Mud Mounds

Grace steps out onto the back patio, then sighs.


Ugh! So gross.


She stares at a mound of dark brown mud mixed with green and red play dough. It sits right in the middle of her terracotta colored tile patio.

How many times has she told Christopher not to build his mud mounds on the patio? Keep the mud and dirt where it belongs, in the grass. In the amount of time and effort it takes her boy to fill his bucket full of dirt from the grassy part of the yard and haul it over to the patio, he could build two mounds out in the grassy area. A whole little mud town, even.


Grace shakes her head. How her little five year old loves mud. How she hates it. It is gross. She hates how the brown stuff can get everywhere: in the cracks in the tiles of the patio, in the corners of the rooms throughout the house, underneath fingernails – mostly Christopher’s. It drives her nuts. But for Christopher, mud is the best thing ever. He usually wears the biggest grin when pushing his fingers through the wet, almost black mushy stuff.


She thinks of that grin now. Wide, toothy, his rosy lips stretched wide. Beautiful. How she loves that grin. She smiles. It has been a long while since she had seen that grin. Months. She stares at the horrible, misshapen dark mound – bumpy and gooey in its consistency.

Since last summer, she thought.


Since before the cancer, and the chemo. The diagnosis came in early Fall and the months that followed were scary, stressful and lethargic ones. Ones where Christopher couldn’t go out to play most days because he was sick and just tired from the chemo. Days where he could barely get out of bed or hold his cup of water to drink. Playing in the backyard and making muddy mounds was definitely out of the question.


It has been nine months and summer is about to begin again. The rounds of chemo treatments have ended, and the prognosis is good. So far, no cancer left in his little body. In remission. The best words Grace had ever heard in her life.


She stares at the brown mound. The misshapen, gunky blob is beautiful, she realizes. So beautiful. The creation of a boy who had the energy to make it again, who could play outside once more.


The memory of Chris carrying the two small containers of play dough out into the backyard appears before her eyes. Watching him then, she knew what he was about to make. She could imagine that wide, toothy grin of his on his face as he made his new mound.


This mound. Normally, she would quickly scrape it up with the outside dustpan and deposit it back onto the grass. But not today. Today, this beautiful mound, a precious sign of her son being healthy again, would stay.


Grace turns and walks back into the house.


This post is a work of fiction based on a writing prompt from The Red Dress Club where we were asked to write a piece about something ugly - and finding the beauty in it.

This Bronx Baby Has A Second Home...

In my effort to continue navigating through these blog waters, I have made it over to Facebook where this precious blog baby of mine now has a page.

"Oooh, a new way to connect and share," I think. I'm loving it.

And I've even figured out how to put a little Facebook button on this blog so stop on over, say "hello" and share a few words. You can even click the "like" button. You know this Bronx girl would appreciate the love.

Also, and most importantly, if your blog baby has a page, please, let me know. I would love to stop on by as well, as I travel along, on my way to discovering new friends.

Hope to see you soon!

This Bronx Girl - Present Day

"Thank you for this lunch, in Jesus' name. Amen!" Rhys, my 3 year old says quickly and loudly.

"Good, eat up!" I say as I grab a small bowl of cheerios and put it in front of the 11 month old who is sitting in his baby seat. I sit down in front of the computer and take a sip of the coffee that I bought this morning from a coffee drive-thru on the way back home. I put it on the desk and click on the mouse. The pages from my novel appear on the screen and I begin reading through them, correcting grammatical errors, rearranging sentences. I look to the hard copy that is my novel which is sitting on the desk beside the keyboard, then back to the screen with a laser like focus, working to block out the sounds from The Sid the Science Kid t.v. show that my son is watching.

I take a sip of coffee from time to time. Really good - my white chocolate mocha with a pump of raspberry.

A high-pitched scream fills the air. I turn around and see the bowl, empty of cheerios turned over on the floor. I get up quickly and grab the bowl, filling it with cheerios again. I put it back in front of the screaming baby and sit back down in front of the computer again. A couple of minutes later, I click "Save" on the screen and breathe a sigh. I click on the next open document. A list of the names of parents who ordered magazine subscriptions through the boys' school. I was in charge of organizing this project.

"Mommy, more milk please." That is Rhys. Several minutes later, after giving the second cup of milk to my boy along with another helping of cheese crackers, I close up the school document and click on the remaining document that is open on the computer screen. After a quick read-through and some copying and pasting the document into an email, I send it - these book reviews - to my magazine editor. Finally, those are done.

I glance at the clock on the computer and turned toward Rhys who now sits on the floor playing with his tanker truck.

"Time to go buddy," I say to him. "We have to pick up your brother."

"Nooo," he wails.

"Yes," I say and sigh. The battle begins as I watch the baby toss his blue bowl across the room. There is fifteen minutes of chasing the 3 year old, putting on his socks, shoes and jacket, grabbing the baby, changing his diaper, giving him snuggles and then placing him in his brown car seat, me looking for my shoes, looking for the car keys, which always seem to disappear, and once finding them, sighing, grabbing the diaper bag, then opening the front door and bringing both boys outside to the car.

Now I'm driving along rural roads, past the cows in the open field on the left, and the farmer's market on the right with a sign attached to a fence, stating that they sell organic tomatoes. I make that right turn at Baseline Rd. and drive along towards my son's school and the Rocky Mountain range in the West, noticing the snow-covered peaks and reveling in their majesty.

This prompt is inspired by a memoir prompt from The Red Dress Club which asks "when meeting someone for the first time, what do you want them to know about you? Describe a scene that shows your true self."

Critiques welcomed.

Embracing Adversity

Today, I am emotional about an incident that occurred yesterday involving my son and another kid. My son is on the outside of friendships often. Alone on the playground, playing by himself, often. I worry - will this incident be another thing that will keep him from being included in a circle of friends?

I can barely put into words how sad I feel for my son at times. I am sitting here crying in the car. It's hard watching your child face adversity: the teasings, the tauntings, being made fun of, being excluded and being told that he can't be a part of this kid's or that kid's group of friends. What makes it especially hard is to see how much he wants to be a part of a group because he is such a naturally social being. He thrives on interaction. Honestly, all he wants is that special friend - the one he can play with every day on the school playground. He wants that special relationship - the special connection that comes with having a best friend. He actually had one, until that friend moved on and became someone else's best friend. He's still hurt over that one.

His adversity.

"This is good for him," my Hubby says "though it's painful for us. He needs this. Especially because he is so sensitive. He needs to go through this in order to understand his own sensitivity and work through these hard moments. The adversity will only make him stronger."

But the adversity our son faces is painful. Not just for him but for me (and said Hubby) as well. Why does it have to be?

How my heart breaks whenever I've watch him walk up to a cluster of kids and ask to play with them and they reject him. One time, at a park, a couple of years ago, I saw him approach three different kids playing within the same group and they each rejected him. I finally had to step in. It was discouraging to see. Heart-wrenching to watch the sadness take over his face.

But I know that Hubby is right. These moments of adversity will make him stronger. I think about the pain I experienced when I was a kid - a good part of that stemming from being a victim of abuse. It has made me stronger. At one moment in my life, strong enough to leave an abusive situation.

Embracing adversity.

I need to do it. And embrace it wholeheartedly. For my son. I need to put on my "Mommypants" (as inspired by Cheryl at Mommypants) and do what I have to do help him to embrace whatever adversity comes his way. I need to put my own personal emotions aside or work through them, turning towards the storms that adversity brings and face them head on. Embrace them and hold on tight. Persevere and not give up.

And then, hopefully, my darling boy will become my stronger (and sensitive) boy, who will grow into that strong, self-confident man one day because he has faced adversity and survived.

And his mother will become a stronger woman as well.

Have you dealt with your child being teased or excluded? Have you become emotional over it (or is it just me)? How do you handle those moments when it happens? What do you tell your child? Please share, because this emotional, protective mama would love to know.

Goodbye Yellow and Green...So Long You Quack of a Duck...

boulder craigslist>for sale/wanted>miscellaneous items

UNIVERSITY OF OREGON STUFF - $0 (NORTH BOULDER)

_________________________________________________________________________

For all you local University of Oregon students and alums and anyone else for that matter who loves yellow, green, ducks or any of these three things in combination:

Yours for whoever wants it. Heck, it's for anyone or ones who are willing to come by and dig through four large boxes of University of Oregon stuff on short notice. The cost: FREE. Yours for the taking. Please, take it. Just do it by midnight tomorrow because The Hubby comes home the following day from a business trip. Oooh...Sorry, a little TMI.

We've got flags with big Os; pom-poms in yellow and green, green or just plain yellow; old game season tickets (laminated so they can be used as bookmarks); baseball caps for almost every one of the Division I sports that the University of Oregon has - reads something like "Oregon ______" - you fill in the blank (i.e. baseball, football, track), we got it; headbands; buffs - like the ones they wear on the TV show "Survivor" except the word "Oregon" is spelled out all over them in a shade of highlighter yellow; license plate frames; T-shirts - long-sleeved, short-sleeved, no-sleeved, with words and pictures, words only, pictures only or just one letter - you guessed it: "O"; hoodies and sweatshirts along the same lines of those T-Shirts; golf balls; Christmas ornaments and even cuff links! Really, cufflinks in the shape of the big green "O". Can go with whatever white (or highlighter yellow) dress shirt that you or your Significant Other owns.

All must go. Our home is beginning to look like an episode of the A & E show: Hoarders, except our stuff is all yellow and green with the letter O sprinkled all over it. It's spilling from our closets, our cabinets, our bookshelves and from behind our couches. I'm tripping over green and yellow things..oh gosh, there I go again - TMI - sorry!

An added plus: the stuff is vintage, dating back to the early 90's, when The Hubby first started at said esteemed University. You will find every last bit of anything wearable, stickable, postable, storable and hangable that has the Oregon logo, mascot and colors (dark green and highlighter yellow).

All must go. And fast. No, really fast, like by tomorrow night. Did I mention this already? These items must go because I would like to live in a home where the main theme is not a big O or Puddles the Duck (really, that truly is the name of the school's mascot - I kid you not).

I will set the boxes out on the porch. I've even thrown in about 15 of those stuffed duck mascots in various sizes that the kids have received from their grandparents from the time they were each born into this world. Trust me, they don't need them. They've been significantly brainwashed and more than likely, could stitch up another stuffed duck from memory while sleeping.

Interested parties, please respond via email at "sufferingwifeoforegonduckfan@yahoo.com"

Free me of the yellow and green. Please. Please. I beg of you.

Disclaimer (for the Oregon duck fans in my life): This post does not express the views of the writer. It's a writing prompt for goodness sakes, brought to you by Red Writing Hood in which we were asked to imagine you’ve just had a fight with a friend, a co-worker, husband, significant other, child – you get the picture. You’re mad. It’s time for revenge.

What would you sell?
Write a humorous listing for eBay or Craig’s List. Talk about the history of the items, why they must go.

A Burst of Freedom...

The following piece is in response to a memoir writing prompt at the Red Dress Club.

We were in a two story house on the second floor. It was me, age 7 years old, and a few other kids, younger than me, between the ages of 3-5. Then there was Monique, tall, dark-skinned girl with cornrows in her hair. She was twelve years old and was our babysitter's daughter. She was watching us even though her older sister was the one who was left in charge, while their mother - the official babysitter - was out.

We were gathered in a living room. There carpet spread across the floor was a dingy forest green. The furniture that sat on it was made up of shades of brown fabric the color of caramel. There was one long couch by a window and then one big chair sitting off to one side. An old black colored television was on and the animated cartoon show of The Jackson 5 played on t.v.

Monique had gone into the adjoining bedroom for a few moments while we kids were left outside. Then she called us in one by one. I was the oldest and I was first. I walked in and saw her standing there with a silver wire in her hand that was as wide as a tree branch. She waved it and commanded me to do things to our bodies that included inappropriate touching. It lasted about ten minutes, though it felt much longer. Then she asked me to leave and she called in the next kid.

I sat down on the couch feeling tense - like something inside me was stretched tight. This wasn't the first time Monique had made me do things like this. Under her mother's care, I had endured things that I hadn't even shared with my mother. With that feeling of tension, a rage started within me and continued to build as she called in each kid individually. I found myself staring at the Jackson 5 cartoon in silence but not really seeing it. She then called me in again. When we were done, she walked out of the bedroom with me and began swinging the silver wire at us, threatening us. She did that for a few minutes and then went back into the bedroom.

Something inside me shifted then. With a steely determination, I turned and walked down the stairs, out of the front door and into bright sunshine. I was leaving - totally out of there. I was done with Monique and I was done with this. I wasn't going to take it anymore. I was walking away from that girl and from her abuse.

I walked up the sidewalk, barely noticing the rows of brownstones on either side of the street. I didn't know where I was going and I didn't care. All I knew was that it was away. I barely heard the sounds of the cars passing by or the people talking and laughing as they hung outside their houses on their stoops. My eyes focused on the sidewalk ahead of me and I was following it.

Suddenly I heard my name being called. Repeatedly.

A shiny red car came up beside me and stopped. I looked up. I saw my mother's face leaning over her friend, who was in the driver's seat. My mother's forehead was furrowed and her eyes were questioning.

"Melanie! What are you doing out here?"

I looked at her, silent for a moment, and then just shook my head. I don't remember what I said. My mom then gestured for me to come to the car as her friend reached over and unlocked the passenger door behind the driver's seat. I got in and closed the door and sat quietly as the car pulled away from the sidewalk. I said things but I don't remember what they were. I felt a huge sense of relief. Relief to see my mother, who just happened to be riding in a car on her way to another destination with a co-worker (she was planning on returning to get me when her work day was done) and relief to be away from Monique. It was truly done. Over. I felt proud of myself for finally standing up and refusing to take the abuse anymore.

Additonal Note: I was truly trying to recall happier memories. I know I have some - a good bunch in fact, but my sharpest memories from my childhood I've discovered, are the ones that were centered around my abuse and those times when I was freed from it. The above memory was one of those times.

One Saturday...

9:44a

I sit in the car, sipping on a white mocha and listening to classical music and I feel like this is the best thing ever. My shoulders are relaxed and I’m feeling good. I need to remember to give The Husband a hug when I get home for agreeing to let me have this time.

This is officially my writing time - I have set up a weekly schedule and I am beginning to put it into practice. Though, today, I ran behind for couple of reasons - late start, hubby needed to take a shower, a grocery errand run. It becomes very obvious to me that I need to plan better: have the breakfast groceries set the night before; get up earlier and leave the house earlier…

So this week the alloted 2 hours for writing will become 45 minutes. But I live and learn.

What this time alone is causing me to realize too is how important “me” time is. Just the difference an hour to myself makes - I’m a more alert and better Mama. I’ll need to talk to the husband about this. Set up a schedule. I believe he needs some “me” time to. It would make him a happier man and he deserves it. He does an amazing job taking care of his family.

8:56p

Almost twelve hours and one classmate’s birthday party later, the highlights being that my 5 year old became excited over Skee-Ball. It reminded him of bowling and he couldn’t help but play it over and over, and the 3 year old burying his head in my husband’s jacket because he feared Chuck E. Cheese, the Mouse. He was looking over his shoulder the entire time we were at Chuck E Cheese, keeping an eye out for the giant mouse.

Now I sit here listening to the baby cry. It’s painful, moreso because I know he’s not feeling well. He’s congested, has a fever and most likely is finding it hard to sleep because it’s hard to breathe. Usually we let him cry it out but I’m not sure if I will hold to that tonight, as much as I want him to sleep on his own.

He just quieted down somewhat.

The hubby is on his iPad. We’re watching the history channel to his delight. I’m a little preoccupied with my birthday gift that my amazing mother bought me. I just opened the box she sent today. The Nook. What gets me giddy is all the discounted books I can download and have at my fingertips. The bookworm within me shouts for joy. Though, of course, the Nook will never take the place of an actual book in my mind and heart, I do love the convenience of being able to get a book almost instantly.

Nice.

It was a good day. The older boys are sleeping soundly, exhausted. Here’s wishing the same for my sick little one. I think I’m going to go check on him now.

This is a day I had about two weeks ago. It is recorded in my 365 blog journal - a daily journal that I have been keeping to record those daily moments, thoughts and happenings. Feel free to visit.