“The Romans would use a communial sponge which soaked in a pool of chemicals to clean their asses,” my husband, the history major said.

”The idea of using the same sponge as a number of people for cleaning my butt is just gross,” I called out.

My father-in-law, Tim, chimed in, “What about a bidet? We could buy one off Amazon.”

“I am not having cold water shoot up my ass, thank you,” Maritza lit.

”We can buy one with a heated setting and even a dryer, if you’re willing to spend more money,” I said.

“Hmm. I just don’t know how I feel about it. Let’s just cut back on how much toilet paper we’re using. My sister says she only uses two squares to wipe her ass. And then she folds it and uses the other side too!” Maritza declared.

We all made faces of disgust and laughed as we unloaded the groceries and put them away as usual. Except my mother-in-law, already the germaphobe before the pandemic, instructed her husband to throw away all the bags that entered the house and clean the surfaces where any bag lay upon the counter.

”I saw some doctor on the news explain how to properly bring in groceries safely,” she explained.

It struck me as an odd juxtaposition to be carrying on laughing and putting away groceries like we always did when it felt like the world had altered so suddenly with the outbreak of the coronavirus.

Toilet paper may seem an important resource, and sure, keeping yourself hygienic is an important part of wellness. However, it occured to me that my family was the most precious of resources. I’m not going through this alone because I have them to joke and laugh with. I only wish other families were as lucky.

Possession, rapid tick-ticking

Of thick-witted sickness

My hands demand I bleed out

The words

You'd concieve me mad

Well maybe

I am--

or

May

be

this

life

is

merely

a

madness

Dressed in raucous truths

Augmented by

fantasy

fallicy

folly

flippancy

friviloty

I exist in seasons of color

You’ll catch a glimpse and fall under

A spell

A well

Of words

Too terse to tell

A wave of familiar fatigue

Muscularskeletal small tears

A monumental feeling of pride

A cataclysm of doubt remedied

Sweet red ambrosia memories

Coupled with a voice of silk

Singing reminescent songs

That spur you to go on.

I was always cynical when mothers would say, “There is no stronger love like the love you have for your children.” Then I had a baby and my world changed. Nearly every facet of my life was touched by having a baby. My focus changed. I was born into motherhood. I’m now one of those mothers who proclaim there is nothing like a mother’s love.

Today my son was playing with his toys on the floor while I was having my coffee nearby on the couch, my family around me. It was a typical Sunday morning. CBS was on T.V. We were in the middle of conversation when Maritza, my mother-in-law, said, ”He’s choking.”

In a nanosecond I was by my son’s side, I held him with one palm on his chest, his body adjacent to the floor and I beat his back and quickly dislodged the foreign object. He threw up and I held him, checked that he was breathing and when I realized he was okay I whispered, ”my baby.”

A minute or two passes and my leg is flooded with pain. Maritza calls for my husband to take Teddy from me. I become dizzy and feel nearly faint. In my race to my son, I landed full force on my son’s toy cup. It left about a four inch cut accoss my shin and started turning blue. My first thought was, I can’t afford to go to the doctor. Fortunately for me, Maritza jumped in, iced, cleaned and bandaged my leg.

T.J., my husband, pulled a grape stem from our son’s mouth. It was still in his mouth, he had tucked it in his cheek and apparently tried to keep it. Maritza and T.J. had to work together to get it out of his mouth. I heard all this from the baby monitor in the living room where I was confined to iceing my leg on the couch.

My worst fear is my son dying. Today reminded me of a quote I read about motherhood, that it makes your life twice as bad and twice as good. I love my son so much it hurts and I am all too aware of how fragile life is and how quickly he can be taken from me. The close call has shaken me, but my quick actions prove that I am a fierce mother and I can rescue my son in an emergency. I just never want to have to rescue him ever again.

I was once in your seat.

I told myself the teacher was not referring to me.

I believed I was not that aspiring

or capeable.

Well I speak to each of you now—

As one who was filled with self doubt.

You are more than you know.

The naysayers reap what they sow.

I was fueled by their disbelief

Now nothing can stop me.

I am the epitome of strength

I beat my own self hate.

I think you got what it takes.

The night light illuminates the crib across the room. A soft lullaby plays. My son has just latched on and his eyes are closed as he rhythmically suckles and swallows. I am a little uncomfortably perched, legs crossed, strapped into the orthodic feeding pillow my husband bought me on the bed, back up against the pillows, one is slightly off kilter. I had to maneuver myself against the pillows and headboard, one hand craddeling my son, the other pressed down against the mattress in an effort to bolster as much back support as possible. That must have been when the pillow shifted. I bite my nail and will myself to stay awake. My stomach grumbles; I’m hungry. I decided to go to sleep sooner rather than eat the night before knowing fully well I’d wake up hungry. My other breast is full and sore. I’ll have to switch him soon. I try to remember what I need to accomplish today and instead I’m lulled into a stupor by the lullaby “Oh how I love you. Oh how I love you Daddio.“ I open my eyes and notice my son’s nursing has slowed. I gently unlatch him with my finger and turn him around to latch on to my other nipple which is more sore now from engorgement. He suckles for a second and falls asleep. I sigh and lightly try to wake him brushing my nipple against his nose and back to his mouth. It doesn’t work. I bear him against my chest and with my free hand I place the pillow in the gap between my bed and nightstand. He nuzzles against my shoulder but doesn’t wake. When I place him on the changing table his eyes open faintly; he looks concerened or confused. I speak to him in a whisper, “Hi, sleepyhead, I’m going to change your diaper.“ I give him a kiss on the cheek and the right side of his lip curls up in a half smile. As I unfasten each side of his diaper he stretches his legs so it’s difficult to remove the the diaper between his straightened thighs. I yawn loudly and he startles but doesn’t cry. This allows me to remove the diaper as his legs ease up. In an automatic procedure, I wipe him clean and fasten his new diaper on with finesse. No sooner than a minute I pick him up and rock him is he asleep in my arms.

Sitting on the dock thinking of Maya Angelo. Still I rise an anthem in my soul.

I look up and see a seabird, beak proud, wings claiming the space around her.

I feel a fierce affinity with her as I observe her keen eyes.

I forget every time I’m away. Nature is in me and

I am in nature.

It’s easy to forget in a jungle of synthetic twigs and string.

If I lived in a nest like a bird, perhaps I would never again forget.

We are the peasants of our time. Making ends meet, paying debts, “doin‘ fine.”

Silentry gasping for air in the prison cell we share.

No one says it, but it’s understood.

It’s what we’re thinking when we answer, “I’m good.”

It’s evident in the number of children who go hungry at night.

You’ll see it on the street corner wearing ragged clothing clutching a sign.

You’ll find it in the news stories that seek to divide.

The people—who want the same things—are deceived into believing a group is a lesser human being.

Yet, I’ve seen kindness in the wake of disaster.

I’ve known a stranger who was really an angel.

I‘ve read of heroiones who brought about a new chapter.

This is is the kind of present I’m after.

An uninhibited child during the summer is free.

I remeber when I was a kid I would go up to my father and say, ”I’m bored” and he would scowl and tell me to read a book or something. When my child suffers from boredom, I’ll say, “Good, that means you‘re on the precipice of genius.” And, I was. My sister and I invented games we’d play for hours. My imagination boomed like fireworks on the 4th of July. I didn’t start feeling restricted until I was older, “wiser.” I had lost some of that imagination that fuled my childhood. The sweet, opulent fruits of my boredom shriveled away with each new responsibility. Sometimes I can still feel her spark of ingenuity, seeping through my fingers, grasping for that freedom of thought I once took for granted. I believe you know what freedom is when it’s lost. Freedom was the days I would spend at the beach where everything that mattered was the here and now. Shells shimmered under a translucent wave and I was in love with life which I swallowed in gulps after swimming for hours in the sea.

Fearless novices are free and children are the epitome of novice and if encouraged—fearless. I cringe when thinking of all the ways in which parents restrict their child’s freedom when they plan all their activities, shield them from failure, and hover too close. Imaginations’ embers stifled by a parent’s fear; it’s ironic how the best of intentions can produce the worst results.

I think freedom is relative for everyone and is best captured by a feeling, a feeling keenly missed when lost. Where there used to be seemingly endless amounts of freedom, now in adulthood, there are glympses. I work and I spend my freedom well. I saved for a year to venture to Ireland to be enchanted by her folklore and gaze upon rolling hills dotted with white sheep. I wait until the weekend to go hiking and lose myself among Douglas-Fir, Pine and Spruce trees. I wait until the end of each day to see my love come home and feel his arms around me. When we’re bound to the things that keep us alive and whole, is that freedom? I go back to the beach of my childhood, mostly in my mind, wherein I find the purest form of freedom.