old wives tales

ideas for someone else to do.

old wives tales. tales from people who are or have been a wife* for more than a decade. … all your tales are old wives tales. all the things you’ve learned, all the world you’ve seen.

lets venerate ourselves. more, more. more.

get those glennon doyles, those liz gilberts, those oprahs, those anne lamotts… get them, put them in one spot and shine the hell out of them. read them to our kids, start borrowing bits of their knowledge and calling it our own, because we’re them too, just not with any platform.  we do know as much as they do, actually.

although i envy the hell out of their ability to think and process and then SHARE so well.  i’m missing at least one step at all times.

but still. bring it on, we old wives. . .



*recognizing ‘wife’ doesn’t have to mean ‘church wedding’, or hetero-anything.


School vacation: dickish #248

sigh. motherhood.

am i right?


that was me for most of my days when my kids were under 5. I’m not in that spot anymore.  i recognize it, i remember her well, and can impersonate her at will.

but my kids are just huge. and with divorce comes a whole huge dose of the new adult understanding of impermanence. i’m just gifted them for such a damn short time. and then they go off into the world and i’m still living with me, in the end, just me, as roommate and lovah, all. (even if there is someone else there, or a slow dribble of children coming and going)…

i’ve handled things differently this vacation, for the first time ever. choose differently.  i am using money to have two whole days wherein all 3 kids will be at camps. and one will be gone four whole days in the end. its allowing me to write here, to do a little bit of thinking, and to act as if it were almost a normal week, which honestly? is so so good.

because its school vacation and the biggest dickish one is very clearly ME.  the fiery circle of hell that is my dinner time prep on vacation days is dissipated, because its an almost regular day.  and because i have a little bit of routine i can handle the constant calls for entertainment and food and bitchery that emanate from the living areas . almost like an odor.

right now? i’m typing this at a starbucks because i have a giftcard . rock that. school vacation week and i’m alone with hot coffee and a bit of focus. i don’t believe it either. but there it is…  a little change in thinking and a redirection of funds, and  there is an EASTER MIRACLE.

right now? yes, right now it is a MIRACLE.  look for one near you. Camouflaged Gecko Unwifedmotherexpletive


Friday Freewrite. first.

I remember was the prompt. Put it first.



I remember the stone wall out my window, the purple of the metal decoration flashes itself daily amidst the grey greens of the winter wall.  

I remember the first child being born, though not the moment i first saw him, the relief, the relief that he had come out and the end was nigh. And then it wasn’t… but that moment. I remember . he’s out! And i’m alive and he’s alive and we are a love.

I remember the way i felt this week, crying by the unfixable sofa and wanting to rage and break things.  

I remember my feeling of inability, not enoughness, i remember being mad at all the people that i don’t even know, that aren’t here, the potentials that aren’t materializing. The block i must have on moving through to intimacy, or a desire for intimacy. . .

I remember intimacy, and how it takes so much longer than i think .  i remember less doubt, somehow, I remember what it is like to tuck my head into someone’s chest, and rest there. And feel warmth there.

I remember that the practice of accepting them helps me accept myself.

And i remember when i was better at that.

I remember the birth of the second and the speed and novelty and relief and flood of him. I remember the irritation at the men for chatting while i was laboring.  Paha, now. But still, i remember. I remember my sister struggling so with watching my labor.

I remember myself in the window of my marriage, looking out at the cars passing by, wishful. Thats how i remember myself.  Slowly drooping.

I remember the birth of my last. Hopeful for the home birth. So tired. Riding along to the hospital. So quick, with a little relaxation, to resolve. To spin, to arrive.

I remember.  

I remember to snack in the middle of free writes, the green bowl beside me a testament to my powers of distraction.  

I remember that i have a date tonight. I remember the feeling of futility and utility … the need to keep in practice.

I remember this is why i am here. A life of practice. Practice that becomes the substance.

I remember liking what i write.

I remember stopping when i feel like it.