Where I Been

It occurs to me that I'm only posting on my blog once a month or so, which is probably my subconscious' way of dealing with the fact that I haven't had a period in over a year because some jerk stole my uterus a year and two days ago. He made up for it by leaving a shiny new bionic vagina for me, which really hadn't done me all that much good until the other day when it showed up on Klout

Klout is a completely useless tool that measures your 'social media influence' and gives you a 'Klout score' that you can use to get high-paying jobs in biotechnology or something. And Klout has decided that my vagina is influential with moms. I keep trying to explain to Klout that the only mom I could ever even hope to influence with my vagina is a dad, but they don't care.

I'm also only posting once a month because I've had the summer of travel-hell which should have peaked with China, but actually peaked with Boston because I am a geo-centric asshole who's attention span can't sustain more than 300-400 years of history.

Paul Revere's Final Ride

We went to Boston to go fishing exhibit at a trade show, but had just enough spare time to go scorpion bowling with a friend and have dinner with some others. I didn't get to see one friend from Boston while I was there, but I ended up seeing her a few days later in Denver, for the one reason you never want to catch up with old friends.

My best friend's mother was quite possibly the single best person on earth, and for right now, that's all I have to say about that.

Colorado welcomed me home the best way it knows how, with the Denver Foot. The Denver Foot is the 3" of snow we get every October, but that the national news networks will tell you is O!M!G!12!"! In fairness, it weighs the same as a foot of snow, and probably increases ski tourism considerably, but won't delay your flight out of Denver - no matter how hard you pray for it to.

And now I'm back in Texas, and since my full time client decided my job was so important they needed to hire someone to do it in-house, I'm going to try to blog here a bit more while I look for a new job (maybe in Boston or Denver) (because, damn, I think I need winter) (and chowder) (and huevos rancheros with proper green chili) (and fishing in fall)

Fishing

I've still got my Babble Voices gig (you can read it here) (or subscribe here) and am inconsistenly consistent on Momversation. Which, if you're into silly little YouTube videos of kids getting the shit scared out of them, you're welcome.

Sometimes apples do far kind of fall, it turns out.

I always dreamed of being a rock star, like my daddy was. (Not a famous one, unless you're from Delaware in the 80's, so don't bother googling him). In a lot of ways, we do much the same thing, I think. We both write things for a living, though I don't get to write a few versus and then repeat a chorus, so I guess I win this round. We both have pretty buff fingers, though you don't need to trim your nails or develop callouses to type, so I guess he wins that round. We both had to learn other languages (music/HTML) and we both had to just embrace the fact that to do what we love best, we had to learn to drink. 

The thing that separates the boys from the men in our situtation is 'the road'. My dad did his very best work on when he traveled but I...well...I suck when I travel. I take a million notes on tissues and cocktail napkins. I write opuses in matchbooks. I write up my arms if I have to because, like my dad, traveling inspires me but unlike him, I don't do a damn thing about it. I blow my nose on the tissues and roll my gum in the cocktail napkins and burn the matchbooks because, um, burning things is fun, shut up, and nothing I write when I travel ever sees the light of day. 

I was in China in September and have yet to write about the culture, the history or the squat toilets. Last night, I returned home from Boston which is an extrememly cool city filled with history and vibrancy and art and I found myself utterly inspired, doodling furious notes on every scrap of paper I came across.

Of course, all I have to show for it is a video of kids playing songs with their noses.

I can't even imagine how proud my father must be right now.

Six now, forever and ever.

Three nights ago you wept in your bed, crying over the unfairness of all of this happening to you. "I can't grow up, mom. Five is my favorite number."

Five was my favorite number, too. I used to tell you that five was the perfect age to be, because it was just enough to grab your face with and smush it. Five was also the perfect number to hold your little baby foot with.

Still crazy after all these years

Your foot isn't so baby little anymore. Nothing about you is. You learned how to say 'th' this year and I can't believe that I am the kind of person who could spend all day listening to a child say tha-ree! but it truly is the most beautiful sound in the word, you soaking in the world and wringing out little bits for the rest of us to taste. One of the many things you've taught me about myself that I never would have guessed on my own is that there is nothing I would rather do with my days than listen to you sound out the world around you.

I imagine you on the school playground with your friends learning how to jump rope and braid hair. You come home and you tell me all the things the other little girls have taught you and I wonder what you're teaching them in return. You know so much more than I ever could have imagined you would, so much more than I ever did at your age. 

At the same time, you know nothing that I knew when I was six, and I don't think I'll ever be given a greater gift than that. I have to lie to you so often about my childhood, because the stories you do hear are so far from fathomable, they frighten you.  You with your magical little ways have taught me somthing I guessed all along, that any story can become truth if it is simply told enough times. You are making the stories I wish I could tell you come alive every time you make me re-write the oral history of my life and whisper it sweetly into your sleepy ears.  

You ask my why I love you so much and I reply why, of course it's your giggle, except when it is your hugs, but of course when it isn't your smile, and only when it isn't the way your beautiful little mind works. I tell you that I love you today, and I will love you every day of your life, because I have to, the same way I have to breath in and out. You ask if I will ever stop loving you and I tell you that loving you is the air around me and inside of me, in my veins and my lungs and the very fiber of my being and that my love for you is what has made me a complete person. 

Six years ago, right off of 9th and Colorado in Denver, you with your collapsed lung and prolapsed cord, born purple and raging if for no other reason than to scare the living shit out of your brother on the very first moment of your aquaintance, you breathed life into a woman you hardly knew but who had been waiting her entire life to meet you. I held you all night that night, watching you sleep for the first time.

Sleepy

Every night since then has felt exactly the same way. I can never escape the wonder of you, and I don't ever want to. Every day with you has been as amazing as the first day you came into my life, because you continue to be the most incredible creature this world has ever known.

My favorite number will always ever be whichever you are, little girl, forever and ever, amen.