{by Jenny from The Bloggess}

My friend (Sunny) is an artist. She writes and paints and makes beautiful, whimsical dresses out of found objects and magic. One of my favorite dresses of hers is the red poppy dress and I wanted it the first time I saw it but I knew I’d never get it. For one thing, it’s not sensible. It’s impractical. It’s bright red and vibrant and shocking and “inappropriate for a woman my age”. And I have no shoes to go with it. And I have no place to wear it.

And I want it.

I want, just once, to wear a bright red, strapless ball gown with no apologies. I want to be shocking, and vivid and wear a dress as intensely amazing as the person I so want to be. And the more I thought about it the more I realized how often we deny ourselves that red dress and all the other capricious, ridiculous, overindulgent and silly things that we desperately want but never let ourselves have because they are simply “not sensible”. Things like flying lessons, and ballet shoes, and breaking into spontaneous song, and building a train set, and crawling onto the roof just to see the stars better. Things like cartwheels and learning how to box and painting encouraging words on your body to remind yourself that you’re worth it.

And I am worth it.

And last week…?

…I got my red dress.

{by Two Busy}

And in that instant

I am aloft in a way I’ve never known before, a growing cushion of air rising to fill the space between my skin and my seat, the wheels and the road, my head snapping back with effortless, eyeblink ferocity and colliding with the headrest (the crush of my hair against leather, pressing through the foam to touch the steel within) then a whipcrack snap forward, vertebrae compressing and releasing like pistons firing at neural speed, the engine still running strong and loud and my heart surging with adrenaline and

in the periphery of my vision I can see the earth spin and turn, as if the axis of the world has shifted

I think: how odd

and the sound, the sound, it’s incredible, that terrible squeal and crush of metal bending and tearing, iron wrenching from iron and glass and the compression of air in my lungs and those seconds – one, and two, and the long heartbeat stretch to three – when it all dissolves to echo and gravity fades to myth and I become aware that I am still pressing down on the accelerator, as though I might catch up to this impossibly swift rotation of earth and sky and in matching its speed slow its pace and return to the world I’d known and all I hear is the engine the wheels freed from the restraints of physics straining to catch hold on this cool evening air and

then a corner connects – I cannot tell which one, and in not understanding I lose some illusion of control – and there is a new eruption of torque and velocity, of moving so many different ways at once, and I am the tail of a kite arcing and spiraling in a strong wind, diving and soaring and fighting against myself and this thin brace of fabric that cuts deep across my waist and the forgiving skin where neck and shoulder meet

where you had rested your head, seeking solace and comfort and this

is all

it’s all happening so fast

and the adrenaline fills me with strength and fury and my arms and chest swell — with will, with purpose, with terror and defiance and

something catches

{by Heather, of the former Queen of Shake-Shake}

Last Friday was Field Day at the boys’ school. Two hours each of Go-Fish, bouncy houses and terrible carnival-type food. Ages seven and nine now, Payton & Parker don’t need me there. They run off and leave me as soon as we get to the field. I’m simply there to hold their drinks, trinkets, and sand art jars. This is perfect because just the other day my arms and hands were telling me how very bored they were. Thanks goodness I had children so I would have random shit to hold for approximately 18 years!

So while I stood around like some kind of humanoid storage facility, I chatted with other moms who also resembled humanoid storage facilities. I was introduced to another 3rd grade mom and I have such awesome social skills that I couldn’t remember her name 30 seconds later. But this nameless mom said something I found very interesting….

“Isn’t it funny how the kids will be friends with one person this week, or for a month, and then someone else will be their best friend the next week? Kids are just so funny that way!”

They are?

They do?

Is this what “normal” kids do to friends? Shit, and they think my kid is weird? That’s rich.

Neither of my boys do that, even my very typical Parker, so maybe it’s girls? Or the future generation of shallow backstabbers?

I think of Parker and his favorite playmate. He’s been the favorite since they were, I don’t know, three? Four? When they were placed in separate 1st grade classes (after pre-K & kindergarten together) I thought surely Parker would move on to another “best” friend. He’s just so social, after all.

Not so, though he does have other more casual friendships. They still play together every day at P.E. and Parker is very worried they won’t have class or P.E. together next year.

I think of Payton and his one best friend. They’ve been close for three years now. Of course, Payton is my kid who could possibly be called “socially delayed,” but shit, the other kids flutter friend to friend, week to week. I don’t know, it seems my kid actually knows more about quality of friendship over quantity. Who’s delayed again?

_____________________________________________________________

Two hours earlier

I’m in between Parker’s field day time slot and Payton’s, waiting in Payton’s classroom as they prepare to go outside.

I don’t know what it is, but every time I come into Payton’s classroom there are three girls who gravitate towards me. Maybe it’s my hair. Or my cookies. Do I permanently smell like home-baked cookies? I can’t figure out why I’m like a magnet to these girls. I don’t think I exude liking for other people’s kids.

Of course, Payton’s best friend is in this group. We shall give her the blog name Macy.

As soon as I find a seat in his room, I’m overwhelmed by Payton and his scientific questions. As usual. He sees me, throws his hands in the air, yells “MOM!” and then shoves a nonfiction book in my face. This is how he greets me nine times out of ten. (Just so you know, the tenth time is a very unexcited and distracted “hi. Apparently if I’m not good for shoving a book in my face, I’m not that important.”)

With Parker, it’s “Mama!” and smiles and sweet, little boy hugs. But with Payton, it’s “Mom!” with hands in the air (sometimes jumping is included), science book in the face, and serious queries only.

Friday’s question was whether you pronounce the Tachina Fly as ta-key-na or ta-chi-na.

{by Lindsey from I Digress: Tales from a Baby-Starved Wingnut}

We are in a house of windows. In a glass house, which is ironic if you’ve been with me for the past 72 hours. Storms are rolling in back to back, rain is coming down in hard sheets. The wedding is outside. Or was supposed to be. Our host has an 80′s love music compilation CD playing in a house-wide stereo system. The bride stands at the window just outside of the yellow lamp light and watches the rain while REO Speedwagon plays in the background. I am oddly reminded of the movie Forces of Nature, where the bride waits in the hurricane for her groom.

It has been a long road to this day. The family is held together by gossamer threads of duty. The grandmother might not come, people are not speaking.

I don’t fit in with these girls. Of all the bridesmaids I am the only one that only knows the bride through the groom. I gravitate to the mother of the bride. Something about the entire day makes me need a mother.

****

I am getting my makeup done. The artist asks if I have babies. I say no, and don’t offer any explanation. When she asks me what I want my eyes to look like, I say dark and heavy.

****

I am getting my hair done. The hairdresser asks me if I have babies. I offer a slightly more hopeful answer than I gave the makeup artist and say, not yet! She does big, loopy curls in my hair while she eats a sandwich and I try not to worry about her dripping mayo on my back. She says her GPS brought her here, she has never been so far out in the country. I laugh. She says, seriously . . . where are we? I tell her the honest answer, that I don’t know. I am just as lost as she is.

****

Every hour the tension increases. The bride is screechy and stressed, her sisters hate her behind her back. Our host, her aunt, gives us a talk about Jesus Christ and His Plan. If His Plan is for rain on your wedding day, you accept it. She says: You have to bend to his will. Submit. What he wants is what you get. I think: Jesus sounds like an angry toddler. She says that one year her husband and her decided to celebrate their anniversary with Jesus. Her husband got her a card that said: Happy Anniversary to you, me and JC! The bride sets her plate down and walks out of the room.

****

The Aunt’s job is to be the time enforcer. In the last 15 minutes she yells the time left before we have to leave every minute. TEN MINUTES, she screams. Peter Cetera sings in the background. NINE MINUTES. My bag is packed by the front door, I stand there with my dress over my arm, it’s making sweaty creases in my skin. EIGHT MINUTES. When it gets down to the last two minutes the bride begins the epic meltdown. She is screaming at everyone except me, because I haven’t even gone near her in the last 2 hours.

*****

I am in the backseat of the car on the way to the ceremony. I hate the backseat, I get carsick. The maid of honor is driving. The bride is rocking back and forth with her veil neatly tucked in her stiff hair, chanting something about hating everyone. Her little sister is in the back with me. We are both texting people about how badly we want to be somewhere (anywhere) else. Her sister says: I swear, she is normally a nice person.

*****

We use umbrellas to shield her on the way in, because the groom is in the parking lot. When it’s time to put on her dress and its not fitting she screams and tells everyone to get away from her. The rain stops long enough to get our pictures taken outside. All of our heels sink into the mud. We forget that we are supposed to have bouquets. We are unhappy and tired but we smile radiantly any time someone raises a camera. I see B across the way, in his tux, and my eyes water. It’s the first thing that’s moved me all day.

{by Deb at Missives From Suburbia}

“Have a good day,” the guy says, as he pushes the button and closes the hatch, securing my groceries, my husband’s SCUBA gear, and a cacophony of motherhood-related paraphernalia that whispers to me about who I’ve become.

That guy — the one manning the drive-through grocery pick-up — doesn’t know what or who I once was, and it doesn’t matter. But the summer breeze carries the memories he doesn’t, and today it chides me. “I matter,” it says.

Even as I forget to take the long way home and avoid the lake traffic (such a simple thing to remember!), the vaguest details of my prior life waft through the open car windows and dance with a flurry of dog hair that springs from my dashboard. They badger me to go. Go again. Go now. Go fast. Just go.

My carriage, so natural then, still comes easily, but it’s a more practiced, more mindful pursuit, not quite forced. The cadence of my breath is an outpouring, no longer a meditation. Creaks and cricks pulse where none existed before. All as it should be; after all, I have run only once in the past four years.

I never liked the heat and how it smothered me, coaxing me to quit, snaking its way around my chest and daring me to take another breath. Today is not hot. Today is, in fact, perfect, and my shoes call to me.

I have cheated time. Yes, that’s a confession. A toe-touch away from 40 and a newly-minted mother to two late in life, I still have a runner’s build. The muscles return with little effort; they are not as twitchy as they once were, and they lie hidden under a layer of loosening skin and last night’s pasta, but they are still there and still formidable when pushed. Absolute truth be told and modesty aside, I’m not built much differently than I was in my late-20s, even if my body doesn’t fully remember those days and its accomplishments. But the trials of birth and mothering have armed me with a deliberate strength I never had before, a resolve that bridges the gap between what was and what is.

There are few photos of my previous life’s hobbies. I showed up on race day, sleep still in my eyes, did what had to be done, then puttered home to resume my normal life, with my hamstrings a little tighter and my mind a little freer. I went alone, because crossing the finish line is a solitary pursuit, and I have never had much interest in sharing my wins and losses. All but the most prized t-shirts have been discarded, along with a different marriage, a long career, and vast time to spare.

It will surprise some people to learn that I’ve run marathons. It seems laughable that I can’t remember how many, when they once represented so much to me. In that gap of memory, it seems that I’ve forgotten who I once was and what I did, no more knowledgeable about myself than the guy at the grocery store. But the breeze off Lake Calhoun reminded me today, and when this cough disappears (yet another affront to my youth), my body will remember, too. Even if I have to make it.

{by Lisa-Jo from The Gypsy Mama}

There’s a moment right after passengers have been told to “put your seatbacks in the upright position, stow your tray tables and fasten your seatbelts” and before the landing gear comes down when my heart starts to race at the anticipation of being home again.

First comes the weather: hot, dry, sunshine. Then the visuals: sky – big, warm blue, streaked with light, white cloud. Veld – golden, dry and a haze of heat. Smells of dust, fires, taxis, and the cologne of a welcoming embrace. The sound of family all yelling at once as they spot us coming through customs, “Here, look, there they are! Guys, guys, over here! Run, run to them – it’s ok, go!” Bone-crushing hugs. Salty tears. Smiles. Big, white smiles buried in a brother’s little dark, black face, behind a dad’s graying beard, beneath a mom’s cobalt, blue eyes. So many smiles. I feel them in my toes. Delicious.

Hair gel, lots of hair gel still shaping another brother’s do. He runs his fingers through it as we stand and look at each other, grin, shuffle feet and renew.

Relationships have to be nurtured to survive. They require close contact to thrive. Long-distance is the antithesis to family ties. Each homecoming is a rebirth of an old relationship. It takes effort. It’s a commitment. It’s rewarded by two boys who feel themselves at home in a country they visit only once or so a year.

Screaming hugs and highways that arch and lurch exactly as I remember them. Dad’s driving that my brother still tries to correct. Hawkers who launch themselves at our car whenever the light turns red. A steep, steep driveway over a carpet of jacaranda petals that leads up to the house. And more hugs. And tea and koeksisters, melktert and rusks. Home is where people feed you what you’ve missed before you ask for it. Home is a small cottage that sits side-by-side next to my parents’ house. Home is an old dog and two raggedy cats long since passed on. But their memories, their memories launch themselves at me as we walk through the door. An old ox yoke hangs on the wall. Steps lead up and words unfold themselves above each stair, words I can repeat in my sleep from a thousand times climbing those stairs, “But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.”

Family pictures line the walls. My name, my husband’s, proudly on the family tree, our sons – wait, one still must be added. Our family tree has grown since I was last home. Flowers, pots of flowers in the kitchen soaking in the sink. And in the lounge a kudu head inappropriately perfect for the room looks down on the scene of suitcases scattered about, clothes unfolding, gifts unpacked and exchanged. Shrieks of delight, of laughter, of joy, of the first fights between the littlest kids reunited. A red guitar for one a green guitar for another. Rockstars are born. Parents have misgivings about the gifts.

More food, supper. Pap ‘n wors, sauces, mushrooms, mealies, cauliflower, samp, salads – oh the salads – a riot of color and texture and taste. Prickly pears for dessert. My dad demonstrates how to cut them open and peel out the sweet and juicy fruit. A whole box of litchis for one friend. A carton of nectarines for me because my dad knows I don’t like peaches. Five Roses tea for some, Rooibos for others. Amarula for everyone.

The familiar, nightly chorus of frogs begins. You can easily forget how loud they are. They almost overpower the jasmine. Almost. Because nothing can outdo the rich, heavy jasmine in full bloom on a summer night in Pretoria. Nothing.

And on a first night back home all that is left to do is stare at the stars. Because as if all the rest isn’t enough, the stars for definite will reassure you that you’re back in the Southern Hemisphere.

{by Jennie from She Likes Purple}

I can’t remember if my relationship with my dad has ever been really easy, has ever been really good. I think so, I hope so, but still I can’t remember. I remember plenty of good times, sure — the way he used to swerve the car to the beat of the music on the radio, how he’s always up for a donut, when he drove so far out of his way last summer to see me another time before my plane left California. He appreciates good music and art and movies. He is whip smart and funny, too. When he’s on, he’s one of the most enjoyable people to be around. He’s not always on.

He can tell you who won the World Series 10 years ago and by how many games and who the winning pitcher was, but he’s forgotten my birthday more than once. I laugh because that’s funny, right? I laugh because what else am I going to do? “Remember when you forgot my birt….” I try to joke. “Don’t go there,” he warns. He means it.

I remember being so proud to be his daughter when I was much, much younger, but that feeling faded into something else entirely when I caught on to all the cheating and then it was smashed to smithereens once he walked out for good.

It’s the biggest conflict of my entire life, how to reconcile the very, very good with the very, very bad. There have been plenty of both.

I don’t blame him anymore for what he did all those years ago. What good would that do? But I have held out hope he would change, that he would stop doing it over and over again, year after year. I hoped he would get it, would see that his temper and jealousy has polluted every good relationship he has ever had. His temper has knocked so much over, left it broken on the floor. There was always so much wreckage left in the wake of his fury, wreckage I spent years sifting through. I’m done sifting now, and I’ve forgiven him, but, my god, I can’t fight anymore. I’m too tired.

I’m struggling, fumbling, tripping over myself to figure out how to have a relationship with a parent as a parent. “We’re both adults,” he said to me recently. Yes, we are, I thought. But I’m still your daughter.

I write here knowing anyone could read, imagining everyone I know is, just to be sure I don’t say anything to end friendships or make dinner parties especially awkward. He could find this space with one quick Google search. He could already be reading it. I’m fine if he is, if he has. I’ve said all this to him and then some. This is my therapy, this is how I heal, how I figure shit out, how I rise up out of the wreckage of all the broken dreams left shattered below. It’s not what you’d do, I’m sure, but write through it is all I can do. Those who love me will allow me that.

There’s been another fight, another long string of heartfelt, wounded emails, sleepless nights of thinking about what’s best, what I need, what I want. I wonder if it’ll ever end. I hope less these days.

One thing I used to say to Kyle when I was pregnant, when I’d be lounging, beached-whale-like, on the couch, was You don’t have to give back, you never have to give back. I’m not having you for me. I’m having you for the world. I’m not made of steel, but I mean it. I don’t have to be his first choice or his last call. He can prefer people over me and live a life apart from me. People have already gasped at how easily I hand my kid to anyone who wants him, how little it bothers me when someone else sees him roll over for the first time. God, I could never do that. I could never leave my kid! I don’t know how you do it! I’m not heartless. I just love him enough not to pin my happiness on him. That’s a heavy burden for him to carry, don’t I know.

I’ve often felt my dad has done things for me in order to have something to sling at me when we’re arguing. He wants to give, give, give, so he can remind, remind, remind. So I overcompensate. I tell Kyle as I rock him to sleep, Loving you is enough for me. You owe me nothing.

I try so hard to be different that I forget how much there is to love. My dad will hand money to any stranger in need, he’ll take me to In N Out Burger whenever I visit, he raised me to accept all people for exactly who they are, regardless of their race or who they choose to have sex with. He’s a good man with a good heart, and, yet, I can’t remember if we’ve ever really had a good relationship.

I’m afraid we never will.

Letter from the Editor

Progress has a lightening effect. As with most creatives, the buildup of ideas without a creative release can carry an almost physical weight. For me, writer’s block is invariably the result of not implementing my creativity, producing essentially an exit obstructed by overwrought idea urchin.

Story Bleed Magazine is nothing if not a product of overwrought idea urchin.

In other words, fire up the coffee maker and ready your minds because Story Bleed is newly light on our feet, moving out of our soft launch and preparing to officially throw open the doors! Ah, the feel of progress:

First through the door is our new slate of Story Editors. We have refined our staff from over 50 editors to a stealthy group of five. They are sharp, insightful, and rousing. And they want to hear your stories.

To mark the introduction of our new editors, Procter and Gamble is sponsoring a twitter chat with the editors of Story Bleed, Thursday, November 11 at 9ET/ 8CT and we invite you to join us, following the hashtag #storiedTYM. As part of P&G’s Thank You Mom campaign, dive into our editors’ perspectives and share yours as we discuss the art of storytelling and the importance of mothers as the oral and written historians of family.

What do our editors look for in a good written story? What makes a piece compelling? Are there any tips, methods, or tools they use and recommend when writing personal narratives? For one hour, we’ll dig into the life of a Story Bleed editor and celebrate the process of writing. Expect to be challenged and encouraged. That’s what we do.

Challenging and encouraging writers and non-writers alike to share their stories is also what P&G is accomplishing with their Thank You Mom contest. To enter, they are asking you to share stories of how you appreciate your mother in 600 characters or less. Every month, the 15 highest-ranked stories each win $1,000 toward travel expenses for a special visit with your mom and a handheld video camera to record your reunion.

600 characters. That is essentially four tweets. You can do this. In fact, that’s exactly what inspired us to partner with P&G’s Thank You Mom campaign as a sponsor of Story Bleed, because while encouraging storytelling is invigorating and exciting, it is also intimidating for people who don’t consider themselves writers. The inspiration for the twitter chat with the editors of Story Bleed is to encourage you to record your stories by breaking down some of the elements of a compelling written story into 140 character twitter-size pieces.

My favorite part of of the Thank You Mom campaign? The winners’ stories, so far, are stories any of us can relate to and write. They aren’t tales of insurmountable odds and exceedingly rare circumstances. You don’t have to share how your mom had her leg devoured by a land shark in a bizarre Saturday Night Live skit in order to win. The stories shared are simple and resonating. We like simple and resonating.

Who are we? It’s time we moved our editors from outside the design bleed.

Please welcome our Story Editors:

• Shannon “Mr Lady” / Whiskey in My Sippy Cup / @MrLady
• Heather King / Extraordinary Ordinary / @HeatheroftheEO
• Amy Turn Sharp / doobleh-vay / @amyturnsharp
• Sara Sophia / tout es des roses / @sarasophia
• Robin Dance / Pensieve / @PensieveRobin

Continually blurring the edges of that bleed:

• Editorial Director, Jennifer Doyle / Playgroups Are No Place For Children / @playgroupie
• Managing Editor and Print Editorial Director, Arianne Segerman / To Think Is To Create / @ToThink
• Marketing Director, Deb Rox / Deb on the Rocks / @DebontheRocks

And still in charge of unexpectedly adjusting the parameters of our edges at any given time, you have me:

• Founder / Editor-in-Chief, Megan Jordan / Velveteen Mind / @VelveteenMind

Team in place, we will resume our invigorated publishing schedule this month and will begin accepting submissions again shortly thereafter. If you previously submitted your work…