Thursday, November 13, 2014

Favorite songs when I was 16

So, yes the prompt says to pick your favorite song when you were 16, which is not plural. I get that. But honestly I don't think I had one favorite song. I mean, one song for the entire HUGE year of being 16? Too much pressure. I came up with a short list, though not a complete list.















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So...as I listen to the songs and allow myself to revert back to that young, teenage version of me I find my soul flying back to the carpeted floor of my bedroom lying next to my boom box (1997 people. rock!) and I feel the heaviness that I felt back then. And I hear it in my music. While this list does not include the punk music I listened to (Less than Jake, Reel Big Fish, 311, Goldfinger, etc) I see a running theme in my 16th year of life that I always knew but hate to think about or really admit. Of course it is always easier to not think about as I travel the world and make new friends every few years, because there is never time to delve into the past. No one here knows me. No one can perk up one day and say: Remember when......

The easiest way to say it was that I was sad and all teenager. I was silently suffering and didn't know if I would ever make it out of the hole I was in, but I hid it well, diving into music and watching the fan twirl around whenever I had a moment to do so.

I loved Jewel. She was so beautiful and so fully grown up. She was 22 or 23 perhaps and from her songs I felt like she was so mature and had so many life experiences already. Like living alone, leaving a boyfriend, loving someone and losing them. I placed her on a pedestal and wished to be so grown up, watching a boy stand in the rain from my window because he was in love with me, or at least crazy and passionate enough to do so.

Ah, 16. I hope I take the time in 9 years time to give Queenie the space a girl needs when she is 16. The space to lie on her floor listening to her ipod (microchip???) and watch the ceiling fan twirl by, imagining her life in a few years time. And I hope her list isn't as melancholy...

Tuesday, November 4, 2014

A few tears before bed

I am not emotional. It's good. And it's bad. When I say I'm not emotional it means I do NOT cry often. Seriously, I just don't do it. Principe could probably count on one hand the number of times he has seen me cry in the last 12 years. If I do cry I usually do it silently where no one will see me. I've been like this since I decided to train myself to be like this since I was about 14.

The bad part is that when you train yourself not to be emotional you also lose the ability to really express the joy you may feel when getting a surprise present. Men do not like this. When Principe gets me flowers and I say, "Oh, wow. You got me flowers!" That is not enough for him. He wants tears and jumping up and down, etc. But his wife isn't like that.

Of course, there are always exceptions to the rule.

Like the day that I just can't seem to get anything done. And seem to be in the kitchen way more than I want. But, I'm happy because I just spent five hours simmering chicken bones and making a really awesome broth which is going to help my stomach and make my taste buds shout for joy. The girls take to long getting into bed and unfortunately there are a few times one of them has to go to the corner. So by nine o'clock I am frustrated. But I remember the broth. And my idea that I need to write down for my story, so  tackle the broth first. I still need to take out the bones and strain it.

Lying on the counter is a plate I put bleach on to get rid of a stain. That will work well to place the chicken bones on to toss. I get lost in thought as I set about doing my work and just as I am about to toss the excess broth that dripped off the bones down the drain I think, "Why be wasteful?" and without hesitating I dump into the bowl of broth.

"Hmmm, that was a lot more broth then I thought. Awwwww!"

Yep. Bleach. In the broth.

Principe talks to me about something but I can't hear him. I just poured bleach into my homemade broth.

Principe asks if I am tired. I turn around and whisper, "I just did the stupidest thing." And tell him the story as I pour it out.

Tears streamed down my face which alarmed Principe, making him hustle around me which made me embarrassed of said tears. This is why I don't like to cry.

But I did. That day I cried about the lost time I spent making something just to pour it down the drain. I cried about the time I lost not writing down my idea because I simply didn't have time to do it. I cried a few more tears and then I wiped them away. Principe gaped at me like I was an alien.

"Oh, babe, chill out. If you married a normal woman you'd see the tears a lot more than you do."

He narrowed his eyes and shook his head, seemingly in disbelief. I'm not sure if he believes me or not, but he does seem to be glad another year or two will pass without seeing my tears again!

Saturday, October 25, 2014

Hi, my name is Kat

...and I'm a dunce. Why? Because I don't pay attention. Or rather....I try to do so many things at once that I can't pay attention to all of them.

This isn't about burning the rice so badly that only the middle of it was white.

This is not about leaving the stove on while I went to get the girls from school.

This isn't even about leaving my craft knife where Chatterbox could get it. And she did get it. And then she stabbed me in the head with it. Thank goodness she isn't very strong and actually wanted to color with it. Still. It hurt.

No this is about cooking dinner when Firecracker came to me to talk. She sat on the floor with her legs spread out in a very unladylike four year old fashion and told me she had a hole.

"Look, mom! I have a hole here!"

My first response, with my very proper upbringing, was to snap at her to stop touching her bottom, stop looking at her bottom and send her off. But then I closed my mouth. She is the most curious of my girls about her body and while it sometimes leads her to poke her sister between the cheeks (butt cheeks, that is) or bend over and pull her panties down to "show her butt", both of which do bring me horror and do make me launch into lectures on proper behavior, I didn't want to shut her down about something that is true about her body.

"Look, mom!"

I didn't look. Not really. I glanced, assessed what I thought was going on and said, "Uh-huh."

"But why I have a hole there?"

Her head was down, trying to see said hole.

So I explained that one day babies will come out of there but that for now and a long time she should leave it alone.

(At this point in the story my husband stopped me to gasp and groan and say, "Why, why, why did you have to say that?" But I truly thought it was the best answer. At that very second.)

Firecracker ignored the baby part and said, "LOOK, MOM! I have a hole. In my PANTIES. What should I do with them?"

Time stood still.

I breathed in. And out.

And realized I was an idiot.

"Just take them off and throw them away. Get a new pair on."

"OK!"

And she left, happy to get new princess panties on.

Friday, October 17, 2014

Five minute Friday:Long

I've made these four walls my home. As much as I never wanted to.
When I look around I see the memories, surrounded by pictures of days and years past I see the spot where this happened, that happened. This isn't my home, my heart protests when I step outside into the still unknown culture. Yesterday I had to laugh at the very garish, cold, startling way the doctor talked to me. It's funny now. It wasn't at first. But it isn't home. No doctor would talk to you like that at home. He knows I'm a foreigner and sighs at having to explain things for the second time. I feel like a child at first but push the feeling aside. I am not a child. I am simply not home.

But then I enter this place. Up 49 stairs to the noise I can hear from the 28th. They like my fall decorations. They are the same as last year but no one remembered. How could they? They are only 6, 4 and 1. Everything seems new to them.

This is their home. As much as I resist that idea. These walls are not where we live any more, they are filled with our memories. They are filled with the expectant future. Something hangs in the air.....

Four more years? Perhaps five? Weren't we supposed to be gone by now. But there is a reluctance. We grasp for a reason to stay. The country is not our home, but.....there are still reasons not to leave. Friends. Work. School. Routine.

This is home. But it isn't. This is a home in the long road home. Where ever that ends up being.

STOP.

Tuesday, October 14, 2014

Mother of the year ...6 reasons I won't be nominated


6. Sometimes when my kids ask one of their curiosity questions about the world and how something works, or why this is like that, I lie and say, "I don't know." Just because I don't have the energy. And other times I explain it. And then again. And again and different way and when they look at me and want to leave without full understanding I make them stay and try to understand what I am talking about. Good thing I didn't become a teacher. Or maybe I should have and then I wouldn't lie and I would know how to explain things....


5. I really can't stand it when I hear "MOOOOOOOOOM!" yelled at me from somewhere in the house. It immediately makes me want to run away.


4. I cannot remember the exact times that my second and third children were born. I used to ask my mom when I was born and would cringe when she couldn't remember. What kind of a mother can't remember when each of her lovely children came out of her? Why did she remember my older brother's time of birth? Does she even love me? Now I understand my mother and await the hysterics that will come a few years down the road. Every once and awhile I think about pulling the birth certificates out and committing those times to memory just to avoid the meltdown I am sure will come. But then I get distracted with feeding them.....


3. Seven days can go by without me bathing my kids. Oops. They don't seem to care. In fact, once I remember we are well past bath day they run away screaming that they "just had one!" There is never a time that they just had one. Not these days. Do mothers of six kids ever bathe them? Because having three is causing me to revert back to the medieval days.


2. When I get my nose in a book I usually end up reading it while they are eating dinner. Or while I am supposed to be making dinner and simply forgetting because I am reading a book.


1. I hide candy and chocolate away from them, but eat it while they are awake. I just hide my mouth and try not to breathe on them. I think Firecracker suspects something. I catch her sniffing me sometimes around my mouth. Darn little four year old nose can smell chocolate any where.