Plastic Stars.

Tiny orbs of yellow-green light shine into tinier brown eyes. The white popcorn ceiling is black with the darkness of an eight o'clock bedtime. Beneath a rainbow comforter and on top of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle sheets, a tiny mind stares at the platic stars above and holds onto dreams of a future life with the same intensty that the adhesive gum holds the constellations in place against the pull of gravity. Eyelids drift open and closed as they picture exploring Europe, knowing languages learned in the far distant era of high school. The tiny legs, with scarred knees from unhesitant games of tag plan to climb mountain ranges in Tibet and pedal bicylces in France. A belly grumbles from a bowl on Spaghettios not big enough and wheat bread spread with Country Crock while it begs for the delicacies of lands like Italy, Spain, and the vastly intriguing... Chicago. In the darkness, the small hands are raised and beneath the glow in the dark stars, they conduct an orchestra in front of thousands, fingers dancing to the tune as it is created in response, head dramatically turning against the pillow as it commands the strings to strum, the horns to blow, and the audience to arise in ovation. The life ahead! So much to do, and it would all be done. This tiny person need only need to wait for the freedom a decade away. Eight to eighteen and then the world would be claimed, the adventures would never cease, and all that was imagined would be realized.

Thirty years later. 

Tiny orbs of yellow-green light shine into large brown eyes with wrinkles at the edges. The white plastered ceiling is black with the darkness of an eight o'clock bedtime. Beneath a buffalo plaid comforter and on top of Toy Story sheets, a tiny six year old body lies cradled in loving arms. Their soft blonde hair pressed against a chin, their head resting on chest, heartbeats matching each others, and breaths wrapping each in an invisible cover of safety. The stars match the ones from thirty years ago but the dreams have changed. Travels through grocery store aisles and to playgrounds took the place of Europe. Spaghettios have been replaced with homemade macaroni and cheese and Land O Lakes gets spread on fresh baked sourdough. The emancipation of eighteen began the obligation of college, the responsibility of supporting oneself, the expecation of adulthood over adventure. A marriage was mandated not much later, the excitement of exploration instead became the promise of procreation. Orchestration of bills to be paid, mortgages to be made, all other hopes and dreams had to fade. 

Yet here they are, the stars and the love. Glowing with the promise of this new life, their dreams still to be realized, as they sleep each night and when they no longer close their small blue eyes under this roof. The large brown eyes now see the blue eyed dreams, their blue eyed future, their blue eyed accomplishments, all they can do. The promises unkept to self will be kept to this child. Happy to be left behind so they can go forward. Willing to stay in the darkness so they can shine. 

Laundry and life

I just got laundry put away. It's been a week of washing, forgetting, rewashing, folding, refolding, piling, placing, and finally put-awaying. I come into the boys room and am instantly exasparated.

Toys are strewn anout. There is a string cheese wrapper on the lego table (impossible since they aren't allowed to eat in their rooms after a singular ant attack our first spring in this house), and there are no less than 5 stuffies per bed.  I get the clothes put away thanks to an easy little system I set up (as much for myself as them) and then on my hands and knees I begin to pick up toys.

A Batman helicopter next to a random Mr. Potatohead arm next to a Toy Story lunchbox.

Baby dolls and dress up clothes with lizards and dinosaurs.

The fire truck once again missing it's ladder despite numerous threats to keep it attached.

Ugh! These kids!!! I dreamed my whole life about this and its so hard! It's not perfect and I should be better. There is too much to do and not enough time and I don't do any of this "right".

And I don't know what it was, but in the next breath these things turned from chaos to treasure as I saw them through my babies' eyes. These are their items, their possesions, they live out their dreams and practice their futures, they trap bad guys and win races, rescue people and run and hide too. This is so far from exasperating, its exhilarating.

I'm entrusted with these remarkable humans, these wild, living, strong, needy, desperate, and miraculous little people. They drive me crazy and I cant live without them and I'm their mama and their home and my purpose in life is to make sure they have good lives and that is terrifying and humbling and I am failing so badly at it but trying really hard too.

The Broken Belonging

I have not one whole piece left. 

Not one. 

There is no undamaged degree of measure. No unscarred flesh, visible, or unseen. The porcelain I am comprised of is shattered and in shards, and its counterpart, also of which I am made, that iron is rusted and crumbling. 

I have been abandoned time and again. By those who made me, those who saw their reflection in mine, those who might have needed me for an organ, blood, or a hug. The friends I have had while my mind and body grew are gone now. On to more fashionable choices. Ones with better toys, fancier houses, thier cute boyfriends. They traded me out like I couldn't trade clothes with them. Six inches taller with hips and an ass at age eleven. Their thin frames and boy-like chests left me feeling bulbous and boorish. 

The males have gone too. I say males because men is too kind a statement and boys too generous. Boys are full of life and rambunctious joy. Men are full of pride and heart. Males are full of desire and desertment. I would not ask any of them back if I could. I would perhaps trade the hours spent writing my surname as theirs, choosing their birthday gifts, cooking them dinner and sucking their cocks. My time could have been better spent peeling paint from a random rotted fence post. I have poured myself out to everyone I have loved only to be filled with their selfish needs. Pulled into a fray I did not create, over and over again, to defend a person who had left me on the battlefield before I even knew them. 

I do not know how to be unless I am being for others. For you. For her. For him. For them. 

I cannot name one person who has loved me in a year the way I loved them in a moment. 

I will never regret this. 

The broken pieces of me are still present. I am still in my entirety even if not one solid piece. I am fragments of every pain and joy and expereience that has formed a kaleidescope of my life that allows me to see colors and vibrancy and movement and shape that others cannot. 

I can lose everything and still have so much. I can be betrayed and still trust. I can be neglected and still adore. I can be discarded and still shelter. 

My damages and my delights have been one in the same. I do not need anything from this world. From you. From her. From him. From them. I can exist in my own mind and heart for all their tumbling down staircases and flying above trees. The moment I was born I was broken. The moment I die I will break others. Repair and replacement are myths put upon us in a way that harms more than helps. I will not wave a white flag and surrender my damages to cause others pain. I have taken up the shreds of fabric, the banners of my life and love that have disentigrated before my eyes, and have woven them frayed bit to bit into a quilt that will wrap others up and warm them, guide them, protect them, and embolden them to love the same. 

Though I was left, I have remained. I know the care I give is with you still. With her. With him. With them. Contact may be lost but I have touched and been touched and the absence of the hand does not remove that. The absence of  a heart does not stop mine beating. 

I am in pieces. All around. Everywhere. In her. In him. In them. In you.