Parenting is hard

I’ve been debating how I should start this blog post (my first in what almost a year). I’m torn between two cliches:

“Parenting is hard”

or

“I love my kid but….”

It’s odd to feel the need to soften the difficulty of parenting. That somehow admitting it’s difficult is equated to not loving your child.

*My wonderful loving child who is currently pretending to be a tornado on the bedroom floor because she has a sick sense of when mom hides away for some free time*

Of course the difficulty is not equated to loving your child.  I’d take a bullet for my child ( I know another cliche right) but let’s face it, when your lovely daughter or son is channeling their inner demon, at of course the most inappropriate time, pretending childrearing is some instagram dream is just foolish.

Or when you throw a birthday party. Remember back to the magic of your birthday. You’d get hopped up on all kids of sweets, run around crazy with your friends and open presents.

Remember that precious childhood memory.

It was probably horrible for you parents.

Coraline’s fourth birthday party was yesterday.  After spending a good three months lying to myself that I was gonna channel Martha Stewart and countless hours wasted Pinning birthday party ideas from parents that are frankly MUCh more talented than I am, about three weeks ago, I realized that “hey you have a birthday party date announcced on facebook” with nothing prepared for it including a venue.

But since I’m trying to be Zen (I mean I meditated….sometimes…occassionally and it’s not court ordered), I decide to just brand it as “simplistic” and lie to myself that it’ll be a relax ing time.

Who needs Facebook memories? We will just invited family and friends and hold it somewhere local.

Easy Peasy Lemon Squeezy.

That is until it’s 15 minutes befor the party starts and I’m trying to pack everything into my Subaru and hope that I can beat that one annoying party guest who has to show up early.

I’ve spent the night before cooking 4 batches of spaghetti sauce(which frankly I suck at), sent Kyle to decorate becuase frankly I suck at that to. Suprise we find out the kitchen is locked and they forgot to give of the key!

Coraline, who is NEVER sick, somehow magically had a cold and was a crab pants. And I have about twenty guest coming, ten or so of which are children most under the age of 6. And for some reason I planned the party during my child’s nap time (because that was the logical thing to do).

Fast forward an hour, Coraline’s grandfather is telling a lovely famliy story about how his grandfather MURDERED his son. (Which suprise was the first I’ve heard about it).

Coraline and her gaggle of tiny toddler friends have decided to plan dino balloon war which is about as loud as I imagine an actual war to be.  At least I think they were playing, it’s hard to tell if toddlersaurs are actually getting along sometimes.

And this goes on for about five hours.

Yeah parenting is hard. I think I’ll go with that.

 

 

 

 

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Pussy has to grab back

I stopped writing when my father died. I was numb, an actor stuck in a horrible play and while my world slow-motion shattered the world went on. It was just another Tuesday after-all.

I sat there knowing he needed a lung, knowing my words world helpless as the single most important thing I love slipped in front of me. And I realized how meaningless my words were. Air, vapors dancing around the world but never touching flesh.

And now, I sit after a night of crying, watching a man who has admitted to sexually assaulting women, who is racist, who is anti-gay, who is xenophobic, a man who wants to commit war crimes and jail his political opponents ascend to the highest position in our country.

And I realize my words are needed again.

Mark my words there are plenty of people in the United State who will not sit quietly by as our friends and family and freedoms suffer.

 

Advice, create create create

It’s been a while hasn’t it? I’d like to say that I’ve spent my time away from the blogger-sphere creating, unfortunately it’s been much more mundane than that…surviving if you will. (I’d say living but that implies a certain zest that these droll winter months haven’t much afforded me.)

But this morning, a deary day with nipping hints of Persephone’s legacy swirling around my face, I stumbled upon this and decided today would be a beautiful day to rededicate myself to writing  and to the world at large.

In short, I’m back. And if you have had a creative drought or are feeling your work isn’t up to par, please take a minute a listen to the video below.

A minute can reset your life after all.

(throw back) Saturday morning

Sitting here at work, way to early on a Saturday, I’m reminded of a piece I wrote a copy of years ago, when I was struggling with that post-graduate, job-you-love-some-aspects-of-but- you-feel-doesn’t-work-you-to-your-full-potential experience.  This fist appeared in Illinois State University’s literary journal, Euphemism:

The flip side of a copy

Rachael Stanford

Time moves slowly when you’re a glorified copy wench. As the pale glow of replication illuminates the growing wrinkles adorning my face, the realization slowly sinks in. A train monkey could take my place, not a NASA rocketeering monkey either but a sleep-most-of-the-day in between poo-flinging one.

As the minutes tick to the void, my eyes scan the room. I want to rip down the OSHA poster, burn it to the ground, screaming to my coworkers, “six years, two degrees, honors societies and publications have to amount to more than paper cuts. And sleepless nights slaved away with library crammed house should amount to more than a no-benefits, crap-dollar an hour pay.”  I want to start anew.

A battled scared vet returning to a reformed nation, I find myself longing to be lost in The Wasteland, strung out and strung up in a hotel full of beatniks and hippies hell bent on filling the worlds with flowers.  But the best minds of my generation are wasting away in cheaply pressed suits, long retail hour eyes wearied, as their back breaks with the loans on which their future was built/destroyed.  And my rent is due in a week.

The copy machine spits out my order. As my hands shake, I pick up each warm piece, permeating my skins. But my bones shake as I turn out the light and slowly walk away, each step echoing down the hallway.

So you’re trapped on a desert island

I always think it’s a fun question, you’re trapped on a desert island, a seemingly magical one where your basic needs are taken care of so most of your day is spent lounging in a self made hammock, sipping fruity drinks and reading books. The question also asked is what ten books (yes the joys of arbitrary numbers) would you pick? Comment below and let me know

My picks:

1) Mother Night by Kurt Vonnegut

2) Ariel by Sylvia Path

3) Walden by Thoreau

4) Man Without A Country by Kurt Vonnegut

5) Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austin

6) Mr. Darcy’s Diary by Amanda Grange

7) Winkie by Clifford

8) Alice in Wonderland by Lew Carol

Totally cheating) Rurouni Kenshin (series)  by Nobuhiro Watsuki

And 10) ???? Well I’m not sure, maybe you could help me pick that last

(For REM fans, here’s a fun look at what Michael Stipe would choose)

I’m not dead, I’m just a mommy…..

Just a quick note at work, I realize this last year that I have very sadly let this blog go downhill. (What can I say motherhood has kicked my artistic ASS). But on the plus side, my amazing illustrator is making progress on our children’s book, I have a youtube series in the work and I’m finely writing poetry again. So please bare with me as I slowly work my  way back to artistic glory or at least.  And until that way, enjoy a progress sketch of Monster’s Don’t Hugs.

Alfie

Peace n Love,

Rach

Out of the ashes, I rise with my blonde hair……

I’m coming upon the year anniversary of my father’s death. And what has been, for a lack of a better term, the least productive year artistically of my life.

I was depressed about it. Lost, one could say in the volume of silence, the abyss of nothingness.

That was until yesterday when in a passing conversation with my fiance’s dad, I mentioned that I had previously been a math major.

“Math major, pshhh. Let me see those grades. You had to be failing that is the ONLY reason that anyone would switch from math to English…..”

Enraged, I took my grievance to social media where I got a bevy of responses similar to:

“Why would you do that????? He’s right. Don’t you know companies are poaching math and science high school teachers…..”

A rekindled fire burned with in me.

Why would I switch from Math to English?

Very simply, when it came down to studying for my Cal final freshman year of college, I decided instead to watch Young Guns.

Yes the 1980’s brat-pack western.

And it dawned on me, I was good at math, oh I was, (got a high A in the course) but I wasn’t passionate about it. I didn’t stay up late at night to study or work on math, but I sure as heck did for writing.

I have railed in previous posts about how much art matters, but have, through the course of the last year, partly forgotten how passionate I am about it.

His words, though, and others fuel my fire. Art matters. My art matters. You’re art matters.

And don’t let anyone tell you otherswise.

Now, where is my pen, do I dare to disturb the universe?

Just a quick update

I am going to try retooling my blog and making it a bit more mainstream. I know I have been ignoring this the last few months (a new born can do that to you.) But I’m recommiting myself to keeping this up. And I’m hoping that you can help, please take a minute to fill out the poll and leave a comment with advice, what do you like to see from a blog?