Tuesday, August 21

Pink

My house drips with a sticky glaze of pink
Weak confections, bubble gum and cotton candy, things my little girls
Were not supposed to be made of.
I pry my mind open
Like I once believed it was. Before.
Before hazy fuchsia light
Dimmed my sight, and fluffy tulle tangled my legs.
I misjudged the princesses.
Powerful.
No damsels in distress. They have taken over my world

With their tiny toes and narrow waists, they lord over my girls’ world
Luring them in with plastic baubles. I am disoriented, coated in pink
My opinions strong and rational do not hold sway with the princesses
Hypnotic, unblinking eyes, pointy painted nails sink deep into the flesh of my girls
Who are drawn like pathetic moths to dazzling sparkles of light
It’s scary. The pull is so strong.
The Disney precipice gapes open

Like an angry wound, into which my dreams for their futures are splashed open
Driven, brilliant, hungry to learn, empowered to change the world
They could be anyone, do anything under the guiding light
Of my lofty aspirations, crushed to dust under an unforgiving spike of pale pink
It’s in the water I myself feed to the girls
Who turn from me. Blissfully trading their souls to the princesses

Cinderella, dust rag in hand, proves formidable, as do the other princesses
Whom I dutifully applaud. Though tears hover in my eyes, they are now open
Watching them spin and laugh, then kick the stupid shoes aside, for my girls
Realize they’d rather run free. After all, there’s a whole wide world
Out there to be conquered.
Ski helmets mounted on tiny shoulders are shocking pink
Hot pink with the exhilaration of life.
Like their eyes, blazing and alight

With pure joy. They own the mountain, on clunky ski boots, they are fast and light
And sturdy and serious, and I think I see the princesses
Eating their dust.
Quiet, demure, the pathetically soft pink
No match for the vivid color in their cheeks.
Eyes mischievous, minds open
To the possibilities of the wondrous world
The princesses folded in the corner, neglected at last, for my girls

Have found power in a different pink and have moved on. My girls
Ski, and dive deep into blue water, and hide in the dark with a flashlight
That illuminates a world
Cracked wide open and able to hold without conflict both worms and princesses
Their minds, so open
And mine considers finally the possibility of pink

It is their world, they own it, my girls
Including the feared pink, dark and light
Equal opportunity princesses, in their hands is the world cracked wide open

Saturday, August 4

Expecting

First comes love, then comes marriage. Now comes baby
It will be all they are expecting
And more. She is blushing, beautiful. Pregnant, perfect, normal
She is exhilarated as she prepares her body
Prenatal vitamins, prenatal yoga. The perfect cocoon, her womb ready
I am in control, she thinks, and is completely happy

She hears horror stories, sick babies, and feels guilty for being so happy
For her blood and urine hold the promise of a perfect baby
She splashes non-toxic paint, sunny yellow, making the room ready
She is hungry for information. Women who know tell her what to be expecting
Talk of pain laughed off. The epidural (wink wink) takes you out of your body
That pain (they hold the wisdom of the world) is not normal

What does she know of normal
Her hand feels the rhythmic kicks, and she sighs, tired, but happy
Resting on the deep knowledge, nestled somewhere in her body
That tells her, as it has all women before, how to grow her baby
That’s where she got stuck, at the baby. She hadn’t thought to be expecting
Anything more. Which is why she wasn’t ready

Which is why, sliced open, she felt cheated. Angry. Blindsided and not ready
To explain her feelings, which they told her were not normal
Those who would offer comfort were not expecting
Her to care so much. Why couldn’t she just be happy
With that beautiful baby
Cooing, curled up and warm on her serrated body

She couldn’t explain it, why suddenly her body
Mattered. Overwhelming love, midnight feedings, for this she was ready
She would gladly have cut off an arm for a perfect baby
Or get sawed in half, she jokes, but they don’t find this funny, it’s not normal
That she cares about this, when she should just be happy
She got a healthy baby. That’s all she had been expecting

She didn’t know enough to see that she was expecting
More. She is selfish, unappreciative. Furious with her body
For its betrayal. But really it just did as it was told. She had been more than happy
To soak up the stories. Eager to avoid feeling. Easier that way, to pretend she was ready
Maybe they are right. She isn’t normal
Needing more. Ridiculous, when here she has a perfect baby.

Years later she will be happy, again expecting
A perfect baby. Experience and knowledge fill her body
Which stands ready, prepared for birth, age-old, normal.

Thursday, August 2

Eleven Years Old

It smells
Like laundry and pine needles and restless girls
Bunked together in a stuffy cabin, damp and cool
Darting eyes search, awkward bodies gather in old sweatshirts for warmth
Fingers of rain tap against foggy glass, insistent and impatient
Drawing the girls out, offering freedom to the young and wild

A cleansing rinse in the deluge. Upturned faces joyful and wild
Scrubbed pink. Urged to forget inequitably doled out changes and unfamiliar smells
Raindrops dance with happy girls, brave, not too impatient
To grow up. The storm is the kingdom of little girls
Back in the cabin, trials with makeup, piercings, budding bodies ripe with warmth
Emit an uncontrollable heat, urging little girls to slow down, be cool

The summer air, washed clean, releases the burden on narrow shoulders to be so cool
Still, showers of pine needles carry a hint of something wild
Steam rises from wet grass as warmth
Returns suddenly. She catches something, smells
Fall in the air like a promise, and walks away unnoticed, from the other girls
Who like her are uncertain, and impatient

The unfamiliar aches in her body leave her anxious and impatient
The breeze shake youthful tangles in her hair, blows cool
Branches against bare arms yet offer protection from the prying eyes of the girls
Who judge, as she too now does, with labels that stick, too timid, too wild
Too fast, too slow. Rebellious urges locked in small bodies, musky smells
Alone in the wet branches, she sighs, hidden, safe in the embrace’s warmth

Night’s fire glows hot, but inclusion in the huddle offers real warmth
Giggles over blackened marshmallows, melted chocolate, impatient
For the innocent stickiness of s’mores, the way that childhood smells
When girls can be just girls for a little longer, buried under blankets against the cool
Night. The nurturing fire holds back the mantle of wild
Flickering soft light, innocent smiles, sweet girls

Boys will be boys they say, but what of our changelings? Our girls
Who struggle to choose—which path will provide warmth,
When is it ok to let loose and scream, to be wild
It’s a trick, there are penalties for each choice. She is alone, worried, impatient
Stomping muddy boots into hard ground, she hopes she seems aloof enough, cool
Wet ashes from the night fire mix with early morning smells

The rugged landscape, wild, releases the awkward girls
Amid a confused gumbo of smells, pine scented air, stifling warmth
Which way to go, impatient, burning hot, trying to be cool