By Sandy Kamen Wisniewski
Twenty-two years ago today I had my first child. If you would have asked me what I remember most of those early days I would without a doubt say: lack of sleep and the never-ending, walk-around-like-a-zombie fatigue that went with it. Oh how I remembered that. It was by far the one thing I disliked most about those early years with my kids. But just as I got used to a steady rhythm of eight luscious hours of cozy a night I came face to face with the same old challenge yet again when I looked into the brown eyes of my dimple-faced newborn grandson Danny.
That was three years ago. Yesterday I went out to dinner with a girl friend whose child is nearly 21 years old. We went to Olive Garden, a local restaurant, that’s food is consistent and tasty and the décor pleasant and cozy - all-important qualities this tired parent needs in scarce time away from a toddler. My hair was frizzy, I had bags under my eyes and was quite disheveled, especially next to my ever-so-perky friend who hasn’t missed a wink in over a decade and a half. She kept looking at me with concern and asking me over and over again, “are you okay?”
Was I okay? My foggy brain had to think that through the first time around. “Well,” I told her, “I have a three-year-old at home. So I’m tired.” That didn’t seem to satisfy her. So she asked again and again. I must have really looked like crap.
The following morning she texted me, “Are you feeling better today?” I wanted to say, ‘Do you remember when your child was little? Obviously not. Ask me every day and I will likely say the same: I’m tired! I am not sick or depressed, I just have a three-year-old!’
Oh how I wish I knew other grandmother’s raising grandchildren to commiserate with! Observing parents from afar, their faces remind me of mine the first time around. Their expressions are a combination of innocence, fatigue, vague happiness and hope. I sometimes see determination, idealism and a longing for something else. I feel like a wise old woman next to them, even though I am only 44.
Parenting, I would say to them, is so very difficult, especially if one tries to do right, and even then much is out of your control, especially the older a child gets. Who children become ultimately falls on them no matter how hard you try and letting go begins the moment they enter this world. But I would never say that to new parents because they walk around mostly with blinders on and frankly I don’t want to be considered the barer of bad news. Well, it’s not really bad news but factual and not so bad if you just come to terms with it.
Twenty-two years ago today I had my first child. Today is my daughter’s birthday - Danny’s mother. God willing, I have another two decades of parenting ahead of me. I’m braced for the challenges, will do my best, will love many, many aspects of it but YES I AM TIRED!!!!!
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Saturday, August 20, 2011
One Side of the Conversation
By Kathy W.
You’ll find it an easy recipe. A classic. You probably have most of the ingredients in your cabinet right now, will only have to gather one or two. Then you’ll be on your way to, well, let’s use the euphemism of wedded bliss. Why a euphemism you ask? I’m old and don’t stand with that straightforward modern nonsense. But you’ll get what you want from this one, dearie. There’s a guarantee. You must call back about how you get on.
~ ~ ~ ~ :: :: ~ ~ ~ ~
Yes, dearie? Oh, you don’t seem to have any henbane? None down by the river at all? Tsk. What are things coming to. No, you can’t get it from me. You must collect it fresh during a waxing gibbous. You thought full? You thought that was more powerful? You youngsters. Dear, you want growth, and to get that you can’t harvest when everything is already at it’s maximum, now, can you. You’ll just have to wait. Do call back.
~ ~ ~ ~ :: :: ~ ~ ~ ~
There are no proper mandrake roots this time of year? Have you looked? Yes? You have amazed me, you truly have. You could always find good mandrake anytime it was needed back when ... sorry, you don’t want to hear about how things were in the old days.
~ ~ ~ ~ :: :: ~ ~ ~ ~
You find the bats are diseased and you fear their noses won’t work as needed. All are covered in white fuzz. You can substitute dried wing, you know. You have no stock of dried bat wings in storage? None? In the past you’ve always avoided recipes that called for them? You haven’t hunted for bats since you were eight? Tsk, tsk, dearie. You young witches certainly ... Yes, do call back.
~ ~ ~ ~ :: :: ~ ~ ~ ~
It didn’t work for you and you want to know about that guarantee. Did you mix it with his potatoes? Did you encourage things along? Are you sure you followed the recipe exactly? Youngsters often get impatient about some of the more time consuming steps. Waiting for the proper phase of the moon took longer than you planned, and having to travel for a week to locate healthy bats set you back a bit as well. But truly, dearie, if you’d had everything at hand the mixture would have been ready to use in a month. Yes, a month. Did I leave that part off? Tsk. In the old days these things were just understood by all, no need for written down recipes. You ... ah, you want to know what I left off. Yes, dearie, of course. It must be soaked in sadness for a month or all the rest is just a waste of time.
You’ll find it an easy recipe. A classic. You probably have most of the ingredients in your cabinet right now, will only have to gather one or two. Then you’ll be on your way to, well, let’s use the euphemism of wedded bliss. Why a euphemism you ask? I’m old and don’t stand with that straightforward modern nonsense. But you’ll get what you want from this one, dearie. There’s a guarantee. You must call back about how you get on.
~ ~ ~ ~ :: :: ~ ~ ~ ~
Yes, dearie? Oh, you don’t seem to have any henbane? None down by the river at all? Tsk. What are things coming to. No, you can’t get it from me. You must collect it fresh during a waxing gibbous. You thought full? You thought that was more powerful? You youngsters. Dear, you want growth, and to get that you can’t harvest when everything is already at it’s maximum, now, can you. You’ll just have to wait. Do call back.
~ ~ ~ ~ :: :: ~ ~ ~ ~
There are no proper mandrake roots this time of year? Have you looked? Yes? You have amazed me, you truly have. You could always find good mandrake anytime it was needed back when ... sorry, you don’t want to hear about how things were in the old days.
~ ~ ~ ~ :: :: ~ ~ ~ ~
You find the bats are diseased and you fear their noses won’t work as needed. All are covered in white fuzz. You can substitute dried wing, you know. You have no stock of dried bat wings in storage? None? In the past you’ve always avoided recipes that called for them? You haven’t hunted for bats since you were eight? Tsk, tsk, dearie. You young witches certainly ... Yes, do call back.
~ ~ ~ ~ :: :: ~ ~ ~ ~
It didn’t work for you and you want to know about that guarantee. Did you mix it with his potatoes? Did you encourage things along? Are you sure you followed the recipe exactly? Youngsters often get impatient about some of the more time consuming steps. Waiting for the proper phase of the moon took longer than you planned, and having to travel for a week to locate healthy bats set you back a bit as well. But truly, dearie, if you’d had everything at hand the mixture would have been ready to use in a month. Yes, a month. Did I leave that part off? Tsk. In the old days these things were just understood by all, no need for written down recipes. You ... ah, you want to know what I left off. Yes, dearie, of course. It must be soaked in sadness for a month or all the rest is just a waste of time.
Friday, August 19, 2011
DOGS RULE
By Alan Barasky
It was the damn cat’s fault that Cindy and I broke up.
Cindy knew I hated the sneaky, stuck-up little fur ball, but she had still staged a one-woman filibuster to get me to take Whiskers while she consoled her just dumped best friend with a last-minute girls weekend in Vegas.
“She won’t be any bother at all!” Cindy had cooed in that “I’ll make it worth your while” voice all girls seem to instinctively use to manipulate their boyfriends. “She has her own litter box” (meaning I have to let an animal crap in my house all weekend), “I just had her nails done, so she can’t scratch you” (though we both know she wants to) “and she’ll probably just ignore you altogether” (an emotionally satisfying weekend for me).
I caved, of course – never had a chance – so on Friday night I was watching Whiskers stalk the leg of my coffee table and wondering if any of the guys could sneak away to O’Douls for a brew and maybe a game of eight ball.
My doorbell rang and as I opened the door for my brother-in-law, Kirk – another fight with my sister, judging from his hangdog look – out scooted Whiskers, right between both sets of legs.
“You gotta be shittin’ me,” I grumbled in Kirk’s face.
“What?” he protested. “Your sister’s impossible! Come on, you lived with her!”
“You didn’t see the cat, huh?”
“Cat? When did you get a cat?”
“Cindy’s. I’m watching the damn thing for her and it just ran out the door. Help me find it.”
“I thought cats didn’t run away. Isn’t that like the only reason to have one instead of a dog?”
“Tell me about it.”
“I’ll be out in a sec. I gotta get a beer first. Want one?”
“Sure.”
While Kirk raided my stash of Miller Lites, I looked around the front yard for a black cat – at night, with clouds covering the moon and my unincorporated neighborhood still waiting for long promised streetlights. The only light that penetrated the inky gloom came from the stop sign at the intersection down the street. It was one of those rural signs that was lit up so that drivers who’d been cruising for miles without having to slow down would be sure to see it. Bulbs blinked around its perimeter, but from where I stood about a hundred yards away, all I could see was an octagon that alternately came to life and disappeared. Not much help for a one-man search party.
I walked across the yard and knew I’d reached my driveway only because the sound my Nikes made changed as they went from grass to blacktop. I couldn’t see a thing.
I walked back inside. Kirk had his feet up on the coffee table, working on his second beer and watching the Cubs new rookie pitcher blow gas past the Cardinals. I settled in next to him on the sofa.
“You know,” I said to Kirk as I popped open my first cold one, “my next girlfriend’s gotta have a dog.”
It was the damn cat’s fault that Cindy and I broke up.
Cindy knew I hated the sneaky, stuck-up little fur ball, but she had still staged a one-woman filibuster to get me to take Whiskers while she consoled her just dumped best friend with a last-minute girls weekend in Vegas.
“She won’t be any bother at all!” Cindy had cooed in that “I’ll make it worth your while” voice all girls seem to instinctively use to manipulate their boyfriends. “She has her own litter box” (meaning I have to let an animal crap in my house all weekend), “I just had her nails done, so she can’t scratch you” (though we both know she wants to) “and she’ll probably just ignore you altogether” (an emotionally satisfying weekend for me).
I caved, of course – never had a chance – so on Friday night I was watching Whiskers stalk the leg of my coffee table and wondering if any of the guys could sneak away to O’Douls for a brew and maybe a game of eight ball.
My doorbell rang and as I opened the door for my brother-in-law, Kirk – another fight with my sister, judging from his hangdog look – out scooted Whiskers, right between both sets of legs.
“You gotta be shittin’ me,” I grumbled in Kirk’s face.
“What?” he protested. “Your sister’s impossible! Come on, you lived with her!”
“You didn’t see the cat, huh?”
“Cat? When did you get a cat?”
“Cindy’s. I’m watching the damn thing for her and it just ran out the door. Help me find it.”
“I thought cats didn’t run away. Isn’t that like the only reason to have one instead of a dog?”
“Tell me about it.”
“I’ll be out in a sec. I gotta get a beer first. Want one?”
“Sure.”
While Kirk raided my stash of Miller Lites, I looked around the front yard for a black cat – at night, with clouds covering the moon and my unincorporated neighborhood still waiting for long promised streetlights. The only light that penetrated the inky gloom came from the stop sign at the intersection down the street. It was one of those rural signs that was lit up so that drivers who’d been cruising for miles without having to slow down would be sure to see it. Bulbs blinked around its perimeter, but from where I stood about a hundred yards away, all I could see was an octagon that alternately came to life and disappeared. Not much help for a one-man search party.
I walked across the yard and knew I’d reached my driveway only because the sound my Nikes made changed as they went from grass to blacktop. I couldn’t see a thing.
I walked back inside. Kirk had his feet up on the coffee table, working on his second beer and watching the Cubs new rookie pitcher blow gas past the Cardinals. I settled in next to him on the sofa.
“You know,” I said to Kirk as I popped open my first cold one, “my next girlfriend’s gotta have a dog.”
Monday, August 15, 2011
No More Fireworks
By Jeff Segal
The thing between me and Jackie was like July 4th, only backwards. It started with fireworks and ended with a hangover.
We crashed July 3rd at Jackie’s place on Maple Avenue. It seemed like a good idea at the time, since she’s got a comfy queen bed and my place has a twin mattress on the floor. Plus we were both stupendously drunk, and while it’s only about a half mile drive, it didn’t seem smart to risk running into Officer Unfriendly.
But we forgot one crucial factor. Maple Avenue is where the parade kicks off.
So my first waking sensation on July 4th was a drum major’s whistle piercing my eardrum like a knitting needle. Half a heartbeat later the whole high school band kicked in, our very own Marching Mastodons, blowing so hard their hair must have been standing up inside their domed helmets. Every cymbal crash felt like electroshock therapy. I opened my eyes long enough to meet Jackie’s—bloodshot, crusty and dull—then wrapped myself in the sheet and plodded into the kitchen, where it was dark and ever so slightly quieter. I huddled on the floor in the L of the cabinets, hearing the dishes in the drying rack vibrate with every fire truck that rumbled past.
After the parade, I managed to drive home, shower and change. My condition upgraded from road-kill to miserable, I swung back to pick up Jackie for the company picnic. She answered the door in dark shades and a baseball cap—which I told her looked great, and I meant it—but she stripped and jumped in the shower. I lay back on the bed to wait, and when I woke up, she was already dressed. Damn.
Now, we’d never talked about how to handle this picnic. A few of our coworkers knew we were dating, but so far we’d kept it strictly professional at the office. I figured we’d just see how the day went.
First stop, the beer tent. I ran into Carlos and we got to talking about his new department head, and then Big Mike came by and it was just like the old days. Jackie drifted off with her smoke break posse. The next time I saw her was after the kickball game, and when I asked if I could get her a hot dog she said no, she already ate. We stood together without talking for a couple of minutes, and it hit me that I was more relaxed and had more fun when I was pretending we weren’t dating.
I said, “Come back to my place tonight?”
She said, “No, I’m just gonna head home.”
And that was it. I saw her later, during the fireworks, her upturned face lit by a blue flash that sparkled a few seconds and faded. The rockets soared and exploded, and the speakers played a song about freedom.
The thing between me and Jackie was like July 4th, only backwards. It started with fireworks and ended with a hangover.
We crashed July 3rd at Jackie’s place on Maple Avenue. It seemed like a good idea at the time, since she’s got a comfy queen bed and my place has a twin mattress on the floor. Plus we were both stupendously drunk, and while it’s only about a half mile drive, it didn’t seem smart to risk running into Officer Unfriendly.
But we forgot one crucial factor. Maple Avenue is where the parade kicks off.
So my first waking sensation on July 4th was a drum major’s whistle piercing my eardrum like a knitting needle. Half a heartbeat later the whole high school band kicked in, our very own Marching Mastodons, blowing so hard their hair must have been standing up inside their domed helmets. Every cymbal crash felt like electroshock therapy. I opened my eyes long enough to meet Jackie’s—bloodshot, crusty and dull—then wrapped myself in the sheet and plodded into the kitchen, where it was dark and ever so slightly quieter. I huddled on the floor in the L of the cabinets, hearing the dishes in the drying rack vibrate with every fire truck that rumbled past.
After the parade, I managed to drive home, shower and change. My condition upgraded from road-kill to miserable, I swung back to pick up Jackie for the company picnic. She answered the door in dark shades and a baseball cap—which I told her looked great, and I meant it—but she stripped and jumped in the shower. I lay back on the bed to wait, and when I woke up, she was already dressed. Damn.
Now, we’d never talked about how to handle this picnic. A few of our coworkers knew we were dating, but so far we’d kept it strictly professional at the office. I figured we’d just see how the day went.
First stop, the beer tent. I ran into Carlos and we got to talking about his new department head, and then Big Mike came by and it was just like the old days. Jackie drifted off with her smoke break posse. The next time I saw her was after the kickball game, and when I asked if I could get her a hot dog she said no, she already ate. We stood together without talking for a couple of minutes, and it hit me that I was more relaxed and had more fun when I was pretending we weren’t dating.
I said, “Come back to my place tonight?”
She said, “No, I’m just gonna head home.”
And that was it. I saw her later, during the fireworks, her upturned face lit by a blue flash that sparkled a few seconds and faded. The rockets soared and exploded, and the speakers played a song about freedom.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Diary of a Struggling Writer
By Sandy Kamen Wisniewski
I quit. I am tired of busting my hump writing only to make pennies for all my hard work. The business of writing stinks, getting a book published is like fifth grade math and eleventh grade algebra all over again. Or worse it’s like all four years of high school, which was one big hormonal, pimple-y, depressing mess.
Writing: the natural high of freedom of expression, spilling my soul out my fingertips, losing myself as I shift from one make believe person to another, that’s what it’s suppose to be about, not all the other crap that goes along with it. The editors that dissect my work, the publishers that are “too busy” to send anything more but a lousy, half-hearted attempt of a form letter telling me my piece doesn’t “fit their needs right now” when really what they are probably thinking is “what a load of garbage.”
Rejection, after rejection after rejection….
Then the other book that I finally found a publisher for just spit it out like so many men spit on sidewalks and walk right past. So I am left to stumble about trying to get people to even notice my story that I worked my ass off to create. I sit at book signings and promotional deals smiling a crooked, plastered on, painful smile knowing full well I write because I hate being around people but here I am stuck sucking up to people just to get my work read.
So I am literally walking away. Who needs the headaches after all? The three articles I was working on, the column that’s due next week and editing the first draft of my next book – forget it. I’m going to grab my fishing rod, pack a bag with jelly donuts, baby carrots and bottled water and head off to some lake somewhere to battle it out with some trout, bass or whatever, and contemplate what the heck I am going to do with my life.
(Pause)
(Breath)
(Reflect)
What would I be if not for my writing?
(Pause)
(Breath)
(Reflect)
No spark, no excitement, no color.
No dancing, no brightness, no friend when I’m feeling lonely or need to vent.
Okay, where was I?
Third chapter twenty-first page…
She burst into the room, the door hitting the wall with a loud smack. Her foot caught on the corner of the Oriental rug and she stumbled, arms outstretched, grabbed the dresser. Her hands smarted. “Here I am!” She announced.
I quit. I am tired of busting my hump writing only to make pennies for all my hard work. The business of writing stinks, getting a book published is like fifth grade math and eleventh grade algebra all over again. Or worse it’s like all four years of high school, which was one big hormonal, pimple-y, depressing mess.
Writing: the natural high of freedom of expression, spilling my soul out my fingertips, losing myself as I shift from one make believe person to another, that’s what it’s suppose to be about, not all the other crap that goes along with it. The editors that dissect my work, the publishers that are “too busy” to send anything more but a lousy, half-hearted attempt of a form letter telling me my piece doesn’t “fit their needs right now” when really what they are probably thinking is “what a load of garbage.”
Rejection, after rejection after rejection….
Then the other book that I finally found a publisher for just spit it out like so many men spit on sidewalks and walk right past. So I am left to stumble about trying to get people to even notice my story that I worked my ass off to create. I sit at book signings and promotional deals smiling a crooked, plastered on, painful smile knowing full well I write because I hate being around people but here I am stuck sucking up to people just to get my work read.
So I am literally walking away. Who needs the headaches after all? The three articles I was working on, the column that’s due next week and editing the first draft of my next book – forget it. I’m going to grab my fishing rod, pack a bag with jelly donuts, baby carrots and bottled water and head off to some lake somewhere to battle it out with some trout, bass or whatever, and contemplate what the heck I am going to do with my life.
(Pause)
(Breath)
(Reflect)
What would I be if not for my writing?
(Pause)
(Breath)
(Reflect)
No spark, no excitement, no color.
No dancing, no brightness, no friend when I’m feeling lonely or need to vent.
Okay, where was I?
Third chapter twenty-first page…
She burst into the room, the door hitting the wall with a loud smack. Her foot caught on the corner of the Oriental rug and she stumbled, arms outstretched, grabbed the dresser. Her hands smarted. “Here I am!” She announced.
Poetry
By Wendy Werdan
Poetry is a nurturing ecosystem.
A fungus strain
and a custodian underfoot.
It turns the earth,
so life can flourish,
and holds water,
the blood that creates blooms.
Like a mushroom that pops up
with the morning sun,
it attracts animals who dine,
spreads it’s spores
that lay dormant and inactive.
With each step,
we stirs up nutrients,
and poetry surges upward,
breaking down complex substances,
that pollutes the mind,
that liberates us from destruction.
Poetry can survive severe conditions
and adapt, even benefits from the disturbance,
and sometimes,
anticipates the contact.
Poetry is a nurturing ecosystem.
A fungus strain
and a custodian underfoot.
It turns the earth,
so life can flourish,
and holds water,
the blood that creates blooms.
Like a mushroom that pops up
with the morning sun,
it attracts animals who dine,
spreads it’s spores
that lay dormant and inactive.
With each step,
we stirs up nutrients,
and poetry surges upward,
breaking down complex substances,
that pollutes the mind,
that liberates us from destruction.
Poetry can survive severe conditions
and adapt, even benefits from the disturbance,
and sometimes,
anticipates the contact.
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