gunky

the new two

how do i model
appropriate behavior
under constant fire

my boy gets irate
over details minute
all humor is mal

don't shake the o.j.
pink spoon, not green for this food
my nose is hurting

shrieks so shrill it hurts
oh what my neighbors must think
the baby just grins

how scary for him
almost helpless to control
his inner freight train

how scary for me
standing on the track, arms open
run down once again

speller

i know i shouldn't do this. i shouldn't show off, boast, bask in pride. but we have been so deep in the trenches in the land of NOidon'tWAAANTto! (insert screaming and kicking on the floor here), that i must use the following recording to remind myself of the broad spectrum of extremes i witness in our boy. it's not all refusals and denials. some of it is a remarkable aptitude.

he's been able to do this (and to decode written words) for a while, since well before he turned three, but the toy is new, and can be fun for him. the most amazing part is that he did what i asked him to do while i was filming.

mother of two

hey you, over there, in your designer, worn thin yoga pants and the over-sized collegiate hoodie with your hair in a falling-out ponytail. you, with your infant in her carrier, balanced on the shopping cart, and your toddler sitting sideways in the cart's seat, dropping the crackers out of the box he's opened as you blankly stare at the shelves of facial lotion, hoping to find something with which to moisturize your wrinkles.

hey lady at the gas pump! i saw the pile of shoes and books fall out when you opened the door to hand your tot his snack bowl. and yes, i did notice the wet spot on your shirt from your leaking breast and the nipple pad carelessly stuffed into your back pocket.

yes you, you in the daycare center parking lot, trudging through the rain and the mud puddles in your soggy crocs, forgetting to cover your baby's head as you dash inside to retrieve your three year old, but more importantly, to muster a conversation with his teachers just so you can have a face-to-face conversation with an adult today. i see you.

i see you in your own home, with the baby on your lap cooing for your attention as you coo back - but your head is turned and your eyes are on your computer screen. i see that baby of yours in the bouncy chair on the floor, next to the dogs' bowls as you stir the boiling pasta pot with one hand and cleave the chicken with the other. uh-oh. i just saw a dust bunny fly into her mouth.

i see you, you guilty woman. you don't make any money, you are still in your pajamas at noon, and you only manage to wash your one fitting bra every ten days. you can't even muster any sexiness, disgusted by your own elasti-skin and extra ten pounds around the middle.

excuse me, ma'am? i know you. i know you are frazzled. you are never finished, never quite ready. you want to do everything right, but you struggle. others make it look so easy - how do they do it? there aren't enough hours in the day to keep everything clean and personally engage your children for hours. so you choose to play, to read, to enjoy, to teach, and to do the very best you can. good for you. good. for. you. and for those kids, too.

moo

my milk came in:

take note of my frame above and below these knockers. they do not fit on me. ouch.

at last

nuance

preschool has been a BIG hit so far with milo. the best part seems to be driving over the railroad crossing on the way there and on the way back. we also pass by "mommy's school", the city college, and wave at my building, "the P building, like pee-pee, but just one pee."

at bedtime, when it is time for me to leave milo in his bed for him to fall asleep on his own, i tell him that i have to go do some work on my computer. the other day something clicked:

"what is your 'work'?"
"my work? well, you mean, um. i'm a teacher."
"what do you teach?"

[what do i teach? are you kidding me? you are two and a half.]

"i teach english."
"to kids?"
"to big kids. and to adults. grown ups."
"you teach them at your school?"

[uh oh. i see where this is going.]

"yes. i teach them at my school."
"so what are you going to do at your computer?"
"i'm going to . . . i'm going to send some emails."
"oh. ok, mommy."

[phew.]
ok, so i'm not teaching this semester. but i am working. some conversations are just easier not to have.

growing

before i decided that i wanted to have a child, i had decided that i did not want to have any children. besides the fear of junior high school kids that i secretly harbor, it was the emotional pain that i constantly witness offspring inducing in their parents that helped me decide this.

more often than not, the older the offspring, the more painful are the wounds to the parents. it's one thing when a preschooler screams, "I DON'T LIKE YOU, MOMMY!" when he can't have another cookie (an injury i have not yet suffered, but i expect to), and it's another thing when your sixteen year old daughter screams, "I HATE YOU, MOTHER!", when she is grounded for being caught lying, and then it's a whole nother thing when your unemployed, thirty year old son yells, "FUCK YOU, DAD!" when you won't give him $30,000 to buy a boat. why devote your life to the little brats only to deal with such trauma for the rest of your life?

then the looooove happened and the answer came: we will have a child created out of pure adoration and commitment and affection and he will not be like those other people, everyone, including ourselves, no, he will be noble, worthy, uncorrupted, perfect. and when he was born i loved him so much i didn't want to put him down, and when he started walking i worried that he would get lost, and looking to the future i worried that he would fall in love with his kindergarten teacher and not want to come home for lunch, and when he goes away to college i won't know that he is in bed safely each night.

and now? now, two years, three months into his life i am suffering extreme guilt for the coarsening of my heart: i find the mommy-experience so intense, so difficult, so painful yet pleasing that i can envision leaving this phase behind. he is not the perfect angel i planned on, but he is my perfect angel. i am convinced that he loves me and needs me (not only by his whining and clinging, but by his laughs and hugs) and that's what my worrying, my own neediness was about. and when i can stand at the door and say, "good night!" to an awake boy in his bed, and then i can sleep in a little because he will be fine if he gets up before me, i won't regret the baby that has grown. there will be something new to look forward to, and something new to worry about, i'm sure.

but if he ever tells me to eff off i will in no uncertain terms "set him straight".

and he will still have to call me every day from college.

students

many years ago as a student teacher, i was sitting with a small group of second graders discussing a picture in a book we were reading. the man in the picture had a moustache, which prompted a little boy to interrupt with, "MY DADDY HAS A MOUSTACHE!" this led to mention of other men we knew, respectively, who sported the facial hair. it was at this point that i turned to the little girl next me who had been slowly encroaching upon my face with her eyes practically crossed, focussed on my mouth. "TEACHER!" she yelled. "YOU have a moustache, TOO, teacher!"

things are equally humbling with the college students.

one morning at the beginning of this semester, as the students were filing out of the class, the high-self-esteem-class-clown-type-guy packed his bag more slowly than usual, so that he was one of the last to leave. "yo teach!" he announced. "was you like . . . you pretty cool. was you like, like a hippie or something?" like, my mom could have been a hippie . . .

last week i was walking outside to a bench with a student who needed help after class. she tried to make small talk:
"do you have kids, mrs. moron?"
"yes, i have a little boy."
"oh! how old are they?"
"he's two."
"oh! how old are you, mrs. moron?"
--pause--
"i'm thirty-five."
"oh! wow! i thought you were in your forties!"

looks like i have a few things to come to terms with.

last tuesday

it was a dark and stormy night.

it was a dark and stormy night.
it was a wet and rainy morning.

no one was in the garden.

water dripped steadily off of the church

and the trees

drip.

drip.

drip.

there was a full mass held in his honor, just as he requested. long lost family was reunited, so late, but at last. following the service, the turbulence of arrangements and bereavement lifted, as did the storm.

sounds corny, but it was so fitting.

rhythms

last week my yoga instructor recommended that throughout the day we acknowledge the natural ebb and flow of rhythms surrounding us. as we were twisted in triangle pose, she pointed out the sound of the post-rain trickle that dripped off the roof: it was light for a few moments, then slightly heavier the next few, then back to light and so on.

as i heeded her recommendation, because i'm a nerdy student that way, i saw what she meant. i walked home and i acknowledged the birds: they tweet at each other a lot and then all of a sudden a group will burst from the trees, fly around in some secretly synchronized mass, and then alight once again on a tree, roof, or wire.

in my car i acknowledged the rhythms of freeway traffic: it is heavy in places for no apparent reason, then there will be gaps where there are no cars at all. it's like we drive in flocks or schools or herds.

on wednesday, valentine's day, my friend gave birth to a daughter who was almost a week late. i wondered if the infant was waiting for such a symbolic moment. the next day, another friend gave birth to a son. i acknowledged the rhythms of childbirth: not only the ebb and flow of a mother's contractions, but the evidence that babies seem to come in batches; when i was pregnant i had a dozen friends who were, too.

on saturday my paternal grandmother lost her thirty-seven year battle with cancer. she lived for thirty years with it actively in her abdomen, and this is after it claimed several other parts of her body. there was a pattern to the cancer: it would flare up and she'd suffer treatments to calm it down. the last days were especially agonizing - i watched the rhythm of her labored breath - but she was feisty and funny to the very end. she was seventy-six.

on sunday my maternal grandfather died. he had been on the decline since christmas time. he contracted pneumonia and almost daily went from seriously ill to remarkably better.

i experienced this weekend what so many people before me already have: like birth, there are rhythms in death. it is a process, a labor, that our bodies go through in stages. and, most difficult for the living, deaths often come in clusters - part of nature's ebb and flow.