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| Friday, 11-Apr-2008 05:05 |
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In need of a Roman Holiday, but I'll settle for the movie
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memories
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I drove my son to school this morning wearing pyjamas. This may not seem like a big deal, but other mothers dress like they're going for cocktails after they drop off their child at six forty-five in the morning. Anyway, I'm his mom; it's my job to embarrass him.
Somedays, I find myself thinking he'll never know me the way I know myself. He'll never know who I was before he came into the world. Sure I was the ripe old age of fifteen, but I was all about the fun and had lots of friends. I played soccer. I danced. I was active and sunburnt from lazy days on the bay. I never want him to know how much I cried the weeks after he was born. All the crying wasn't just because I was a fifteen year old mother, but because I was pretty sure my mom wouldn't let me leave to become a back-up dancer with a hot boy band or leave to dance on the glittering stages in Las Vegas. I would have to go to college.
I did a 180. I became an over achiever. This part of me he knows well. During my first four years at Rice, he would come with me to my evening classes. There were a lot of classes. I double major/minored. While getting my master's, I worked as a ballet teacher for middle and high school students and he would come along and dance with me. Many of his little friends did not understand the way we lived. It was painfully obvious that the cocktail mothers didn't either.
But he'll never know the Vegas-bound me. The one who won the talent show a year before he was born with a jazz number. A fitted coat and tie, tights, a glittered top hat and cane. Just one memory, when I was cool.
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| Thursday, 10-Apr-2008 06:26 |
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Possessions
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If I left the world, not that I plan to do so anytime soon, what story would my possessions tell about me?
My bedroom has soft lighting. The nightstand has a photo of Ali and me in the tree house at my mother’s. We’re making funny faces. The bed is made, but ruffled. On the dresser, the portable SoundDock is on at a very low volume and two books, dog-earred, rest on a note I wrote to slip in the boy's lunch bag. On the floor, next to the heels that kill my feet, are the gliding planes thrown in from the hallway. Smell the pillows. They smell like lavender.
Look down the hall.
The table next to the doorway to Ali’s bathroom has a photo of Ali stripping off all his clothes just to pee. He was potty training. Under the table is a soccer ball that should have been put away. There are also a couple of stray Lego pieces. There’s an antique wardrobe that houses books, books, and more books. Beware of the Stormtrooper keychain. If you step on it, I'm sure it'll hurt.
The bedroom on the right.
It smells like a boy. Granola bars, mud, and turtles. There are two aquariums. One is for the goldfish and the other for the turtles. There are deflated balloons tied to the bed post. The bed is made and on top rests a Gund Gear Bear with red overalls and one ear missing. They don’t make these teddy bears anymore. A drum set takes up most of the space. A guitar stands in the corner. On the nightstand, there’s a photo of the boy and his dad. A baseball bat is on the floor. A sports equipment catalog is open. A cowboy hat bought at the livestock show sits on the cymbols.
The office.
Pretty empty. On the wall hangs my diploma from Rice. The laptop is closed on the desk. Books from all my university classes fill the book shelves. I keep my work at work. This room is usually unoccupied.
The family room.
The HD plasma monstrosity hangs on the wall. Dad bought it for Ali so his Wii experience would be mind-blowing. On the coffee table, the boy leans with his elbows and a pencil in hand. His legs are tucked under his body. He’s in his baseball uniform that’s stained with red dirt. His hair is all over the place. He’ll look up and smile that smile that belongs to his father and you’d notice his dancing eyes that belong to me. He’ll ask for some cold pizza.
I wonder what someone would think about my life by looking at my things.
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| Tuesday, 8-Apr-2008 22:15 |
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If only this were easy
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he'll conquer the west
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It seems so lonely, just the photo. I'll add.
When I was fifteen, I had a son. I wanted us to have the same initials, so I named him Alistair Evan. He's also an Ali. I lost many friends at fifteen. Mom made it clear that school would be my first priority and Ali would be hers. Time used for extra-curriculars became mommy time for me. Straight home to learn the new names of dump trucks, planes, and trains. At seventeen, time away at school was too much time away from him. After this daily absence, he'd crawl up my body, dirt in his hair and under his fingernails, wrap arms and legs all the way around, and whisper, his sticky face to mine, in my ear that he left a bucket of rocks on my bed so we could name them together. I'm swept off my feet.
Fast forward, as time does, and he's ten going on thirty. He grew so much during my university years. I pick him up from school and he's quick to take off the stained white polo to reveal the Boba Fett t-shirt his dad bought him over the weekend.
Everyday he leaves to school, I'm a little terrified but mostly saddened. If given the choice, he'd rather name a bucket of rocks with the boys next door who prefer their shoes untied than with me. But all that disappears in the afternoon as I watch him walk towards me in the car, carefully balancing the bag of Oreos he'll share because he knows I'm an easy girl to please and his cup of ladybugs for grandmother's garden. His hair is quickly becoming a situation I'll never understand. He hands me the ziploc bag of Oreos that I packed this morning knowing that they would be mine in the afternoon and breathlessly asks, "Mom, guess what?!"
Once again, I'm swept off my feet.
And his shoes are untied.
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| Tuesday, 8-Apr-2008 03:32 |
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Window
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Well, I've arrived.
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just a memory touching:-D malaysia 
photographer
