1. Create a family rule that goes something like this: “No sitting on the couch without underwear.” This seems, at first glance, to be something the offspring might know intuitively, but in actuality it is an oft-quoted and difficult to enforce rule.
2. Pry a flattened, dead bird from inside my sobbing son’s makeshift banjo. (Think empty blackberry container covered in tin foil and strung with three or four rubber bands.) In a cemetery. And the crying was NOT because of his two dead grandpas buried in said cemetery, or even the fact that the poor bird was dead, but his giant hiccupping cries were because he wasn’t allowed to take the dead bird home!
3. Supply endless plates, sponges, pieces of foil et al. for the frog habitats being built in this yard. This place is just JUMPING with frogs. And little boys who want to build them homes, (whether the creatures want them or not.) And the little architects are pretty miserable that there is no netting or chicken wire available. Poor things.
4. Flush the toilet every single time I walk by the bathroom. This one is self- explanatory.
5. Dole out popsicles, fruit snacks, pretzel rods, snack crackers and juice boxes like some soup kitchen on steroids. Really, how could these waif-like kids eat this much?! And still maintain their skeletal figures?
6. Insist that the offspring change their clothes at least several times a week in the summer. (Sometimes they also take baths, although they maintain that the chlorine in the pool scours them just fine.) I probably could have saved a ton of money on the wardrobes. This does not include, of course, the costume pieces, which can never be too prolific. And summer apparently is the perfect time for tiger suits, dragons with head- pieces, and full body sharks.
7. Cower in fear when my son comes to hug me because I have been burned one too many times by the Fake-Hug-Drop-Worm-Down-Mom’s-Shirt move.
8. Catch my breath when the little guy rides his bike at breakneck speed down the sidewalk to cross a street or his brother front flips off the diving board. My heart is strong but these daredevils give these poor valves a work out, both in the intensity of my love for them and the heart-stopping rhythms with which these kids live their lives.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Ready to Roll
“Can we just have a little race, mom?” The kid is funny. First day on his new bike. He starts in costume, and soon realizes that the dinosaur tail and hood hinder mobility, not to mention it is over 80 degrees.
The costume gets flung aside quickly, and his grin widens as he realizes what this two-wheeler (four if you count the trainers) can do for his mobility.
And the race idea is funny. He doesn’t require another racer or a course or really much of anything for a “race”. All I need to do is say “Ready, set. Go” and he is off!
It’s a good metaphor as he grows and begins a new school year. My baby is four. He is entering pre-kindergarten this year (oh where do they get these monikers?) Apparently this just means extra time with crayons and letters and flinging pairs of socks at classmates in the large motor room (don’t ask).
He’s grown up a lot in the last few months. I see it in the way he talks to people, the aunts he knows so well and the kids he just meets at the playground. I marvel that he can fully dress himself (as long as we don’t mind if the cow shirt is backwards). And I get a little misty as I watch him ride his big boy bike all the way to the library. His churning legs keep up with the big kids and his face barely contains the giant grin and the pride in his eyes.
I hope he keeps this energy, this optimism, this flinging himself at life. The costumes will not last forever (well I guess you never know in this
family.) The bikes will be outgrown. The new markers and teachers and scissors will all dull with age, but I hope that this one thing will always remain. A precious boy with a zest for life and a desire to try new things. A boy who takes the job seriously when his mother says: “Ready, set, go” for whatever the future may bring.
The costume gets flung aside quickly, and his grin widens as he realizes what this two-wheeler (four if you count the trainers) can do for his mobility.
And the race idea is funny. He doesn’t require another racer or a course or really much of anything for a “race”. All I need to do is say “Ready, set. Go” and he is off!
It’s a good metaphor as he grows and begins a new school year. My baby is four. He is entering pre-kindergarten this year (oh where do they get these monikers?) Apparently this just means extra time with crayons and letters and flinging pairs of socks at classmates in the large motor room (don’t ask).
He’s grown up a lot in the last few months. I see it in the way he talks to people, the aunts he knows so well and the kids he just meets at the playground. I marvel that he can fully dress himself (as long as we don’t mind if the cow shirt is backwards). And I get a little misty as I watch him ride his big boy bike all the way to the library. His churning legs keep up with the big kids and his face barely contains the giant grin and the pride in his eyes.
I hope he keeps this energy, this optimism, this flinging himself at life. The costumes will not last forever (well I guess you never know in this
family.) The bikes will be outgrown. The new markers and teachers and scissors will all dull with age, but I hope that this one thing will always remain. A precious boy with a zest for life and a desire to try new things. A boy who takes the job seriously when his mother says: “Ready, set, go” for whatever the future may bring.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
Reflections
It occurs to me tonight, with the sun still bright on the water and the strong stench of fish in the air, that so many of my moments are nearly replications of the past. The break wall is hot under my legs as I stretch out to watch my kids play this evening, and I spy the fossil of a shell like I did as a young girl. There are buckets, shovels, the building of castles and the inevitable sand and water in the eyes.
Marty takes off down the beach, creating a carefully orchestrated bouquet of seagull feathers as he walks. He keeps right on walking. He hops on the slanted break wall, and I bite my tongue as I am about to yell at him to get down. Those were MY rules when I was a little girl, and I never thought to question them. But Marty helps me question everything. Why CAN’T he climb there? He is built like a monkey, and perfectly safe. I let him go. He wanders with head down, finding treasures. I turn to watch the other two build and splash and throw rocks in the water. They have not yet mastered the art of skipping them. When I look up, Marty is gone. My heart quickens for just a second, but I give him a few minutes to return on his own.
He saunters around the bend on his way back, sees me and runs over with an apology. (I am smart to dress him in yellow. He is easier to find.) But I am not even mad. I am learning so much about this boy, things I first learned from my father and the way he lived. But I was too tentative to live so astutely myself at such a young age as seven. Or nine. Or thirty. I was a rule follower, a nervous Nellie, a “good girl.” It has taken me nearly forty years to start questioning and walking on break walls and finding my voice.
I envy my son his freedoms and his ability to do this already. It strikes me tonight that they are much alike, my son and my father, though maybe it is just the presence of the lake that makes me think of my dad. But Marty understands somehow what his grandpa knew. Do what you want. Follow your heart. Test limits. Have fun. Question everything. Find your passion. Sing the song first and pay the piper when the music ends. Play first and worry later.
Maybe it’s like the baldness gene or a penchant for musicality, and full-throttle life, living without boundaries, has to skip a generation. Or maybe it is just easier to learn the lesson the second time around. No matter what, I am lucky to have such fine teachers, both my father who paved the way for me, and my son who reflects the lessons even as the slanting sun reflects upon the lake tonight.
Marty takes off down the beach, creating a carefully orchestrated bouquet of seagull feathers as he walks. He keeps right on walking. He hops on the slanted break wall, and I bite my tongue as I am about to yell at him to get down. Those were MY rules when I was a little girl, and I never thought to question them. But Marty helps me question everything. Why CAN’T he climb there? He is built like a monkey, and perfectly safe. I let him go. He wanders with head down, finding treasures. I turn to watch the other two build and splash and throw rocks in the water. They have not yet mastered the art of skipping them. When I look up, Marty is gone. My heart quickens for just a second, but I give him a few minutes to return on his own.
He saunters around the bend on his way back, sees me and runs over with an apology. (I am smart to dress him in yellow. He is easier to find.) But I am not even mad. I am learning so much about this boy, things I first learned from my father and the way he lived. But I was too tentative to live so astutely myself at such a young age as seven. Or nine. Or thirty. I was a rule follower, a nervous Nellie, a “good girl.” It has taken me nearly forty years to start questioning and walking on break walls and finding my voice.
I envy my son his freedoms and his ability to do this already. It strikes me tonight that they are much alike, my son and my father, though maybe it is just the presence of the lake that makes me think of my dad. But Marty understands somehow what his grandpa knew. Do what you want. Follow your heart. Test limits. Have fun. Question everything. Find your passion. Sing the song first and pay the piper when the music ends. Play first and worry later.
Maybe it’s like the baldness gene or a penchant for musicality, and full-throttle life, living without boundaries, has to skip a generation. Or maybe it is just easier to learn the lesson the second time around. No matter what, I am lucky to have such fine teachers, both my father who paved the way for me, and my son who reflects the lessons even as the slanting sun reflects upon the lake tonight.
Friday, July 29, 2011
Delicious Language
My children love to play with words. They come by it naturally, I suppose. Can’t fault children of two English teachers for knowing their way around the language. And these three are especially full of verbage, let me tell you! The oldest flaunts her adverbs as only she can, the middle guy spouts his philosophies and prose, but this little one: the things that come out of HIS mouth are as diverse as they are unique.
My favorite is the way he says thank you. I can’t remember when it started, but somewhere between the sweetness of age three and the professional two-ness of it all, he coined a phrase that has been inaugurated into the family lore. It was some mundane occasion, probably on a Tuesday, and I was most likely handing him his milk, or MOKE, as we say in our house. He looked at me, brown eyes bulging, two freckles along his upper lip, and with a smile pronounced “Why thank you, my grand gate!” It sounded so regal coming from his lips, and certainly beat the mumbled “humph” of his brother. And I have continued to receive such thanks for the last half of the year. It has also morphed into usage with requests such as “Can I have my yogurt, my grand gate?”
Now where did he get this vernacular? I’ve quizzed him countless times in the last few months, thinking it had come from a show or a book or a pre-school teacher, but he remains firm in his denials. It just arrived here, with his giggling lilt and sparkling looks. Out of the mouths of babes, I suppose.
He just uses the language to suit his needs. (Something his mother has often been accused of, if the truth were known.) And he somehow makes the world look rosier through his language, or at least knocks you off balance long enough to sneak in a slur. With age four has come a bit of obstinance, for instance, and anger when he doesn’t get his own way. And then he looks at me, face strong and fierce, and proclaims “You bad old stump.” Now, really, who says this? Who walks around calling people stumps?
This young charmer of mine, that’s who. I prefer the positive spin of course, and I am tickled pink when I hear his sweet little words when I tuck him into to bed and hand him his “vitamint” at the end of a long busy day: “Why thank you my grand gate.” And I know I am the only mommy in the world who ever hears those whispered words!
My favorite is the way he says thank you. I can’t remember when it started, but somewhere between the sweetness of age three and the professional two-ness of it all, he coined a phrase that has been inaugurated into the family lore. It was some mundane occasion, probably on a Tuesday, and I was most likely handing him his milk, or MOKE, as we say in our house. He looked at me, brown eyes bulging, two freckles along his upper lip, and with a smile pronounced “Why thank you, my grand gate!” It sounded so regal coming from his lips, and certainly beat the mumbled “humph” of his brother. And I have continued to receive such thanks for the last half of the year. It has also morphed into usage with requests such as “Can I have my yogurt, my grand gate?”
Now where did he get this vernacular? I’ve quizzed him countless times in the last few months, thinking it had come from a show or a book or a pre-school teacher, but he remains firm in his denials. It just arrived here, with his giggling lilt and sparkling looks. Out of the mouths of babes, I suppose.
He just uses the language to suit his needs. (Something his mother has often been accused of, if the truth were known.) And he somehow makes the world look rosier through his language, or at least knocks you off balance long enough to sneak in a slur. With age four has come a bit of obstinance, for instance, and anger when he doesn’t get his own way. And then he looks at me, face strong and fierce, and proclaims “You bad old stump.” Now, really, who says this? Who walks around calling people stumps?
This young charmer of mine, that’s who. I prefer the positive spin of course, and I am tickled pink when I hear his sweet little words when I tuck him into to bed and hand him his “vitamint” at the end of a long busy day: “Why thank you my grand gate.” And I know I am the only mommy in the world who ever hears those whispered words!
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Portrait of the Artist as a (Very) Young Man
The boy is pure magic. He lives in a world where corn husks and sticks become characters and props for a production only he can understand. And the pipe cleaners. Oh, what this boy can do with pipe cleaners. He creates his wares and then lays them out carefully in a makeshift gallery on the front porch. Except for the ones he carries: homemade slingshot and bow and arrow tucked lovingly in the pocket of his navy cut-off shorts, ready for any mischief or battles he may find in the yard.
He sees what others cannot see. I don’t know how he does it. But he fills his notebooks with page after page of sketches and whimsy and creatures. He talks me through them, toothless grin and wild voice and energy selling his soul. I am a willing customer. Drawing was never my thing, and I marvel unceasingly at the way his hand creates upon the page.
His art is larger than life, and not held back by realism or truth. He knows just enough to be dangerous and doesn’t let historical fact get in the way of his creations. His battle droids take on Civil War soldiers, from Great Britain. And the Irish flag is hoisted with the victory. Unfettered by data, this charmer with a Sharpie paints the world with a vision all his own. He will draw on anything: a rock from Achill, some Presque Isle driftwood, and his brother’s stomach if I ever have the audacity to shower.
The entire house is his studio, and I am forever tripping over his ever-growing supply of materials: string, electrical tape, rocks, legos, bits of ribbon and bird feathers and a giant cardboard collection. Did I mention the shoe boxes?! The artist is on duty at all times, grabbing for the empty margarine tub I am trying to recycle or doodling on the day’s newspaper.
And I wouldn’t have it any other way. I can’t wait to see where his love of the Indian headdress will take him, or his penchant for drawing and creating. Or hat-wearing. He has yet to outgrow his love of costumes, of glue and tape and string and markers, or his desire to be constantly creating. And the gleam in his eye when he picks up his notebook or rescues the perfect material from the recycling bag tells me that he never will.
He sees what others cannot see. I don’t know how he does it. But he fills his notebooks with page after page of sketches and whimsy and creatures. He talks me through them, toothless grin and wild voice and energy selling his soul. I am a willing customer. Drawing was never my thing, and I marvel unceasingly at the way his hand creates upon the page.
His art is larger than life, and not held back by realism or truth. He knows just enough to be dangerous and doesn’t let historical fact get in the way of his creations. His battle droids take on Civil War soldiers, from Great Britain. And the Irish flag is hoisted with the victory. Unfettered by data, this charmer with a Sharpie paints the world with a vision all his own. He will draw on anything: a rock from Achill, some Presque Isle driftwood, and his brother’s stomach if I ever have the audacity to shower.
The entire house is his studio, and I am forever tripping over his ever-growing supply of materials: string, electrical tape, rocks, legos, bits of ribbon and bird feathers and a giant cardboard collection. Did I mention the shoe boxes?! The artist is on duty at all times, grabbing for the empty margarine tub I am trying to recycle or doodling on the day’s newspaper.
And I wouldn’t have it any other way. I can’t wait to see where his love of the Indian headdress will take him, or his penchant for drawing and creating. Or hat-wearing. He has yet to outgrow his love of costumes, of glue and tape and string and markers, or his desire to be constantly creating. And the gleam in his eye when he picks up his notebook or rescues the perfect material from the recycling bag tells me that he never will.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Dear to Me
The deer have been here all day. It’s still a shock to my system to look out the window as I wash the dishes or walk by the patio door and see them there. The woods behind our house and empty field are the perfect home. Today there were three that lay all afternoon in the chilly sun.
But tonight, they came a little closer. I glanced outside during bath time and there were four deer munching in my garden. I know there will come a time when this will aggravate me, that deer are eating my carefully tended plants, but tonight this is amazing. The kids rush to the window and Seany is squealing so loudly that the deer glance up at us. My sweet daughter’s eyes are as wide as the field behind our house and we all spend a good five minutes with the beauty of nature.
My friend doesn’t understand my infatuation. He says deer are just the suburb’s version of pigeons, but I wildly disagree. And it is not just because I am sometimes convinced that the spirit of my father looks out through those still brown eyes in deer. There is just something about deer that quiets me, makes me reach to my inner calm, and makes me appreciate nature.
The spirits come to me in the early morning too. Yesterday was a dark and windy morning and I was running down the street. The spring warm had come for a brief moment and I was enjoying my morning run. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the first statuesque beauty. There were five altogether and I held my breath as they ran across the street in front of me, so graceful and smooth. I was certainly jealous of their abilities, but laughing to myself as well.
No pigeons to me. I will always be amazed. My breath will always catch, and I will always appreciate the quiet intensity of these beautiful creatures.
But tonight, they came a little closer. I glanced outside during bath time and there were four deer munching in my garden. I know there will come a time when this will aggravate me, that deer are eating my carefully tended plants, but tonight this is amazing. The kids rush to the window and Seany is squealing so loudly that the deer glance up at us. My sweet daughter’s eyes are as wide as the field behind our house and we all spend a good five minutes with the beauty of nature.
My friend doesn’t understand my infatuation. He says deer are just the suburb’s version of pigeons, but I wildly disagree. And it is not just because I am sometimes convinced that the spirit of my father looks out through those still brown eyes in deer. There is just something about deer that quiets me, makes me reach to my inner calm, and makes me appreciate nature.
The spirits come to me in the early morning too. Yesterday was a dark and windy morning and I was running down the street. The spring warm had come for a brief moment and I was enjoying my morning run. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the first statuesque beauty. There were five altogether and I held my breath as they ran across the street in front of me, so graceful and smooth. I was certainly jealous of their abilities, but laughing to myself as well.
No pigeons to me. I will always be amazed. My breath will always catch, and I will always appreciate the quiet intensity of these beautiful creatures.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
It Only Hurts.....
It only hurts when I touch it. I come back again and again to this place. This pain. This line. It comes from nowhere. And everywhere. The giant whoosh of frigid wind off the lake as a door is opened. The searing pain from blinding light plus pounding head. The wrenching sobs of grief without containment.
So here we are again. White pall. Same priest. Same organist. Similar casket and mourners at attention. This time for a beloved teacher, the grandmother of one of my kids. But the grief does not just settle here for her.
The casket rolls into the back of the church, as close to the baptismal font as it will go. And time bends and the tears fog my eyes because now it is his casket I see. And it is I who am unfurling the white pall to cover it. And it is my friends looking on at the back of the church and me the one at the front of the gloomy parade.
The grief is raw and I can never understand how it swoops so quickly, like a hawk to a carcass, and carries me away.
Ten years, almost, since my father’s death. So many, many nights and mornings that he’s missed. And granddaughter kisses and light saber fights with the boys. It hurts too much to bear at times. And so this grief I tuck away. It’s like a dusty package in the corner of my room. I think I remember what is inside, but when I open it I am surprised beyond my dreams. Like shrapnel come the memories and the tears. And I struggle to put them back to bed.
Then a morning like this, I come to grieve for someone I have loved, who set a strong example of teaching for this path I’ve chosen. And I pack the Kleenex that I think are for her, and I show up at the appointed time.
But as the service begins, the grief takes flight and comes for me. The dark wrath rips me to shreds. The wounds are deep this time. Oh, how I want him back with me.
It takes a while to bandage, these holes in my heart. And the freshness of the wound continues to sting. But I dry my eyes and carry on, because it only hurts when I touch it.
So here we are again. White pall. Same priest. Same organist. Similar casket and mourners at attention. This time for a beloved teacher, the grandmother of one of my kids. But the grief does not just settle here for her.
The casket rolls into the back of the church, as close to the baptismal font as it will go. And time bends and the tears fog my eyes because now it is his casket I see. And it is I who am unfurling the white pall to cover it. And it is my friends looking on at the back of the church and me the one at the front of the gloomy parade.
The grief is raw and I can never understand how it swoops so quickly, like a hawk to a carcass, and carries me away.
Ten years, almost, since my father’s death. So many, many nights and mornings that he’s missed. And granddaughter kisses and light saber fights with the boys. It hurts too much to bear at times. And so this grief I tuck away. It’s like a dusty package in the corner of my room. I think I remember what is inside, but when I open it I am surprised beyond my dreams. Like shrapnel come the memories and the tears. And I struggle to put them back to bed.
Then a morning like this, I come to grieve for someone I have loved, who set a strong example of teaching for this path I’ve chosen. And I pack the Kleenex that I think are for her, and I show up at the appointed time.
But as the service begins, the grief takes flight and comes for me. The dark wrath rips me to shreds. The wounds are deep this time. Oh, how I want him back with me.
It takes a while to bandage, these holes in my heart. And the freshness of the wound continues to sting. But I dry my eyes and carry on, because it only hurts when I touch it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)