I was a smoker
For a time

Hand on jutted hip
Fingers trembled
Inhaling a darkness
Too pale to match my own

I quit for my husband and the children he promised me
I quit as the spirit of rebellion burned out
... I had nothing left to feed it

Now I walk past ephemeral fingers of death
And I cough and choke
The only memory their lashes whipping chest and throat

I walk away and I can breathe again
The swell of nausea sinks in my belly
Begging me to remember
What I gave up is nothing to what I have

I was leaving class one afternoon when I caught the tail of someone's cigarette smoke exhalation.  Smokers don't annoy me.  It's not an us-them feeling.  It was just the passing of one of my own personal demons.  This was written January 18. 

If I must have clouds
Then give me rain
If the sky is clear
I would be marked with summer stain
I would bask in the light of our warming sun
To live as free as a child born to run
I do not fear the dark under clouds
But the silence of weariness
Would force a mourning shroud
So give me sun
... And a bit of shade
And I'll share my warmth
Until the sun will fade.

I wrote this one January 17 when my son and I were waiting for the heater to kick in before getting him to his preschool class.  It was a five minute poetry session. 

Twittering Away

Find me on Twitter

I have a Twit Stream

I am a Twit

Open mind

Mental flow

In / Process / Out

            Seconds, not moments

There is no thought

To the mental flow

That yells out around me

Inappropriate but funny

Angry political vice

It’s okay when I can’t know you

To repeat all you say

Censoring my senses

Means I have to think

Do I really want to repeat in words

What someone else has said

If I won’t even say it aloud?

No. Not Really.

For My Mom's Mom

Made white rice in a pot
On the Stove
Measured water with finger
The way Koon Yai taught me
Pointing to the clock, counting out fifteen minutes
Without words
We had no words
She had greasy stringy hair of black and white
Paper thin skin, pulled up and stayed up
Obedient to her as I could never be
I washed the pot the next day, discarding unfinished rice
Crunchy on top with a bottom of mush
Searing pain through my gut with the agony of remembrance
My rice failed her teachings
And I missed her
Missed her hunched shoulders
And the threadbare clothes from Thailand
She had worn for 20 years until it was replaced with a hospital gown
I used to watch her make her gum.
Leaves rolled with paste and coins from trees.
A screwdriver for a pestle
She added tobacco and spit in a cup
Spit of blackish brown frothing disgust
And I miss it

I've been going to school, full time for the past year or so. As a mom and wife, some days are a little more work than others. This quarter, I Mondays are madness. I have a 1:30-3:10 class, and go back for a 6:10-10 class. The rest of the week isn't nearly as insane, but I started trying out an approach to creative non-fiction. I want to flesh it out a bit, and incorporate more of my voice, but here it is, in it's raw glory. It’s the fall quarter, and a Monday. Class was let out just moments ago and I am sitting in my car, letting the peace and excitement of the last hour and forty minutes wash over me and wash away as I start counting off the minutes until my son is out of pre-school. He’s out at 4:00 sharp, but I can arrive five minutes early. Only five minutes. The list of my duties piles mentally, and prepares to tip as I start the car and head around the bend to the childcare center on campus. When I arrive, Aiden acknowledges my presence with a coy smile. He’s still working a puzzle and wants to finish it, and considers starting the next one before he is ready to leave. I try to enjoy these moments rather than rush him because he has time to play as he should and I don’t. I take the stairs, my arthritic knees groaning in complaint with each step, shouting out in random creaks. Aiden runs along the ramp, and we meet at the bottom, reaching for each other’s hands as we walk through the parking lot to the car where he is a big boy and can strap himself into his car seat. There is so much freedom at the age of four. We get home and it’s when the rush begins. I walk in and say hi to our older sons, Jonathan (10) and Devin (8). They’re in the same autism class at school and my husband works on homework with them when they get home. He helps with homework when he meets them after school. My husband has rearranged his work schedule to go in earlier so he can meet them at the bus after school because the older two get home when I’m in class. On Tuesdays, my Dad helps out. My husband doesn’t get much more than a hello as I drop my backpack on our bedroom floor and head for the kitchen where I prepare dinner. I start with peeling potatoes then dicing them. “Mommy, please give me some Koolaid.” Stop chopping. Rinse hands. Pour the drink and continue dicing. We’re out of the meat marinade my family likes, so I throw together a mixture of minced garlic, Dijon mustard and Worcestershire sauce, hoping my boys will eat it and not demand something else, throwing off my budgeting and planning that takes place during the grocery trip on pay days. Next I run my vegetable peeler along the zucchini, long ribbons of green fall off in slivers of slime because these are fresh from the yard. I toss the tri-tip in the oven, and start the potatoes boiling. In a sauté pan, the zucchini sits in a small amount of butter. I head to the bedroom to rest my legs and mind a bit. “What’s your hurry?” my husband says. He’s laid back and seems content with the world. He’s happy I’m home. I’m just as happy to see him but exhausted. We’ve been married eleven years and the sparks and glow are still there on the important things. “I have to get this done and I don’t know if dinner will be ready by the time I leave for class. If I have to go, I’ll set it up so you just have to pull the roast out when the alarm beeps.” In that moment his face falls and he replies, “I forgot” and I see his world has collapsed under the weight of my pending and temporary abandon. He’s sad that he’ll be home alone with the kids and he’s exhausted from his day at work. I forget my own hunger. I get up to check on dinner repeatedly, returning to my bed for the rest I need, but won’t fully get until much later tonight. Turn the green slivers of zucchini over. Pierce the potatoes to make sure they’re tender, drain them and add butter and the rest of the half and half because I forgot to pick up milk and there’s just enough for the glass that Jonathan likes with dinner. In that moment, I want to be in class. In that moment I don’t care that my kids will go to bed before I get home. I refuse to be brought down by the idea that the moment I am waiting for with patient anticipation is the moment my husband is dreading the most. The classroom is my refuge. I stab the meat thermometer into the roast with a little more enthusiasm than necessary. I set the timer and hope the batteries don’t die. Packing my books for my second class of the day, I run out on my kids and husband for school, feeling a little guilty. I reach the Valley entrance to Cal State LA, and start singing to “Roxanne” along with the police, ignoring the nagging notion that maybe I’ve sold my soul to the restraints of motherhood that I have framed my life with. I double check that my clothes aren’t red. Parking is easy enough and I lock up, throwing my parking permit on the rear view mirror and walking to class, knowing I’m late and will make someone get up to let me in. I take a little pleasure knowing that someone is jumping up for me and I’m on the receiving end of someone else’s efforts. In the classroom I am not rushing to prepare a meal, knowing it will be finished before I get home and the possibility of a plate being saved for me is always a gamble. In the classroom, there is no rush and bustle to get a million things done, and if there is, it’s not my responsibility. All of the frustrations of my day can slowly melt away because this is my time to be the center of attention, even if for a question or answer at a time. I’ll worry about the grocery trip I still need to make after class. I’ll worry about the laundry loads that need to be done once I am home, and the pile of dishes in the sink will wait patiently for me. And once my husband goes to sleep, I will work on my homework. First one up and the last one to bed, but that golden time in the classroom is worth it all.

Such a naughty bloggess.

That short story never did happen. I think I forgot about my blog for a while. Last post, I think I made it clear I was a surrogate mother for the second time. I gave birth to a beautiful baby boy, making a family grow. I can't describe the feeling, except that it is all of the good in life you can imagine.


It's hard as a mom with special needs children to feel like a good mom. I never feel like I can do enough, and it's hard to keep going and not just give up. I give up on housework. I tune the world out when I get lost in a book. The only time I feel I've done all I was supposed to is in the act of carrying and delivering a baby. I know I can do so, and by some accounts, including my own, it's fairly easy. (2 hours of contractions I felt, and one push until his head was out) Then to give someone something they've wanted so much and for so long. . . It feels amazing.

I decided to go back to school in the summer of last year. As in summer of 2009. I applied, and was accepted for fall of 2010. I was also very pregnant then. The baby was born at 37 weeks on October 8. School started in September, and the quarter just ended last week with finals. I went to my class on Thursday and felt random contractions throughout it. He was born on Friday. I would've gone to class the following Monday, except that childbirth tends to make a woman leaky in all sorts of uncomfortable ways. I went to class a week later, instead. I walked away with a B in American Literature, and a C+ in British Literature.

Toward the end of the quarter, I found out that my instructor was up for tenure. Students were asked to submit their opinions, and I was happy to write a letter for her. She was cool with me skipping out on her class to give birth, and was fine with late assignments. It was my way of thanking her. I balanced it with a dig at her horrid penmanship, it wasn't all sunshine. I turned it in the same day that was the last day for scholarship applications. I found out yesterday that I got it. I started sobbing, just floored because my GPA wasn't good enough, but my letter made it good enough to be looked over. So I'll share tidbits. I promised not to blog about my family, giving the world their privacy and so I'll keep part of that promise and omit the parts about my husband.

November 30, 2010

To whom it may concern;
My name is Yessica Maher and I’ve been a college student off and on since the fall of 1996. In the past decade I have had an average of one child every two years. Three of those are mine. The last two have been children I’ve borne as a surrogate mother. My older two sons are autistic, and my little one has developmental delays. Most of my energy and efforts are poured into my roles as mother and wife. School is something done selfishly for myself. It has nothing to do with my roles in life, but everything to do with being an individual.

My accomplishments include an Associate’s degree in General Education Transfer Studies, as well as a certificate in Communications from Glendale Community College. I spent a semester writing for their school paper, El Vaquero.

School is a refuge for me. When I am in a classroom, I am not a mother and wife. I’m just another student with no more or less responsibility than the student next to me. Graduation, once I get there will be a tangible way for me to monetize my love of literature through teaching.

To acknowledge my low GPA, clearly it took too long to figure out that while I am fascinated by science, I do not have the ability to easily wade through the math it requires.
Best regards,

Yessica Maher

So while this is no compelling short story, it's the chronicles of my life for the last few months. Maybe the short story will come soon. Maybe not. At this point, I think the surprise post would be more fun than something I try to get you, Dear Reader to anticipate.

Stalling

The goal was to write a short story in a couple of days. I forgot I’d have three little ones home on summer vacation. They are busy little guys. They’re good at draining so much from me that I only want to sleep. Or, like last night, I wasn’t thinking of sleep. Not before 11:00 last night anyway. I was thinking of writing about a Mommy and her mommy issues. But that’s not the story I wanted to share. I was just having a really difficult time channeling the story I had started on. Those thoughts were so scattered.
On the plus side, I did learn a bit about my writing style. Like in the past, the thoughts flow much more fluidly when it’s late at night. I’ve learned about the music in my writing though. I can’t listen to music with lyrics or a dance beat. I tend to sing or get up and dance. But I seem to thrive when listening to classical music. It’s calming and it doesn’t drive me to distraction.
How am I writing now? The kids are home with the sitter. I’m sitting in my husband’s frigid office, waiting for him to get off. He’s listening to some rap/hip hop station. (Not my cup of tea, or brand of cola) There is internet access, but since they have a SONICwall blocking anything fun, writing is happening. Nothing creative, mind you. This is more informative. Because again, there’s the rap/hip hop stuff going on and through my ears, filtering to my brain which can’t seem to create like this.
So, that short story is still coming. It’s just coming slowly. I can’t seem to function unless I’ve had plenty of alone time. Hopefully lots of good writing will happen this weekend. Crossing fingers and toes, and hoping and wishing so hard, it’s like holding my nose.
In other gripeyness. . . I had a conversation with someone. We talked about my child care provider, who I love! He’s older than I am by a couple of years. The kids adore him. He’s punctual if not early on days that I have appointments. On days when I’m flexible, he is too. We’re flexible when it comes to time because I stay at home, and whether or not he comes over, I’m usually stuck at home. The point of conflict came when I let her know he is gay. No, it’s not my closet to come out of, but I’d much rather face that let down than pass on his info to have that slap him in the face. He’s a wonderful person and when I let people know how wonderful he is, they naturally want to know if he’s free.
The part that bothered me was how radically things change when the admission is made that his sexual preference is different from most breeders. She specifically said, “I have no problem with their orientation, I just don’t want to see it.” Frankly, I don’t think he’d want to see what happens in her bedroom either. Then she said, “Well, I guess it’s okay if he has a boyfriend.” As if sexual predators don’t come in straight, or female, old or young. People are capable of all sorts of things, no matter what excites them. Some people are just sadistic. I’m grateful to have such a warm and gentle care giver for my children. He even does housework. I’m happy with him. I don’t care to discuss what happens in my bedroom and neither does he. Sexual preference aside, we have much in common and he’s become a really good friend.
Beyond that, we talked about my surrogacy. I’m happy to share what I’m doing because it’s something that feels good. I feel no shame. She asked if I had thought about having more of my own children. My husband wants to try for a girl, but I feel my hands are full, and I’m content with the three boys I have. She went on to add that with two autistic children, having more would be an unreasonable gamble. I feel that children are a blessing in their way, but there is a cost. Most days I’m glad I’m a Mom of three. Some days I wish I weren’t. I’m sure that admission makes me evil in some people’s books. I’m over it. I haven’t given up. I’m just more realistic about it all. I love my children. I can’t imagine life without them, nor would I really want to. At the same time, I know how much work motherhood requires. I know what it’s like to stay up with a sick baby. I know that we plan to care for our children for at least 18 years. I also know that sometimes those plans must change and we have to figure out their care after we are gone and they still need us for basic daily needs. For that reason, I feel that what I have is enough.
I am a surrogate. I love being pregnant. I love being able to help someone who really wants a baby to achieve that goal. It’s a choice. I choose to help them, just as they trust me with the most precious part of their hearts. It all means so very much. As far as my own family, I feel we’re at a good place. This is based on what I want to go through. At the end of the day, my desire to have more children will not specifically burden anyone outside of my family. It tends to be my family that gets asked to babysit. It tends to be my family asked to attend birthday parties. So as far as my family is concerned, it’s no one else’s business. One day I may decide I miss having a little one running around the house. I may give it one more try to have a little girl with my husband. At that time, it will be a decision that my husband and I make. It will not be something we ask others to weigh in on. That being said, unsolicited advice or opinions are not requested, required or appreciated.