tufts of childhood

Summer never fails to remind me of my own childhood, especially as I watch my brother and sister grow up. Lacey starts 7th grade come August and Gavin will be a hyper little 5th grader. It's amusing, to say the least, remembering how I used to do things, how I spent my summers, and how very different I am from my siblings, I who grew up in Orlando twelve some years ago.

I thought, as I am in this reminiscent mode, that I would share some of my own childhood/young adolescent memories with you on this gorgeous summer day. Here goes:

• Slurping orange juice out of freshly picked oranges behind the woods that sat in front of my house.
• Riding my first roller coaster at nine or ten with Aaron and practically having a heart attack while waiting in line, because surely I was about to die. Twice.
• Pretending to be asleep on Sunday mornings when my mom would come to wake me up for church and then giving in, sourly, and making my way out of bed.
• Sharing my first kiss on a dare, in a hot tub, with my next door neighbor.
• Shutting the front door on the first boy who ever asked me out, Kenny - who was two years older than me at the time, who wore square glasses, who smelled like freshly chopped wood.
• Crying in the car on the way to the grocery store when my mom decided to tell me she was pregnant, again, with my brother.
• Watching my friend Jordan puke every time he smelled dog poop. Specifically, watching him puke in the grass and knowing that I would never mix ketchup and macaroni and cheese, ever again.
• Thinking about how creepy the mouse band at Chuck E. Cheese is and getting lost in the tubes just so I wouldn't have to watch them play.
• Vacationing in Sedona, Arizona and seeing a Kokopelli for the first time.
• Realizing just how cruel girls (and boys) can be when you wear pigtails and braces in eighth grade.
• Going to Disney so often that I knew every nook and cranny of all four parks. My second home.
• Playing basketball in my driveway while Shaggy played on the boombox from the garage.
• Laying on my back in my fort on the hottest days of summer with a book in one hand and a notebook in the other.

I watch Lacey and Gavin grow up and I wonder what they will remember at 22, what they will deem important enough to recall at a moment's notice, what they will take away as good times. I wonder if their experiences will be anything like mine, or if childhood is not really as universal as we think.

From the mouth of my (nine year old) brother:

Mama and I are having an intelligent conversation in the bathroom. While doing so, she shows me her left foot, which is bruised and swollen.

Enter Gavin, who says, "Ew Mom. Your foot is as gross as Aeriale's sunburn."

Before I can open my mouth to give a snarky reply, Gavin smirks and says, "Simile, Aeriale, simile!" and promptly climbs up the stairs. Singing. About gross things.

My brother is going to be a literary freak someday if he can sit still for two seconds. I just know it.

hip-moving hysteria

I don't think I know how to dance. Like, I'm kind of stiff. And then when I think I'm dancing pretty decently, I catch myself in the mirror and turn ten shades of maroon.

See, I used to be able to dance. I used to bust a move (or so I thought) at all of the high school dances. And then when I could get into the 18 and over clubs, I'd bust a move there, too. In fact, this one time in Ocean City...well, that's another story.

But the point is I could dance. I've done it so many times. Slow dance. Fast dance. Freakin' electric slide and cha-cha and line dancing. I've got it all covered.

Right. So this morning I decide to walk into a zumba class. I've heard it's fun, way better than regular aerobics, so much so, that people who never work out otherwise swear by their zumba classes. Since I've been regularly working out every morning, I figured zumba couldn't be that hard.

It's not that zumba is hard, no, rather I just can't dance. After a full hour of failing to (accurately) move my hips, boobs, shoulders, and butt it's a good thing I wasn't being graded on how well I can salsa. Or tango. Or gangsta rap. Give me weights any day over watching myself flailing and failing to dance. Ugh.

Nevertheless, I may go back and humiliate myself further come next Tuesday. I may not be in South America but I might learn how to move my hips within the next few weeks. It's a valuable skill, fluidly moving one's hips. Or so the zumba instructor tells me.

thought for the day:

Bad decisions make good stories.

Saturday's Child

There's this nursery rhyme that used to hang in my bathroom when I lived in Florida. I've memorized it over thousands of teeth brushings and toilet runs and shower frenzies.

Monday's child is fair of face

Tuesday's child is full of grace

Wednesday's child is full of woe

Thursday's child has far to go

Friday's child is loving and giving

Saturday's child must work hard for a living

But the child that's born on the sabbath day,

Is fair and wise and good and gay.

The only part that really stuck out to me, of course, is that being a Saturday's child sucks. I was born on a Saturday and all I get out of this poem is that I must work hard for a living? If I would have popped out of the womb a day earlier, my character would have been ideal and I wouldn't have had to worry about my future. But since I was born mid-afternoon on a Saturday, that line has haunted me for years.

Post-graduation. It's been exactly one week since I left Erie and unloaded my belongings in my room at home. It's been a week since I've seen any friends. It's been one long week since I've written anything worthwhile. Right now, one week ago, I was standing in a parking garage, drowning in navy, running my fingers anxiously through a white tassel.

I'm going to get a planner today so I can map out my life. I need a schedule. I need to be productive. I need to, apparently, work hard for my living.

But I'm not particularly ready to fulfill my nursery rhyme prophecy yet. Before I start digging toes-first into the working world, I still need to have my Grandiose Shebang, my All-In-Aeriale's Hardcore Adventure, my This-Is-It-And-Now-I'm-Ready-To....Whatever. Do Whatever. Be Whatever. As a college graduate, as holder of a BFA, I would like to treat myself to a trip. My feet are itching. My body is restless. My bones are ready to go. go. go. go. go.

Right now, I am no Saturday's child. I'm a Thursday's child. And as a Thursday's child, there is no time to waste.

thought for the day:

Laying out my intimacy issues in essay form is more problematic than I thought it would be. I don't have intimacy issues. That's what I should have written. I am a human being capable of letting someone in. That's what I should have written.

Or better yet? I am a human being capable of loving another human being whole-heartedly without wanting to run away when things get too...when things falter or get weird or whatever.

Or what about, I am not a machine.

Yeah, that gets right to the heart of everything.

Ideals (or, a poem that's supposed to follow the triadic line)

O, try and tame this
Wild heart, but I
Don't mean it.

Let me be, let me
Be, but what I mean
Is catch me.

Bold, your actions are,
Steel yourself from me,
Rock solid.

Necessary you,
Quintessential I,
All we ever do is disappoint.