The Fuzzball Chronicles: the Life and Times of Curly Mommy

I was raised on Christian music and I used to really enjoy worship. I could close my eyes, sway my body, raise my hands, and get lost in the safe, sacred music. Secular music was literally viewed as demonic or empty, at best. Now that I'm free to listen to all kinds of music, I realize that it is the music, the corporate singing, the movement, the ritual, and the community that I really enjoy. I'm diving into the music to experience it for the art it is without the strings tied to a controlling religion. I witness the same heightened state in the crowd of a rock concert. The difference is that the crowd is allowed to be fully themselves, no guilt, no shame, pure realness. They are allowed to speak of, poke fun at, and even celebrate our best and worst qualities. 

After dinner last night, my 20 year-old daughter asked me if I was having a midlife crisis? I answered affirmatively and told her about my blog post from yesterday.  She had long forgotten about mommy's neglected blog, so I pulled out my laptop. We scrolled through memory lane together. Her special person was also with us, gaining insight into my girl's childhood and the woman who raised her.  Some memories were hilarious. She loved the story of the time she called her brother a pussy. She asked special permission to read about my miscarriage and other sad stories. I granted permission. I have no problem sharing hard times with her.  What really got to me were the religious posts. Those were painfully embarrassing. Transparently sharing my attempts to be a good Christian was like ripping the bandage off of an open necrotic wound. I not only wished the wound was healed, but I wanted all evidence of it erased. My God posts made me feel stupid.  Later, my daughter and I continued

So, how can you tell if you're having a midlife crisis? I think that's where I'm at right now. Or maybe I'm having a psychotic break. Or maybe I'm just fed up with trying to be a good Christian mom. Why? Why do I have to be so fucking strict with myself and my kids? I'm done.  I haven't been to church in about two years. I avoided the church in 2020 due to weak COVID restrictions. The Black Lives Matter Movement, 2020 election, Jan. 6 Insurrection, and overturning of Roe v. Wade further served to divide me from my church. I watched the service online for a while, but eventually dropped that too. It was as if my fellow members had their conservative ostrich heads in the sand and couldn't see their actions were not how Jesus would have handled things.  Over the last few months, our pastors finally decided to address the stance of homosexuality in the United Methodist Church. They did a summer series about sexuality in the church and sent out strongly worde

 A little over seventeen years ago, my grandmother, or Ma, as we called her, confessed to smoking jimsonweed. Ma's doctor had been unsuccessful at treating her breathing, so she went to, "the old witch lady down the road." This woman gave her a wooden box of dried jimsonweed, told her to roll it into a cigarette and smoke it. Ma said it didn't really help her breathing, and it made her feel crazy. This would have been in 1955, just before she gave birth to my father (prematurely). This confession has been the source of years of jokes about my dad being an unintelligent jimsonweed baby. When I began googling jimsonweed I learned that Georgia O'Keeffe did a series paintings of the herbaceous perennial. I fell in love with this painting:  Jimsonweed by Georgia O'Keefe . Jimsonweed ( Datura stramonium)  also goes by the names thorn apple and devil's snare. The flowers open at night and emit a sweet fragrance. Conversely, the leaves are stinky when rubbed. It c