I hear a thump and a cry. Heart racing: too much food in Billy’s bowl, “good job Fiona, I’m just going to put a little back”. Open lid of dog food container, putting back food, THUMP. That’s when I hear it. Four feet away, look: Jack’s on floor prone, crying. “Fuck, are you O.K.?” Examine. Feel lump on back of head. I’m scared. I’m not scared. Read lots of books. There are lots of blood vessels in toddler heads. Causes lump to rise quickly, produce large amounts of blood. It’s O.K. and not a big deal unless your kids loses consciousness. He cries. I hold. I rock. I apply ice. Fiona cries. Holds Blue Blue sucking her thumb on the couch. “No, we can’t meet you at the park today. Uggh, tomorrow” Play the excavator song. Sit on chair with Jack, apply ice. Give Jack and Fiona each a cookie. Paint my body orange and blue. Put a picture of my painted breast on facebook. Worry I’ll never get a job as a teacher. Worried I’ll have a breakdown. Babies go to nap. Go straight to studio. Paint. Feeling better. Can’t help it if I’m an artist. Can’t help it if I value art. Can’t help it if I don’t give a fuck. Can’t help if I express. Can’t help it if I’m sensitive, tender hearted and cry. Don’t wanna help it. Don’t wanna change it. I show Jack and Fiona the pictures of me in Mexico with horses and alligators and turtles in the ocean. With little tiny dogs in mens pockets. At the beach, at the beach, at the beach.I think how they are looking at me, smiling on the sand, in the dunes, in the dessert, by the ocean bright red hair and a smile. The East Bay. There is a point at which we break. A point in a moment, in a day, in a lifetime when we need to rest our minds, escape from the mouse trap. But there are those who sit and laugh at the dumbest stuff. They take importance of material things, not on deep emotions and empathy. Dogs require empathy, even though they only live a short time I think we need to understand they run on instinct, not material attachments. Impulse. Destruction. I’m emotional about my dog. And Jacks head and Fiona’s cough. I’m acting out by painting my boobs orange and blue and putting pictures on facebook. My dog fucked up again. My kids have had their own emotional struggles I’ve had to give myself, my gut, my heart, my reserves to be there for, to consul, to love, to feel. And I have. Every minute of every day, and I’m grateful and proud and know I’ve done the right thing 100% as a mother and a wife. It takes every morsel of strength I have to raise twins. It’s all right at the center of my chest, like pain and love. It carries from inside out and as it comes in and out I take in the world and all it’s pain too and sometimes it’s too much. Then I realize I’ve been away from my studio for too long. I go in and release the accident, the cough, the outburst. I paint my body blue and orange and take pictures and post it on facebook, I paint on four canvases I’ve been working on, I write. And as naptime starts to wind down and come to an end I feel a bit better, a bit more relaxed, and ready to jump into the mess. To start little by little picking up the cheerios, tomatoes, plastic spoons; which reminds me of the RaceTrack beach we ventured to the other day. We brought buckets to collect shells. Red, yellow, blue, tiny little pieces of plastic, caps and tops and plastic strings, plastic flossers, we collected them as I wondered, did they come from that giant garbage pile of trash in the ocean? And now here, at home as I raise my family and my garbage pail fills with plastic every day, every day. I feel ashamed. I must change.
Category: Art and finding balance
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This is a good day. An open day. When words have meaning and body language has more. The rules of grammar have their place; I think this, as I study the sentence structure portion of the CSET. How many fragments have I used in my Nap Time writings? But this is informal writing, I can use the word kids. At the same time, I need to practice writing formal essays, with proper punctuation. When writing personal essays, I wonder, is it O.K. to use informal English? I’m in my studio now, putting my gloves on, working on my Books and paintings. Lucky me. It’s a good day. Open my jar of naples yellow and molding paste mixture from the other day. Add some phaylo blue, lay down marks on my “Book Project” Bookcovers, then my canvas and paper works in progress. Beautiful. Working on Abstract and Figurative simultaneously, letting the paint dry between layers. Writing and studying between layers. Hear Babies come home, hear their little pitter patter feet running around upstairs. I giggle, how cute, I go to door, open it, almost go upstairs to say hi. No. Stop myself. Stay in your studio, keep working, you don’t have much time left. I know they are all so happy to see the set-up I did upstairs. I did it while they were at the park as I was cleaning. Set up Dolls and tents. Rosemary is coming back with them, Fionas friend. Fionas chance to play with a little girl. It’s always boys! Two little boys and Jack when we hang with all my other friends but one. Jack needs to spend more time with girls, he’s getting rough and boisterous!! I’m trying to raise them gender neutral, equal influence from both boys and girls, men and women. Fiction and Non-Fiction. Exposure.
My time is ending in my studio today. My private sanctuary. My personal space. I have dedicated a lot of time to painting lately. I’ve made great progress on my canvas work, learning about re-working the canvas over and over again until the surface of the canvas becomes interesting. Working until the paint is layered enough to create depth. Paper has a natural depth to it. Paper is beautiful, the texture of naked paper is appealing, unlike white gessoed canvas. I’ve had an interesting day in the studio. A good day. I am ready to be mommaJ again, with compassion and understanding of the inner child. I can be self-less and generous because I have given myself that same gift. I am grateful for my studio time today.
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Fan blowing, paintings in flux, didn’t leave enough time for art today. At least I left something. Maybe that’s all that counts. To make some time for ART ALWAYS. I fantasize about summers to come, as my children grow, the time I will have to paint and write. I dream of outfits to wear when I take off my pajamas, when I become a teacher. I inspire myself, studying the Language section for the CSAT, learning how language is learned, how children learn to read and all the new ways I can teach Fiona, ways I could teach other children. Teaching is the perfect profession for me. I just need to stay focused and not let the system get me depressed. I know it’s fucked up, the standardized testing, the major differences in the schools scores which seem to depend on how affluent (and white) a school population is. It makes me mad when I hear people saying they don’t want their kids going to certain schools because they say that their kids learning potential will be affected by the “other kids” they think are “slower” than their own. I have to stay centered, in the present. The fan sings to me as my paintings from today dry. My hands still covered in paint. Starting with gloves, never following through. My time is nearing an end now, it really is. I must go, leave my sacred space and rejoin the world. Unlock my door. I made time for art, exercise, study, and writing today. Cleaning, laundry, and now the store and bank. I read books and poems and sang to Jack and Fiona. This is the end.
Dirty Laundry Blog by Jennifer Hynes 