Some drawings inspired by the movie, The Red Shoes.

What You Expect

From the moment of your first positive test, you’re a mother. The moment that faint little line turns the minus to a plus, you are filled with a kaleidoscope of emotions - from glee to fear, and thousands in between.

You take your daily vitamin with orange or even prune juice plus fish oil pills because you’re a mother now. These after the soon-as-you-open-your-eyes saltine, of course, because the nausea kicks in like a sonofabitch if you skip it. Each morning you wake feeling hungover - nauseous, achy, and totally out of it. It would seem unfair, considering your clean living, but you're happy all the time. Maybe it's the hormones.

You will pull out your copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting, and read with new fervor.

What to expect at 5 weeks.

You tell family, but keep from sharing the news with friends. They say to wait for three months. So you wait.

You visit the midwives, and are thrilled to have them on board. They tell you take your vitamins and don't worry about the rest. Your body knows what it's doing.

What to expect at 6 weeks

You’re tired. All the time. Also, you worry about what kind of mother you’ll be. Will you be loving, no matter what? Will you remember to pick your kid up every day after school? And what will your daughter be like, or your son? Will she be healthy? Will he be autistic? Will she/he be gender-confused?

You begin talking to her inside your head, and in a journal. You’re bonding.

What to expect at 7 weeks

You go to the Bodies exhibit and spend half your time in the baby section – peering through the jars of tiny specimens. You point out the rice-sized baby to your husband, crying. Isn’t she beautiful? Maybe it’s the hormones.

You have two sips of wine in Montreal and feel guilty. What kind of a mother are you? You’ve already cut out deli meat, chevre, brie, hot dogs… how is it that every one of your favorite food or beverages is now outlawed? You eat spinach, kale, chard… and still those damn fish pills.

What to expect at 8 weeks

You go for a routine teeth cleaning and tell the dentist, hygeinist, even the secretary that you’re expecting. You pretend to have to tell them, in case they wanted x-rays. They smile. Pay special attention to your gums now, they say. You won’t have time to brush your teeth once the baby is here.

At work people are starting to stare at your chest, almost a full cup size larger. You know they suspect, and smile, giving nothing away. A few more weeks, and you’ll tell them. Not quite yet.

What to expect at 9 weeks

You have to drop out of photography class; you’re so tired these days. Work is about the most strenuous thing you can handle. But there are important things happening inside you. Cartilage is turning into bone, the book tells you. Fingers and toes are just beginning to form.

What to expect at 10 weeks

You have to set certain bras aside because suddenly your nipples are hard all day. This wasn’t in the book, but you find it wonderfully ridiculous.

You set an ultrasound appointment for the following week.

What to expect at 11 weeks

You start spotting. Nothing to worry about, nothing at all – this is totally expected at times. But you keep spotting, or no now it’s actually bleeding. You must look pale because your coworker offers to drive you home and you gratefully accept, strategically slipping your jacket between your bum and their seat cushion for the ride.

You get home just in time. The bleeding caries clots with it, and you’re starting to cramp. You call the clinic and – to the horror of the woman who answers – begin sobbing over the phone. She makes an appointment for the next day and tells you if it’s happening, it’s happening. There’s nothing to do about it now.

After hours of bleeding and cramping, you expel what could only be one thing. You place it gently in a jar to show the doctor – a tip from the chapter on miscarriages. You cry yourself to sleep.

What to expect the next day

The cramps are over, though some bleeding continues. You buck up and go to work. Nobody is the wiser, and it's a relief. Work is work.

The ultrasound confirms what you already know, but you still cry. The doctor waves away your jar of baby. These things happen he says. Nothing to worry about.

You bury the baby in the yard.

What to expect the next day

You inform the family, and everyone is is kind.

You cry during your morning shower, so hard you have to sit down in the tub. You used to talk-think to the baby in there, and now it feels so alone. You can expect this for the next 1 – 2 weeks.

What to expect in the months to come

You feel shame, guilt, fear - that you won’t get pregnant again. That you will.

You continue to grieve for the child you never met but already loved. You feel isolated from the friends you never told.

You begin to talk. You go in for a bikini wax and tell the waxer. Turns out – she’s had two miscarriages (and two healthy little girls). You tell friends over wine (wine again!) and one of them has had three.

You visit your family. Turns out your mother has had two as well. Your Grandmother doesn’t say, but her unexpected gentleness makes you wonder.

You eat lots of unpasteurized cheese, deli sandwiches, and sushi. You drink good wine.

You hike with your sister through the Point Reyes wilderness, eat too many mushrooms, and have your first bad trip since high school. You are afraid of everything.

You wrap yourself around a boulder and listen to the waves until you come down a little. You huddle with your sister under a gigantic eucalyptus tree and talk about the meaning of life. The inevitibility, and inevitible sadness, of death. The two of you drink brown rice tea on a cliff overlooking the Pacific; the stars are amazing, which you hadn’t expected, so close to the city. You should have skipped the shrooms earlier – this place is magical on its own.

You fly home on mother’s day, expecting to feel sad.

But you don’t. At least, not too much.

You are grateful. You write a final letter to your baby, thanking her for the lesson she left behind. That death and fear are inevitable; and living, talking, loving… these are your choice.

And time goes on.

Stuff I'd post on Facebook if I were brave enough:

can't believe how evil my boss is. Fortunately, she's also an idiot.

thinks that it doesn't count as a whole bottle of wine, if you opened it to cook with.

is tired of posts like "baby Charity just turned 3 and a half months today!" and "my cat turned nine today!". This is not news. Not even on Facebook.

thinks that too many people wear too much perfume. If I can smell you from two feet away - that's too much. And if I can smell you from my car as I drive by - that's way too much.

doesn't get Glee.

wouldn't mind some sex, but isn't up for shaving her legs.

just saw the news about a ten year old girl being offed by her parents. Is is weird that I worry about becoming the person capable of such an act?

does not like joggers. Oh, sure - there are exceptions here and there. But for the most part I don't like them.

just realized I've been using my coworker's toothbrush for the last 3 months. (I actually did post this one. But I'm not sure that was wise).

is tired of people complaining on Facebook. Get a life, for chrissakes.

has a box of thank you notes from 3 birthdays ago that never got posted and sent. (actually - I will post this one. It might relieve my guilt).

has had to pee for like ten minutes, but feeling too lazy to get up.

wonders if going batshit crazy and getting committed would be that bad, really. Free room and board, arts & crafts, outdoor time. Sounds a hell of a lot better than work. Not to mention laundry.

Liking this one. 

Anna and Prudence, acrylic on canvas, 16X20

I've been working on my artist website (Noel Clark art) and haven't had a lot of time to contribute to Weezine.  But I'm back!  Grace (Weeziner) and I go way back - how could I have neglected our love child?  No more, Pacey, no more. 

Losing It

Obsequious red roses drip limpid perfume
across the wet sidewalk and
in through my window

where I’d planned to smell nothing,
feel nothing today.

Wet hair soaks my pillow
from the morning shower
- a chore.

Just as everything is harder, sharper,
flat as formica

without you.

Look at his Big Fat Belly!

For Mindi, with Love from Grace

Buck Up

You wear your sex like a weapon, but look, I ain't afraid

I'm a trisexual Californian - I've been every kind of laid

You say in almost fifty years you've never felt so fried

but your words are cancelled out by the crazy in your eyes

You try and front like you're a victim, but hon I know your type

You think past trauma gives you license, but I don't believe the hype

It wasn't me who hurt you

No - I didn't cause those wounds

Your anger is too old for me,

and frankly you're way too old too.

You need to grow up and stop acting like a fool

I haven't seen these kinds of antics since my elementary school.

And at the end of the day

despite the games you play?

Your bed

is made.

You're mental ministrations may be fucking with my life

But bring it on

It's been too long

since I've had this much to write

You call foul 'cause you're sad; because you're going through hard times.

Well my life is shitty too - but I don't have an axe to grind.

You lost your daddy and that's sad - but I lost my baby, too

and I keep on living life because that's just what people do.

So buck up,

Shut the fuck up,

and suck up.

The Launch

I pulled the hand-trailer across the hardened sand, then dropped it about 20 yards from the sea lions. It was early yet and they were still asleep, but with their pups around I wanted to give them a wide berth. Slipping the red boat off the trailer and carrying it a ways till reaching the boggy, puddly stuff, I looked out toward the hook, toward the sun peeking up beyond the hills, and the slice of Pacific just beyond. Light glinted off the water, but I didn’t see any whitecaps. Amazing.

The seals seemed perfectly at peace. In fact, aside from a few downed eucalyptus trees, you could almost believe that everything was normal. I tossed the boat into the shallows, checked the drybag one more time, then climbed in.

Once out on open water, the waves were indeed quite calm, but my heart began to race. This stretch of the Pacific, between Point Reyes, the Faralons, and San Francisco, is called the Dead Zone for good reason. Great Whites frequent the area, drawn by the cool currents and abundant seal colonies. From below, I knew I looked exactly like a fat seal. I scanned the periphery for fins constantly, but kept a steady pace, letting my thoughts return to the day before.

We’d been expecting it for years, but still somehow – these things always come as a shock. I’d just kissed John and Ethel goodbye for the day, and they rode off on John’s bike, Ethel waving bye from the little seat in the back. Raina, now quite the big girl in kindergarten and all, was painstaikingly finishing the laces on her right shoe. I was looking down at her, trying to maintain my patience when it happened. The earth began moving.

Almost immediately, we heard glass breaking. Raina’s face turned up to mine, her mouth a silent “0” and I grabbed her and began to run. The ground was shaking so violently that I stumbled, bringing both of us to the lawn several times, before reaching the open street. I folded my body around her, not hearing her cry, no longer hearing anything around us. Only wondering, praying, beseeching any God or Gods that existed to please save my other baby, to please save my husband.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the shaking stopped.

Nearly finished and still wet from a coat of Mod Podge finish.

Precarious

Washing dishes just now, stacking things high in the drainer, I was startled when they suddenly shuddered and then collapsed down into a new position. I stopped my scrubbing for a moment, prepared to rescue the hand-blown glasses (a gift from our realtor - we would never buy anything so breakable ourselves), but then realized that no - the dishes had already worked themselves out. Now that they'd tumbled against eachother a bit - unbroken, thank goodness - they had reached an agreement and were now in a more stable position.

And then, as is usual around our house these days, my thoughts turned to death. Or, rather, dying. Both John and I are in the process of losing our last maternal grandparents. My grandmother Ethel - his grandfather Robert (a.k.a. Bum). Both of whom served larged roles in our childhoods.

My grandmother picked me up after school every day when I was young. My mother worked;my dad wasn't around; but I had my grandmother all to myself. She helped me with my homework, took me on long walks downtown, taught me to bake, to jump rope, and how to hold a decent conversation. She took me to Yosemite for my birthday every year, listening to my poems about mustard and lupine as we drove the long way there. She thought I was brilliant.

Now, at 97 years old, she is slowly letting go. After three knee replacements she walks - amazingly - through a combination of cane, walker, and pure will. She hosts my uncle for scrabble and salmon each Monday, and she still maintains her own home - but only with a lot of help from my mother. She's had her share of falls, and her heart is not good. Last week, a scare with pneumonia brought it all into focus, and for a few days I was an absolute mess. It didn't look like she was going to make it and I wasn't sure that I would, either.

But the over-thinker in me had to wonder - why? She's 97, after all. I know she won't last forever, and we don't even talk all that regularly. A phone call every month or so, letters back and forth. I see her once a year. But - when I see her I am still her little girl. And when she leaves, I will be saying goodbye to her from the perspective of my smallest, most vulnerable self.

How is it that parents and grandparents, when they go, have the power to turn us back into children? As the recent flurry of worried emails passed among my family members, it was everywhere between the lines: my uncle Jim railing against the emergency room, my aunt offering expensive and unnecessary equipment, disagreements around treatment and subtly barbed thank yous among the siblings... and barely concealed behind their words were their child-selves rocking back and forth, whispering, "Mama. Mama. Please don't go."

I feel it too. I know my grandma's long since made her peace with leaving earth, so why can't I? It's fear - that's all I can figure. It's scary to lose a parent figure, though their absence may play no real part in our current day-to-day existence. But loss or the threat of loss transports us back - to a time that somehow stands still somewhere inside us.

As children, our parents and some of our grandparents were the absolute centers of our lives. Or - actually - we perceived ourselves as the centers of theirs. Perhaps that's what we mourn - the idea (no matter how real it is, no matter how far we've come since) that we are losing the one person whose life revolves around our own.

As John said the other night - trying to sort through his own grief - it's selfish, isn't it? The pain is not about what the dying are feeling - what they will miss - it's all about ourselves. We may think "they'll never see our first child, or attend our wedding, or see this or that dream of ours realized" but it isn't about them. It's about us. It's about losing that feeling of a person wholly devoted to you - who revels in your smallest and largest accomplishments like nobody else in the world. They saw you born, they saw you crawl, they clapped when you pooped in the potty. It is, in a way, losing the last vestiges of our superego - our claim to the center of the universe. And even if it is irrational; even if it comes from a very childish place, it's real and it hurts like hell.

I take comfort though, in my dishes. They rattle against each-other and slip closer to the sink. But when they come to a rest, they rest softly. And meanwhile, I've got my grandmother's cupcakes in the oven.

Thank you Grandma, and thank you Bum. You do what you have to do. We'll be okay.

working...

progressing

The Curds of Love

It's in the laundry folded

and the dishes put away

in the arms I know are waiting

at the end of a long day

in your downy hair and skin

in your scratchy stubborn chin

and the way, when I begin to sing,

you always jump right in

it's your lips on mine each morning,

and your hands on me at night

it's in your gentle nature

but especially in your fight

in your freckles and red hair

and your lack of underwear

the scent of bike grease on your neck and ears

the way you fill a chair

from how you look in glasses

to how you've learned to cook tofu

There's something monumental

in the smallest things you do.

Some works in progress..

It's been a while. My art appears to be stacks of laundry at this moment in time. Actually, I have a few paintings going in the basement right now, but I don't want to post anything until I've got a finished product. Maybe a show is in order. With Jesse's help, perhaps I'll get my art out there again. (He's my biggest fan.)

But first, Puerto Rico...