-shaped knickknack. The way she’d smile, satisfied, as she stared at her collection. The way some of them made her laugh while others brought out an expression of reverence. It made me happy that amidst all of her struggles, something as simple as a rooster could bring her such joy.

As a kid watching our house slowly fill up with variations on the rooster, I could never have guessed how much they would come to mean to me. After my mom died, I found myself in my own kitchen eating from one of her rooster plates, surrounded by rooster ornaments and spice jars and even a rooster watering can, and I felt so grateful to have these regular reminders of her; the rooster had became a symbol of her humor, her uniqueness, her warmth, her amazingly deep love. So yesterday, in honor of my mother and so that I can carry this regular reminder with me everywhere I go, I got a rooster tattoo. It was difficult to pick which kind to go with, but I ultimately chose a Picasso sketch – I feel like it combines her funny obsession with her creativity and her love of art. I had a lot of emotions leading up to it, but as I walked into the parlor last night, I didn’t feel sad or anxious, just full of peace. I breathed and smiled and thought of her as the needles buzzed into my skin, and now, every time I look over and see my rooster’s curly head, I also see my mother’s bright smile, I hear her laugh, and I feel her love inside of me.

Huge thanks to Brian Faulk at Hand of Glory Tattoo for his good vibes and great work!