Surrender, Dorothy

Fourth Poetry Micro Collection: War

I've held this collection back for a while because I'm so torn regarding my thoughts on war. America has been at war for my daughter's entire life. We're currently occupying so many countries it boggles the mind. I want to believe we're fighting for freedom, but sometimes freedom from fighting seems more important to me. It's not ironic at all to me that the book of Revelation features a creature saying hurt not the oil and wine.

This collection of five poems spans a ten-year period of time, both before and after 9/11.

War

"The Wall" recalls the Vietnam Memorial as I visited it in my twenties.

"Before September 11" was written before the world as we knew it changed and reflected my then cynicism on the nature of fighting.

"The Way We Went On" was written on September 11. My husband was in Charlotte and was supposed to fly home to Kansas City that morning. He ended up driving a rental car halfway across the country while I watched the images over and over on television.

"Awaiting War" reflects the state of our nation as we waited to see how we would respond to the attacks of 9/11.

"November Reflections" also appeared in my micro collection Shelter, but it also belongs here, as it was written two months after 9/11 as we were all still recovering. In this poem, the house is a metaphor for America.

War is available on Kindle and the iPhone Kindle app for $1 or less. See the Books & Kindle link above for my other poetry collections and short stories.

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Writing about my daughter's swimming issues on BlogHer today.

My Daughter's Anger

Her: "Mommy, can I have a milkshake from Sonic on the way home?"

Me: "No! Where did you ever get that idea? What did Daddy let you do while I was gone?"

Her: "But I WAAANT ONE!"

Me: "Sorry, kid, that's the way the ball bounces." (God, I hate me.)

Her: "I'll show you! I'll take your things away."

Me: "You don't get to do that. See, I'm the mommy. I'm in charge."

Her: "Well, I'll sit in your spot at dinner, then. You won't be able to sit there."

Me: "Okay."

Her: "And I'm going to mad at you for TEN WEEKS."

Me: "But Daddy's birthday is in less than ten weeks. Are you going to be mad at me on Daddy's birthday?"

(I stifled a grin.)

Her: "Well, maybe not on Daddy's birthday. But I'm going to be mad for the rest of the ten weeks."

We pulled into the driveway and got out of the car, me walking, her thumping.

Her: "I'm going to throw something."

Me: "Don't throw something. Stomp the floor. Really hard. But just the floor."

As I unloaded the car, I heard her stomping. I went out to get the mail. I saw her through the glass door. I smiled at her.

She glared at me, her face stone. She raised a fist at me, shook it symbolically, unsmiling, and turned away. She was totally serious.

Me: "Baby Duck?"

She looked over her tiny shoulder, tossed her long hair, and stomped off, little shoes echoing in the late afternoon.

She was really mad. Not preschool tantrum mad. Personal mad.

I felt ostracized by her anger, shut out, made "other." I tried to rise above it, to reassure myself this sort of display is developmentally appropriate, to intellectualize the experience.

It didn't work.

I sat outside on the step, mail in hand, and put my head on my knees. It's been a hard week, coming back from travel, and I'm getting my ass handed to me on a daily basis at work. I didn't need this from my kid, my girl, that little creature who's supposed to always love me.

She didn't come.

After a few minutes, I picked myself up, as mothers do, and walked inside. She sidled over.

Me: "Do you feel better?"

Her: "Yes. Stomping helped."

Me: "Yes, it frequently does."

Her: "Do you ever stomp at work?"

Me: "Yes. I usually go in the bathroom, though, so they don't see me stomp."

Her: "Would your boss get mad?"

Me: "Yes, bosses don't like stomping."

Her: "Do you ever cry when you're mad?"

Me: "All the time."

Her: "I'm not mad anymore."

Me: "I'm glad."

Then she reached out her perfect hand and took mine, and I wished it would always be this easy to make up. I'm not sure I'm ready for this new personal kind of anger.

Let's Check in with the Ultra-Pool

When we last checked in with the Ultra-Pool, some of you said you couldn't read my text boxes. This makes me very sad, and it also makes me wonder which browser you are using, because it totally looked fine in Firefox. May I suggest Firefox? But today, alas, it was 72 degrees and raining in Kansas City (which sometimes doesn't stop the young and beautiful), but also? I forgot my camera.

I went to lunch with The Editor Across the Aisle and another editor at my workplace whom I am swiftly growing to love but for whom I do not have a handle. Perhaps I will have to find out her porn name. Anyway, we were sitting at a Thai restaurant slurping good food when I mentioned my need for an Ultra-Pool post. No sooner were the words, "What else could you do with your $1,000 Ultra-Pool membership fee?" out of my mouth, The Editor Across the Aisle began. "Collagen," she said.

Somehow, we got off on other topics, which I really can't understand. So let's make a list, shall we?

Things Young and Beautiful Kansas Citians Could Do with Their $1,000 Ultra-Pool Membership Fee: Part the First

• Ikea furniture and a hex wrench
• Three sessions of Botox
• Laser hair removal
• Two seasons' worth of make-up at MAC
• 10 autographed photos of Pete Wentz
• A summer's worth of nail tips
• Two trips to see the Chiefs this fall, even though they suck
• Many, many useless Missouri or Kansas lottery tickets
• Four hogs
• 100 copies of Sleep Is for the Weak to give their knocked-up friends
• 9 months of Slim For Life
• 10 sessions of teeth whitening
• Enough hooker shoes to go to the Power & Light district three times
• Cash for Clunkers

Contributions? Anyone? You don't have to live here. You know what these people look like.