Zibbit, upon finding a sprouted potato on grandma’s picnic table:

“Look Mommy! The potato is about to hatch!”

I am in the process of applying for school. Yes. Me. School.

I haven’t been in a formal class for about eight years. During high school, my drug use and depression and general desire to no longer be alive caused me to miss so many classes that I couldn’t graduate from my regular school. I tried going to an “alternative” school that would accept the credits I earned while in rehab, but I was the only person there who was not on drugs so it ended up not being the best environment for someone so new in recovery. In the end I got my GED (got married!) and started working as a respite care provider for the state of Washington, caring for children with disabilities. I loved that work. I loved the boys I took care of and it was the most emotionally rewarding job in the entire world. But it was also the most emotionally draining. It took so much of me, and I would leave work just completely spent. When I got pregnant with Babs I had to quit my job because it was just too much. And now, as a single mom of two little’uns, it would also be much more than I could handle. So I am applying to a great cosmetology school in the area, and hopefully by this time next year I will be making money as a kick-ass hair stylist!

I’m so excited. I love the idea of being around grown-ups all day long, talking about grown-up stuff, and making people pretty. There’s one particular business that I have my eye set on called Rudy’s Barbershop. It’s an insanely fun, laid back, trendy place that offers benefits for working 30 hours a week! That would mean I could potentially work 6 hour shifts during school hours, and still be there for my kids every morning and afternoon. How perfect is that? Perfectly perfect.

But I’m also terrified. School? Learning things? Taking tests? Can I really do it? I’m extremely motivated at the moment, but when the first week of classes start and I have to get two kids and myself out of the house every day by 6:30 in the morning, I’m not sure how pleased I’m going to be with this decision. It’s going to be so difficult being a full-time student again after so many years, while at the same time transitioning Babs into Kindergarten and Zibbit into daycare and dealing with the emotional fallout all by myself at the end of the day. I anticipate a lot of blog entries come September are going to look like this:

Am stupid idiot. Can’t do it. Shall sell organs on black market instead. Anyone looking for a spleen?

I’m going to a couple of informational seminars this week to look into financing and the program itself, so once I have all the logistics squared away I’m hoping I’ll feel much more confident. It’s going to be hard. Really really hard. But it feels like a wonderful new beginning and I can’t wait to get started!

Kari

Quiet, still, serene. She sits across from me in her office, hands folded in her lap and legs crossed. She’s regal, elegantly long and delicate. Her legs are long, her arms are long, her hands are long, her hair is long. When she’s onto something deep and important she runs her fingers through the white-blonde strands, pulling it up and away from her forehead in one swoop. Her expression is impossible to read, years of experience keeps her mouth and eyes cool and impassive. Nothing I say can ever shock her, there’s never a raised eyebrow or bitten lip that suggests I’ve affected her. But sometimes, every once in a while, my jokes can make her burst out into uninhibited laughter that opens her face- just for a moment- before she regains her queenly composure. I’m intimately acquainted with her legs and feet- I’ve stared at them for an hour every Friday afternoon for the past four years. I direct my monologues at her toes, unable to meet her eyes when I’m speaking. Those toes have heard my deepest, darkest, ugliest secret thoughts, but I have yet to see them recoil in horror at the inner workings of my mind. They rest there at the tips of her shoes, motionless and relaxed, receiving the most shameful and embarrassing parts of me. Tiny, inconsequential comments I direct to the little toes, the ones that look the most immature and insubstantial. I could never give these baby toes anything dark and important. But the terrible things, the giant and wild and frightening things, I tell those to her big toes. Solid and pretty and lacquered in red polish, I trust these toes. And when I’m done speaking, when I’ve unloaded it all, I let my gaze drift upwards, finally connecting with the green of her eyes and a softness around the corners that I’ve come to understand as her way of telling me that I matter.

Bill

He’s not a tall man, slight in stature but strong and rough, his skin weathered from years of working outdoors. His hair is thin but healthy, almost always pulled back into a sleek ponytail. When he wants to look nice he wears it loose and it flows in soft peppery waves behind his ears and past his shoulders. On those days he also shaves his stubble so cleanly that his cheeks look soft and pink, an endearing contrast with the tough and crinkled spaces between his eyes and temples. A pair of brittle glasses are perched low on his nose, the lenses smeared so thickly with grime that it must be impossible to see through them clearly. He refuses to wipe them clean because if they’re held too tightly the left lens never fails to pop out. He swears like a sailor but every once in a while he says something so soft and honest that it breaks your heart. His speech is thick and muffled from the wad in his cheek- not of tobacco, but a generous handful of sunflower seeds. He sits at the meetings methodically shelling each seed, spitting the empty husk into his palm and lining them up, soft and soggy, on the table in front of him. On his wrist he wears a piece of chain he found on a pallet at work. He’s added a special link that opens and closes so he can take it off whenever he needs to and sometimes he’ll remove the bracelet and lay it across his knee, as if his arm needs a break. If you touch it the metal is warm from his body heat. His wardrobe consists of threadbare t-shirts and ill-fitting jeans that sag and bunch in all the wrong places. His shirt today is black, with faded white writing on the front that says “Keep staring. I might do a trick.” He acts tough and horribly masculine, but he’d go to the ends of the earth to protect his grandbabies. He’d give a stranger his last dollar. He always cries when he talks about his friends.

Christie

She bubbles. The air around her hums and buzzes with the most intoxicating, effervescent energy. Her blonde hair is thick and slightly curly, and when she wears it down it bounces just above her shoulders. Her face is round and open, always holding an expression of warmth and gentle understanding. Her pink lips purse ever so slightly, bow-like, when she’s thinking hard about something. Nestled in the soft space between her bottom lip and her small pointed chin is a pencil-thin white scar- a reminder of an unfortunate collision with a swing at age two. Her shoulders are strong and square; they’re no-nonsense, teacher shoulders. I can imagine her staring down a rowdy ten year old, hands on her hips and shoulders thrown back in a way that means trouble. The strength in her upper body offsets the gentle curves of her breasts and hips so prettily, giving her an overall air of carefree femininity. She could scramble up the face of a mountain or slink by in an cocktail dress with equal success. She’s smart- quick-witted with a clever sense of humor. She can guide any conversation with her effortless charm and ready smile. If you can make her laugh you feel like she’s given you something special. A delightful, fizzy gift you can roll up and place in your breast pocket so that it rests against your heart in that private place you reserve for lovers, mothers, and best friends.

Drip. Splash. Squelch.

The bathroom door is locked. The three year old is nowhere to be found.

Knock-knock. “Zibbit? Are you in there?”

“IT’S OKAY!” You hear from behind the door. Splish-splosh. Ahem.

“Please come open the door Zibbit.” A very guilty face appears.

“It’s okay, Mommy!” She chirps unconvincingly.

“Where did all this water come from, honey?”

“It’s not water!” Uh-oh.

“Is it pee-pee? Did you have an accident?”

“No, it just comed out of the potty.” Oh shit.

Upon entering the bathroom, you find yourself faced with the entire Columbia river flowing across the beautiful hardwood floors. The brand new roll of toilet paper is now completely empty. The toilet is groaning and sputtering in the corner, begging for mercy. The three year old is absolutely soaked, and charmingly sheepish.

“I flushed it,” she says. “A lot of times I flushed it.”

You survey the situation, hands on your hips and a furrow in your brow. And then you do the only thing a reasonable woman can do. You turn off the light. Close the bathroom door. And pretend it never happened.

Would I sound like a horribly shallow person if I told you that swimsuit shopping is just as depressing as separating from my husband? Yes? Ok, we’ll just say that swimsuit shopping is not necessarily but may possibly be just as depressing as separating from my husband.

I greatly sympathized with Miss Kerflop’s entry about the sad state of the post-baby body and the desperate search for finding a suit that fits and looks good. I’ve been shopping around for a few months now because my current swimsuit is a hand-me-down from my aunt, and I’ve had it for about five years. That’s sad. But after trying suits on at store after store after store, I’ve come to the realization that the idea of finding a suit that fits and looks good is a ridiculous pipe dream. It will never happen. The suit does not exist. And after seeing my parts jiggle and squish and slide out of flimsy suits under the harsh lights of various dressing rooms, I’m about ready to sign up for some hardcore plastic surgery.

While I was attempting to coax my nonexistent breasts into filling up a cute little halter top in the Target dressing room the other day, I overheard some teenagers on the other side of the wall lamenting about their own swimsuit issues. Although their complaints made me want to go over there and beat some sense into the little twits.

Girl 1: I just can’t find a top that fits! All these suits are just totally too small!

Girl 2: But that one looks cute on you!

Girl 1: Yeah, the bottom fits. It’s a small. But look, the top is an extra large and my boobs are still spilling out!

Girl 2: Yeah, like why can’t they make swimsuits for girls who have real bodies? My boobs would never fit into these tiny things.

Girl 1: I know, I’m a size 2 but that doesn’t mean I don’t have tits!

Grrrrrrrr. Real bodies? Real bodies? Let me give you fillies a little reality check on what a real body looks like. A real body has about six or seven wiggly places that should never, under any circumstances, be seen in the light of day. However, unless one is in the market for a wet suit, one cannot possibly find a swimsuit that will cover those places and flatter a real woman’s body. You, my sweet naive little children, do not have a real body. You have a teenager’s body. And I promise you, unless you die tomorrow that body of yours is only temporary. Come back to me in ten or fifteen years and we can discuss the perils of swimsuit shopping for a real body. Until then, please enjoy this knuckle sandwich.

After many many failed attempts, I did end up finding something today that hides the most heinous parts and pretends to flatter the chestal area. I had to mix and match two sets to make it work, but I think it’ll be ok. I went with this top, although I obviously don’t fill it out quite as well as she does:

And this bottom, and let’s please all imagine my thighs looking that lovely:

I’m ready to hit the beach! If only it would quit raining here and let some summer in.