My Morning

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Three Perfect Shots.”

1. In Which We Discover a Redhead in Our Bed.

Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump. And then my seven-year-old daughter’s lean, sharp body insinuates itself between me and my husband. In the dark, all I feel are elbows, knees, and soft skin. When I peek, I see her hair falling like an auburn curtain across her face. Safe under Daddy’s arm, she snuggles in. Parenting experts encourage you to walk your kids back to their own bed, but my husband and I defy their advice and keep her with us. Right now, she believes we can protect her from anything.

2. “My Spoon Is Too Small.”

“I can only hold one piece of cereal on this spoon,” she complains and shows me the lonely square of Life cereal in the spoon.

I stare back at her.

“Well?” she says.

“I would like…,” I prompt.

She answers with a dark glare. “I’m not a baby.”

“I’ll get you a spoon,” I answer. I grab a large, slotted serving spoon from my ceramic utensil jar and hand it to her.

A grin breaks across her face as she takes it from me. “It’s working!” she giggles, using the serving spoon to pick up the entire cereal bowl.

3. Steggie Loses His Head

Apparently the Dinosaur Era follows the Thomas the Tank Engine Era: my son has carried around two plastic Stegasauruses for nearly a week. Stegasauruses, or “Steggies,” as my son calls them, are very popular with the toddler crowd. While the toy store had lots of Giganotasauruses and a slew of Pentaceratops (yes, I know too much about dinosaurs), we snagged the last two Steggies. Relative to their body size, Steggies have very small heads and even smaller brains — approximately the size of two eggs. They also have weak necks. When my son dropped his Steggie at the daycare center this morning, Steggie’s head snapped off skittered off to parts unknown.

“I’ll let you know if I find the head,” the associate director assures me as my son walks to his classroom and lifts the headless Steggie for his little friends to see.

How T.S. Eliot’s J. Alfred Prufrock Articulated My Feeling of Alienation and Helped Me Identify Myself As a Writer

In response to the Daily Prompt, My Hero

We get our language back through the language of others. We can turn to the poem. We can open the book. Somebody has been there for us and deep-dived the words.

—Jeanette Winterson, Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal?

I don’t remember exactly when I first read “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” but I remember my state of mind. The melancholy. The dislocation. It was around 1990 and I was 16. I felt there was no one with whom to share my thoughts, my fears, or my dreams. My father whose idea of spending time with me involved going to NASCAR races or RV shows never knew how to connect with his sensitive, literary daughter. My schizophrenic mother was not in this world and spent her days muttering to herself and scribbling notes in the margins of the New York Daily News. The friends with whom I felt so close just a few years before were morphing into creatures who listened to angsty indie crooners like Morissey and only wore Doc Martins. Where once we talked easily, I became less interested in their conversations and numbly smiled and nodded at the appropriate moments. In AP classes full of kids groomed to attend Dartmouth and Boston College, I only opened my mouth when called on. I walked the halls of my high school and my life playing my part but feeling as though there was a pane of glass separating me from everyone else.

There’s something desperately wrong with me, I told myself. Perhaps I would become schizophrenic like my mother. The books and articles that I read about my mother’s illness indicated that 17 was often when the voices would begin whispering in my ear. And I DID feel as though I couldn’t connect with anyone. I craved closeness and intimacy, but I didn’t know how to achieve it and I was afraid to try.

Then I read T.S. Eliot’s “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.” I absorbed his words and whispered them to myself again and again. This narrator, paralyzed by doubt and indecision, lived entirely in his head.

…There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

 

…And indeed there will be time

To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”

Time to turn back and descend the stair…

Do I dare

Disturb the universe?

In a minute there is time

For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

 

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—

The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,

And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,

And when I am pinned and wriggling against the wall,

The how should I begin

To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?

And how should I presume?

How did he know? How did T.S. Eliot in 1921 write a poem about a middle-aged man  that articulated the very alienation I was feeling? The same fear of judgement?

For once I felt understood. Prufrock gave voice to my fears and I knew I wasn’t alone. The poem also helped me understand that writing, and poetry in particular, could be a way to explore and give voice to doubts swirling in my head. The poem also gave me permission to not be confident. Eliot painted a portrait of a man wracked with doubt and turned his voice and feelings into art. Could I do the same? While I had always been a reader, experiencing Prufrock helped me recognize that writing could be my way of connecting to myself and connecting with others. Through writing, I could show people what I was thinking, construct a narrative for myself, and claim an identity: I am a writer.

The Power of Touch: When Mom Braided My Hair

Daily Prompt: The Power of Touch

Textures are everywhere: The rough edges of a stone wall. The smooth innocence of a baby’s cheek. The sense of touch brings back memories for us. What texture is particularly evocative to you?

I did not come from a physically affectionate family. Oh sure, as a child each night I would give my dad peck on his plump, stubbly cheek and received my fair share of hugs from Grandma, but there were never great tickle wars or hamster piles that I witnessed in other families. We’d bump, separate, and move on.

My mother, by the nature of her schizophrenia, rarely demonstrated any affection. Instead she lived alongside of my father, my grandparents, and I as if in an impenetrable bubble. Whenever I DID try to embrace her, her arms and body remained rigid. She acted like a robot executing a hug command, going through the motions without any feeling, letting her arms fall away from me after a prescribed number of seconds.

The only time she would maintain physical contact with me was when she brushed or braided my hair. Then, I could take a chance brushing my back or elbow against the soft heft of her body without her pulling away. I savored the feel of her gently raking her nails across my scalp, gathering hanks of hair, and the slight tug as she wove my hair into braids, the stacks of costume rings and bracelets, clinking close to my ear. For those brief moments, she was a regular mom.