Poppy Mom

Seven years ago, during the pinnacle of my anxiety and panic disorder, I did a stretch of cognitive behavioral therapy, which damn near fixed everything (except the chemicals in my brain that have never quite flowed right.) CBT teaches you how to manage the crazy-ass feelings the faulty chemicals send that throw a body into fight-or-flight for such valid reasons as the cat sneezed, or the baby’s left eye looks slightly more crossed today than it did last night.

It’s good stuff. And while I don’t have to actively do things like breathe through straws to normalize the feeling of not being able to breath, I still practice one thing my therapist prescribed in 2005: check into a nice hotel for a night and ditch home life.

At that point, I was mother to a one-year-old, running my own business, and battling the inner demons. The concept of taking a break never occurred to me. But I was under doctor’s orders. Thanks to a last-minute deal on a travel website I landed myself a room at a newly-renovated plush hotel in downtown St. Louis, where I spent the night knitting, watching “Gilmore Girls”, and not keeping one ear out to make sure everything was running smoothly.

Therapy ended not long after that, but I decided to keep that prescription on annual renewal.

“Oh, you’re so lucky,” people tell me. And I am. In a way. I’m lucky that I can afford to slip out for a night a year. That’s a luxury to a lot of people. Especially people who don’t have things like, say, food. But I’d rather not require it for health reasons.

Because really? At this point I’m convinced that, if I don’t get my annual hotel night, I will most certainly go bat shit stark raving nutters.

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Last month, when I was at a Fishbone concert, some drunk dude wandered up to me at the end and slurred, “What the fuck…? Are you taking notes?”

“No,” I snipped, scribbling away in my notebook. “I’m working.”

And thus I turned the corner from enthusiastic music reviewer to asshole music critic.

Okay, my response would have been better had he not been a slobbering drunken fool. I’ve been asked at lots of shows if I’m writing a review, or who I’m reviewing for, and it’s usually done with some manners. Hell, at Florence + the Machine, some guys asked what I was doing, then made a little cave for me so my view wouldn’t be blocked.

See? There’s a right way and a wrong way to do things. The right way involves not annoying me. Or anyone around us, for that matter.  You shouldn’t be talking anyway. Shut up.

That moment at Fishbone struck me, though, because I think it might be the first time I was annoyed while writing about music. Because dude. I get to write about music! That’s pretty much everything I ever wanted in life.

Did you know that, in the early months of 1986, I gathered a bunch of newspaper and magazine articles about The Hooters – many of them sent to me from the band’s core fans in Philadelphia – and composed a 2000 word feature story. Just for fun? I was 13. I even typed it on my old manual typewriter. Or maybe it was my first electric. That, I can’t remember.

But how lucky am I? Okay, I don’t get paid to write about music anymore, but I’m in a position where I can write about music a lot. Shows and interviews for KDHX. I have two music-related book ideas in various stages of completion. And on New Years I embarked on Bound for Glory 100 with my new pal Scott. I’m not going to go into the details right now, because I’ve spent the day shoving the details down peoples’ throats. Suffice it to say this project collides so many things I love – music, literature, politics, country, Woody Guthrie, and my favorite – people getting big thoughts and throwing them out for the world to see. Because I love that.

The last two weeks have been good for the music writing nerd in me.

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I’m sick and I don’t think I’ve gotten nearly enough sympathy, empathy, accolades, or gifts to compensate for my suffering.

I have a urinary tract infection.

Great Zeus and his two brothers*, help us if I ever get a real disease. Because yes, I am this whiny and needy after 23 hours of bladder pressure, mild lower back pain, and feeling flushed.

And by that I mean, warm in the face.  Fevery. Zeus, people.

I think the lack of sympathy comes from UTIs being the terrain of dirty, dirty girls. Look what researchers at the University of Maryland said:

Frequent or recent sexual activity is the most important risk factor for urinary tract infection in young women. Nearly 80% of all urinary tract infections in premenopausal women occur within 24 hours of intercourse. UTIs are very rare in celibate women. However, UTIs are NOT sexually transmitted infections.

*This is Clara Jane’s current exclamation of choice. Our parental agnosticism has led her to practice the religion of the ancient Greeks.

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My usual morning routine: set my phone alarm to go off at 6:40, 7:00, 7:10, and 7:15. Steve Inskeep and Renee Montagne barge through the clock radio at 7, usually with information that inclines me to avoid the outside world.

At the same time Clara Jane’s alarm clock shrieks and beeps. Brian calls twice at assorted times, announcing through the answering machine that we need to get up. If I don’t text him that I’m awake by 7:15, he texts me until I respond.

We’re doing good to be out of bed at 7:30. I take her to school at 8 in my pajamas. No bra. No coffee. No toothbrush. No toothpaste.

But toda,. I was wide awake at 6 a.m. after a solid seven hours of sleep. Without the usual morning panic, I took my coffee in the living room after Brian left for work, while Clara Jane and the animals continued to sleep. I packed her lunch, laid out her clothes, and even dressed myself, down to pre-dawn tooth-brushing and face-washing. New shoes – the ones that allow me to return to the longest strides my short legs can manage, instead of the plantar-induced limp I entertained for the past month after chasing my escapee puppy through the neighborhood in gardening clogs.

Don’t get too excited – the new shoes aren’t of the dainty, pointy variety. They’re oversized Birkenstock t-strap mules. I haven’t gone totally insane. Just a little mayhemmy.

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My ma turned 64 this weekend. I think that means this photo taken on one of her previous birthdays is officially over 50 years old, rendering it an antique instead of merely vintage or retro:

My parents came to visit this weekend. Before they arrived I told Clara Jane how, when I wasn’t much older than her, my mom gave me the copy of “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band” she bought the summer it was released, and that’s how I became a Beatles fan.

CJ’s more into “Abbey Road”, an album I couldn’t grasp until I was well into my thirties. Regardless, she was familiar with “When I’m Sixty-Four”, which I told her was my first favorite Beatles song. She thought it was all pretty fascinating, enough to overcome her stage fright, stand on a footstool, and sing, “Will you still need me? Will you still feed me? When I’m sixty-four!” when my parents arrived.

We’d discussed playing it for Ma in Beatles Rock Band. I’m glad we didn’t, because we are not a performing family. It would have been humiliating for everyone. That will never get old. But the rest of us are.

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“You know, a lot of times, I don’t feel like I’m seen or heard,” Clara Jane told me yesterday morning. Which is a hell of a thing to dump on a mother on a day when we woke up 33 minutes before the tardy bell.

“You’ve been seen and heard more than you will ever realize,” I told her. “I’ve been writing about you since you were born, and there are people who have been seeing and hearing you from the beginning.”

“Yeah, but it’s hard for me to see that.”

“Well, someday I’ll let you read it. Go brush your teeth.”

With coming back to personal blogging, I’d made a decision I’ve seen a lot of the “mommy bloggers” who started in the early aughts make – it’s time to scale back on the stories about the kiddo. For lots of reasons: her life is not my life being the biggest. Also, out of respect for her privacy. She’s scoring at a 8.3 grade level in “Mom! Don’t tell that! You’re embarrassing me!” when I’m telling her father how she’s continued her unbroken run of perfect spelling tests this year.

So what’s the line? She wants to be seen and heard but … doesn’t.

Well, here she is on Monday.

She’d had a rough day at school, thanks to a boy who got pissed when she told him to stop blowing straw wrappers at lunch. He reacted by shoving her down on the playground not once, but twice.

I’m sure she wouldn’t want me to tell you that. But she handled it well. Told the recess teacher and let her handle the little monster troubled boy who probably just needs some fucking parenting a hug. While she’s just as prone to fits and spells as any other kid, what did she want to soothe herself after a bad day? A trip to the neighborhood coffeehouse, where she sipped cocoa, shared a brownie with me, and spent over an hour happily reading books for school while I knitted.

Remind me of this next time I tell her that no, her best friend can’t come over for the 93rd day in a row. Or no, she can’t play Angry Birds on my phone until the battery melts. Or no, she can’t have my computer to listen to her five-hour-long Spotify playlist, and she growls, stomps to her room, and slams the door.

I’ll say this now, knowing full well Clara Jane will most certainly read it, possibly sooner than I’d like: we have an odd child.

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As you might recall, last May we lost our basset hound, Chloe.

Actually, we didn’t lose her. Since basset hounds tend to get lost a lot, I should probably clarify: Chloe died. Developed something horrid on her spleen, spent a few weeks fading, and succumbed to the needle the day after Osama bin Laden was captured/killed/dumped.

I don’t believe in hell, but if it exists, Chloe had to leave us so she could spend eternity stinking up bin Laden’s hell corner and howling in his face without ceasing. I’m guessing he wasn’t a dog person.

Don’t worry. This isn’t a photo of Chloe in her death throes. This is how she had fun – rolling on her back and screaming. It’s how I like to remember her.

This wasn’t my first trip to the euthanasia theater. Actually, I’ve never made that trip. I’m too chicken and have always sent Brian to do the deed. Not that this makes it any easier. And I can say that, of all the pets I’ve lost, I’ve never missed one the way I miss Chloe. Even now, with the seven-month anniversary of her death looming tomorrow, I still get a really sharp chest jab if I think about her even a little. I miss this dog a lot.

I mean, a lot. More than I’ve missed any pet. And I’m not just saying that because her loss is freshest. So many days I’ve called, “Hello, Madame!” into the hallway, thinking I’m greeting Chloe, only to find out I was calling stupid toothless little Murphy by Chloe’s most revered nickname.

Murphy’s no comfort. Mostly because, unlike every other dog on the planet whose lost a companion, Murphy had no clue. Within two weeks, she was pretty sure that Chloe never existed.

That’s the same amount of time it took for Murphy to stop trying to put her tongue back into her face after she had all of her teeth pulled last year. Murphy takes a Mr. Clean Magic Eraser and flosses between her ears with it twice a week. Lucky bastard.

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That’s right. I am.

I don’t know where to begin, but I’m still here.

2011 has probably had more upheaval and questioning for me than any other year. It’s ending, and I’m coming through on the upside.  Surprises me to no end.

The most recent change: I left my freelance gig. I probably should have a long time ago, when it started being a drain on my resources instead of a positive part of my life. For me, being a freelancer means getting way too wrapped up in the idea of being paid to write. Even if I don’t enjoy what I’m writing about. Even if I don’t feel great about where my writing is published. Because writing jobs that pay are so rare, they’re to be clung to for dear life … right?

Except when they prevent the freelance writer from expanding her skills, moving beyond what’s easy, and perhaps writing something more meaningful than what stupid stunts were pulled in fast food restaurants that week. So I’ve left.

There were other reasons, of course, but the bottom line is, it was time to move on. And I feel really, really good about it.

There are other jobs brewing. Funny how that works. I had a whopping 12 hours of panic over not being a writer with a regular paycheck before another opportunity presented itself. More about that when it actually happens. In the meantime, I’m already publishing some music stuff for KDHX, my favorite radio station.

Yeah, it’s unpaid. But since KDHX is a non-profit, community organization, I don’t mind. My “don’t write for free” rule only applies to publications that make money off the free work of writers.

I’m also going to be writing here. I’ve missed my blog so much over the past two years. But again – it’s all me. The self-imposed guilt of not feeling like I could write my own stuff when I had paid writing work that needed to get done. No one was holding a gun to my head, or even threatening my livelihood if I blogged. Well, except me.

This summer Clara Jane and I road tripped all over the midwest. I planned to blog about it. Even applied for a grant to fund it, which I didn’t get. One trip was blogged, which makes me sad. I worked on those trips. Just not on what I now wish I had been working on.

And time. Good lord, I have lacked time. Much like my need to place the paying work ahead of everything, I do the same with volunteer opportunities. This year I’m once again co-leader for Clara Jane’s Brownie troop. I’m also the PTO president at her school.

Shut up or I will punch you in your goddamn laughing throat.

Honestly? I like the prez thing. A lot. Not in a power-trippy way, either. Being so involved in our awesome neighborhood school has reminded me just what I love so much about Prettytown and our neighborhood. We have awesome people around here. In this position, I’m reminded every single day just what a unique community I’m lucky enough to live in.

It’s time-consuming, though. Our school does so much, most of it in the autumn. While I was doing work stuff, and scout stuff. Like cookie sales. And spending my 39th birthday in the haunted woods with 20 little girls. I discovered levels of exhaustion in recent months that I hadn’t experienced since I had an infant.

But it’s all easing up. And I’m finally learning the value of my time and energy. They’re worth more than I ever realized.

This weekend, while delivering part of the 300 fucking boxes of cookies Clara Jane sold, I had a good, long visit with Michelle. She reminded me where my skills lie, and what’s important when it comes to my writing. Couldn’t have been better timed.

So next? I need a blog make-over. Gotta keep up with those kids and their Tumblrs.

Clara Jane and I spent Tuesday morning snapping at each other. She was talking at me, throwing fact about dinosaurs and bees in my general direction, facts she repeats 10 times a day, ignoring me when I tell her that yes, I know. She’s told me. But she keeps talking, and my nerves fray. I got out the calender and counted how many days until school starts.

It’s 22, for the record.

For the past eight days, Clara Jane and I have done very little. At least, by the standards of our summer. We did as much as normal people do: we stayed home Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday because it was too hot to live. Thursday, we went out for pizza, a movie, and some shopping. Friday, Brian came home early and they went swimming. Saturday, he took her to another movie, and we went to a nighttime event at the Magic House with our friend Mary and Mitch. Sunday, she helped Brian clean the yard. Monday, we painted pottery and went school shopping. Tuesday, we drove each other batshit insane. Wednesday, more school shopping.

But it’s not enough. Not after a summer of day camps and road trips. For all the great experiences, we’ve forgotten how to just be.

I’m not sure we ever knew in the first place.

Most seven-year-olds want to spend time away from their moms, right? Mine doesn’t. Getting her to hang out in her room with her books and toys and music took a fight and a telephone intervention from her father. And yet I hear other mothers talking about getting this or that finished while their kids did their own thing. I have no idea what that’s like, and I wonder what I’ve done wrong to create such a clingy neediness in my child.

Which makes me wonder how we’ve done so well with the forced togetherness of our road trips, but turn into a remake of “Mildred Pierce” after a few days at home.  We did fine in Louisville last month.

(Aaaaaaaand … segue.)

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We checked out of our hotel an hour before check-out time, which is a record for me. I will suck every last minute out of a hotel room I’ve paid for. But the fact is, we couldn’t sleep anymore, didn’t have time to swim, and we were hungry.

In all my trips to Memphis I’d never visited the Fourway Grill. Only reason I can figure is because sometimes I can be a little bit stupid. It’s one of the most important restaurants in contemporary American history, being the place where Martin Luther King Jr. met with people when he was in Memphis.

During a 2000 trip to Memphis I bought a great cookbook called “Gracious Goodness”. It’s a gorgeous hardcover brick of a book filled with recipes from Memphis restaurants and Memphis Symphony Orchestra supporters. Part charity cookbook, part historical record of the food and places etched in a city’s history. It’s one of my favorite.

Fourway contributed four chicken recipes to the book. On September 12, 2001, when I joined the rest of the nation in the post-tragedy comfort food feeding frenzy, I made Fourway’s baked chicken and dressing. I remember making that a lot during that time because it was the most soothing food I have ever eaten.

Fourway is food for troubled times. Maybe I felt that subconsciously and therefore avoided going there for fear of bringing darkness to my 100 percent fun Memphis visits.

But I can only stay away from fried chicken reputed to be among the best in America for so long. Read the rest of this entry »