Angie Kinghorn

Red letters

I was always meant to be Joseph’s.  What better sign than being born with his name tattooed onto my leathery skin?  From boyhood, I was his constant companion, sitting on shelf after shelf until we arrived here at our permanent home, this cabin on the lake.  Here he brought his wife, and inside my pages, joined her name to his.  With each baby, with each marriage, with each death, I was inked again.  Bearing witness.
When he took me to the porch each morning, I absorbed the oils from his fingers and the salt of his sorrows, and in return he took peace from my pages.  From his lap I watched his lips move over my stories; his calloused hands carefully turning pages that crinkled like flakes of croissants.  He paused to sip his coffee, staring out at the early morning fog on the lake.  And he talked to God, and to me, like we were old friends.
We put the children to bed together every night with a story.  Tiny Elizabeth, all dimpled cheeks and giggles, and her older brother David, literal to a fault, asking his father why the family hadn’t given away their money since Jesus said it’s easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter heaven?  Why were they living here at the lake when God called them to feed his sheep?  There weren’t even any sheep at the lake.  And why did they pray for the troops when Jesus said to love your enemies and bless those who curse you?  David went on like this every night until Joseph finally said “Enough, now.  Goodnight.”
David came to me often, restless, looking for answers in the place his father found his.  But I had none for him.  I watched from the table on the porch as he tried to find peace in pill bottles and vodka, and Joseph’s tears and raspy voice told me what I already knew about the rest of David’s life.
And then one day Joseph inscribed the details of David’s marriage along with the rest.
When David came to visit, to record the birth of his son in his own hand, his touch was foreign on my pages.  And though they were soft, those hands were not gentle.  He prayed over my pages and shocked me with his transgressions.  Married just a year, but lost as ever.
When I couldn’t yield the answers he wanted, the rationalization for his decisions, the forgiveness for his sin, he slammed me down and ripped out a page of Matthew.
And then I heard him, down at the woodpile, and realized what page he had taken.
“And if your hand causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away.  It is better for you to lose one part of your body than for your whole body to be thrown into hell.”
Screams.
Sirens.
Then silence.
So together, David, Joseph, and I were all ripped into pieces.
But Joseph has come back to me.  We are broken, torn; but we are together, even as the fresh ink scars both of us, and his tears run down my pages as if they are my own. 

***This piece is for the online writers’ group Write on Edge (formerly the Red Dress Club).  
The prompt  was for memoir, but I ended up writing fiction.  I welcome all constructive criticism. 

The prompt: Do objects have a memory? Does a rocking chair hold the essence of the snuggles it has witnessed? Does a pottery mug remember the comforting warmth it offered a struggling soul? The dictionary defines personification as “the attribution of a personal nature or human characteristics to something nonhuman, or the representation of an abstract quality in human form.” Tell a piece of your story from the point of view of an object who bore witness in 400 words or less.

Diagnosis? Children.

After 6 weeks of feeling like crap, I finally dragged myself to the doctor yesterday.  
“How long have you been feeling bad?”
“Well, since the beginning of December, at least.”
“Why didn’t you come in before?”
“Well, I have 5 year old twins.  One of them had eye surgery in late October, the other one had a continuous stream of non-strep tonsillitis episodes last year (seriously, seven of them), then had her tonsils and adenoids out in early December.  Then, three days later, the other twin got strep.  Then I was dealing with both of them sick.  Then I got laryngitis again and y’all sent me to the ENT and he did the scope thingy through the nose and decided I had acid reflux and needed voice therapy, and then I had to have an evaluation with the voice therapist and she did another scope thingy on the back of the tongue–I wish I had my iPod with me, the pictures are crazy–and I’m supposed to go back for six weeks of voice therapy but obviously I haven’t had time to do that, either, and anyway, it’s not like I’m an opera singer, and then the other twin–”
“Which one?”
“Boy.  Not the one who had the tonsillectomy.  That’s my daughter.  Anyway, he got strep again in late December.  Last week he got a sinus infection, an ear infection, and related conjunctivitis.  My daughter’s been coughing for 9 days and yesterday the pediatrician put her on an antibiotic for a sinus infection.  And my husband’s sick, too, but he won’t admit it.  So … this is kind of the first time I’ve had a chance to come in.”
::Silence, as the doctor stares at me::
“Oh, and I’m losing enough hair that my husband is concerned about the plumbing.  I know you’re not my endocrinologist, but while I’m here, can you check my thyroid levels?”
“Ok, why don’t you hop up here and we’ll take a look?”
After the requisite throat swab, peering in ears, mouth, and palpating of lymph nodes, the doctor started writing on his prescription pad.
“I’m giving you a ten day course of Zithromax.”
“Wait.  I thought that was a five day thing.”
“It usually is.”
“So why ten?”
“Because you’ve been sick for over a month.”
“Well, what do I have?  Strep?  A sinus infection?”
He handed me the prescription and patted me on the arm.
“Children.  You have children.”

In which I demonstrate my math and history prowess via photos

I do not have a degree in early childhood education.  


However, over Christmas, I was able to formulate a theorem of sorts, involving math, children, and history.


The Angelaian Theorem: 


Christmas ornaments



plus 5 year olds up to no good (squared)




equals Anne Boleyn.



That is all.



Blame it on the dog? I don’t think so, Milli Vanilli.

We’re not quite to the level of “the dog ate my homework” yet, but my 5 year old twins have suddenly mastered the art of blaming inanimate objects for their misbehavior.
To wit: 
  • Someone drew on the wall in the playroom, and when questioned, I was informed that it was probably SuperPuppy (a stuffed dog with a giant red bow and a definite lack of opposable thumbs).
  • Someone covered portions of the walls in both of their bedrooms with a menagerie of animal stickers (they call them their “zoos”).  On inquiry, I was told it was the fault of Blue Dog (a stuffed blue dog) and Ellie (a pink stuffed elephant).
  • Someone blew up the playroom.  It literally looked like the aftermath of a tornado, except with intact walls and windows.  I was informed this was likely the fault of a large purple manatee and an oversized frog.
  • Grant’s new green shirt sprouted holes all over the front. Holes in suspiciously straight lines.  The kind you might get from bear claws, or, say, safety scissors.  He told me that a monster probably did it.
Perhaps anyone with a five year old can relate to this.  Or maybe it’s just me.  Obviously my kids think highly of my intellect.
The other day the kids were throwing things around the living room, and as I watched a small turtle hurtle past our flat-screen, I’d had it.  I announced that  this behavior was unacceptable.
Naturally, they told me they weren’t doing it.  It was the animals.
So I said, “Fine.  If you’re going to blame things on your stuffed animals, or if your animals are so poorly behaved, the next time they do something bad that you know they’re not supposed to do, I’m taking them away.  You got that?”
I got a chorus of sheepish, “Yes, ma’am’s,” and they went upstairs, ostensibly to clean the playroom.  Personally, I think it’s where they keep their maps, battle plans, and small arms.
Anyway, this weekend we ended up at the pediatrician’s office for the inaugural visit of 2012.  I sent the twins on to the sick waiting room while I checked in.
Now, the waiting room’s chief attraction is a ginormous fish tank.  It’s been there since they were infants.  And since that time, I’ve told them over and over that they are not allowed to touch the aquarium glass or make loud noises, because it can make the fish very sick.  They’ve always been good about this, but I make sure to remind them, because it’s so tempting to touch the glass.
Before they went into the waiting room, I reminded them not to touch the fish tank.
While I was checking in, I took a few steps over to the side, looked into the waiting room, and reminded them again, not to touch the fish tank.
And then collected my receipt and check in sheet, walked into the waiting room, and found my two darlings standing on chairs, beating the side of the fish tank with Blue Dog and Ellie.
If that weren’t bad enough, they weren’t alone in the waiting room.  There was an immaculately dressed and coiffed woman sitting in the far corner with her ridiculously obedient child, staring at me, as if I were THAT mother.  You know, the one who has absolutely no control over her children whatsoever?  The one who wears baggy jeans, clogs, a fleece, and no makeup to the pediatrician’s office on a Sunday morning?  The one whose head explodes when she finds her offspring misbehaving when she should have been with them in the first place, the one who frog marches them over to the nearest couch, tells them to sit, and then in a very low voice, tells them something horrible enough to make them both start screaming and crying in a manner you would expect from, say, a two year old?
Yes, THAT mother.  Um, that would be me.
My head exploded because when I got into the room and said, “What on earth are you doing?  I told you not to touch the fish tank!!!” the kids both replied that they hadn’t done it, Blue Dog and Polar Bear had.
So I sat them down and told them that Blue Dog and Polar Bear were now mine.  Gone.  Perhaps forever.
::Cue tantrums of the massive variety::
When we got home, Grant said, “But I can still play with Christmas (another stuffed dog) and SuperPuppy, right?”
I said, “Wait a minute.  They were in your backpack at the doctor’s office with Blue Dog, weren’t they?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Then no.”  

::cue wailing::  

“Give them here.  They were co-conspirators.  Guilty by association.”
“But Mommy!!! They didn’t really do it!  I did it!”
“Yes, Grant, I know.  But I told you the next time you blamed something on your stuffed animals you were going to lose them.  So hand them over.”
::much wailing::
Anne decided to weigh in.  “Mommy, here’s Polar Bear.  I don’t mind if you take her.  I don’t really like to cuddle with her anyway.”
“Ok, then, go grab your manatee.”
She trotted off and came back with her favorite toy, a giant purple manatee.
“You like cuddling with Flipper, right?”
“Yes, she’s my favorite!”
“Hand her over.  She’s mine.”
::dual wailing::
“But Mommy!”
That night, Flipper the manatee, Polar Bear, Blue Dog and his associates all spent the evening in a trash bag in the laundry room.  We told the kids that if there were any more incidents where they blamed something else for their actions, that the bag would go in the trash can.
After a night and day of good behavior, Mark relented and gave the animals back.  (Personally, I would have left them in the joint for a week or so.)
Outcome: so far, so good.  I’ll keep you posted.