Tender Lips, a political statement

Rereading past journals

June 30, 2004

This is not my Botox gone awry, I found myself confessing when I could barely speak from fear of lips cracking from the soreness, puffiness and tenderness. Even teaching the bookmaking class for adult literacy teachers was stressful, much as I love it otherwise. I couldn’t be myself. 

I  wore my long Shibori dyed dress. The one I dyed at the farm several weeks ago. The black rayon, folded into a small triangle, corners dipped in bleach, rinsed, then dipped in turquoise dye, creating a monarch butterfly pattern throughout the dress. I had cut pattern out  on the floor of the back room in the farmhouse we are moving to. Perhaps the real source of my lips outbreak. A move from the city to the country sounds like a logical thing to do for a 57-year-old woman whose youngest child has taken off for California, whose recently paralyzed son is seeking his own independence and whose other three children are situated in careers and family. Of course, why not move to the country, slow down, grow old, make art.

Are you really going to do it? Karen asked as she settled in for her monthly haircut. 

Of course. We have to do it and get it over with so we can move on to a new dream if the farm dream doesn’t work.

****

I had only a slight break between the workshop and hair salon, not enough to relax, eat lunch, make a clean transition, and too many appointments were booked back to back. Danielle, my oldest daughter, seeking highlights in her hair, sits up straight, bends her body forward as I weave small sections of hair, bleaching them to a sandy blonde. She was always blond as a child and looks beautiful now. 

Can you get it any closer to the scalp?

No. This is as close as I can go.

Each time I do her hair anymore, I question whether or not it’s good enough, am I current enough on the latest trends, or does she want what is simply not possible.

It doesn’t matter. I’m not feeling very good. It really won’t matter what you do. It won’t make me happy.  It’s her damn broken heart again. I can hardly stand it.

My lips are so tender, so sore, I can’t even kiss Larry and he has been very patient with me and my kids for so long, and I cannot kiss her child like forehead, even though she’s 36, and I can’t make her broken heart go away. I must admit this is the hardest part of mothering, not being able to fix it anymore for my kids. After the fourth haircut and the clock pushed 7pm, the juice I sipped all day no longer satisfied my hunger, and there was barely any strength in my legs to carry me to the back room, gather my broom and sweep up strands of brown and blond hair.

****

Magna cooked chicken for Donnie, paralyzed 6 years. I don’t eat chicken, but it was good for Donnie. Magna is from Peru. She’s living with us and helping put Donnie in bed at night and preparing his meals, all part of his independence path. I scrape more calendula gel across my swollen lips, wash dishes and put them in the dish drainer. The problem with being tired is no one knows it. You don’t really look much different. Donnie calls from his bedroom requesting something. I can’t quite make out what he’s saying. I stand still at the sink facing the wall in front of me. 

Why am I expected to walk down the hall into his bedroom? Ask, what did you need? He has a wheelchair and it’s electric. Can’t he come into the kitchen? 

I’ve tried to communicate this idea. It doesn’t seem to translate very well. I hate being in the kitchen alone, cooking. 

How about you just stay in here? Then you can make suggestions for how you like things prepared as I go along.

****

Dana called. She wanted to know if I wanted to take my grandson, Avery, to his swimming lesson tomorrow. I said I couldn’t. I had an appointment. Sometimes I feel she feels I don’t spend enough time with my grandchildren. It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s that I’m still trying to figure out how to earn a living.

Johnny called also. He is on his way to the Grand Canyon as a rafting guide for a two-week trip on the Colorado River. He earned the privilege because of his skill in guide school. He must be skilled because of all the risks he takes, so freely whether  it is in soccer or staying out past curfew, landing us both in juvenile court, challenging me to believe in him, be his advocate, no matter what.

Yesterday he said, I’m struggling. 

What’s going on? 

I didn’t realize how much money this trip would take, he said. I’m all out of money. 

Where are you? 

 At the hostel. I got here at 1am. I couldn’t get in untill some guys coming back from the bar let me in.

*****

When I cut Ron’s hair today, he told me to call the professional development director at the school board. Ron used to teach high school art. Now he is in charge of discipline. I have been cutting Ron’s hair for over 30 years. We started out as hippies. Cutting his African curls. Now his hair is cut short. My hair is no longer long and permed. It is cut short in a boyish style and bleached blonde. A subtle contrast next to my tanned face from the gardening. Larry and I do in preparation for our move to the farm. I told Ron I wanted to work with teachers, now that I have an MFA, instead of students. Too much censorship in art in the public schools. Especially with the Patriot Act. Too much interpretation of self-expression as terrorist. 

****

My mom has shingles. I looked shingles up in the medical book on her shelf. Caused by a breakdown in the immune system. a.k.a. stress. That’s what the sign said in the walk-in clinic I took her to. The sign next to the check-in window listed 10 solutions for dealing with stress. One of them was to stop watching the news and reading the newspaper. Maybe terrorism is the cause of my swollen, cracked and tender lips.