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the obligatory personal blog
for my mother
June 25th, 2009 at 1:42:07 PM | commentsMy mother.
I don't know where to begin to describe her. She's a lofty example to aspire to: an excellent cook; a careful, safe driver; the best mother I could have.
I mean that, though I'm not sure she quite believes me. There are other mothers who are better equipped to handle a child who is profoundly disabled, or to help a child discover disparate parts of their racial identity, or shield a child against paparazzi. But I am not any of those children. I don't need those particular protections. For who I am, I could not ask for a better mother. I would want no other mother.
She has embraced me when I was at my lowest ebbs and cheered me on toward my highest peaks. Somehow she still loves me, despite knowing me better than anyone else knows. I live in awe of her selflessness and compassion. She's more than just the best mother I could have: she is also my friend, one whom I prize.
There is not an inch of my skin that is not written with my mother's genes, not a memory in my head that is not somehow shaped by the way my mother raised me, and I know that I am much improved for it. If I am sometimes petty or cruel, it is in spite of her teaching and her example; she raised to me know better, although I sometimes shamefully ignore that. And if I am occassionally caring, diligent, or generous, it is because my mother taught it to me.
If girls learn to mother from their mothers, then I know that I would be a strong, loving mother. Following her example could achieve no less.
If I thought it would make my mother happy to hear me yelling her praises from the rooftops, I would do it even now, at three in the morning in the pouring rain and pounding thunder. My mother did teach me to be sensible, however; if I must yell, I will wait for a saner hour and a drier roof.
I wish that I could write her a poem declaring the wonder I feel for her, something beautiful and rhythmic and worthy of her. But my poetic talent is insufficient. Anything I write would not be good enough to adequately convey the way I feel. Even as I write this piece, I keenly feel its flaws, but I hope it conveys what I mean regardless.
Someday, Mom, I will get things collated into that poem you deserve. In lieu of that, you have my endless admiration.
I love you, Mom. Thank you so much for being Mom. -
sparks flying
June 17th, 2009 at 2:38:42 AM | commentsIt’s technically early morning for me as I write this, so it was last night when thunderstorms, golf-ball—sized hail, and threat of tornadoes all spun through my fair town. The hail sounded like a fleet of angry pixies beating the snot out of the walls, like Tinkerbell in the throes of ‘roid rage. Awesome.blog archives
When the storms had begun, I shut down my computer and unplugged its surge protector, ensuring that no lightning strike could travel down the wire and damage my lovely Helen. After the storms cleared, I plugged it back in.
People, I am not exaggerating even a tiny bit when I say that it threw up sparks and an audible pop. I screamed a little bit and dropped the thing like it could burn me, because I thought it probably could.
This is probably the time that the clock plugged into that outlet abruptly stopped displaying time, and the light in the bathroom spontaneously went out.
Luckily my brother helped me out, or I would still be pitifully questioning why everything has to go wrong at once. In this case, it went wrong together because it all came from a single cause, simple as that.
My brother insists that the faulty surge protector smells like smoke and fail. He’s not wrong. As he reminded me, it smells very like the used caps from the cap guns my brothers had, years ago.
He had fun tearing the thing apart with a knife and wire cutters, to prevent anyone from mistakenly using plugging it in again.
Everything is fixed or replaced now. If I can just get some sleep, I’ll have had a decent day.
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