Poetry Night

POEM: a piece of writing that partakes of the nature of both speech and song, and that is usually rhythmical and metaphorical

Son’s school is hosting Poetry Night tonight.  I love poems – from the silly to the sincere.  Sometimes I try my hand at writing them.  I’ve posted a few below for those of you who consider amateur night at an open mic a good time.  For those of you who would rather have your fingernails removed, please check back in a day or two when I’m back to prose. 

Mommy Needs a Sick Day

Mommy needs a sick day

That her contract doesn’t provide

I’m usually eager to see you

But today I want to hide.

I hear the pitter patter of your feet

You’re awake and coming near

From 1 to 10, how bad would it be

If I pretended I wasn’t here?

What I want more than anything

Is to stay under my covers

Perhaps you could canvass the neighborhood

Looking for a temporary mother.

No, that won’t work - they’ll call the cops.

So I gear up for what’s ahead

Breakfast, clothes and brushing teeth

Just as soon as I’m out of bed.

There is no rest for the weary

It’s time to face the day

My glands are ten times normal size

Can I submit for hazard pay?

No.  There’s no extra compensation

For mothers with the flu

We still cook and clean and carpool

Because that’s what mothers do.

But, someday when I’m old and gray

The tables will be turned

I’ll be living in your basement

Collecting what I’ve earned.

***

Diverging Roads

Frost saw two roads diverge

in his yellow woods.

In my experience,

things are rarely so simple.

Life’s intersections are crowded.

Paths are rarely marked

with destinations and mileage.

The less traveled ways are lonely and overgrown.

They can be hard to see

unless you look closely

at the spaces between the brambles.

Adjacent paths that seem to head

the same direction

can end in vastly different vistas.

It only takes a few degrees difference in course at the onset

to result in great separation

after years of travel.

Seemingly small choices:

alone or together

today or tomorrow

speak or bite tongue

intervene or look away

full disclosure or embellishment

are turns.

If someday I wander Frost’s yellow wood

and am forced to choose between two diverging paths

I will savor the simplicity of that moment.

***

Sir Mix-A-Lot Does the Laundry

 I like matched socks and I cannot lie

You other mothers can’t deny

When the laundry is done

And you’re down by one

You get miffed.

You’ve had enough

Where did that sock get stuffed?

You’ve looked low and high and higher

Took a second glance in the dryer

Checked the pockets of the jeans you’re wearing

You’re mad and begin swearing

Other mothers tried to warn me

But those little socks can be so ornery

I read in Little MissMatched magazine

That unmatched socks are the thing

But, take the average mom and ask her that

She’ll tell you that look is not yet back

So, Mamas! (Yeah!) Mamas! (Yeah!)

Are you missing lots of socks? (Hell yeah!)

Take your clothes and shake ‘em!  (Shake ‘em!)

Shake ‘em! (Shake ‘em!)

Shake them ‘till they drop

Baby’s got socks!

***

 On Waking

The first moments of waking are the hardest

In those moments it is easy to forget

Who I am

Where I am

 -

Those first moments are pregnant with possibilities

The other places I could be waking

The other lives I could be living

The other labels I could be wearing

 -

Wanderer

Academic

Poet

 -

Philosopher

Free spirit

Cleric

 -

I blink and find my place

Feet on the floor

Oriented

 -

Wife

Mother

Friend

 -

Maker of breakfast

Folder of laundry

Packer of lunches

 -

Unremarkable but satisfied

***

The Poet’s Pen

Held tightly by determined fingers

Fulfilling a higher purpose than could be conceived

By those who assembled your parts

You are simple

Not elegant

Without metallic flourish or substantial weight

And yet, your product is of great value

Your colleagues use their power to transfer funds

They remind housewives to buy sugar

But you, you use your power to change lives

To profess love

To capture grief

To freeze the sun and stop the wind

You are plain

And yet

You provide a window to a stranger’s soul

Vision for the blind

A voice for previously mute insights

You are a spotlight shining on the human condition

You reveal the details

The beauty

The pain

The flaws

Without you, melodies and cadence would remain shackled

Rejoice!

Take pride in your work

The most elegant of your peers could not do better

Nothing But The Truth

EXAGGERATE: to enlarge beyond bounds or the truth; overstate

Saturday’s family swim session didn’t go as planned.  We arrived on time, suited up and hopped in to a delightfully warm pool that was well stocked with noodles and other floatation toys.  All signs pointed to a delightful afternoon of splashing and fun. 

But, about ten minutes into the frolicking, the Band-Aid that was on Son’s toe came off.  He was distraught. 

He looked at me accusingly and said, “I told you I needed a new Band-Aid yesterday!”

It’s true.  He did. 

I dismissed his complaint and told him that we would get a new Band-Aid when we got home.

He objected with a loud, “My toenail is going to fall off!” and held his foot up for inspection.

Holy smokes!  His toenail was going to fall off!

He told me his toenail was falling off the day before when he was concerned about his Band-Aid getting loose and asked for a replacement.  But, I didn’t believe him.  I thought he was exaggerating in order to get another one of the uniquely shaped Band-Aids he likes so much. 

See, I have this problem sometimes with Son.  I assume that he communicates like I do.  When I say, “My toenail is falling off!” that can mean anything from: “I stubbed my toe and it hurts” to “I could use a pedicure.”   

I got the exaggeration gene from my father.  I have observed that it is a gene with diminishing returns.  When my dad tells a story, I generally divide whatever he says by a factor of ten and assume that is closer to the truth.  I like to think my exaggeration multiplier is much lower – perhaps a two or a three.  But, Son did not inherit the exaggeration gene; Son doesn’t have an exaggeration multiplier.

When Son says his toenail is falling off, he means HIS TOENAIL IS FALLING OFF!

He doesn’t exaggerate.  He doesn’t embellish.  He doesn’t milk a story for a laugh or a gasp. 

I’ve learned this lesson before. 

The time Son choked at school and his teacher had to do the Heimlich maneuver, he didn’t even mention the event in the day’s highlights.  The closest he came was to request that I leave the dried apricots out of his lunch the next day.

Or, when the pediatrician asked at his six-year check-up how old he was and Son answered, “Five.” Not 5 ¾.  Not almost six.  Five.  After all, his birthday wasn’t until the next day.  

If you are looking for a witness who will tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth I can recommend Son. 

If you are looking for a Mom who is still learning to hear her kid’s unembellished words as if they are followed by three exclamation points so that she reacts appropriately – follow the lady in the black swimsuit walking the boy with the partially detached toenail back to the locker room after a very short swim.

Snakes and Nudity and Banishment, Oh My!

EDEN: paradise; the garden where according to the account in Genesis Adam and Eve first lived; a place of pristine or abundant natural beauty

Daughter attends Wednesday morning chapel at her preschool.  That makes Wednesday night dinners especially interesting at our house.  Inevitably, there is an over-simplified Bible story re-cap from Daughter (3¾) followed by confusion from Son (6). 

Recently it went something like this:

Daughter: There were naked people and they made themselves clothes. 

Son: Why were they naked?

Daughter: I don’t know, but God was mad. He asked who told them they were naked.  They pointed to the snake.  And, they ate some fruit.  God made them leave.

Son: [alarmed] What was wrong with the fruit?!?! 

What My Mom Taught Me

PERFECT: being entirely without fault or defect; flawless; satisfying all requirements; corresponding to an ideal standard or abstract concept

It’s Mother’s Day.  I should write an ode to my perfect mother.  But I can’t.

I’m reminded of something my father once said about funerals.  He said he hates eulogies because when they are over, you can’t recognize the person you came to mourn.  He complained that eulogies only share the “good stuff” and leave out the “real stuff.”  Eulogies make people sound like saints instead of friends.

I feel the same way about most Mother’s Day cards and sentiments.

There is lots of “good stuff” about my mom.  But, there is also lots of “real stuff.”

She meddles.  Like the time she caught Husband ironing and attempted to wrestle the iron out of his hands.  According to my mother, it is unacceptable for a husband to do his own ironing.  To keep the peace, I now make sure Husband is dressed and has put the ironing board away before my mom arrives.

She loses her temper as only an Irish woman can.

She offers unsolicited advice.  Often.  The week before my wedding she mentioned she had been journaling about my faults and offered to share her insights with me.  I declined the offer as politely as I could.

She regularly recommends self-help and personal growth books to her children.  Once, she gave my brother one as a gift.  She even pre-highlighted and tabbed it for his convenience.

She worries about weird stuff.  She is especially concerned about the germs lurking in wet hair waiting to be activated by exposure to the outdoors.

She knows – and uses – bad words.  “Sh*t” is her personal favorite

But, here’s the thing:  I love her.  Today and every day.  She’s my mom.

Her penny-pinching made my childhood experiences and college education possible.  Her sewing skills kept me in custom Hammer Pants with matching hair scrunchies for years.  She introduced me to Gilbert Blythe and Mr. Darcy.  She opened a world of adventure when she took me hiking and camping.  She taught me how to preserve food and host a party on a budget.

I am grateful for all the “good stuff.”  But, I am also grateful for the “real stuff.”

Because in the midst of raising children it is a great comfort to know for certain that children are capable of loving flawed mothers.  I make mistakes.  All. The. Time.

Some mistakes I’m quick to identify and correct.  Others I’m sure I won’t see until hindsight works its corrective vision magic.  My kids will make a different list of my “real stuff” but they will have a list.

Of all the things my mom taught me, I am most grateful for the lesson that flawed mothers are loved every bit as much as the perfect ones.

Mother’s Day – In Their Words

INTERVIEW: a meeting at which information is obtained from a person

Remember last year’s Father’s Day interview?

I asked the kids the same questions about Mother’s Day:

Why do we celebrate Mother’s Day?

Son (6):  Because it’s a gift to the mothers.

Daughter (3¾):  Because it is a special day for mothers.

 

What are some of the things I do for our family?

Son: You cook breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Daughter:  Work.

 

How am I different from other moms?

Son: Because there’s not another mom like you.  It just can’t be that way.

Daughter:  Other moms look different.

 

How much do I love you?

Son: A LOT!

Daughter:  As much as the world.

 

How much do you love me?

Son: A LOT!

Daughter:  As much as the world.

 

What is your favorite thing to do with me?

Son: Read.

Daughter:  Play.

 

What is my favorite thing to do with you?

Son:  Snuggle.

Daughter:  Go to places, like Costco.

 

What is the best thing about me?

Son:  That you’re nice.

Daughter:  You let us play.

 

Anything else you want to tell me?

Son: No.

Daughter:  No.  There is nothing else!

Another Terrible Children’s Book

SELFISH: concerned excessively or exclusively with oneself : seeking or concentrating on one’s own advantage, pleasure, or well-being without regard for others

I still think that “I Love You Forever” deserves the gold medal for dysfunctional relationships captured in children’s literature.  But, I have found a silver medalist:

The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein

Here are the words to the story:    

Once there was a tree….. and she loved a little boy.  And every day the boy would come and he would gather her leaves and make them into crowns and play king of the forest.  He would climb up her trunk and swing from her branches and eat apples. And they would play hide-and-go-seek.  And when he was tired, he would sleep in her shade. And the boy loved the tree…….very much.  And the tree was happy.

But time went by.  And the boy grew older.  And the tree was often alone.  Then one day the boy came to the tree and the tree said, “Come, Boy, come and climb up my trunk and swing from my branches and eat apples and play in my shade and be happy.”

“I am too big to climb and play,” said the boy.  “I want to buy things and have fun.  I want some money.  Can you give me some money?”

“I’m sorry,” said the tree, “but I have no money, I have only leaves and apples.  Take my apples, Boy, and sell them in the city. Then you will have money and you will be happy.” And so the boy climbed up the tree and gathered her apples and carried them away.  And the tree was happy.

But the boy stayed away for a long time… and the tree was sad.  And then one day the boy came back and the tree shook with joy and she said, “Come, Boy, climb up my trunk and swing from my branches and be happy.”

“I am too busy to climb trees,” said the boy. “I want a house to keep me warm.  I want a wife and I want children, and so I need a house.  Can you give me a house?”

“I have no house,” said the tree. “The forest is my house, but you may cut off my branches and build a house.  Then you will be happy.” And the boy cut off her branches and carried them away to build his house.  And the tree was happy.

But the boy stayed away for a long time. And when he came back, the tree was so happy she could hardly speak. “Come, Boy,” she whispered, “Come and play.”

“I am too old and sad to play,” said the boy. “I want a boat that can take me far away from here. Can you give me a boat?”

“Cut down my trunk and make a boat,” said the tree. “Then you can sail away…… and be happy.” And so the boy cut down her trunk and made a boat and sailed away.  And the tree was happy…. but not really.  And after a long time the boy came back again.

“I am sorry, Boy,” said the tree, “but I have nothing left to give you.  My apples are gone.”

“My teeth are too weak for apples,” said the boy.

“My branches are gone,” said the tree. “You cannot swing on them.”

“I am too old to swing on branches,” said the boy.

“My trunk is gone,” said the tree. “You cannot climb.”

“I am too tired to climb,” said the boy.

“I am sorry,” sighed the tree. “I wish that I could give you something—— but I have nothing left. I am just an old stump.”

“I don’t need very much now,” said the boy. “just a quiet place to sit and rest. I am very tired.”

 ”Well,” said the tree, straightening herself up as much as she could, “Well, an old stump is good for sitting and resting. Come, Boy, sit down. Sit down and rest.” And the boy did.  And the tree was happy.

Did you catch that?  Boy and tree share a mutual love for each other that transforms into a one-sided relationship with the tree doing all the giving and the boy doing all the taking.  The end.

I can’t help but notice that the tree is a she. 

This book captures in words and sketches the lives of so many moms.  They are running themselves ragged to satisfy the whims and desires of their kids.  They live life at a frantic pace shuttling their kids to playdates, music lessons, sports practice, dance recitals, birthday parties and more.  They make sure their kids are living happy and healthy lives filled with friends, meaningful activities, fashionable clothes, and the latest gadgets.  But, they do so at the expense of their own well-being.  They skip meals and sleep, fail to make time for nurturing their marriages, and miss out on opportunities to spend time with friends. 

There is no balance.  No give-and-take.  No recognition of when their plate is full.  They have cleared off all that nourishes and sustains them in order to provide a second plate for their children at the indulgent wants buffet.  

The early stages of motherhood are heavy on the giving.  Babies eat, sleep and poop.  Moms nurse, rock and wipe.  It is one-sided.  But, as children age, it is our job to teach them how to meet some of their own needs, how to give back, how to make room for the needs and wants of others.

Mothers should LOVE unconditionally.  But, that does not mean we should GIVE unconditionally. 

When we teach our kids to expect us to satisfy their every want – even if doing so is at the expense of our own health, sanity, and emotional well-being – we are teaching them that the wants of some people are more important than the needs of others.   We are teaching them a lie.   Loving and giving are not the same.

Skip the Picture, I’d Rather Have 1,000 Words

WORTH: the value of something measured by its qualities or by the esteem in which it is held

A picture is worth a thousand words. 

That phrase has been used to convey that a picture is more valuable than words.  But, I propose we start thinking of it as simply an exchange rate.  You give me one picture; I give you one thousand words.  It’s an even trade.  Like exchanging four quarters for a dollar.  Neither is more valuable, they are just different.

In an unexpected turn for the delightful, I was recently selected as the winner of an essay contest and awarded a scholarship to the Santa Barbara Writer’s Conference.  In anticipation of the publication of my “What My Mom Taught Me” essay, a journalist for the Santa Barbara News-Press called to interview me and ask for a photo.  That’s where things got tricky.

You want me to describe myself in words?  No problem.

Answer personal questions about my childhood?  Can do.

Email a high resolution photo of myself?  Uh….

What about a photo of an adorable child blowing out candles while I look for a knife in the background?

Or, a picture of me hiding my post-baby body behind my children to such a degree that cropping them out removes essential elements of my anatomy?

Maybe you’d like a picture of Son building a sand castle with assistance from my right hand and forearm?

Are elementary school photos acceptable?

A photo from my wedding day…nine years ago?

It’s not that there aren’t pictures of me.  There just aren’t recent pictures of all of me, facing forward, without food in my mouth.

Even if I could find a picture of myself, alone, facing forward, with only one chin, I’m not sure I’d want it in the newspaper.  My mug shot doesn’t capture what I want you to know about me.  What I wanted you to know, I told you with words.

What does it add to know my age, ethnicity and eye color?

I gave you 500 words.  The way I see it, you owe me 1/2 a picture.

Emergency Room Magic

STITCHES: portions of thread left in the material or sutures left in the tissue  

Me: Your friend T got stitches in his chin at the hospital today.

Son: Will he have magic?

Me: What?

Son: Do witches in your chin give you magic?

Me: Stitches.  He got stitches…not witches.

Son: Oh.

Back in the Saddle

BIKE: a vehicle with two wheels tandem, handlebars for steering, a saddle seat, and pedals by which it is propelled

If my six-year-old self was selecting a bumper sticker that communicated a love of freedom, it would be a banana seat bicycle with streamers.  As a child, having a bike meant the ability to ride to the store two miles up the road with cash in my pocket for a banana/caramel milkshake.   My bike provided a healthy dose of risk-taking and independence.  The neighbor kids and I would build jumps and ride in circles for hours.   Wheels of the free; spokes of the brave.

In high-school, I didn’t do much (read: any) biking.  Nevertheless, I agreed to join a team from my church that was doing the STP – Seattle to Portland.  I was fit and active.  How hard could it be to ride 200 miles?

[Two decades later, I now know that “How hard can it be?” questions are accurately answered “Very!” 9 times out of 10.]

The morning of the STP, I hopped on my bike with precisely 43 miles of training under my belt butt and the confidence that comes with supreme ignorance.  Reality soon burst my bubble.  By the end of the day, just thinking about sitting on the bike seat again made me wince.  In the end, I did the less-well-known STC – Seattle To Chehalis.  I called my mom, admitted defeat, and gratefully accepted a ride home.

In college, my buddy-turned-boyfriend-turned-buddy was an avid biker and I did my best to keep up.  He taught me how to ride a bike down a flight of stairs.  It’s not a skill I’ve found much use for, but I’m glad I could do it in a pinch.  Together, we took an ill-advised January camping trip on our bikes that involved a lot of rain, eating ramen by the heat of the women’s restroom hand dryers, and (once again) sore haunches.

Since college, I’ve always owned a bike…generally one with pristine tire treads.  Each season, the sun comes out and I pump up my tires and take a ride.  Then, my butt hurts and I put the bike away until the next season.  Rinse.  Repeat.

We’ve put a man on the moon.  Can we really not make a more comfortable bike seat?

When Husband challenged me to participate in bike to work month, I got psycho-somatic saddle sores.  But, I agreed to try it.

That was a week ago.  Now I’m hooked.  I’ve biked to the office every work day since May 1st.  The ride only takes me 15 minutes longer than my usual bus.  In exchange for the extra 15 minutes I get fresh air, exercise, beautiful views, and sore haunches.   On balance, it’s a win.

Eat, Sleep, Party

HELL: an extremely unpleasant and often inescapable situation

What on earth makes people so fertile in August?  Is it the skimpy clothes?  Drinks by the pool?  Forgetting to pack pajamas in their vacation suitcases?  Whatever the reason, there seem to be a lot of babies born nine months later.

There is a birthday party (sometimes two!) on our calendar every weekend this month.

I consider myself a bit of a birthday party connoisseur.  I have tasted cakes and cupcakes from dozens of ovens and bakeries, admired a variety of invitation and décor themes, and pawed through the contents of countless goody bags.   But, for me, all those party particulars are secondary to the most important feature: Location, location, location!

I’m a city girl.  I like my city neighborhood.  The best locations are those I can walk to.  Second best are those I can drive to and still have hot coffee to sip when I arrive.  Far, far down the list are locations that require me to use a freeway or Google maps.

This month’s party locations vary widely: some are at the neighborhood park, some are at private homes, two are in my own personal hell.*

I’ve adapted to the world of Evites and no longer launch into a monologue about the merits of real invitations every time I see one in my inbox.  But, there is one particular brand of Evite that brings tears to my eyes and a scream to my throat.  It’s an Evite that reminds you of an old-fashioned invitation by showing you an image of an envelope…only where the wax seal should be there is a logo from “Pump It Up.”  Click on the logo and you will be directed to the party details, a waiver form, and the necessary Google map driving instructions.

Pump It Up claims to offer parties that combine imagination and inflatables to create “the most exciting party your child has ever had.”  It promises to be stress-free and easy.

I see things differently.

Pump It Up is a warehouse in suburbia filled with inflatables.  Don’t forget socks – they are required and priced like Disneyland ponchos on a rainy day.  You must stay because the facility is too far from your house to make it home and back before the end of the party.  Unless you need your license renewed at the nearby Department of Licensing, there aren’t many “kill time” destinations in the vicinity.

Your child will add his/her germs and sweat to the surfaces of said inflatables in exchange for the germs and sweat of his/her classmates.  Your child will jump and slide and frolic joyfully while you try to get the kinks out of your back and shoulders from the 45-minute drive.  You will do your best to converse with the other parents over the blare of pop music.

Your child will be ushered from the germ and sweat room to the food room. Hand washing will not be required or encouraged.  Bring your own Purell.  You will snack on vegetables provided by the birthday kid’s mom while your child shuns red peppers and carrots in favor of a juice box and birthday frosting (cake optional).

You will buckle  your satisfied and sweaty child into his/her booster  seat and spend the 45-minute drive home trying to get Katy Perry’s “Firework” out of your head.  Once there, you will wash your hands thoroughly and try to forget that you just lost four hours of a sunny Seattle Saturday to a warehouse in Lynnwood.  You will check your email while you decide how to salvage the day.

You will see another Pump It Up invitation in your inbox.  You will cry.

* NOTE: Son and Daughter do not endorse (or share) the opinions expressed in this post.   They love this place.  Someday, they will ask to have a party there.  I will refuse.  They will think I’m a bad mom.  I can live with that.