breathe it in and we will make it through the spiritus.

“I hear that mildred dewW is quite the fan.”

Rice has never looked so provocative.

“Students taking bus 1 may now be dismissed” — now en-route to Walden Glenn — 21, that is. Tonic and Natalie Imbruglia are firing away in the wind. I liked our bus driver’s tastes — she’ll never know. I doubt the Jersey Devil will show up; they spooked us good in the barrens.

“Yellow bus!” My son shouts. He loves it. He also loves purple. ‘Choo-choo-choo!’ Don’t we all go! A boy after his own locomotive heart. Bless him always.

Raisins aplenty are sprinkled all over the chipped, wooden floor like post-rainbow jimmies pouring in from the fumes of one Mr. Softee-loaded Saturday afternoon grease-machine.

That guy sure was cute.

That ice-cream sure was a dollar — a chocolate cone, the aforesaid jimmies.

The King’s Grant Smiths are whistlin’ some old tune and 3rd grade Kevin with the above-ground pool next door is playin’ the kazoo and holdin’ the slingshot. My ball always went into his yard — no give-backs.
The pizza bases are fully loaded on the sweet green pastures of summer’s retreat.

I ain’t doin’ softball, because fire flies and the poison ivy-laden creek in our backyard is a place you don’t go.

..I’m doing it again, aren’t I?

Chance is staring outside of the Brady House again — I hope he has food. I hope we have cable.

The orange spider has once again called shotgun on my bike. (AGAIN)
I oughta nerf him dead.

SO LONG DADDY LONG LEGS!

1,997; 1,998; 1,999 — always on the look out for the mail man.

Maybe Sean Connery really will be my dad one day. Perhaps Tommy Lee Jones won’t be my only dad crush.

It’s Wednesday, Lisa’s sisters are watching Buffy.
The faded, sad-looking pea green worn-out shag is always spectating from his stale, pitiful …
beady-LOOKING eye.
“Make sure you do a figure-four before you turn in tonight so the twisters don’t get us.”
“Rabbit is good, rabbit is wise.”

Jam out on Strider instead and let the Neon warm up well for tomorrow morning’s early ride.
The Melody mix is back — this was way before Alice interfered with the A.M./F.M. frequency.
Crank up the 104 as it hits the 5 A.M. dial, then watch it carefully and turn it well over easy once more until 83 degrees reaches its primary mark.

Don’t forget to count to 3.

Rice has never looked so provocative…

Who’s your homeroom?
If memory serves me right — Sambucci, Goodman, and Roskey.
I wonder what lies in store for today’s activities.
Crab soccer before lunch?
I wonder how many Aikman jersies I will count today.
How do you pronounce Favre?

…escaping back…

This is no dress rehearsal, I’ve just given birth.
Did I tear up for myself? For my son? For my husband?

My Mom is dead.

Did I tear up because of my ego, and because everyone else wanted me to? Did I tear up because I have literally just given birth LIVE via WhatsApp — as I was in Europe at the time and my Sis was back in America.

Did I tear up because the whole world just saw my entire hootenanny, or did I tear up because that’s just what you did as a chick?

MY GOD!!! The incessant grinding made the contractions a little less than what they were – prior to the epidural, and stopped me from smashing my own head up against a tree stump or on the shower tiles.

No one tells you…
and yes..Karen, I sure did push…

I worked two jobs —
lots of hair .. and lots of shit.
..all for the biz..
..all for THE Launch.

The toilets were my designated confessionals — my vacations from Mom-hood — my vacations from the lower self-esteem that I seemed to easily acquire with minimal fuss, but with maximum effort shortly after the birth of my son.

Could the fact that I actually heaved a child out of my vagina really stir up the pot of life?

The pot is now boiled, drink up.

I just see the end result for my son..
Just follow the playbook and you can’t go wrong.

Fall out of love, but fall in love with the convenience… like bleach on tiles. The shitty sweeps just grazed the eyelid between the pools of Pink that were echoing the close-by necessity of the door-wielding drums.

The 1, 2, 3, otherwise known as the shakes were always creeping in during the semantical third degree of Chinese whispers in Bulgarian — smiles to the face; but none the wiser to the butterscotch kisses that were monetarily smooching the pants off Hotel Z*****.

Breathe it in and we will make it through the Spiritus.

“I hear that Mildred Deww is quite the fan.”

Bullied …belittled …people-pleasered
AND all post-partumed

If you don’t say it, it’s not real.

The guilt souvenirs.. the self-effacing judgment.. the same party-line .. the fosters of the foster ..
Their leeway just gets deeper.

Crying is to the heavy, as the bitter curdling of the broil is to the gut.

The timing was merely impeccable to ask the questions of:
Who am I? How did I get here?

Things would’ve been so much easier if my son was never born.
Ugly as sin — how dare we even speak these inconceivable words?

If you don’t say it, it’s not real.

If you don’t think it, then it’s not real.

The lungs.. the kidneys — they bare the full brunt of the weight; that’s if it doesn’t decide to surface on the skin as borderline grotesque, bumpy stinging-like nettles first — all to live up to an impossible standard of motherhood that society cunningly ushers us into once we cross those lines of the dear john.

We’re not supposed to feel this way.

Let all the stiffly pointed fingers fire all rounds in my direction.

I was too far gone in the masculine side of things.

I was caught up in the constant DOING … the DOING of it ALL … with 0 rest — no love… ALL Mother… ALL DOING.– a shift-wife too at a lukewarm best.

Am I in love with my family? Am I still in love with my husband?

Is our marriage more than just a practicality?

My husband and best friend for 15 years, the man — the bill payer, the guy that makes sure diapers and wipes — the non-itchy type — the accoutrements .. are all brassed out and paid for in likeminded copper.

Am I still in love with this man?

It’s been 4 score and 7 more since our bed was left unmade. A half-assed Monday makeshift movie-night advertised as the next best consolation prize suffices for the longing that is surely missed.

The mirror attraction is overworked and lost somewhere betwixt of what and when ‘WE’ used to be.

The best buds are now taking turns ‘borrowing’ fictitious cards and pretending out of sheer contentMENT inside the real world of make-believe. I hope I am wrong.

I’m starting a business here! I’m trying to be a mother here!

HEY! I’m trying to be a mother here!

A June Evelyn Bronson Cleaver still exists out there, I am sure.

Sometimes, I feel like I have missed out.

I blast on my favorite country ditty during the ALL MOTHER just to keep it together until 2.

Sometimes the hardest thing in the world is not doing what seems like every parent in the world is doing..

— sticking your child in front of a TV set or tablet .. much less a ‘smart’ phone.

I don’t want my son growing up as a modern day lost-boy. Sarah Conor had a valid point.
I see it far too often — the slow breakdown, like an ’89 burgundy Oldsmobile Cutlass Ciera idly resting at the red light of the infamous Marlton Circle — the Methuselah that sure took all the damn time in the world that he wanted … and boy, did he really want to!

He sure as hell was a two-bit masochist — a nihilist, by choice of humor.

…I digress

No one tells you that motherhood unearths everything.

Home truths always float to the surface after a great birth.

I discovered that my father was married to another woman while still being married to my mother at the time.

I might have some half brothers and sisters out there.

I guess physically abusing my sister wasn’t exactly the tip of the iceberg.

I found out that my mother was abused as a child by an (unknown) family member.

All my life, I had been entirely co-dependent on my mother until the day she died.
up until that point .. nothing I did in my eyes could ever be considered wrong or unjust.

Hello, my name is Courtney-Ariah, and I am an emotional cripple …
a coddled-co-dependent child raising a child.

I guess I can’t follow my big sis around anymore and call her whenever a hairy situation arises ..

Motherhood is a healing and a forgiving process/experience.

The birth of my son brought a lot of much-needed joy and has unveiled my innermost traumas, inspiring me to put a final end to the routine of self-negligence and the mental/verbal abuse that I upheld for decades — the thoughts of never being ‘ENOUGH.’

‘Well, there has to be something wrong with me, for A, B, and C to like me.”

These are all unfettered beliefs, feelings, and programs that have been indoctrinated within me for decades.

I finally paid a visit to that shy, timid little girl who modestly sits in that desolate lilac corner of the room —
the self-proclaimed ugly duckling with a permanent ‘shiner’ painted across her right eye.
She ran and hid behind her mother every time she was introduced to someone new..

Bless her .. I can’t seem to get her to shut up now ..

no, honey, that’s not a shiner.. that’s where god kissed me.

I choose to heal for Maximillian. I choose to break free from those ties.

I thank him for opening my heart, for opening my world.
I thank him for digging up all the grovel and decay that has been laying undisturbed in my gut for so long.

These are all blessings in disguise — to break the sins of the mother forever and furthermore.

Each day is my key opportunity to be the best version of me.
I choose to live higher and to perceive the highest.
I let my actions follow suit.

I allow my son to lead by example, because as many things as I have to teach my son, he too has many things to teach me.

As a mother — I get so caught up in making sure that my son is reaching his milestones.
While these are all important, I must not forget my objective : to allow Maximillian to take the wheel —
**within reason, he is two ...

I try not to be fooled by Maximillian’s two year-old shell.
It is often in his silence, in his laughter, in his curious approach to all things life…
to all things nature that I am in such awe of…

To always be filled with tremendous bliss and love … to be so open … so compassionate … and junk-less inspires me everyday to see life through his eyes.

I see my son with angelic wings.
I often hear them in the nearby distance … and in the soft, hollow breeze that flows through his periwinkle feathers.

They take my sight. They take my hear. They nurture me and they protect me.

Our children are our biggest teachers. Our children are our healers.

It’s okay to cry and to seek shelter beneath their wings. Lord knows I’ve done more than my fair share.

It’s okay to be vulnerable. It’s okay to let them know that we are human.

We have to be brave, because they are. It’s the foundation for their flow.

Their flow is what grants us our strength to do what we do as Moms everyday…

Oh, and before I forget ..

My name is Courtney-Ariah .. and I am no longer an emotional cripple

— just working on being less defensive now…