When Milk Seeps Into the Motherboard

Every morning I stumble downstairs, make coffee, and then bring it back up to my room and rest it on my nightstand. Then I flip open my MacBook Pro, catch up on emails, return messages, check the weather, and do some writing.

Until Katie spilled a ginormous glass of milk on my laptop. We lost the remote for the TV, and I wanted to go for a run without anyone fighting and so for the very first (and only) time, I let Katie play with my MacBook. She spilled her milk all over the bloody thing and then tried to mop it up and hide what she did. When I turned it on a few hours later, I saw a droplet of milk and then the thing fizzled out on my lap.

I brought it to Best Buy where they confirmed the death, and as I sunk to my knees, the sales guy grabbed my arm and hushed me, telling me that "it's only a laptop, that it's not a child, that your kids are healthy and alive, and the 'things' of this earth can be replaced." Then I told him that if that's true, then he'd probably not mind much at all if I tucked another MacBook under my arm and walked out. 

Life is full of lessons and I have no doubt there's a big fat one waiting for me somewhere in the curdled milk. Maybe I'm not meant to be a writer. Or a runner. Or maybe I shouldn't take shortcuts on parenting techniques. Or maybe we shouldn't be drinking milk. Or maybe, just maybe, sometimes mistakes seep into our motherboard and we just have to live with it. 

So here I am, punching away at the sticky keys on our desktop in the family room while Freddy pesters Katie behind me until she cries, and while Jake begs me to send them both to a boarding school in Sri Lanka. There are what looks to be boogers stuck to the edge of the desk, and there's dubstep assaulting me through the speakers.

I am a mother first. A writer and a runner, maybe those too. But always a mother. My MacBook mornings will come again when the time is right but for now, I won't cry over spilled milk. I'll just fill my cup up with wine instead.

Blend Into the Wicker

When I was a teenager, about 16 years old, my parents would call these family meetings where they'd sit me down in the family room, my dad on my left on the sofa and my mom on my right in her soft blue wing-armed chair, and they'd talk to me as I sat across from them on the loveseat. In between us stood an expensive glass-topped white wicker coffee table, and when the family meeting got uncomfortable, I'd sink my gaze into the twirling wooden twine of wicker that licked the edge of the blue-green glass and I would "blend into the wicker" in some feeble attempt of escape. I would enter myself into the white wood, bending and sliding along, filling my senses with anything but the discomfort of conflict.

I had my share of tumultuous teen years and I can imagine it was difficult for my parents to watch. They wanted to save me, I could tell, but all I really needed to do was just plow through it all and let the discomfort strengthen me and teach me.

There are moments still, where I find myself blending into the wicker. I love running along the dyke out by Andrew's place because it's where water meets mountain, where the leaves of each branch on every tree seem to curl their fingers into me and sweep me up and away from the mire. Last week I stood along the edge of the river and faced myself squarely into the mountain and, from the depth of my hurt, riding on the coattails of my ever-growing strength, I sang as hard as I could into the open air.

It's not always me-against-world, but sometimes, when it feels like I am alone, I let myself be cradled by the salve of peace and then I know in that moment, I will be okay.

Insert Winky Face

You have to admit that emoticons have changed the cellular world as we know it. The invention of cell phones disrupted our lives in that we became reachable to all sorts of assholery whether we were on the toilet or in a business meeting or trudging through the Grand Canyon. Then came texting, which took self-control to a whole new level of low, giving us the ability to act on our emotions right. that. very. second.

Not only is the The Text more malnourished of self-control than a 14 year-old boy at a grade 9 dance, but texting also gets misinterpreted. I've been told that I sound angry in my texts because I am so direct. I decided to combat the anger with some winky faces ;) to lighten the tone up a bit. But what I've been noticing is that people use the happy face :) and the winky face ;) to passive-aggressively get a point across. Like as if using a ;) after "oh wow, did you really wear that outfit to this function?" nullifies the offensive tone to the statement. It's like when we were kids and we'd follow up a slander with "no offense!" We'd say, "you totally suck at badminton, Jimmy! NO OFFENSE!" But meanwhile, Jimmy is offended as fuck. And then Sam gets a badminton racquet imprinted in the side of his face and he hops around trying to stop the bleeding, pleading with Jimmy, "but I said, 'no offense!!!'"

I'm not sure what the next invention might be and how exactly it will ruin our lives, but we can all collectively breathe a sigh of relief because at the end of the day, we can just call out in a sing-song voice, "no offense!" and insert a winky face ;) and all will be well.

Reach

One of my favourite places to be is on my balcony: sitting in my Ikea chair facing the moon, Macbook on my lap, stars in my eyes, heater blasting warm air on my bare legs.

When I was teenager living at home, after a fight with my parents, I'd hop into my dad's turquoise Mazda truck and speed off with half a pack of cigarettes and I would park somewhere and lean up against the outside of the truck and look up into the night sky, puffing my smoke in hopes that it would be the ticket in exchange for an answer of some sort. And of course, it never was. All I got was a step closer to cancer and bad teeth.

But there's something to be said about standing alone and looking into the night sky. It's seemingly endless. In a world without hope, all I see are dead-ends. But the night sky holds promise. It contains a void so large that it would take 800 gazillion years of smoke-blowing to even touch the surface.

We all try to reach it in some way, whether by running or money or success or some other pathetic measure of our own self-worth but if we're truly honest with ourselves, as much as we may feel like we "finally got there" at some point in our lives, we know that we never really have. As soon as we come face to face with the stark reality of our powerlessness, we realize that we are indeed, fuckitty fucked.

We can white-knuckle our way through a nutrition and fitness plan, or we can live out the ideal family of two children, a puppy, and an area rug made out of milk cartons and dandelion fur, but we will eventually come face-to-face with our own limited power, and that day, will blow. Because it hurts. It's humiliating. It's like qualifying for a spelling bee by accurately spelling the word "weird" and then showing up to the contest and having to correctly spell the word "algorithm."

I think the sooner we realize our limited capacity for power, the better. Because there's nothing worse than dragging that shit out. Am I saying that we need to give up before we even start? No! But I think that knowledge is power--that by being aware of our own kryptonite, we will be quicker in asking others for help.

If it takes a village to raise a child, why wouldn't it take the universe to grow the world?