According to eye witnesses, when I was born, my father was in two different places.

He was at the American Legion drinking when he got the call that I was on the way. By the time he arrived at the hospital, Mom had already squeezed me out. The whole ordeal was all over, and my dad missed it. BUT he says he caught a glimpse of my “monkey face” (his words) being rolled down the hallway in a cradle, as he had come racing in once he had realized his failure. Here was this adorable new baby all swaddled and wide awake, blinking up at him matter-of-factly and curious. He might’ve giggled (because Mom says he had surely been out drinking himself silly). Then he strolled his long legs into the hospital room to take the tongue-lashing my Mom was certainly entitled to give him. But, really, she was most likely already sleeping. Nonetheless, Dad insists that, in that moment, my monkey face touched him in a special way, and he will never forget it.

He was also actually IN the room AS I was being born, right there standing a few feet away from Mom’s distressed vagina but close enough to see all the blood when all Hell broke loose. And he wasn’t drunk, but he had probably smoked lots of cigarettes – right there in the hospital lounge because it was 1974 – and he (just as he had ended more than one long night at the bar) had to vomit up everything right there, right then. Mom says (with a little disdain) that a nurse left her side and rushed to assist him, and he sat and barfed his dinner
into the trash can while I was thrust into existence, all soppy in goo and mucus, my blue chord hanging to a gob of placenta. Then someone surely stuck a syringe up my nose – because that’s what happens when the world first sees you – and Dad eventually pulled himself together. And because Mom laughs a little now when she tells me her side of the story, like she’s getting one over on him by telling her truth, I imagine her laughing at Dad’s green face in between her contractions. Laugh, push! Laugh, push! And when I imagine Mom laughing and pushing, I imagine some bald doctor, sitting between my mother’s spread-eagle legs, as he’s throwing Dad a raised eyebrow over a pair of itty bitty doctorly glasses. My dad = tough, ole’ beer-drinkin’ veteran or skinny, puking wimp? Why am I even asking? Being both is acceptable and quite easy. Read more »

Sledding on Monroe Street near 14th, 1952. Apparently sliding around Spokane's South Hill was much more fun in the 1950's.

Last night, I lived through two events: 1.) A large writing workshop led by Debra Gwartney (awesome author of the memoir Live Through This) during which a small nonfiction piece I had written was workshopped, and 2.) being stuck in my minivan on the icy South Hill in Spokane until I thought I might burn all of the rubber off my tires, burn out my transmission, or slide back down the hill, like freefall, until I came to be smashed by an up-and-coming 4X4 Dodge Ram.

On the icy hill on Stevens Street, I revved and spun my wheels for what felt like an hour (at least five solid minutes) just ten feet away from the entrance of a parking lot where I knew I could get myself turned around. I surely sat on a 60 degree incline. The hill was steep and near murder for my minivan any given day. It was sheer stupidity that led me to tackle the hill on the iciest night of the season thus far. I had at least managed to get myself out of the flow of those badass 4-wheel-drives bebopping up the hill like they were being pulled by Santa’s flying reindeer. As I sat stuck, I thought hard about calling for help.

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I’m in the second year of EWU’s MFA creative nonfiction program, but I’ve been at this college thing – off and on – for almost eighteen years. I feel I need only say I have children as sufficient insight as to why I’ve taken so long. I have two daughters at home; one is seventeen and one is seven. ‘Truth is I do love being a student. I love learning, the humility in being shown new things, in being constantly challenged. I love the university setting, the coffee shops filled with intellectuals dressed all artsy fartsy. I love the diversity (I like to think I bring my own wayward perspective). I love critical thinking. I love political awareness. I’ve grown quite cozy with these surroundings, and I like to think I’m parenting with an extra flair of open-mindedness. Fall, the start of a new school year, always make me smile, especially Halloween. Last week, when my seven-year-old squealed over a pair of fairy wings as we shopped the Halloween racks at Goodwill (because student mothers often find themselves shopping at Goodwill), I deflated into a pool of Long-Time- College-Mama disappointment.

A Winx Fairy feelin' the breeze on her curvy, exposed thighs and midriff.

Fairy wings? I’m not a perfect mother, and maybe I could’ve/should’ve put more effort into shielding my seven-year-old from the dank, social constructs of gender. I have, however, finally convinced my daughter that glittery pink is NOT the only favorite color option for girls. I have incessantly refused to let her join the Winx Club, an online club in homage to skinny, underdressed, cartoon fairies with profane amounts of hair. I’ve spent hours arguing with my daughter over the impracticalities of wearing a skirt without a pair of shorts underneath. We’ve even shared intimate discussion regarding the ways in which the Disney Princesses could’ve been smarter given their circumstances (We decided together that Snow White was an idiot). This year, for Halloween my seven-year-old had already told me she wanted to be a soldier – not a “soldier girl” in a mini-skirt and red lipstick (a costume likely packaged and sold in Wal-Mart) but a hardcore solider in pants. I confess: I loved it! My daughter had decided – of her own accord – she wanted to be decked out in camo, smear greasy paint on her face, and thump around in heavy boots. The only stipulation I added was No Gun. She didn’t care much. “Ninja moves” was her weapon of choice.  Read more »