Dreams Don't Come True (with kittens)

The fierce and adoring Grandma, the day-dreamy and whimsical me, and Mads (kicking and punching in my belly)

The Breaking Bad News With Baby Animals postcard I sent to Grandma the other day announced (with kittens), “Dreams don’t come true.” It just happened to be the one I grabbed from my stationery box, but also, it seemed a particularly astute message for her, regarding me. My grandma had a lot of big dreams for me--she has dreamt bigger, longer, wider, in more vivid technicolor for me than any other person ever has, myself included. And I wonder: if she is disappointed (and how can she not be), is that disappointment directed at me or at the unfair, chaotic, unsympathetic world in which I live. Is it the economy’s fault that when my name is Googled one finds - nothing -. Or is it mine?--my timidity, my lack of ambition and resolve, my belief that the world is an unthinking, unfeeling place and a person like me never had a chance?

I never became a writer (not in the way that counts, anyway). I don’t have any money and struggle constantly upstream. Since high school, I’ve managed to keep my figure more or less, but even my once beautiful mop of wild, curly hair has since diminished into a straggly, thin, lackluster mess.

My grandmother believed me to be not only a great beauty, but a great mind. And here I am toiling away in the service industry--I am a retail automaton--the highlight of my work day when a sales rep brings in grocery store deli cookies as a bribe. I am dropped off at work most days, wearing a backpack and carrying a lunch bag, like a child.

Has my lack of success and mobility hurt my grandmother, the one who dreamed for me?

I think about this a lot because now I dream. I dream not for myself but for my son. Even if I make nothing of myself, I have made him--a great beauty and a great mind. How could he not make more of himself than I have? It’s so obvious he’s destined for great things. He is better than me. I love him, and his dad loves him. I was damaged, you know, by people who did not dream for me so ardently as my selfless, obsessed grandmother. But my son--he’s not damaged. He doesn’t need to struggle.

But what if he does anyway?

When I talk about, ponder aloud, the things my son will become, am I doing him a disservice? Should I shut my mouth and just give him the space to be and breathe and become?


Or, is my dreaming for him a vote of confidence, one which will bolster and sustain him when he's a man making his way in the world? Will he pack my dreams for him into his rucksack when he leaves my arms and home to go to college or travel the world or protest tyranny or divide and conquer or whatever it is he will do?

Grandma's dreams for me have certainly never felt like a burden, but they haven't done much to propel me forward either (through no fault of my grandmother's). And, I suppose my attitude regarding my son's future, the weight on which I put success, depends in part on what my definition of success (for him or in general) is. Do I want him to be happy more often than he is sad? Absolutely. Or, at least, content. Do I want him to give and receive love freely and gracefully? Yes, of course. Do I want him to have money? -- Well, it's not the most important thing compared to contentment and love, but I imagine having just the right amount of money might make his days run that much smoother.

I consider the example I set for him in reaching those goals. I am hard on myself, often aloud. I get frustrated not because my life is not as my grandmother imagined it, but because it is not as I imagined/imagine it. I'm not talking about my family, my home, my town, or even my job; I'm talking about the little daily burdens and messes that trip me up--the unending dishes, double booking events for my son, poorly planned and hastily tossed together holiday and birthday celebrations, the inability to consistently schedule in time for my creative pursuits (like this), the list of projects and To Dos with not a thing crossed off.

My son has witnessed me cry and tantrum because we arrive at the Dorthea Dix sunflower field one week too late and discover all the flowers have shriveled up and died. He has heard and felt me snap because I wake too late and now must hurry through my day without transcribing that nagging thought/reverie/idea onto paper.

And, my son has wailed at a busy playground at the realization that he and Ella won't be able to play on the swings at the same time, that image he held of the two of them side-by-side and in the air after a week apart, squashed. He has groaned, "I can't do anything," and "it won't be perfect," when attempting to paint a portrait of himself doing barre work at his ballet studio. He has the paper, the pink and grey paints, but when he puts brush to paper he is dissatisfied and hurt.

I tell him, "there's no such thing as perfect," and when he still grumps and thrusts his paintbrush down ask, "Do you believe me?"

This is the work of his childhood and my parenthood (and adulthood). All my dreams for him, however loose and magnanimous, will mean nothing if we cannot get over this hump and heap of defeat regarding the disparity between expectation and reality--our imaginings of what life should look like and what we should be capable of, he and I both.

The lesson, of course, the one I am learning on behalf of myself and my son is not that dreams don't come true, but: Dreams Aren't Real (with kittens).

Just Joy | sidewalks, feel me strut so good; gutter, don't forget this face

• We are at the circulation desk checking out this week's book haul when one of the librarians (one I remember from my own childhood visits to Cary Public Library) compliments Mads on his Batman mask and gloves. Mads is exasperated and corrects him, "No, I'm The Flash," and I translate/explain that Mads is actually The Flash disguised as Batman. Mads tells him, "Actually, Batman is my brother and he let me use his mask." The adults have a good chuckle at this. One librarian says, "Nice brother!" As we're walking out the door, Mads turns and shouts, "Remember, I'm The Flash and I run really fast, but Mommy doesn't like me running in the library!" I am doubled over laughing as I usher him out the door.
• Mads has fallen into a limp, heavy sleep on the drive home. I lift him out of his car seat and cradle him, shushing with "my sweet boy"s and "mommy's here"s. 93% asleep, he reflexively lays a smacking smooch on my neck.
• I am a nearly 33-year-old woman, riding a horse on a 96-year-old carousel, calliope music and pastels washing over me.
• Cars slow down and honk, drivers wave, as we light fireworks in our drive way. A shower of sparks rain down, silhouetting my baby's excited face as he looks back at me, making sure I'm sharing this spectacle with him.
• We are having a great, slow morning together--the kind of morning I want to have more of, the kind of present, mindful morning I am proud of. I turn on Queen of the Stone Age's "Misfit Love" and Mads plays along with a pink plastic whistle. Wolfman picks up Mads' tiny play guitar and begins to strum along.
• It is Sunday morning, and I have to wake Mads at 7 so we can take his dad to work. He's happy when he opens his eyes as I pull up the blinds in his room. When I lay next to him to snuggle a bit before we're off, he asks dreamily, "Mommy, can you scratch my back?"
• Grandma is standing in my kitchen, and Thorn meows at her feet. She leans down and groans as she picks him up. "I forgot what it's like to have a big cat like this, a T-shell cat," she says (her favorite cat, T-Shell, was maybe even bigger than Thorn). I ask her how much she thinks he weighs. "I don't know? Thirty pounds?"

"Misfit Love," Queens of the Stone Age

Madmartigan, 3 Years Old | you think my muscles are big? you haven't seen my brain

Mads got an at-home hair cut this month. During his bath one night, Wolfman took the opportunity to clip about an inch off the ends of his hair. As with that time I tried cutting some bangs on him to keep his hair out of his face (the summer he turned 2), he moved as scissors snipped through his hair, and the result was VERY crooked. The next morning, Wolfman and I stood in the hall bathroom with our boy. Mads was at the sink standing on his step stool while Wolfman and I assessed the damage and giggled. I attempted to straighten the cut, and then attempted to straighten that cut, and as a result, his hair is shoulder-length now. He's still a long-haired boy who is mistaken for a girl everywhere, by every one, but the difference is so obvious as I look at these pictures now. Mads, for the record, could care less. He can still head bang, so he's happy.

About Mads, 3 Years & 7 Months Old:

• Mads is dressed as Batman, in his mask and cape, at least 50% of the time. When he's dressed like Batman, he is Batman. If I want a kiss, he will tell me, "Batman doesn't kiss," to which I must request, "Can Martigan give me a kiss?" Sometimes he will lift up his mask to kiss me, and sometimes he won't.
• He describes potential wounds like so: "and then my blood will come out!" It's gross but also kind of funny.
• Mads, completely on his own, has been diligently practicing his "s" sound, which he has a little trouble with in conversation. When he calls his bathroom stool a "tool," and I say, "Yep, we've got to move your stool," he stands on it repeating, "ssstt, sssttt, ssstt." 
• We went to see The LEGO Batman movie this month in the movie theater, and he refused to wear his 3D glasses, the entire time.
• Mads loves playing Candyland, Twister, and building towers with legos.
• Mads also loves to create scenarios for his toys and make them talk to each other. He gives me and his dad elaborate conversation ("now you say _____"), as if writing a script. I've noted before on Martigan's penchant for story-telling and here is another layer.
• Favorite toys this month: his large metal dump truck (a gift from Aunt Theresa) and his Batman action figure.
• Favorite shows and movies: Ask the StoryBots and lots of super heroes (both DC and Marvel, in all sorts of variations)
• Favorite books: Part-Time Princess by Deborah Underwood and Cambria Evans, Mercer Mayer's Little Critters books

"Who's The (Bat)Man," Patrick Stump

February Joys & Favorites | my baby lives in shades of blue

| Joys | 

| Family Day | It occurred to me recently that Mads, Wolfman, and I didn't have a full day to spend together during the week, which I found wasteful and appalling. So, I rearranged my schedule and, boom, easy peasy, now we've got each and every Wednesday to ourselves, completely together, nowhere to be but with each other. To celebrate that first Wednesday, we took our boy to the theater to see The Lego Batman Movie. 

| In the Garden | All the trees are blooming outdoors, and even my indoor plants are confused by all this Spring-timing North Carolina's been doing this month. I'm noticing all sorts of new growth on my plants, including this bloom starting on my Albuca spirilis.

| Favorites | 

| Wolfwardrobe | My sister found this Alex Kim cardigan/jacket for Grandma who let me borrow it. I've come across Alex Kim in my resale work, but had never bought a piece--resisting my deep-seeded penchant for eccentric granny wear. I love the off-kilter embroidery and beading of Alex Kim, but the boxy shapes are not typically flattering on my body. However, I think this sweater achieves more of a slouchy feel than boxy (I hope), and I just love these colors. I want to wear this on the beach, just one morning on the Outer Banks, headed out to breakfast in this sweater and jean cut-offs.

| Stationery | There's a World Market around the corner from my workplace, which is dangerous for my wallet. I bought these hand-made paper notecards and wrapping paper on clearance for less than $5 each. Also, have loved and used up all my National Parks stamps.

| Gifts | 1. For Valentine's Day, Wolfman bought me a print by our friend and favorite artist, Sheila Holden. This is our second print by Sheila. Our first (another redhead, this one a warrior with sword and shield) was a gift to Wolfman from Sheila after he played music during one of her art shows and hangs in our living room. This sorceress, however, will live in our bedroom above our altar space. I also am lucky enough to own of of Sheila's hand-painted t-shirts. One day, I'd like to have one of her original canvases.  2. For no reason, Wolfman bought me this octopus mug. I'm carrying it to-and-from work with me. I've already stained the inside with coffee.

| Product | We burn a lot of Satya incense in this house. Previously, other than the traditional nag champa, my favorite scent has been "midnight" (Wolfman likes sandalwood). Wolfman picked up this English lavender, which we hadn't yet tried. I burnt it at nights after putting the kids to bed, when Wolfman was at work or recording music. Wildberry's "Blend 22" is still my incense for doing magic, but Satya's English Lavender is now my writing and tea-sipping in the evening incense.

| Movie | There are two types of really good movies for me: the ones that speak to my heart and the ones that worm into my brain. The Double was of the latter category (though I carry a heart-on for its director, Richard Ayoade, one of my only real celebrity crushes). I felt, watching The Double, that I was seeing something truly unique and masterful. I felt claustrophobic and uncertain, thoroughly tickled and a little bit sad, wrapped up in creepiness and whimsy (my favorite kind of knit), and I think I finally really get Jesse Eisenberg. I feel like this will be one of those movies that makes its way onto important lists in the future--you know, the, 'you're a serious cinephile if you watch this' kind of lists. | Other movies I liked this month: Deathgasm, Bonnie and Clyde, Shark Attack 3: Megaladon, The Lego Batman Movie

Watching Shark Attack 3: Megaladon instead of the Oscars last night ended up being more of a statement than I originally intended. pic.twitter.com/SJHQC9M3Tp

— thewolfpeople (@thewolfpeople) February 27, 2017

| Music | In 2012, I fell hard and fast for Lana Del Rey. I blasted "National Anthem" while vacuuming our newlywed bungalow, and tears streamed down my face as I listened to "Ride" on repeat riding city buses. In 2013, I gave birth to my son, and that put a bit of a kibosh on the luxury of listening to songs until they became imprinted in the grey matter of my brain. I missed a lot of Lana Del Rey in the intermediate years. As a valentine to myself, I tried to play catch-up with what I'd missed. I only got as far as Ultraviolent, because I fell head-over-heels in love, again. In particular, I love "Shades of Cool" and "Brooklyn Baby," but the whole thing is just the dreamiest, most genius confectionery-laced-with-arsenic I've ever had the pleasure to stir into my bitter black heart. Stay tuned next month when I make such genius observations as, "Holy shit, Honeymoon is also really fucking good!" | Other music I enjoyed this month: Rob Zombie's The Electric Warlock Acid Witch Satanic Orgy Celebration Dispenser, Brownout Presents Brown Sabbath, Kvelertak

EVP readings suggest literally hundreds of ghosts are trapped in each Lana Del Rey record.

— thewolfpeople (@thewolfpeople) February 21, 2017

| Links, etc. | Beyonce's pregnant, ya'll. | In an attempt to better mingle with my co-workers, I've been watching more stand-up comedy, though my favorite special so far, Simon Amstell's Do Nothing, is probably not at all the same kind of stand-up my co-workers watch/listen to/laugh at, and so, once again, I am a failure. | These two Twitter feeds, @NatureIsWeird and @NatureIsScary, have provided endless amounts of entertainment in slow moments at work. | I have not gone to see Get Out yet, but I will very soon, and I loved this essay about horror movies and race. | I also have not seen either of the John Wick movies (I know; what am I doing with my life?), but I will very soon, and I loved this essay on The Grace of Keanu Reeves.

The Wolfwardrobe | cartoon rock

Last night while waiting for my order at my neighborhood Chinese restaurant, I took a quiz in a Seventeen magazine (there was a pile of them on the counter), and then was disappointed with the results. According to my score, I am "edgy" like Rihanna, I  think because I decided my go-to fall accessory is a leather jacket. Nothing against Rihanna (though, admittedly, I am so out of touch, I had to google how to spell her name), but "edgy" just didn't seem quite right. I retook the quiz, this time with my go-to fall accessory as a cozy sweater, but then my results were "girly" like Chloe Grace Moretz, and that seemed even more categorically not me. Though, sometimes I am girly; I do love a floral print. And, I suppose, sometimes I am edgy, or am I just on edge? I guess what I'm getting at is this: the quizzes in Seventeen magazine are crap. Also, at 32-and-a-half I still am not sure what I'm all about. I can list all the things I like and all the things I'm like, but what it boils down to, I don't know. My personality is and always has been that oddest of combinations: completely malleable and chameleon while also etched, deep, in stone. I've changed a lot since the days when the quizzes in Seventeen actually meant something, and then, also, I have not changed even a little bit. When I tell my husband I wish we'd known each other when we were teenagers he says, "You wouldn't have liked me then. I wasn't nice then. I've changed so much," and I say, "I haven't changed at all. I was exactly the same back then, but, you know, my  boobies were way up here." 

I am, in part, writing this now because I don't know what I want from this space. I was greeted with an empty white text box and could not think how to fill it. I've been trucking along at this blog for years now, with little-to-no audience and little-to-no clue what message I'm trying to convey. Is this a sincere blog of gratitude, or one of those snarky blogs that honestly documents each time my kid uses a cuss word and I laugh? I am pretty sincerely irreverent (and insincerely reverent). I considered having Wolfman take my style photos for me this year, stepping up my style blogger game a bit, but then the idea seemed totally ridiculous to me. I may change my mind about it later. I know he'd be game, because he's a good guy now (not like the douche he apparently was as a teenager). We shall see. Happy New Year. Happy Old Blog. Happy Old/New Me.

"Cartoon Rock," Delicate Steve

Thankful Thursday | pledge yourself to me, never leave me be

Not even two weeks ago, it snowed. But in true North Carolina fashion, Wednesday was springtime beautiful. Even I, wintercentric though I am, had to admit it was beautiful. Too breezy for the wrap dress I wore, but balmy and energizing. An air the house out, prop the doors open kind of beautiful. A teacher can we have class outside today kind of beautiful. 

I Am Grateful:

• for the tradition of Opeth in winter, introduced to me by my now husband; I am grateful for that first (and only) mix CD he made me, with all the prettiest Opeth songs tacked on at the end, which I listened to on repeat in the weeks leading up to our first kiss.
• for prophetic art in mundane places.
• for a working washer and dryer in my home.
• for Wolfman's homemade chicken curry.
• for post-holiday discounted foil wrapping paper.
• for Charis Melina Brown, one of the high priestesses of my Church of Youtube, and her weird, wacky magician wisdom.
• for phone calls with my baby, even when I can't understand what he's saying.
• for cold Italian subs on the chewiest white bread.
• for the feel of thick shag carpet under bare feet.
• for an amazingly lucky sales day on a would-be unlucky day (Friday the 13th), and to, however briefly, know the feeling of being the store's top salesperson.
• for ponzu sauce.
• to be lulled to sleep by Thorn's purring.
• to look into my rearview mirror as I drive home in the dark and see no one behind me.
• for Ashley Judd.
• when I call home to say goodnight and discover that Mads is War Machine and his daddy is Iron Man; I am grateful when Mads tells me, "I love you, War Machine Mommy."

"Harvest," Opeth

365 | I slept it away, I sexed it away, I read it away

Sunday 1 January 2017, New Year's Day | Winters in North Carolina: grey, brown, wet, ruining my boots.

Monday 2 January 2017 | I still haven't figured out if I'm good at my job or not, if it's sustainable, if there's commission to be had. So, that's something to worry about.

Tuesday 3 January 2017 | Mads and I spent the morning squishing bitter tangerines in the woods for critters.

Wednesday 4 January 2017 | I've been awake by myself a lot at night. I don't mean late in the night (I am not a night owl). Just, since Wolfman's been sick he does not last long after we get our boy to bed, and I'm gifted an hour to myself before I join him. I curl up in the bean bag chair, usually, and listen to music in headphones. I haven't done that, just closed my eyes, relaxed, and listened to music for a while, years maybe.

Thursday 5 January 2017 | In the thicket beyond the fence of our back yard, I lifted an old tire up to show Mads and Ella what was underneath. I was expecting worms and roly-poly bugs, not this little jeweled lizard, all curled up and hibernating in the wet dirt. Ella exclaimed not at the lizard, but me. "You're so strong, Mimi!" she said.

Friday 6 January 2017 | We've got weather coming our way--perhaps up to 9 inches. Although, I doubt very much we'll have that degree of precipitation. That many inches of snow only ever hits us by surprise. If our weathermen are predicting it, it just won't happen. We'll get something, I don't doubt that. And something will put the whole region on pause. Something is enough. Wolfman and I have been looking forward to a weather day for a while. We've planned a double feature of The Thing and The Shining, and we're stocked up on R.J. MacReady's booze of choice.

Saturday 7 January 2017 | I only have one good room in the house for growing things, and in case you haven't heard, I love growing things. (Growing things may be my calling, my thing.) The house situated in the wrong direction and so misses all the good light to be had. But, the bay windows in the dining nook give me enough to keep some things alive. Wolfman took out the leaf in our dining table and pushed it closer to the kitchen island for me. When I saw the extra room I exclaimed, "Now I can get more plants!" No, that's not what he had in mind. Now I (we) have more room to maneuver around the plants I have. I appreciate the gesture, regardless.

Sunday 8 January 2017 | Mads and I ventured out into the snow today (Mads mostly just ate the snow). Lunchbox came out with us but wandered too close to the street for my liking and either couldn't hear me call him or pretended not to hear me call him. I finally got his attention, and he glumly walked back toward the house, slowly, like his bones ache. I let him inside to be with his man. Wolfman told me he wrapped Lunchbox up in a towel and rubbed him dry like a child, like a prince.

Wednesday 11 January 2017 | In the slow moments at work, I read a book about gardening. I'm not wishing winter away, but an integral part of winter seems to be cozily dreaming of and planning for spring.

Thursday 12 January 2017 | During last night's full moon, I moved around my kitchen silently, trimming back my overgrown Jade and Wandering Jew. I have a new collection of clippings for propagation, and to make room for them I potted together some of my previously propagated succulents. Here is my little nursery, babies tucked into fresh dirt. 

"Cranes in the Sky," Solange