“Okay, so Momma, I want to send a picture of myself in a bathing suit so L can upload them to Google Slides. Then she and I can decide which bathing suit to wear to the pool party.”
“The pool party that is in June.”
“Right.”
I remember being so excited to plan outfits with close buddies at your age, such fun!
Fifteen minutes later I sat poised to send pictures of Bean, resplendent in your 11 year old long legged blonde glory.
And my brain caught up.
Corinna!!! What are you thinking?! Sending pictures over the internet cannot become normalized - and this is where this starts.
This past autumn was very dry. Super super super dry.
Per years past we planted seedlings in the greenhouse in October. We coddled the new plants for a few days. Then the holidays rolled around and we ignored them.
From years past we knew that nothing happened during the dark times of December and January. Instead we looked at the snowdrifts against the greenhouse and snuggled by the fire.
We trusted the ground moisture would seep into the baby roots and feed the growing plants - claytonia, spinach, bok choy. We knew this to be a safer choice for water than potentially freezing the cells of the plants with too much water from a can.
“Are your eyes closed?”
“Yup.”
Bean and I sat together. Our heads leaning in towards each other. The water was warm. I could hear Dragon move. The sound of a coin clinked against stone, then metal, then silence. There were more ripple sounds as he moved in the water.
“Are you ready yet?” Bean yelped by my ear.
“Almost.”
More ripples burbled. “Okay, you can open your eyes.”
Dearest Beloveds,
Over the last couple of years, depending on circumstances and audience, I would dust off this joke.
“The history of the world could be written as - I don’t want to dig my own potatoes.”
And then I would pause for laughter.
I am retiring the joke. I have dug fewer than 1% of the potatoes I have eaten in my lifetime. It doesn’t feel as though I am the right person to say it. It also feels, given that I am trying to dismantle the overstory of capitalism from my cells - too tragic.
“I can’t help not making paper airplanes. If there is a spare piece of paper, even if it has stuff on it, I just wanna fold it. I like folding ‘em. I like experimenting making new shapes.”
Dragon’s obsession is strewn all over our living space - as we eke out our final weeks of inside living before icy mud season dries up.
I have spent the last few weeks tripping across paper airplanes everywhere in our house. Small ones, big ones, bigger ones (4x4 papers), and even an attempt at a HUGE one (10x10 papers was too big for liftoff).
They make me happy (well, not the tripping, but the rest of it.)
Dearest Beloveds,
I am using the term somatic capitalism to expound upon the capitalism I am trying to unravel from my cells. Cells that have been very well educated in this model from a very young age.
What model are you talking about, Momma?
This model darlings, the model of education as stated by this ungrammatical and embarrassing sentence on the official website. The United States “ED’s [sic] mission is to promote student achievement and preparation for global competitiveness by fostering educational education and ensuring equal access.” There are so many parts to that ridiculous statement I want to tear apart.
“Bean, I am going to read a chapter of Triss to your brother. Do you want to join us?”
“Could you read really loud from his room?”
“Of course!”
Settled into Dragon’s big chair, I open to our spot in the well-loved library book. Then I switched on voice memos to record the latest Redwall installment for your Yoto.
“Okay, my loves. Before we play with our new games today we need to write thank you notes.”
Here it comes.
Bean collapsed onto a chair. “Moooommmm, I hate writing thank you notes. No one else has to do it. We never get them from anyone else.”
Right, it is not so often that I have such a clear choice of passing along the snarky judgements of my mother or choosing a more generous interpretation.* Think think.
“Which one is the easiest one for you to teach Momma?”
“Jackson - the bullfrog.”
“Jackson, not Jeremy - the normal frog?”
“Jackson.” Immediately, Dragon moves both hands and holds them up for me. “This is Jackson.” He then untwisted his hands and slows down his finger movement as he narrated along for me to follow him.
“Momma, why do you need to do radiation? I want to ride my bike to the end of the road and I can’t because you need to take the car to the bus. It is not fair! I want to ride my bike! It is NOT FAIR!”
Dragon, you are 150000% correct. It is not fair. It is not fair I need to be radiated for the FOURTH FUCKING TIME. It is not fair my mucosal lining is so taxed from the bone marrow transplant for Hodgkins I am on regular Imodium and bentonite clay courtesy of the immunotherapy. It is not fair I wrote a book about not feeding my “What If Monster” nearly 17 years ago and I am STILL negotiating with the SAME MONSTER - and I know how I am making it worse with these wallowing thoughts and that just makes me ANGRY.
Corinna, deep breath. Remember your vagal nerve release exercise!
I put my fingers on either side of my ears and gently rubbed up and down along the hairline until I yawned.