Momma’s Mindfulness Memo: I. Where One Begins and Where One Should Stop
The Weeks Journey…
I’m bringing back Momma’s Mindfulness Memo, my weekly look-back at what I learned, what I noticed, and what stuck. This banner gives it a retro 1980s scrapbook feel pink, purple, a little messy, a little bold, and very adorably Momma. When Momma is doing her thing she really does her thing. The Momma Dom ~ Katie M. Webb
Momma’s MindFULLness Memo
I. Where One Begins and Where One Should Stop
The Weeks Journey…
By The Momma Dom by Katie M. Webb
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Photo and concept by The Momma Dom and her A.I. Program
Absolutely humor is involved. It proves a point and it creates a hook one that reels you in. The kind of hook that should stick around in someone’s mind and after a few minutes or hours creates the perfect moment to share on a reel. It wasn’t a moment of soft candles and being surrounded by a dozen or so 6 day old puppies while drinking the perfect cup of coffee with raspberry scones.
I say raspberry because when one is in the hospital under a “red band: ALLERGY situation”, strawberry allergies seem to mean any fruit that is red or drink that includes red, or if a red grape hits your fruit tray, you are under no way allowed to come in contact. Nope, even the strawberry festival news reels are blocked so you don’t think yourself into an allergic reaction.
So back to the humor and the hook. My left overs hit the floor. I wanted my chinese chicken fried rice, the one with the HUGE pieces of chicken, and the perfect sized onions that are fried to almost see through. That left overs thing again. This was my “left overs have fallen down and they can’t get up”, moment.
Sproutlings, readers, I implore you that many who read regularly will find that my leftovers are a thing of great tragedy, sadness and angst. I live with a person who doesn’t understand consent of leftovers.
I am talking comments like, “They have been in here since yesterday. I thought they were fair game.” Or the excuse Momma loves the most, “I have no idea.” Burp. Truly how can you argue with a person who says out of the two of you it must be you because they didn’t do it. Fine, I have nothing to be upset about.
Today however I, in the play back, through my invitation, into the culinary distress of nibbly bits left behind on the first eating, it became a sort of spiritual lesson of foods that aren’t yours but you eat them anyways.
I watched the culprit do something I never thought I would see. Momma has diabetes and my once blood sugar of 600 hit rock bottom. That is to say I was under 60. Shaky, sweaty, hunger like pains, pleading for a juice, and or some serious carb loading, asked him for help.
An average reading should be 90 for those that don’t know my health.
So, The Poet, took it upon himself to not eat my leftovers out of compassion or understanding but, heat them instead. Knowing I needed something to eat he thought rice, which is a horrible carb, bless his heart, he even thought feed her.
He took my left over container and instead of coveting it for himself and spiriting it away with promises of plastic spoons, and hidden temptation of being eaten by him at 3 am, he set to make me a plate.
Here’s the tighter, realer version, those take out containers are bloody hot when being handled. For one who is trained in the stealthy art of the open grab and run, they were in shock it wasn’t refrigerator cold and it was too much to handle.
The intense zing of his past heated moments of flammable stealing, ignited the karma that I guess my chicken rice with that extra yummy soy sauce I dumped over it the night before deserved? Or I did for going low in another diabetes journey of highs and plummets, the home version.
In my faltering body I drank the sugar water, ate the tuna fish for protein right out of the can. Momma felt so rennisence and piraty in on the couch ways. The sea salt of the fish rising some ghost of Bluebeard or Johnny Depp if you like that Disneyized amusement park way.
It was then that I heard the crash.
I saw the light. Not the anger at lost foods kind but, rather the place to once a week let those sitcom moments of life be put to paper and out of your head. Gone is the seriousness of, “What my leftovers again, again, again, why me? I am going to start eating worms and bugs. Let them steal my Cicada cupcakes.”
For mental health reasons of a writer and editorialist, comedian and satire artist and student, I’m bringing back Momma’s Mindfulness Memo because apparently the universe looked at my week, cracked its knuckles, and said, “Let’s see if she still writes when the leftovers have painted the floor.”
Yes my leftovers were thrown on the floor by accident readers. I know this and in no way took it out on them. I did however drop right down on the stairs I stood on, and cried. They were not metaphorical leftovers, nor emotional. They were actual food meets actual floor.
This was the actual moment where a grown woman stands there staring at the wreckage like the Titanic just sank in Tupperware form and the band that played on until the last note was sunk, were found bobbing on the ocean’s surface holding the orchestra together that were encased in a nice meat flavored veggie Jell-O mold of old.
That was the week. A meat flavored Jell-O slice of wiggly mystery meat and carrots. That works as nothing is red and I won’t have to decline due to allergies.
I decided the Discipline in myself no longer wanted a picture or polish. I sure as hell don’t want to smile for the algorithm gods like some perky little internet hostage who cries too often because she got only 1 thumbs up and no hearts this week but oh the comments she got about things others thought.
She likes those because they make her think about other’s views. Mindfulness is standing in another's shoes. Her views hit others thoughts and they think further about hers and how it makes them feel. Odd we are nothing but muses for each other on this planet.
I wasn’t myself. I was not feeling well and I was even falling asleep in the pool. Some people dream of sparkly bubbled worlds, I was thinking of SOS and life preservers. I think it might be true that one could drown in a thimble of water. Momma was doing her best to create a waterboarding situation for herself.
Perhaps I can get myself to admit to eating my leftovers I am upset were eaten. You going with me on this liquidy torture tale folks?
Some days I could barely see myself, my hands in front of my face were tripled and smushed together like a Monet painting. All color and no detail. I was using a variety of magnifier glasses, using my camera on my phone, pointed at my computer on zoom, and my screen on 250% magnification, just to write, squinting at words like they owed me their first born and rights to the best selling novel.
I was trying to make sentences while my eyeballs had clearly filed a complaint with management and voice to text was on strike because of my voice all sultry and slurry during this flare. Multiple Sclerosis badge wearers often proudly display our ability to look and sound completely drunk.
Drunk on what? Life of course. And still Sproutlings? Still, still, still, Momma showed up because sometimes showing up does not look inspirational. It really looks like bad lighting, blurry vision, a phone held too close to your face to see a computer image of your grandbaby laughing,
Plus, don’t forget, the one they didn’t count on, that one weirdo woman muttering, “Fine Universe. We’re doing this anyway but I am putting my spin on it, I think you might have a few things wrong.” My take anyway
That’s me, The Momma Dom, Katie M. Webb, the star of this Mindfulness Memo. The person who writes in the third person, the fourth wall, hi subscribers, what’s up followers, now back to our tale, then she winks as she pub crawl two steps on by.
The dance of a flare without a care. See how I dare even fate at times.
This week also brought the numbers. Followers 218. Subscribers 1411. All those lovely reads, views, highlights, comments, notes, new friends and those who said hello from far away lands. Welcome to the bunny garden, what I call where I work in the Domverse. That is my own multiverse, oh I let some of it out in my writing. One day it will all come together.
All those little digital yard signs trying to convince you they are the work. They are not the work writers and we all know it. The work is the work. That work will drain you and spit you out if you let it. Pacing of planning your gardens and timing of the seasons is required. Momma is learning that after health took her down, and she desired to keep it up. I did tool. Just a bit slower.
I got it done, with the help of TheFatherDom. That sainted man took pity on me and kissed me each time I went to lose it. His lips set upon mine with one purpose, touch. I was connected to him in ways that the last few years did not allow either of us to see.
It’s funny when one takes the time to put you to bed. Hold you until you sleep. Leave at the right time for you to decompress and drift off. Needed medicine even if the leaving you alone hurt and helped. Finally a point of rest that is much needed but never taken. I slept with Mr. Fidget E. and the world melted away.
“Daddy. Daddy Jim. Dad~.” He came heavy footed down the hall. Our bedroom door opened and he was there. My heart felt hope and joy and love. My yearning for him was worth it. I found out how much I was seen behind the scenes as I was informed that while I slept The Poet and The Father Dom ordered chinese. The same order as the leftovers that hit the floor and we got extra fortune cookies that said I would make it big while I slept.
It didn’t lie. Truth abounds, I gained 3 pounds while I slept. Great fortune! If one person reads it you see, I did the ghastly work. If a thousand people read it, I did the work well. If nobody reads it and I am just talking to myself with magnified letters and questionable leftovers, I still did the work as Momma intended, for the work itself, for the discipline of the skills she learns, she showed up for herself and her play. She lives her self titled crown, The Momma Dom, Playing With Myself and Loving It!
That is why Momma’s Mindfulness Memo is coming back because every week leaves evidence of where I fought to get at something. What fell apart in life and that which stayed standing? What made me laugh with my whole belly and thinking my head was under an assault at the love and fun?
The is what just keep hitting me like bullet pointed thoughts, what made me swear out loud, or at someone, or something I couldn’t control? What landed on the floor and made me pick it up? Lessons embedded in what I had to face alone, those Momma-isms like, “Let it suck” making me face myself daily? What I left out there because, honestly I was trying and refused to die?
Some things belong to the dog, the universe, or the health department. This week taught me that the numbers do not get to decide whether the work matters. I showed up. Half-blind, half-cranky, spiritually standing over ruined leftovers, and somehow still writing.
That is not content Sproughtlings and new readers. That is proof.
The Momma Dom by Katie M. Webb
(Please see the below link to the former Mindfulness Memos and enjoy the new ones as they come out)
Photo and concept by The Momma Dom and her A.I. Program
Image by The Momma Dom ~ Katie M. Webb and TheFatherDom with help from an AI. It took our directions very well but can not get my nose right. Bullocks to the techy dweeb.
Photo and concept by The Momma Dom and her A.I. Program
Coming Soon: New Articles LOOK HERE
Photo and concept by The Momma Dom and her A.I. Program
Images by The Momma Dom, Designed by Julia Kalman with Canva
Photo and concept by The Momma Dom and her A.I. Program
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