Stories Come Before the Sunrise, #365StrongStories 5

Before my eyes were open and before the sun made it over the horizon, it was time to discuss when my six-year-old’s doll had been born. “I think that Margaret’s birthday is in May.”

Clearly, this had us thinking about the calendar.

“Mama, why do we celebrate the fourth of July?”

Brief description of Revolutionary War. Disambiguation: no, the Pilgrims didn’t fight.

“Did they wear armor in that war?”

Discussion of wigs as seen in most recent Magic Tree House book.

Interspersed throughout the Q & A period in which I mumbled and Moira mused, Mairead began her own interrogation.

“Mama! Hello!”

Hi.

“Milkies?”

No.

“All gone?”

Yes.

She accepts this and knocks me in the face with her water bottle. Really, she is being quite reasonable for a 23-month-old. I’m able to yank my shirt down and tickle her ‘til she giggles. It beats the screaming.

Everything beats the screaming.

But Mairead is persistent. “Hungry?”

We are on the precipice of the hysterical screaming danger zone.

“Eggies?”

I assume you hear the plaintive desperation in the toddler’s voice.

Finally, I  clamor through the tangle of sheets and dolls and little girl limbs to reach for the phone. Must be sure it’s dawn and not my neighbor’s ever-present flood lights casting a cold glow to the curtains.

“Clock. Time. Eighteen. Ladybug?”

This is Mairead’s first of 187 attempts to steal my phone and find the app about bugs.

I stumble out of bed as the whining begins. I am going to the bathroom before I answer another damn question or scare up a single morsel of food. They resent my selfishness.

But there’s magic in this morning. There is hope in the air. A sliver of silver hangs in the steel blue sky.

“Lady moon! Quick, everyone out of bed!”

And they listen. They’re as excited as they’d be if they spotted Santa’s sleigh.

Clearly I’m doing something right in spite of it all. 

There are stories being made before the sun is up and before your eyes are open. Can you see them?

The Plenty of the Marketplace, #365StrongStories 4

The sound of chimes and the hum of several languages fill the perfumed air. She breathes deeply and her senses dance with the warmth of vanilla and the tang of lemon balm. With a sure hand, she strokes the luxurious fabrics the weaver has set before her - fine wool, brocade shot with silver, and silk like angel wings. It’s a fine morning to browse the marketplace, greeting the merchants and sampling the delicacies in the food stalls. She is planning a gathering. Their friends will enjoy her rich hospitality, but they’re really there for the company and the after-dinner entertainment. As the finest storyteller in the city, her guests will forget the sweet wine and the perfectly spiced dishes when they lose themselves in the tale of the ill-fated lovers who may - or may not - escape the jealous duke and his sorceress companion.

These days, she has a satisfying purse of gold nestled in the folds of her skirts. The vendors in this marketplace have done well and so they have supported her husband, the master glassblower who makes vials for their potions and windows for their homes. And it’s not just his money she’s spending. Now that she is a celebrated teller of tales, she’s being paid handsomely to amuse and enchant at the wealthiest households in the region.

Everyone in the square seems to glow with the contentment of enough and even the glow of plenty. There is news of strife and famine abroad, and she knows she’d see hollow faces if she entered the shadowy alleyways. She’ll leave an offering with the priestesses at the temple - she trusts them to put the coins in the hands of those who need it. Next week she will stay a while and offer the needy her stories. For surely, a person needs a good story as much as he or she needs bread.

But today, There is enough in this little world of theirs to sustain every creative source and to leave some extra besides for those who haven’t yet found their way into the collective bounty of the marketplace.

Sunday Morning Supposed To's, #365StrongStories 3

Someone is sitting on my journal, so I'm writing this in my head. The babysitters are doing everything they can to amuse my daughter with their sweetly inappropriate ironies, but she's not having it. It's a great honor to be someone's safest place, but when I'm supposed to be someplace else, it's like being conscripted into impersonating a piece of furniture.

My lap, my journal, and I long to be alone together on the lumpy floral couch halfway between the nursery and the Sunday School classroom.

But wait... I've left that solitary existence behind.

I'm a wife and a mother, of course, so it's hard to even be solitary in the shower. But now we're thinking of joining a congregation - something I never thought I'd do - it's absurd to think I'd find time to myself in the midst of a Sunday morning community.

I'd left the church that claimed me from birth and wandered happily in the land of the faithfully unaffiliated. Moving now with this Unitarian Universalist Fellowship isn't the path to the gods I was supposed to take either.

The Ache of Forbidden Stories, #365StrongStories 2

The girl stands at the top of the stairs. She hears gunshots. She hears screams. There’s a lot of talking and then she hears gasps and groans and nice, gentle music. It’s getting cold (she told Dada she didn’t want to wear her footie pajamas that night), but still she crouches there. Listening.

Intrigued. Confused. More than a little frightened.

Eventually, the blare of the television cuts off and Mama mutters, “Did you hear something…?” In a louder voice, “Moira?”

It amazes me that this scene doesn’t repeat every night that my husband and I ignore our grownup responsibilities and lose ourselves in the binge-worthy show of the moment. Clearly we prioritize a damn good story over much-needed sleep. How can we expect a six-year-old resist what we cannot?

This holiday break, my daughter has been pushing at the limits of story.

She was intrigued by the intricate packaging and lush images in the Outlander boxset that waited for me under the tree. She can’t understand why she can listen to our vintage 70s record of The Hobbit but can’t stay up with Dada to see the movie. And she’ll be in mourning about the absolute “no” she’s getting about seeing Star Wars in the theater.

We tell her that we set these limits because we love her. We tell her how wonderful these stories will be when she’s ready. (Yes, husband and I are already having lots of debates about when she’s ready to read Outlander!) We go to her overflowing shelves and pick dozens of stories that are perfect for who she is right now.

Boundaries are blessings, but I feel every bit of her longing and her frustration.

Certainly, when it comes to stories, we have no self control. Humans are the storytelling animal. None of us can stop ourselves.

Writing page one of 2016's blank book, #365StrongStories 1

I’m staring at the empty book that is 2016 and I’m paralyzed by the promise of this new project, #365StrongStories. How can I tell 366 stories (it’s leap year, remember) when I can’t even tell one? The Christmas tree droops, crumbs and toys crunch under foot, and yet another “big game” dominates the family room. Unless your idea of drama is a toddler’s quest to steal your iPhone, I haven’t got a single story to enchant you.

But I’m forgetting everything I know about story because I’m frightened by the blank page.

The strength of a story doesn’t depend on high stakes and shocking plot twists. A story is made strong by the writer’s passion for the scene and the her desire to connect with the reader.

Motherhood is a story - a sprawling epic crowded with characters who transform from sentence to sentence. The narrative structure is messy and some chapters are agonizingly kind while others are painfully short. Much of the writing in the motherhood story is riddled with typos, but that's because the author hasn't had a good night's sleep since 2009.

There are stories to tell here. There are stories I must tell and stories I think you must hear.

#365strongstories, day 1