I Wore Flowers in My Hair; They Made Me Sneeze

Growing up, I always suspected I was born about thirty years too late. I imagined I would have been a wonderful flower child; barefoot, braless and sticking daisies in the barrels of rifles.

Now that I’m grown up, I hate going without shoes, and my post-nursing breasts demand a brassiere. As if that weren’t enough to disqualify me from the free love generation, I’m allergic to daisies.

I set aside my shortcomings –and endeavored to rediscover the flower child roots I was cheated out of due to my delayed birth date– during our trip to San Francisco in 2007. It was the 50th anniversary of the first reading of Allen Ginsberg’s “Howl,” the entire city was cloaked in a heavy cloth of anticipation, and I intended to follow Ginsberg’s advice— “Follow your inner moonlight; don’t hide the madness.”

Madness, as it happens, would be found nightly at Harry Denton’s Starlight Room, but that’s a story for… another story.

Even before unpacking, I hopped a trolley and set out for the infamous intersection of Haight and Ashbury. I pictured natural foods co-ops, markets filled with handcrafted wares, and street musicians playing just for the sake of art. Exuberant and expectant, I watched the passing street signs, preparing to disembark the trolley and embark on my flower child communion.

Whatever may have been at the intersection of Haight and Ashbury during the Summer of Love, I suspect it wasn’t what I found in 2007: a Starbucks and a Gap.

“WHAT?” I cried. “Where are the flower children?” Peering in the window of Starbucks, I suspected the aged free love brokers were sitting inside, dressed in khakis and pressed button-down shirts from the Gap across the street.

Disappointed but determined, I pressed on. I planned only one purchase in San Francisco – apart from a commemorative copy of “Howl and Other Poems,” of course. I figured San Francisco must be the best place in the world to find a peasant skirt –one of those flowing, lightweight skirts that look great with Birkenstocks.

I walked the entire length of the Haight, popping into every boutique, looking for my souvenir. Hours later, with blisters on my heels, falafel in my stomach and frustration upon my brow, I called Mr. Wright from my cell.

“How can the peasants afford them when they’re over $150?” I asked.

I wasn’t going to let a failed shopping expedition ruin my trip. Oh, no. I returned to the hotel, braided some silk daisies into my hair, and dragged Mr. Wright to City Lights bookstore, the epicenter of the Ginsberg celebration. We entered, and I began collecting stacks of free poetry journals and zines.

Mr. Wright stood in the middle of the bookshelves, afraid to touch anything. “Don’t sign up for anything,” he said. “Don’t give our names or address. I’m pretty sure we’re going to end up on some Communist watch list just for setting foot in here.”

I laughed and perused the shelves of anarchist poetry while Mr. Wright sprouted a healthy crop of hives.

The sound of applause filtered down the stairway, and I realized there was a reading taking place. Tugging on Mr. Wright’s sweat-drenched hand, I climbed the stairs and entered the small room at the top. There, a tattoo-covered, multi-pierced person was reading an essay about pigeons.

To this day, Mr. Wright and I have an unresolved bet regarding the gender of the reader.

“Pigeons are rock doves,” they said. “Doves are symbols of peace. Why do people hate pigeons so much? I mean, if we started calling them ‘rock doves,’ maybe people would give them the respect they’re due.”

Gasping, I leaned over and whispered into Mr. Wright’s ear, “I’ve finally found my people!”

The look he gave me in return suggested he would have much preferred to see a copy of my family tree BEFORE the wedding.


Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/scragz/429695535/

Bad Gratitude Monday: WEEDS

That's right - I said it.

I'm grateful for weeds.



Ordinarily, I try to ignore them. I tend to adopt a "live and let live" principle, and I've even been known to opine weeds are just flowers that no one wants. Unfortunately, Mr. Wright does not share my opinions.

So, this morning, I took an antihistamine and ventured out to the jungles of the flower beds.

Sometimes the Lord blesses you with abundant crops and fragrant blooms; sometimes he blesses you with weeds. I learned several lessons from the little green demons this morning:

• From the weeds I'm sure I pulled before: Persistence.
• From the weeds with deep, deep roots: Sometimes, getting the job done means getting my hands dirty.
• From the weeds with sticker-y barbs: Look out for yourself, and don't surrender easily to defeat.
• From the weeds growing among the intended ornamental grasses and shrubs: We CAN all live together.  (Of course, I was out there, ripping them up by their roots - but the lesson was still valid.) 
• Also from the weeds growing among the intended plants: Don't be afraid to surround yourself with greatness, and consider yourself worthy of greatness in your own right.
• From the weeds that refused to release their roots, but broke off at ground level: Don't give up! I may feel broken, but as long as my faith remains rooted in fertile soil, I can grow to be strong again.

What unexpected lesson are you grateful for today?

Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/robotography/2722477781/

My Book's First Review

Dave Peckham, Christian writer and author of several books (including "Shepherd Warrior," cover image to left), reviewed "Everything I Need to Know About Motherhood I Learned from Animal House!"

I am lucky enough to count Dave among my real life friends and mentors, and his review humbles and means a lot to me. Here's what he had to say:

Christina-Marie Wright's collection of essays and musings on motherhood and parenting is a perfect blend of humor and real life happenings. Her recounting of emotions - frustration, happiness, sorrow, doubt and pride in her unplanned family, is a joy to read.


No subject is taboo and includes very personal situations in both her and, dare I say, her cooperative husband's lives.


Christina-Marie is a talented writer with the rare ability of stating the obvious while creating an environment of surprise and laughter for her readers which, I predict, will be many.


David T. Peckham - author and Christian writer
www.onhisshoulders.com

Swing by Dave's site and give him a shout!

A Girl and Her Dog... Meat?

In our house, the source of meat is no secret. Mighty, mighty hunter that he is, Mr. Wright is very forthcoming with the kids about what they're eating. Plus, our kids visited the Angus in our freezer, back when it still walked the pastures of Bullet Bob, our friend and proprietor of Gyurkovics Ranch and Wedding Chapel. Bullet Bob married me and Mr. Wright (to each other, of course).

Snugglebug and Curlytop describe meat by the animal it came from. "Daddy, I want some cow," or "I want more deer, please." It's enough to turn a vegan mama's stomach. I used to wonder how the girls would respond when we got to the point in our Native American heritage studies where we discussed whale hunting, but now I just worry about how I will explain it without crying.

Curlytop's speech therapy has paid off in a huge way. We're so proud of her! She's speaking in complete sentences and using vivid, active words to describe what she sees and feels. There are still a few phrases she gets mixed up on, like instead of saying, "I want to show you something," she says, "I want you to show me something." We continue to work hard every day.

This morning, as Mr. Wright cut up a roast to put in the crock pot, Curlytop stood on her toes to see over the counter and asked a question. I was sure I'd either heard her wrong or she had some words confused, so I asked her to repeat herself.

Sure enough, she said again, "Daddy, is that meat of puppies?"

"No, Sweetie. It's cow."

"Oh. Not puppies? I want some cow!"

"Okay, but we have to cook it first, alright?"

Curlytop shrugged. "O...kay," she pouted. Mommy's little barbarian.

I got Curlytop off to school and pulled Snugglebug into my lap while I fired up my computer. When chaotic mornings allow, I find I actually like working with her sitting between my arms while I type. "Mom, I love you," she said as she got comfortable. Awwww... those heartstrings pull to the point of breaking, sometimes!

I should have known she was just buttering me up because she wanted something.

Snugglebug pulled off both of her socks and turned herself so she could put her feet in my face. "I want piggies," she said. Please understand, in my world, This Little Piggy goes a little differently than some of you may remember:

This little piggy went to the farmers' market;
This little piggy stayed home.
This little piggy ate tofu (not "toe food");
This little piggy had naan.
And this little piggy cried, "Wee, wee, weeeee..."
All the way home.

As the girls have grown up a bit, I've begun letting them choose their own piggy adventures. I start the story for each piggy, and let the girls finish. Today's piggies went like this, with my part in italics, and Snugglebug's in bold:

This little piggy went to... the new house!
This little piggy stayed... at the new house!
This little piggy ate... PUPPIES!
This little piggy had... PUPPIES!
And this little piggy cried, "Wee, wee, weeeee..."
All the way home.

Was there a butcher's special on puppy meat? Should I be concerned that piggies are having puppies? Our dogs are beginning to look a little nervous, and Kobi just asked me to double-check his AKC lineage.


Oh, have I mentioned you can pre-order my book now, and save tax and shipping? Do it because you love me.

Photo credit:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/josefnovak33/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

My Book is Almost HERE! Order Your Copy NOW!

Guess what, kids! You can order my book before it's officially released and save the tax and shipping charges!

Want a preview? Here's the front cover (click to enlarge):

And here's the back cover (click to actually read the words):

And here's where you can click to order it through PayPal for just $10.00! (I'll pay the shipping and tax, because I love you.)

Books will ship around June 20th.

Are you as excited as I am?

I Think I’ll Curl Up and Diet

For years, I’ve said weight, much like age, is just a number. “What matters is how I feel,” I’ve said. Do I have enough energy? Can I move around comfortably? Do my clothes fit? As long as I could answer “yes” to those questions, the status quo sufficed.

My bathroom scale – otherwise known as Judge of the John – collected dust under the sink, and I became quite happy with a little distance in our relationship. Judge John hasn’t said anything pleasant to me in years, and our brief conversations begin with him proclaiming something so ridiculous, it’s offensive, and end with me rolling my eyes and vowing never to see him again.

While it’s true that weight is just a number, that number is currently 25 more than when I met Mr. Wright, ten years ago. I’ve added six children to my family in that time, and it’s natural for a woman to pack on a few extra pounds when she welcomes a new child.

Of course, those women actually grow children inside their bodies. Can I claim empathy pounds?

Do I have enough energy? Sure, depending on what you want me to do. I have adequate energy levels to cuddle a child on the sofa while watching a Veggie Tales DVD. Once a day, I can muster enough power to prepare a meal that doesn’t involve a microwave. If anything further is required, the last of my reserves will rally to prepare a pot of coffee.

Can I move around comfortably? In many ways, I’m more comfortable. Ten years ago, I couldn’t sleep on my side or my stomach without my ribs getting in the way. Today, I can sleep in any position, and though I haven’t seen or heard from my ribs in a while, I suspect they’re doing fine, wherever they are. At least, I haven’t received any phone calls asking for bail money.

Do my clothes fit? If “skinny jeans” is really just a figure of fashion speech, my clothes fit. If an A-line dress is meant to be fitted all the way down the line, my clothes fit. As long as I can believe my dresses shrunk, making the hemlines much higher – and ignore Mr. Wright’s supposition that my butt is just lower – my clothes fit. As long as I wear yoga pants and sweatshirts… my clothes fit.

I tried a girdle. I think they’re called “body shapers” now. Indeed, my body took on new shape after I stretched, tugged, yanked, held my breath and jumped up and down while pulling the infernal thing into place. It should be noted that special scientific laws apply to fat and cellulite; namely, they can’t be flattened or smoothed, but they can be redistributed.

The padding from my butt and thighs, squeezed downward, oozed out the legs of the body shaper until the tops of my knees looked like two loaves of bread. My love handles smooshed upward, out the top of the shaper, giving me every appearance of a second set of breasts and the need for another brassiere.

My rear end and mid-section – as promised – were perfectly shaped and smoothed, for what it’s worth.

I’m pretty sure I heard Judge John snickering under the bathroom sink as I pleaded with my last pair of size six jeans this morning. My feelings were so hurt; I almost couldn’t finish my second stack of peanut butter pancakes.

Photo credit:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/jodigreen/ / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

New on My List of Cool Places

SweetRiver Bakery.

Deliciously funky, amazingly friendly management, excellent service and a wonderful menu. What's more, Mr. Wright's band, Waterdog, is performing at this very minute in the courtyard.

Also - and this is important - beer, wine, and superb coffee.

Near Pateros? Head on down!

Growth Forces Sale, Make an Offer!

For sale: 2 cubic feet of cellulite. Expansion forces sacrifice of this sizable collection. I'm willing to entertain all serious offers, but must confess I've become quite attached. Might make good insulation for custom building project or filling for overstuffed chair? Lovely cottage-cheese texture may make acceptable substitute for popcorn ceiling. No phone calls, please - I'm keeping the line open for Jenny Craig.

Photo credit:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/toreajade/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

Another Friend, Another Book

Have I mentioned recently that I have some amazingly talented friends?

I've known Craig Boehman for thirteen years. He introduced me to some of my favorite poets and was one of my first readers for Miranda Writes. Craig has embraced the self-publishing movement, and I applaud him, especially since I can't seem to get Miranda off my computer and into your hot little hands. I can't help but do him a proper and recommend his books.

His most recent volume of poetry is a 50-page collection titled I Broke Up with My Haiku. I got to advise on the cover design! Support your local indie bookstore by ordering through Indiebound with the link below, which will direct you by ZIP code to the indie store nearest you.

I Broke Up with My Haiku

Craig's first volume isn't available through Indiebound, but it is available through Amazon. As you know, I ALWAYS recommend supporting your local economy and independent book sellers when at all possible. If Wolf Gin Sonnets becomes available through Indiebound, I will update this link.

Wolf Gin Sonnets

Also, you can check him out on Myspace for awesome spoken word and music!

Miranda Writes, Part 9

A little bit about my novel-in-progress, Miranda Writes:

Miranda Sutter is a vegan, a bartender, and a writer – not necessarily in that order. She knows that the next Great American Novel is rolling around inside her head, if she can just find the right inspiration… The solution? Consult with one very dead writer by the name of Ernest Hemingway. When a handsome stranger saves a choking woman, Miranda knows she’s found a hero she can base her book on, but when she begins stalking him to learn more about his life, she’s in for more than she bargained for. Along the way, she will have to deal with long-buried grief and fear, a crisis of faith, an unwelcome housemate, a clingy gothic poet, the hero’s ex-wife, and a very hairy dog. Her crazy antics are sure to land her in jail… or in love!

If you're new, read part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5 part 6,  part 7 and part 8 first.

Chapter Three

Wednesday, April 18 (continued)

Afternoon shifts suck at Echelon. With thirty-one bucks in tips in my pocket and six hours of polishing glassware behind me, I am driving home and looking forward to whipping up some stir-fry with tofu and homemade peanut sauce over brown rice.

The scene I find at home makes me lose my appetite immediately.

"Damn it, Aiden! It's nice enough outside. Why couldn't you cook that carcass on the barbecue?" He knows how I hate the smell of meat being cooked in the house, for crying out loud. Why would he do this?

"Aw, lighten up, Sis," he slurs.

Obviously, I have missed happy hour at my house. Both Chad and Aiden are drunker than ten sailors. What was a brand-new bottle of Woodford Reserve bourbon is now nearly empty and sitting on the countertop, its cork lost somewhere. An open bottle of Petrón tequila and half a bottle of Captain Morgan's spiced rum flank the waning Woodford.

Aiden insists, "I'm just trying to be a good host to your friend, you know."

"Yeah, Miranda. Chill. And have some steak." Chad offers me his plate.

"Not on your life, Chad." I start putting lids and corks on bottles and returning them to the liquor cabinet. A sink full of spotty, empty glasses stares back at me. I glare at them, sigh, and start scrubbing them out and putting them in the dishwasher.

"Was it something I said?" Chad attempts to whisper to Aiden, failing miserably. He's practically falling out of his chair, leaning hard toward my brother at the end of the small dining table.
"Nah. Don't worry about it, dude. She's vegan."

"Vegan? Like from Las Vegas?" Chad opens his eyes wide.

"No, dumbass. She doesn't eat meat. Or eggs. Or dairy. She doesn't wear leather or wool or silk or… what else, Sis?" Aiden looks to me to complete his educational seminar.

"Honey. I don't eat honey." I snap the dishwasher shut.

"Why not? What the hell is wrong with honey?" I can tell this conversion with Chad is going to be completely fruitless, but I indulge him, nonetheless.

"You see, Chad, I feel that eating should be a celebration of life. I simply don't feel that I, an intelligent human being, can choose to inflict suffering and death in order to celebrate life. The rest, like not wearing leather or wool, just follows naturally. If I am going to have a conviction, it can't be halfway." I look directly at Chad, who is staring at me like I am speaking a foreign language. To him, I suppose it is.

He gazes at me blankly for a moment, then sputters, "But what's wrong with honey? You eat fish, right?"

I shake my head at Aiden, who is chuckling. "Dude, just leave it alone. Just leave it alone. It's the one thing she just doesn't bend on. But, hey - more steak for us, right?" He lifts his glass of bourbon up and Chad meets it with his own. "Cheers!"

Chad gets up and stumbles to the kitchen counter. He's looking for the liquor I put away. Not that he needs any more, of course. "Ya know," he calls, too loudly, "there was this one girl I tried to bone one night after a show. She was like, super-hot and I really wanted her to, you know, go down on me, but - Hang on a second…"

He turns and vomits in the sink. Nasty.

Unbelievably, he goes on with his story, mid-sentence. "…but she wouldn't. Said it was some sort of religious thing or something. So, I guess she didn’t eat meat, either, heh. Just like you, Miranda." He walks back to the table. There's a chunk of puke hanging from the collar of his Billabong shirt. "So does that mean you don't give blowjobs, either?"

Drunken loser. Sometimes, I hate boys. Sighing, I grab a Diet Coke out of the refrigerator and sit down at the table. Chad's eyes are boring holes through my body.

"You know, Miranda," he mumbles, "I gotta tell ya, you're pretty sexy. I've seen the way you work behind that bar. It's like it's some sort of dance or somethin'. It's like… you just slide, all smoothly and everything, like you're some sort of exotic bar dancer or somethin'. Know what I mean?" He's asking Aiden.

"Hey, man, you're drunk. I mean, I'm drunk, but you're drunker, I think. Maybe you should just keep your thoughts to yourself, eh? Respect my sister, man." Aiden's head is bobbing from side to side, like he's trying to focus on something that won't stay still.

"Nah, man, it's cool. I respect her plenty." Chad turns to me. "Don't I, Miranda?"

I am seriously not in the mood for this. Not in my own house. "Whatever, Chad. Let's just drop it, okay?"

He's leaning back in his chair, which is turned slightly away from the table. "Aw, Mandy. It's cool. You know I respect you, right? 'Course, if I thought Gwen wouldn't find out, I'd like to get that fine ass of yours into my bed…"

I stand up, positioning myself in front of Chad's chair. He's still leaning back, his legs spread. Stepping in between his legs, I lean toward him and softly touch his face. "Oh, Chad," I purr, "Gwen was just telling me the other night that she might like to date me sometime. Wouldn't that be a nice treat for you? Hmm? Me and Gwen together? And maybe you?" Chad is literally panting. He nods his head furiously.

With one look, Aiden knows what I'm about to do. He shakes his head at me slightly and then shrugs, knowing he can't stop me even if he wants to.

With one swift motion, I hook my foot under the leg of the tipped chair and pull up, sending the chair straight backward with Chad still in it. His head smacks the floor, hard, and he's so stunned he can't move.

"Fat chance, you repulsive little freeloader!" I'm standing above him now, looking over him. He looks scared. Good. "Oh, and Chad?" I coo, "Don't call me Mandy, okay?"

Aiden's smirking at me. "'Night, Sis."

I Only Associate with Geniuses. Buy Their Books.

Have I ever mentioned how amazingly talented my friends are? Talk about literary genius! The only reason I hang out with them is because I'm secretly hoping they'll spill the beans and give away their secrets for juggling careers, kids, husbands, divorces, sailing around the world, backpacking through third-world countries and writing while somehow staying alarmingly beautiful and getting the hook up with publishers.

Perhaps you remember Corbin Lewars? She calls me Angelina. As in, Jolie. A har-de-har-har reference to my collection of children, I assume. I'm certain it's not the result of my lip plumper. Anyway, Corbin's book recently hit the shelves of your favorite local independent bookstore. I haven't snatched up my copy yet, but I've read and heard excerpts and can't wait to read the rest!

You can order it from your local indie bookstore using the link below:

Creating a Life: The Memoir of a Writer and Mom in the Making

Some may say it's not enough to have one genius friend, and some are right. That's why I keep Monica Murphy LeMoine on my list of names to drop. Monica's book is - believe it or not - a humorous memoir of miscarriage and stillbirth, among other things. Believe me when I tell you you'll find yourself laughing, and not even feeling guilty about laughing at a Dead Baby Momma. Well, not very guilty, anyway.

Support the amazing Monica (who just gave birth to a baby boy - welcome, Sean!) by ordering her book through the link below. (For some reason, Indiebound can't locate her. I'm going to send you through Amazon for this one - for now. As soon as she gets into the Indiebound catalog, I'll update this link!)

Knocked Up, Knocked Down: Postcards of Miscarriage and Other Misadventures from the Brink of Parenthood

Are you jealous of my freakishly talented, hot friends yet? I know you are. That's why I'm going to rub it in and share again about Janna Cawrse Esarey's book, which is amazing, entertaining, and just plain great to read.

Keep your dollars local by shopping indie through the link!

The Motion of the Ocean: 1 Small Boat, 2 Average Lovers, and a Woman's Search for the Meaning of Wife

Forget personal trainers and lipsuction... If I'm going to keep this kind of company, I need a publishing contract to look good.

Visit my friends online. Let them know how awesome they are.

Corbin Lewars

Monica Murphy LeMoine

Janna Cawrse Esarey

Bury Me Not on the Lone Prairie... Or Anywhere Else, for That Matter

Last night I bought a copy of Elizabethtown at StuffMart. Perhaps it's a sign of my rapidly accelerated aging process in the last few years, but the first time I saw the movie, I really keyed in to the great music, the Paul Varjak/Holly Golightly-type almost-romance between two beautiful people who were truly friends first, and the process of overcoming epic failure to come out an optimist on the other side.

This time, all I could focus on was the family's disagreement over whether to bury or cremate poor, dead Mitch.

The remainder of my living years will be devoted to a campaign to ensure no one plants my body in the ground. People in my family just don't get buried. We just don't do it. In fact, I personally think it's sort of gross, imagining my body being pickled, removed of its internal plumbing, and housed in a box that costs more than my dilapidated Honda before dropping into the dirt.

I'll take an order of Cremation with a side of Sprinkle Me Somewhere Special, thank you very much.

When my breathing voucher expires, harvest anything that anyone might need; send the rest to University of Washington. Let the med students cut me apart, scrape my cells, analyze my kidneys, find a cure for cancer... It doesn't matter to me. I'll be done with that body.

When they're done, have them fire me up, then take my ashes to where you remember me. Leave some in the garden at Hemingway's Key West home. Dust the blooms in the Woodland Park rose garden.  Toss some off the side of a sea kayak in Sanibel Harbor. Throw some in the dirt at Hiroshima Peace Park.

Remember me where I lived, not where my dead body ends up. 

Go to places of beauty to honor my memory. Don't give me a marker in some graveyard that meant nothing to me in life. Grow flowers in remembrance; don't cut them and leave them somewhere in a place of sadness. Celebrate your memory of my life by living yours.

Bad Gratitude Monday: A Fearless Kid

I spent the summer of 1994 in the library at Fairchild Air Force Base, where Pockets's dad was stationed, because I was 19 years old, enormously pregnant, and on a quest to read every book on pregnancy and childbirth that the United States military saw fit to stack on its shelves.

Plus, the library was air-conditioned.

I read about preterm births. I read about birth defects. I taught myself Lamaze. I read What to Expect When You're Expecting enough times to not expect anything at all, and Birth After Cesarean - even though I knew I'd never be pregnant again, no matter how the kid came out. Some of the books were downright terrifying, with entire chapters written solely to keep me awake at night, worrying myself into a case of hemorrhoids. Those were the "syndrome" chapters. Down's Syndrome. Fragile X Syndrome. Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. Floppy Infant Syndrome...

One night, Pockets's dad came home to find his wife, curled around her beachball of a stomach, sobbing. "What if the baby is autistic?" I hiccupped through tears.

"Even worse," he countered, "what if the baby is artistic?"

My list of worries was long, and included:

• The baby could be born early. (About two weeks past my due date, I remembered this fear with great fondness.)
• The baby could fail to develop a hand or a foot. Later, after a particularly bad dream brought on by a combination of nectarines, Swiss cheese and jalepenos on Melba toast, I became convinced the baby would be born without a nose.
• The baby could be abducted by aliens for biological research or, conversely, wasn't even my baby but an alien experiment growing in the petri dish that was my uterus. (Everyone worries about this, right? I'm not alone... right?)
• The baby could look like that guy from Mask.
• After watching Alex: The Life of a Child, I was sure the baby would have cystic fibrosis.
• After watching the Adam Walsh story, I began to wonder why I was even going through this prenancy to birth a child that would be abducted and murdered, anyway.

Pockets's dad disconnected the television and revoked my library card.

Pockets was born, albeit nearly a month late, without complications. He was a beautiful, fully-formed newborn with a healthy scream and a nonstop appetite. I've been smothering him ever since.

Perhaps it's the result of having a worrier for a mom, but Pockets has not, traditionally, been a brave child. Maybe hearing "What if you get hurt?" "Don't touch that - you don't know where it's been!" and "Don't let anyone steal you!" over and over again during his formative years made him overly cautious.

Then again, this is a kid who held out for three and a half weeks past my due date to venture into the world, so maybe Nature wins over Nurture in this particular case. Suffice it to say Pockets has not been the most fearless child I've ever known.

He entered kindergarten a full year early with a tested vocabulary of twelve and a half years. Although he easily held his own academically, he was younger and smaller than the kids in his social circle, and I began to wonder if I'd made the right decision in petitioning for his early entry to school.

When he played on his first tee-ball team, his age and lack of physical maturity showed. The other kids had an entire year of running, throwing and catching on him, and some of the kids had athletically gifted parents who pitched balls to them in the backyard, elevating them to mini Ichiros who didn't need no stinkin' tee when batting.

Poor Pockets. He had a mom whose greatest athletic ability was running up and down the stairs of the restaurant she waited tables at, and - on a good day - not falling on her face.

He was such a beautiful, strange child; sensitive and creative, slight and undeveloped.

My first lesson in letting my kid grow wings and risk falling came during a teeball matchup with a team of steroid-injected first-graders (THEIR moms clearly let them drink the bovine growth hormone milk) coached by a Lou Piniella clone. "My kids don't use a tee," he scoffed, "but if your kids want to, we won't object."

Twelve little first-grade heads huddled with their coach - Pockets included. "Our kids won't use a tee either," announced our coach.

"Are you sure?" I cried. I pulled Pockets aside. "Honey, I know you've never hit a pitch before, and I don't want you to feel pressured. The name of this game is teeball, and if you want to use the tee, you needn't be embarrassed."

Pockets shook his head. "Mom, I can do this."

I held my breath as he got up to bat. The coach pitched the ball. Pockets swung, and missed. Another pitch; another miss. As the third pitch was released, I prepared my best "Good try, Pockets!" as he swung... and made contact.

Base hit!

This year, Pockets earned his first football letter, along with his team's Most Improved award. He turned out for track this spring, even though Driver's Ed got him up at 5:30 every morning. Then, he came home a few weeks ago and announced he's going to enroll in college next year, weeks before his 16th birthday.

"What about football?" I asked. "What about track? You'll need to be preparing for the SATs pretty soon, and..."

"Mom, I can do this," he assured me.

And really, I know he can.

I dropped Pockets off this morning to take his placement tests for Running Start. If all goes well, he'll be entering college at the same time he begins his junior year of high school.

Today, I am grateful for a kid who, in spite of having a mother who eats What If for breakfast and washes it down with a double shot of I'm Not So Sure About That, has become fearless.

What are YOU grateful for today?

Photos:
1) Pockets and Mama gun down bogeys at the National Air and Space Museum - armed and dangerous (and our fingers are loaded, too!)
2) The dynamic duo goofs off in a Metro tunnel
3) Pockets, in football mode (c) Parson's Photography