I started this blog many moons ago but it took me a while to really ‘write’ on it.

I remember thinking that I wanted to write, maybe even be a writer. To be a writer as it turns out is both incredibly simple and unimaginably difficult, all you have to to is sit down and write. I honestly don’t write often enough. I just don’t. I will tell you all day long that I WANT to write but it turns out wanting to write and actually writing are two different things. So when Tonya from Letters for Lucas asked me to write a guest post for her I jumped at the chance to actually write again.

At 8:32pm with 28 minutes until my post was due to her it became clear to me that writing is a muscle and if you don’t use it, it might just atrophy.
I struggled through the writing exercise but I did it! And I’m so glad I did.
Please read it.

And stick around to check out her lovely blog.

noun: to separate into isolated compartments or categories

This is what fills the chambers of my heart today:

Joy…

Realizing this little girl is now a person with thoughts and desires (voiced loudly and clearly) all her own.  Appreciating how passionate, kind and funny she is.

Gratitude…

Barely believing that I am (finally) back in this complex and beautiful city surrounded by family and friends, new and old. Recognizing how incredibly lucky we are to have this opportunity.

Fulfillment…

Acknowledging that motherhood alone does not define me. That along with my daughter’s laugh,  the choosing of words and framing of moments fuel my soul. Taking the first steps towards wearing my new identity, that of a storyteller.

Grief…

(photo credit YBowyer Photography)

The truth is that this one cannot be contained.

I made the hardest phone call I’ve ever had to make today and tomorrow we say goodbye to our girl. Grief threatens to spill at any moment and does.

At the grocery store it leaks out when I realize I don’t need to buy pet food anymore. On the street when an unsuspecting stranger tells me I have a beautiful dog, the dam breaks. In the middle of the night when I am annoyed to be woken up by her whining to go to the bathroom, grief bitch slaps me and taunts ’soon you can sleep uninterrupted.’

This is my truth.

I am simultaneously overjoyed, heartbroken, grateful, and angry. Full of hope and devoid of it.

Thank God for compartmentalization.

I’ve been a terrible friend to Write on Edge, an online community that is ‘a place for writers to gather, exchange ideas and learn something about the art of storytelling.’ In fact it’s been so long since I wrote something with Write on Edge that they were still called the Red Dress Club when I did! I kept wanting to join in on the prompts and kept talking myself out of it for a million different reasons.

But this week the prompt begged me to join, it asked to explore friendship, a current one or one from your past and to look at the role it plays in your life.

I knew just what to talk about.

You see I have this friend…

~

I shout and share my exciting news: published, I’m going to be published in a real magazine where they pay me money for words I strung together!

Really? Well I hope you don’t get your hopes up, it’s a local magazine and isn’t likely to lead to other opportunities. And honestly? If other opportunities do come along you need to accept that you might put years into this ‘writing thing’ with nothing to show for it at the end of it all. It’s not a real job. Besides don’t you have a job? Aren’t you a blogger? *snickering*

I’m a stay at home mom, remember? I suppose that’s not a real job either.

Well I hate to say it like this, but it’s just not. Not to mention your kid is in preschool two mornings a week now and you have a nanny to help you occasionally? Does that even count as being a stay at home mom? That’s like saying I’m a ballerina because occasionally I watch ballet.

That’s not very nice.

Well dear, sometimes you don’t need someone to be nice, you need someone to be honest. Speaking of honesty, have you looked in the mirror lately? How is it even possible to gain twenty pounds in one year? Do you eat in your sleep?

I don’t know. I’m trying to get healthier. I am.

You’re going to have to try a lot harder than that. Didn’t you want to get pregnant again? Though if you want my opinion, can you even handle another kid? Look at how things are turning out with your first one.

What is that supposed to mean?

You’re sleeping upstairs in a separate bedroom from your husband? She’s almost two and just barely sleeps through the night, if she feels like it. Does that seem normal to you? Maybe if you had been stricter in the beginning like I told you to be, you wouldn’t be dealing with the fallout from this co-sleeping nonesense. You know, how she acts is a direct reflection on who you are as a parent.

So she doesn’t sleep. She’s an awesome little kid.

You know, how she acts has no bearing on who you are as a parent, that’s just her personality.

I give up.

Of course you do. Quitter.

~

I want to break up with this friend.

Too bad the bitch lives inside my head.

BlogHer is featuring my post “Are bloggy friends real” today, weigh in over there.

And over here I thought it would be nice to get to know one another better.

I’ll start…(with this fabulous prompt seen everywhere around the Internets)

Where I’m from

I am from the garden patch built atop a garbage heap, from Flaming Hot Cheeto shame and clove cigarettes.

I am from the second story window in the yellowish house, from creaky floorboards, leaky faucets, and beds filled to capacity….someone’s used up the last of the good toilet paper again.

I am from the cabbage patch (past the onions), reportin’ for potato bug pickin’ duty, weary of the thorns on that rose bush and climber of the tallest cherry tree.

I am from the wicked squirell who leaves treats on my window sill and Drama with my mama (with a capital “D”.) I am from Kats, Ayzenberg and Patsay.

I am from fierce passion and impressive obstinance.

From if you laugh on Friday then you’ll cry on Sunday and pray to your nuggets the bus won’t turn.

I am from self diagnosed Animism and a tiny golden cross tucked away for safe keeping. From kosher pork and the absence of a bar mitzvah to standing under a chuppah with my beshert.

I’m from Khmelnitsky and Krasnormersk, pickled herring and caramel n’ cocoa waffle cake, boiled hot dogs on toast in the ruthless school cafeteria and Capn’Crunch Peanut Butter under the floorboards.

From stolen bread loaves, hiding in my daddy’s trenchcoat backstage, carpentry workshops and kitchen stoves.

I am from the cardboard blue box with diplomas, war medals and proof of citizenship.

Where are you from?