October 31, 2011 § Leave a comment
Not really moving moving, but my blog is moving.
It just seems like time for a change.
I started this blog as Mama, more when Lena was almost a year old, just starting to talk, and the one word she knew in sign language was “more”, and when she would ask for more, she would let the her appellation for me run together with the word “more”, leading to these plaintive calls of, “Mama, more? Mamore? Mamore?
And at the time that was just so important. My daughter demanding more, the most, from me. And this still is the most important thing. But, as I’m learning, there are other things, too. (Like, reality television and YAF novels!)
So you may have noticed that Mama, more has been slowly evolving in name and in form, now to Welcome to the nerf herders.
Welcome to the nerf herders is partly homage to Alex. For calling my daughter a “nerf herder” and making her laugh endlessly. Welcome to the nerf herders is an evolution of sorts. If Mama, more was about me facing the immediate demands of motherhood, Welcome to the nerf herders is about me finding my niche, with Lena and with all of the intricacies of relationships that come with being a young parent. Or, you know, a nerf herder.
So without further ado, Welcome to the nerf herders.
Thanks for sticking around here, and reading. I hope you’ll join me for my next adventure.
October 29, 2011 § Leave a comment
A mother’s prayer
First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.
May she be beautiful but not damaged, for it’s the damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the beauty. When the crystal meth is offered may she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half and stick with beer.
Guide her, protect her:
when crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.
Lead her away from acting but not all the way to finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes and not have to wear high heels.
What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You, because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit.
May she play the drums to the fiery rhythm of her own heart with the sinewy strength of her own arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.
Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen. Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, For childhood is short – a tiger flower blooming magenta for one day – And adulthood is long and dry-humping in cars will wait.
O Lord, break the Internet forever, that she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers and the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.
And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister, give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, for I will not have that shit. I will not have it.
And should she choose to be a mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back.
“My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. “My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a mental note to call me. And she will forget. But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes.