Lori McKenna

One of the coolest women I know gave me the tickets. So, I traveled, what with depositing the kids at their reluctant grandmother’s house and then from there to the city where she was playing, about 6 hours in one day. I remember traveling this way for rock shows for work, and also for Dead shows. That Man met me there, after doing his own two and half hours on the road. He was late as always, but he was eager. Most men would not be so game. It’s a bonus for us both that his passion for music – and taste – equals mine. And I love her songs, and he knows that, and as it turns out, he loves what I love.

So we hooked up, two unencumbered grown-ups, in some town we had never been before and found ourselves in a standing-room-only crowd listening to Lori McKenna. Lori McKenna is the singer-songwriter, who of all the favorites that I have either worked with or worshipped, staked her claim in my heart and held on so tight that I will, even now, drive all that way just to see her. She is, after all, just a mom, like me – so if she can, I can.

People say she writes about all things “domestic” and to some degree, that’s true. It’s also a lazy critique. She is domestic (duh -- five kids, suburban Massachusetts housewife, married at 19), but to assume that every one of her songs is about that? It makes the domestic in me (who also married young, has three kids, lives in suburban Mass) close to crazy and downright offended. Listen like I have to every song she has written: this isn’t Cascade and Calgon -- this is poetry, plain and simple.

Just listen to “Falter” or “Pieces of Me” or “One Man” or “Swallows Me Whole” or “Ruby’s Shoes” or “Bible Song” or “How To Be Righteous” or “Monday Afternoon.” You’re a mom? You’ll hear yourself. A dad? You’ll hear yourself too. A human being? Yeah, she’s got something for you, too.

Her story is true and compelling, and so the publicist in me knows why it makes sense to talk about it. She finds a way with five kids and a high-school sweetheart husband in a small town like mine (yours?) to make music. She wears the same clothes as me. She loves Target like me. And somehow, when the time comes, she makes a space in her life to let her poems creep out.

After all the life I’ve lived (which so far has been quite massive frankly), this woman has the one thing I still want. It’s not her rock n’ roll life I covet – I’ve been there, I left that – it’s the balls she’s found to get up and tell it that I envy. So, it’s no surprise that when I feel compelled to explain or exclaim in words the way I do, it’s usually her singing in the background that I hear.

As the night in Northampton wound down, and after I hounded that poor woman for a picture of us both together (sickeningly embarrassing looking back), I remembered how much I missed that feeling, the one I had as a kid for the musicians who ultimately changed my life: Elvis Costello, The Cure, Joni Mitchell, Bob Dylan, The Band, the Grateful Dead, Nirvana, The Jayhawks, Morphine, Wilco, Josh Rouse, Johnny Cash, Kristen Hersh.

God, I thought, here I am all kinda grown up, and still laid down like a kid by a great song and a guitar -- and loving it. When she hauled her own equipment out the door, in an old sweatshirt zipped over her sexy top, and flung that stuff into the back of her minivan (!!), I was sold for good.

When it was time to go, I held my husband’s hand so I could yank off the too-cool-sneakers that were blistering my feet and walked home barefoot to a hotel where we would spend the night without our kids, her music still echoing in our ears, our beer-buzz lingering like the one we had when we were teenagers falling in love.

It occurred to me then that nothing changes that much after all. What you loved when you were little, you’ll probably love when you’re old. I haunted record stores once; now I plunder ITunes. I have always loved music and songs, and well, not to be sappy, but I have always loved him too, and I still do.

And I love Lori McKenna.

I Don't Want To Stay Here

As in, “Mama, mommy, ma – Idunnawannastayheeere!”

This has been the perpetual complaint, the perpetual wail in fact, of the Giant Three Year Old today. Apparently, time alone with me has lost its luster for him. His sisters were both out with friends; one will even be gone until morning on a sleepover. The extent of his adventures were a couple of neighborhood visits and a trip to the library. Apparently, it wasn’t enough. My face and this place are intolerable for him now.

(Just ask the neighbors: they were victim to his vocal opinion most of the day. I am grateful to live on a street where this nonsense passes with some sympathy. Afterall, the sight of me chasing the screaming wailing kid down the sidewalk, screaming “Idunnawannastayheeere!” might have alerted the authorities in some ‘hoods.)

His displeasure is nothing new really. In the past, he has found our car to be insufficient. He would prefer any giant truck, and since I would prefer a Mini Cooper, I feel his pain. Our house has also not met his needs – it is “old” he says, which is true, more than 100 years old in fact, but I think by old he is not expressing his genius in antique architecture, but instead implying that hanging out within these walls is passé. He’s over it.

He is a classic third child. He was born into a house of siblings – they were barely three and four when he was born – so naturally, he has grown up used to the constant presence of people in his life. As a result, he alternates between loving the game-playing and chatter of us and wanting to escape from it all. When the girls were home only three days after the end of school, he implored, “Why are they still here?”. Now, five weeks later, it destroys him when they leave.

He’s my riddle, such a funny joke, and I never know what to do or what to make of him. He can play for hours making voices for a million inanimate objects alone and wanting no one, or switch to the raging social monster of today, incapable of finding anything worthwhile that involves being here, alone with me or himself.

“Idunnawannastayheeere!”

That Man suggests a nap for him, which almost makes me choke on my ice coffee. I have considered locks on his door and used a host of bribes, but for the last few months that Big Boy will only snooze when we are in the car, about ten minutes away from Target or the grocery store or wherever it is that I cannot legally or ethically let him stay alone. Since I do prefer him alive actually and would rather not be splashed across the front page of the Globe or in jail, I haul his half-asleep ass out and carry on.

(Still, don’t you believe the world would think more kindly of the parent who left her sleeping baby or toddler outside the grocery store than the one who left her kid outside the Casino? Neither is good people, I get that. But c’mon: priorities.)

I digress, and that’s a good thing (and the strange and welcome benefit of writing it all down…)

I concluded this wretched day the way… well, maybe not the way some Professional Mother would, but the way I would. I threw some ravioli in a bowl and sent him to watch TV in another room. His eyes were still puffy from his most recent distress (having to leave the neighbors at 6:00pm – late by any standards I think) but he was quiet. In that moment, he was the beautiful green-eyed, long-haired, long-lashed hunk of a Giant Three Year Old that I love. He said “sanks Mom” for the grub, sniffled, and then squeezed my leg. It wasn’t quite sorry, but for now, with him gone and not screaming in my ear, I’ll take it.

I don’t care if he spills the food or if he eats any of it. Also, if he returns, food uneaten and whining for ice cream, I will, just for today, give it to him.

Sue me. I don’t fucking care, because today, after this day and the way I feel now, when I don’t really want to be here either, his ice cream eating might buy me the ten minutes I’ll need – to breathe, to remember he’s just three, to remember he is the last baby I will ever have.

It’ll be the ten minutes I need to find my way back to loving this shit.

She's Old Afterall

I planned to post something different, but because it's my sisters birthday, I will delay the egomania.

She has always hated my poetry ("can't you write something happy?" she says) and would probably prefer a new pair of shoes.

Anyhoo, no shoes, but happy I hope, and Happy Birthday nonetheless:

Sister:

When I was little
I watched you
walking behind you:
how you moved,
how people looked at you.
I haunted your room
when you lived there
and more after
you left.

It’s not so simple, leaving.

I still can’t talk back to you
the way I want to
but I won’t take a dime
for a message now
or be conned into a backrub either.

My secrets,
for them you are insatiable.
But yours are all locked up
and nothing I do or say
will change it either way.

I am all grown up,
like you,
with no one to push around,
or tell on,
or teach.

There are myths
that people make up.
But mostly:
it just hurts sometimes
to be part of a family.

You taught me that.

It’s just a little bit
that a little sister
can say or do.
What you expect from me
and when the mood strikes
get from me --

A good song, a cheerful voice,
and the proof that we are all
okay.

Bombs Bursting

Catching up after That Man was home for FIVE WHOLE DAYS over the Fourth, which was great, a culture shock in some ways, but ultimately, really nice for us all. Lots of family beach outings ensued, and soccer in the back yard and movies, and That Man being helpful with all things domestic. But lest you think me/us perfect in some, um, perfect kind of way, there was also much boozing that kept the grown-ups laughing and carrying-on. And there were fireworks. Which I chatted through.

So now life is back to post-holiday normal, and by that, I mean messy house, less than nutritious dinners, a whining three year old and That Man gone again on a business trip.

Did I mention that I have forgone camps this summer? The notion started one crabby morning at the end of the school year, when lying in bed, I thought, “Wouldn’t it be great to go nowhere today? Wouldn’t it be nice to do nothing?”

(Note to future self: not ALL thoughts are meant to be acted upon.)

But the notion hung on (and the bank account confirmed) and so the mantra “no camps will be good for us all” remained the mantra. My kids want to be with me most of the time, after all, so until they don’t, let’s go for it. Let’s spend some time without distraction. I’ll practice what I have preached too often: kids need to learn how to play – with nothing, with grass, or dirt, or a pad of paper and some tape.

It is grand ideas like these that make one realize how much bigger the word “practice” is than “preach”.

So... I find sneaky ways amidst the not so gentle admonitions of “I am not here to entertain you, remember?” to get my proverbial ya-yas out. My glue gun works wonders with fabric (I can’t sew), so after trips (with all three kids – fun!!) to FancyPants textile store ($109 a yard?? who buys that?) and Wal-Mart (with a trip to the pool along the way), I get my voila! I also get some burned fingered tips, but the two-day transformation is complete -- apparently only for me, as no one said a word about the living room re-do. But that’s beside the point.

The brussel sprouts, given to me by Annie in tiny 2-inch pots, are gigantic now — a not-so-subtle reminder that summer is underway and maybe even passing faster than we think, but mostly an awesome architectural feature in the garden. Which needs weeding and pruning. Maybe tomorrow.

Right now I need to disinfect the musty towels, gather up all the toys and garbage and what-not that is splattered across my driveway, remind my son not to pee in the trash can (wicker one, no less), empty the dishwasher, fill it up again and see if I can find two kids’ shoes that match.

And figure out what to do tomorrow.

Goodbye to Anger

I wrote this, and I need to be done with it.

Anger:

Rage is such a silent thing
most of the time.

But inside the blood and guts,
the tissue and bone,
of every good decent human being
rage looms.

It’s a threat of a threat,
and a chance that the chance might come
to take over: become
an attack
a scream
a thrust of some violent words or
fists or who knows what.

The urge bows down at the feet of our humanity.
It only needs one lazy toe
to let go.

You fuckinloudmouthedbitch
justshutup.

For instance.

>>>>>>>>

I wrote that desperately.

I am less desperate now, for reasons that partly include this place: it has never been a bad idea to write "it" down.

So the anger is becoming an old friend and like all old friends, it feels funny to let go, but I do.

(Not funny ha-ha, like the Gigantic Three year old who, newly-potty trained opened up the front door of our house, dropped trou and pissed all over the steps for every neighbor to see. Not funny in that way.)

By funny, I mean the funny that happens when you sit up and see how fruitless all your anger has been. That kind of funny, as in -- wait, that was wierd: I wasted so much time.

So guhbye to that. Buh - bye. See ya. So long. Bye.

Apologies

She apologized to me for being “negligent” and out of touch. She felt badly that she might not have called or emailed as much as she should have. She wanted me to know she knew this – her misdeeds as she saw them – and that she really, truly felt bad about it.

She is 22, pretty much bald, wickedly cool and funny and smart, a very recent college graduate, who likes a cocktail and loud music and gossip, and she is back in the hospital dealing with the side effects of her battle against leukemia. Which she started less than six months ago. At about the same time she should have been whooping it up after four years of hard work that should have paid off into the fun of Senior Spring.

I get saying sorry. I have done my share of apologizing over the last 8 years or so. I apologize to my kids at least five times a week. The little sorries are easy, as in, “I know I said we could, but now we can’t and I am sorry.” The bigger ones suck (but have the biggest payback overall I think), as in “I am sorry I got so angry/yelled/made you feel sad about something you did do (that really didn’t matter)/something you didn’t do (that I thought you did)/or because I was just having a bad day and felt tired and grumpy and was crabby, and I feel bad about that, and I am sorry.”

Inevitably, the short-term payback comes in a sweet voice and gentle swipe of a cheek and a kid saying, “I know, mama, I feel that way too sometimes.” In the long term, I am hoping the payback will multiply, adding up to a human being who can admit fault just as well as she can accept a true apology, or better yet, find forgiveness when one isn’t even offered, which is, after all, the true secret to life.

But lately, I’ve been making apologies of another kind -- to my own college friends, who for better or worse, right or wrong, were often last on my list of calls to make or things to do, in the years that followed our own Senior Spring. I was married and a mother long before they were. When they were experiencing first pregnancies, I was realizing how much I hated my third. When they were reading books to newborns, I was tossing mine into a crib with a bottle that I taught him to hold by himself. When they were joining playgroups, I was sneaking out of all of mine. Plus we were thick in a lawsuit with a crooked builder, I seemed to be pregnant all the time, or at a meeting, was becoming if not so much depressed than manic with anxiety, and well, I just figured life was going on without me.

It was. They, pretty much on a similar timeline, had managed to keep their interests in line with one another. But me? Not so much.

Hurt happened. It went both ways I suppose, but I guess I didn’t really notice mine amongst all the other minor and major heartbreaks happening inside these four (not quite plastered) walls. I didn’t notice theirs, at least not enough. So over the last month or so, I’ve had to face up to that – the consequences of my absence – and while I don’t regret having made the choices (were they?) that I did, I tried to explain myself nonetheless. I took my lumps, and against the wishes of some very close friends (who say: and why? and for what?) I said: I am sorry. And I was, and I am. No matter what my friends say, I could have done better.

You gotta do what you gotta do.

Like when I say to my kids, APOLOGIZE NOW (!!!) about a million times a day, and MEAN IT, I add when they don’t (which is most of the time). Really saying sorry means accepting fault fully, and only a grown-up (at least one whose self-centered ways have been shoved aside) can do that. I get that these kids are little and maybe not yet equipped. But say sorry, I say anyway, after which they do so, half-assed.

But the “sorries” that fly in the nano-second after they have done something bad or mean or against the rules because they think just saying it (without being asked to) absolves them, which it doesn’t -- these are the only apologies I have, until now, really despised.

Now, I have a new one.

Listen up little sister, sister by another mister, my cousin. Rule number one when becoming a grown-up woman: we DON’T apologize for being busy when we are KICKING THE ASS OUT OF CANCER. We never, ever apologize for that. Ever.

In fact, and if truth be told this is the hardest rule to learn, Rule Number Two: we never apologize for doing pretty much anything that makes or keeps us healthy enough to do more ass kicking.

The world needs more women who follow these rules, so get to it. I’ve got two little girls who are counting on me to do the same – and you too.

Summer Bummer: In Six Acts

ACT ONE:
Morning, hot, approximately seven days into summer:

Me: We’re going to the pool today. After lunch, after errands.
Him: Where are we going?
Me: To the pool. Later.
Him: What pool?
Me: Same place you had swimming lessons, but outside.
Him: Oh.

ACT TWO:
During errands aka: wailing, whining, throwing-self-on-floor hour:

Me: You know, none of us will go the pool if you can’t pull it together.
Him: IWANTTHEPOOL!
Me: Get up then and let’s pull it together.
Him: Alright. I want the pool. (Sob.)

ACT THREE:
In the car, headed home for lunch and pre-pool prep:

Him: When are we going to the pool?
Them: After lunch.
Him: It’s MY pool.
Them: No it’s not; it’s for everyone.
Him: NO! MY POOL!
Them: No, K, everyone’s.
Him: MY POOOLLLLL!!
Older Them: Listen, it was your pool inside where you had lessons, but this is the outdoor pool and i’ts for everyone.
Him: Oh. I want it.

ACT FOUR:
Home, lunch which he doesn’t eat because he is too busy doing this:

Him: When are we going?
Him: I want to go.
Him: Are we going now?
Him: Let’s go now.
Him: IWANTTHEPOOL.
Him: Now?
Him: NOW! (sob.) POOL!
Him: Is it my pool?
Him: IT'S MY POOL.
(Them: Whatever, dude.)

ACT FIVE:
In car, packed with towels, sunscreen, tabloids:

Him: WHERE ARE WE GOING????
Me to self: Oh for fuck’s sake, I taught him to talk for what reason?

ACT SIX:
Ten minutes at pool:

Him: I want to go home. I’m hungry.

Happy summer all.

She Loves Me, I Love Me Not

This “Author’s Breakfast” for my daughter’s second grade class -- I did not want to attend. I am totally, almost politically against these end-of-school year things. I find them to be unnecessary, inelegant and generally a great waste of time – not to mention, a waste of donuts, mini-muffins, and gallons of coffee, that even I, an addict, could not drink all of if I tried. Plus, I have three kids, for whom I must rally the same oohs and ahhs, for which I must "be there" for, for which I must celebrate every little scribble made or song sung, and frankly, I'm tired and so I get a little pissy about it. They're good kids, I know; thanks so much for loving them, and teaching them, but you know, after all, guh'bye.

When I walked in, with K, the newly potty-trained gigantic three year old, I said this to a neighbor/friend, “Yeah, hey, hi; let’s get this fucking shit over with.”

Did I really say that? I did. But even as the words spilled from my mouth, I regretted them. I am sorry for being such a bad-ass all the time. I am sorry for trying to be so cool, cooler than you, even here in some second grade class, my daughter's, this girl who is so unlike me, and who I adore beyond words that the books have for adoration.

I wish I didn't see myself as the rock chick with black nail polish all the time anymore. I wish I could see myself more the way they see me, the way she sees me: a do-er, a mom of three, a hugger, a boo-boo fixer, a PTO mom who attends these things, even plans these things. That's who I am now; I became this for her. Graciously, gratefully I should add.

My daughter’s poem, the second-to-last of the performers, almost made me drop to my knees. It was copied from the format of a book they read, so not totally original, but yikes, I wasn’t the only one crying:

I love
I love a lot of things, a whole lot of things
Like
My Mom
She is very funny, smart and nice
I love when my mom helps me with my problems
She loves me and I love her
Honey, let me tell you that I LOVE my mom…
I love my Mom

It went on from there, but does it matter? The bill was paid. I was done. It was guilt beyond the guilt that regular people know. Only mothers know this -- that joy/pain part of parenting -- that Guilt.

Someday, maybe tomorrow, I will write back a poem to her. Hell, maybe I already have.