Sign of the Times

The sign confused a lot of folks.

At first glance, it resembled a Gadsden flag: a coiled rattlesnake – often associated with distrust of government and the defense of individual liberty – on a bright yellow field.

Only the snake wasn’t arranged like a sprung spring … it writhed in the shape of a womb.

My husband had painted the sign a short time after the Supreme Court rescinded the understanding that women were considered equal under the Constitution and deserving of autonomy. 

He called it a gift and posted it in front of our house next to a sign I had painted two years earlier, (kNOw Justice, kNOw Peace).

The signs had lived at the edge of our driveway for about three years withstanding all kinds of weather, including the furtive complaints to town elders about its potential to violate ordinances concerning political signage.

Elders, to their credit, who would tell them they didn’t have to agree to understand the difference between the enforcement of general guidelines for electioneering during a cyclical “silly season,” and what is required for the preservation of protected speech.

It enticed people to honk their horns in solidarity … or rage … at all hours of the day and night.

Until, in the wee hours of the new Trumpian term, the sign disappeared. 

I presumed it had been carried off by one (or more) of the previously affronted. It was impossible to know for sure, since our neighbors’ American Flag, blowing in the wind that night,  obstructed the field of vision of their Ring camera, which had reliably shown the edge of our yard, and often revealed the unsavory truth about which of our “neighbors” gave middle fingers to the signs and which of our damaged packages had been perfectly fine until they had been literally kicked to the curb by the delivery driver.

Not that it mattered.

When the world didn’t stop on its axis at the idea of women’s private health decisions being criminalized, how could I be surprised by an overheard offhand comment: “I wouldn’t want to be married to the woman who makes him live with a uterus sign.”

In place of umbrage, I felt something akin to agreement.

“The feeling, I can assure you, is mutual.”

Not that it mattered what he thought. 

I wasn’t married to him. 

Still, it made me realize how nice it is to live with a man who isn’t squeamish about his partner being just that -  a partner. He is a man who believes that feminism simply means women are human beings deserving of self-determination.

He brought that same philosophy to parenting; we didn’t always see eye to eye but we hashed out disagreements with love and civility. 

We didn’t always put up a united front, but we could always talk it out and if nothing else, agree to disagree. 

Which, according to a new Gallup Poll, the gender gap between important rights like abortion is increasing by its widest margin yet.

I can’t imagine a world in which our children don’t see their partners as deserving of basic healthcare. I do hope they will be better, wiser, and more compassionate because they had parents who were true partners.

Happy Father’s Day to the true partners among us.

Mama bear

I want to eat something.

Something that perturbs me.

Or worries me. Or makes me enraged.

Tear it stem from stern.

Devour it in three gargantuan bites.

It won’t make me feel any better, I know.

If it doesn’t trigger a gag reflex the feted feelings will just lead to more agita.

Its acids will burn in my gut until I regret every morsel I’ve ever wolfed down.

Keep me up at night, pacing the floors just like when they were small.

They are only with me in my imagination as I meander. There is nothing in my arms but a thickening layer of my own flesh. I wonder when that happened? Probably the same time as the proud flesh spilled over at the waistline and hem edges, reminding me of the dichotomy that comes with aging - the comfortable discomfort of whatever gets tacked on as extra.

Even though we always know what’s coming it’s always a surprise.

Middle age is a wonder.

At least it feels that way to me.

Especially now that I know aging is not a mystery. It isn't something so foreign that I almost expected never to experience its effects. 

“La dee dah dee dah.” And other lies we tell ourselves.

“We’ll never grow up.”

“We’ll never find love”

“We’ll never get married.”

We’ll never have kids.”

“We’ll never get old.”

Of course, we thought we’d never get old – we’d never have hot flashes or brain fog, or the sinking feeling that we would be losing the plot of our own stories – not one of our mothers ever spoke about menopause.

But here it is … The Change.

Still, it’s hard to wrap our Present heads around the Future.  

You know there will be graduations, and weddings, and retirements, and maybe a few grandkids. Not that I am pushing any such agenda.

Instead, I spend that time in hopes that funerals are few and far between; and that they don’t directly involve myself or any of my loved ones.

We may feel like we have all the time in the world … but the clock is ticking faster.

Or maybe, I just want to sleep through this part of the season.

Hibernate while the cubs go off into the scrub.

The last baby has his first mortarboard in hand and is almost ready to motor.

He has plans that go beyond childish dreams.

The world is waiting. But I know it won’t chew him up. Or at least I hope it won’t.

I remember that feeling of wanting to eat him … that strange expression of early motherhood that translated into some unspeakable emotion - like loving a thing so much that, with heart filled, teeth clenched, adrenaline pumping, you might just gobble them up.

I wish I could still be that mama bear.

Yet despite how tempting that might be, now is the time for that impulse to hibernate. 

Above and beyond

The day wasn’t much more than halfway over, but my eyelids felt excruciatingly heavy. 

The to-do list still had a few more loads of laundry; some weeding of a roadside flower garden (that I have been meaning to do since the school stopped requiring the interception of a parent or guardian to meet the bus); and a trip to the grocery store, which, once accomplished, would be my third visit of the weekend.

The store is only three miles away. Five minutes by car. But somehow those first few steps of putting on shoes, finding my wallet and keys, then locating the reusable totes I never manage to bring into the store anyway, make me feel like I should take a short break … maybe have a glass of cool water, sit on the couch, commune with my phone for a bit … just to be sure my list is complete  … before I make another arduous journey.

“I’ll go.”

My son was standing in front of the refrigerator, holding on to the doors and staring into the abyss long enough to make me wonder if I would have to summon the spirit of my mother and holler something in his direction about “not heating the great outdoors” or “refrigerating the kitchen.”

He closed the ice box with a shrug and deciphered my puzzled expression.

“To the store. I’ll go. What do you want?”

I don’t know how to describe the feeling …

You know? Like when the kids were tiny tots, and they were both sick with some vomit-y plague, and you were a zombie because you never got sleep, but somehow you are resignedly prepared to clean up whatever surface gets splattered?

And then one of the pukers actually makes it to the toilet!

For a brief moment, orchestras play and angels sing. 

You feel re-energized.

… It kind of felt like that.

Wide awake now and enthused by the prospect of not having to circle the store’s aisles until I’d had gathered almost everything I’d come for; finding out in the checkout line, or when filling the trunk with the haul, that I’d forgotten something integral …. maybe the meat for dinner or the eggs for breakfast.

I thanked him as I tapped out a list on my phone that I would send to his phone in the time it would take to drive the two miles.

He would be irritated that some of the items on it were intentionally vague: Meat for dinner, a selection of bread, something for snacks, cat food. But he wouldn’t complain.

Upon his return, he stopped by the garden where I was haphazardly weeding and let me know, enthusiastically, that he had procured a rack of ribs and was planning on slow-roasting them so dinner might be a bit late.

I laugh when I wonder aloud if I should send him back to the store for a lotto ticket.

“You'll have to ask me again in a few weeks when I’ll be old enough.”