I Am Your Lover

I am your wife, My Love
The isha of you, my ish,
My adam, my mate, my love, My Love
Your rib my source, My Love

Bone of your bone, My Love, am I
Flesh of your flesh, My Love
I am yours and not my own
Whose name I bear, My Love

Yet, here I am alone, My Love
Trapped in my love, my life
Bound in promise to you alone,
To you alone, My Life

My life, My Love
Is to yours, My Love
My love for you, My Life
Tell me what will I be, My Love
Now that yours has taken flight

*ish – Hebrew for Man
**isha – Hebrew for Woman

~Barbara Rhyne-Tucker

My Mom's Birthday

Today is my mom's birthday. My mom died in 1998 when I was 26, the same age she was when she gave birth to me.

As my mother lay dying, she begged me not to have any children because she couldn't bear the thought of one day my laying somewhere, dying of the rare cancer that has taken several generations of women in her line before the age of 60, looking into my own daughter's face, seeing the pain there. While she was dying, in an inconceivable amount of pain, she was more concerned about my being in the same situation some day than she was about her own quickly-approaching death.

That's a level of love that I cannot conceive of having.

I promised her that I wouldn't bear my own children unless and until we get to choose gender beforehand. I knew what I was promising, and I knew that I would keep it because, well, you don't turn down the dying wish of a family member if it's remotely possible to keep it.

So I've lived through the procreative years of my life not bearing children. I've never married. I've aborted. I've lived with roommates in order to avoid having an empty home and thrown myself into my career with a ferocity that masquerades as workaholism. I have a television on in my home 24x7 to have the sound of human voices around me. I've promised myself that I can always adopt, and I've also promised myself I won't marry a man for whom that's not an option.

I've told every close friend or boyfriend I've had since my mom's death that I won't bear my own children because of my mother's dying wish, my promise to her, and my own fear of the rare (almost undiagnosable) cancer that kills women in my line early. The thing is, that's only half the reason.

The other half of the reason, and the one I've never told anyone before, is that I can't conceive of being the kind of person, the kind of mother, who would or could lay dying, in incomprehensible pain, and be more concerned about my daughter experiencing the same thing than I am about my own impending death.

I can't live up to that. I can't even see the bar my mom set, much less reach it. That's the other half of the reason I never bore my own children and won't unless and until gender selection becomes a viable option.

~Riot.Jane

I Miss Your Toothbrush

My boyfriend has been out of town for a few weeks, so I decided to take a picture of "home" and send it to him. He doesn't live with me, but part of our shared vernacular is that "home" is wherever we are, together. It's a bittersweet sentiment, since he does not live close and can't be here often even during the best of times.


~Riot.Jane

Judgment-free parenting or "How my mom dropped the parental ball"

When my son was born I was overjoyed, neigh, positively ecstatic. Was it because he was perfect in every way? Not a chance - He had severe prenatal issues that rendered him anything but the "perfect" newborn. Was it because I had always dreamed of having a child to call my own? Not quite – Being a mother hadn't even been a blip on my teenage aspiration radar.

The reason the sight of my son's tiny member filled me with joy was because he wasn't a girl. Boys I can do. Feed them, water them, play some tag, tell them how much you love them and POOF! Before you know it you have a well-adjusted man on your hands. Raising my son to adulthood was as easy as this parenting gig gets. He was raised in love, encouraged to be independent, showed to respect woman. These lessons (along with proper grooming techniques a la uncle Tim) and some uncomfortable conversations about sex produced a stand-up citizen and all-around good guy. Easy-peezy and more gratifying than I ever could have thought.

Then when my son was 23, I found myself married to a wonderful guy in an actually “better than just surviving” financial situation. Suddenly, visions of sweet little sugar plum fairies danced in my head and POW!, I wanted a girl to call my own.

The husband and I ditched the condoms and screwed like rabbits with rabid zeal. We weren't just getting it on, we were getting it on with a purpose. Within 2 months I was knocked up at the age of 41 and, when I tell you I knew before I started this process I would have a daughter, it's the truth.

When my daughter was born (we'll call her "E") I was in a panic. Actually, the last trimester of my pregnancy all I could think was "WHAT HAVE I DONE?!". I'm no girl's mom! Girls are complicated and emotional and needy. What if I screw her up? What if I'm my mother?

My mother. Sometimes people have the best intentions, but they don't know what the hell they're doing. Sometimes they belittle the ones they love to teach them about how they can be better. My mom was one of these people. My hair was never right, my clothes were in bad taste, my interests were too masculine. I could never get anything right, and I know this because she was fond of saying, “Terry, you never get anything right!” She was shrill and judgmental and downright mean. All in the name of love. I grew up feeling like a failure in every sense and that is how I ended up knocked up as a teenager, terrified, lost, and completely alone.

This is not the best foundation for raising a daughter.

We're taking this mother/daughter thing slowly. E is now 4 and I think I'm doing pretty damn well, all things considered. When E comes to me with a tutu and 2 different socks and a lop-sided pony tail with glittery lip gloss speared all her sweet face, I don't just tell her how beautiful she looks and twirl her around like a ballerina to buck the things my own mother would have done. I say and do those things because I mean it. I really and truly mean it.

When I take her in my arms and smell her strawberry hair and squeeze my eyes shut to keep this moment for as long as I can, I sometimes wonder if my own mother did this. I don't know.

What I do know is that in my pursuit of parenting without judgment, something unexpected has begun to happen. My judgment of my mother has slowly started to wane. So I'll end this with a note to my mom.

Dear Mom,
I forgive you. Thank you for helping me to be the parent I am today.
I Love You,
Terry

Letter Too Late

Fellow Janes,

Do you ever feel like there are a million things you would love to say to someone you’re in relationship with but never do? Then by the time the love is over you’re so disgusted (or still in love!) or have moved on, and those things never get said? A really funny and wise and woman approached me about a letter that she had written to her ex of 12 years.

Linda is cynical, funny and pretty heartbreaking in this letter and I enjoyed reading it so much!

She says:

“Eric and I were high school sweethearts. Our breakup was a defining moment in my life and I was left with a lot of baggage to carry around. All those little (and big) things I never said felt like a weight chained around my neck. So I wrote a letter. Just in case you’re wondering . . . Yes, I sent it to him.

I sent the letter in its entirety and Mellissa has edited it to filter out some really personal parts that I am unwilling to share and made a few changes to the text with my consent. I hope you enjoy it and find in it the courage to do what I never did. To speak your mind.”

Dear Eric,

Remember the time we went to the Jane’s Addiction concert and, against my wishes, you snuck in that ridiculous hip flask you loved to drag around filled with cheap whiskey? Remember when you got so sick from drinking it combined with the heat all those bodies and the humidity and the burning Texas sun that you ended up throwing up all over the lawn in front of you? I told you it was okay, that I wasn’t embarrassed and that I was totally okay with leaving the show early so you could go home and lay down.

I lied.

Eric, sometimes when you did something to piss me off, like got drunk with your buddies, passed out at their place and missed work because of a hangover, I would do things to get back at you in my own way, like giving you food on dirty dishes or scrubbing the house down with bleach before you came home, hung over, because I knew it gave you a headache.

When you got in that fight with that little person at our favorite bar back in ‘99 and got your ass beat and I told you it didn’t make you a pussy.

I lied.

Once when your parents came over to have dinner to have dinner at our first apartment, I excused myself to get a drink from the kitchen. Well, your father came in behind me and made a pass at me. So remember when I said how great your Dad was?

I lied.

Eric, I know you kissed the neighbor by the Dumpsters all those years ago. I know our cat, Bunsen, died when you told me he ran away (he had Feline Leukemia, I just didn’t think you could handle the truth), I know you watched “Life Goes On” marathons when I was at work and cried like a baby because the character Jessie, who had AIDS, reminded you of your brother. I know you peed on the toilet seat to spite me. I know you told my friends I wasn’t home so you could keep me all to yourself. I that know you stared at me while I slept.

Eric, remember when I told you I was better off without you and all those years we spent together were a waste?

I maybe. . . Just might have, lied.

About My Shoes . . .

I kissed you three years ago Audrey. In a hot, dark club in Dallas when the last call was feverishly drinking in my money at the bar.

I miss you Audrey.

By the way, I want my Chucks* back.


*Definition of "Chucks"