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Karma, Karma, Chameleon…

(I didn’t think I was such a big fan of 80s & early 90s pop hits until I started writing this blog. It seems I can never resist a chance to “pop” one in somewhere. And, it’s not just in this blog. I was recently reprimanded for trying to tell my sister for the 4th or 5th time about an episode I caught of the Bobby Brown reality show in which Bobby meets a man at the bar who doesn’t recognize him, so he keeps naming off all of his hits like “Toni Roni” and “My Perogative”. Still the man doesn’t recognize him until he mentions Whitney Houston. It really made an impression on me. I thought it was one of the funniest moments I’d ever witnessed. I kept singing “It’s my perogative. I can do what I wanna do. It’s my perogative…” and moving my head in some stiff roboto-like motion back and forth and back and forth. My sister was getting sick. That’s when I busted out with the entire first and second verse of “Ice, Ice Baby”. What’s happening to me?)

Anyhow, on to the karma.

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To my wonderful husband Paul, I’m sorry. I had to…

Like many of my mama friends, I seem to have made a critical error in cognitive reasoning. While pregnant, I somehow believed that our lives would change but that our marriage would remain the same. Now, I’m not at all sure what that even means. It is a ludicrous statement and I should be ridiculed for thinking it.

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Parsnips are NOT turnips.

Do not cook them with mustard greens.

Dearest Mr. Silas,

Oh, how I see myself in you.

Sometimes, I am thrilled to discover our shared traits. I can see you, the future you, as the life of the party, entranced with curiosity, bitten often and hard by bouts of creativity. I see you determined and independent. A natural leader. An over-achiever. A boy who gets things done.

Still, at other times, many other times, our shared temperament both fascinates and disturbs me. You are near delirious when you are happy. Focused and pensive when you are studying. When things aren’t going your way, however, when you can’t quite figure how to do something or we pull you off of the steel track of your agenda, when you are overtired or inconvenienced, you digress into the most impressive, unrelenting fits of rage.

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Ah, I sit here, Witch Doctor of words.  Shaman of syllables.  Lexical mad woman.  I have, like all of the word smith syntactical Frankenstein’s before me, added a bit of flesh, maybe some skin, a tuft of hair here and there, to the naked, skeletal, two-stanzed deal that I posted a few days ago.  Yes, I am asking you, dear reader, to subject yourself to another of my poems.  I hope I fail to waste your precious time; to disappoint.  And, as always, you are invited to give your opinion.  (If your opinion is good.  Just kidding.)

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As I sit here reading The Blue Jay’s Dance by Louise Erdrich, I am reminded by a hollow thumping in my chest that my birth year—our birth year—my year at home is coming to a close. The fact that I am scratching out my ideas on the back of a “patient drug education” sheet is proof enough that my year did not end up as expected. But, what ever does? Our lives our rarely what we dream.

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Drifting off to sleep,
the words come.
Also while driving,
or in the shower.
Whenever it may be inconvenient
to hold a pen and paper.

Yes,
I have written
while speeding down the Interstate,
letting my hand do its magic
while my eyes
keep a steady rhythm
from the rearview mirror
to the road.