Tuesday, February 23, 2010


I'm now a month and a half into practicing yoga, and I love it. I love how after a morning yoga workout I feel more energetic, centered and calm throughout the day. Much more so than I did with swimming, walking or running. Most of all, I love how yoga is helping me to be more still. To observe. To listen. This is really helping with my poetry, in ways that I didn't anticipate at all.

Just this afternoon I was watching Jimmy out the window. Last week he discovered two little boys who live next door, ages five and eight. Every day he's been out, climbing up the tree next to the fence so he can talk to them, and yesterday we finally went over to formally introduce him and ask if they can come over to play. This afternoon he was back at the fence waiting for them to come home from school. Just watching him got me thinking about what I have learned (so far, of course) from being his mom, and the words started to come: I was meant to be a son's mother.

Meant to Be

I was meant to be a son’s mother
meant to learn the art
of listening to both words and silence
of receiving unasked-for kisses when they come
of gentling a bird from among thorns
of finding quiet wherever, whenever it is needed
of being wrong, humble, grateful, unashamed
of answering softly every time I am asked
of bridling a horse’s will without subduing its spirit
of bending before a breeze, even a gale
without breaking.

Sunday, February 14, 2010

Happy heart's day

For the past few days, Jimmy has been a whirling dervish of construction paper hearts, decorated extravagantly with flowers, bugs, butterflies, and handwritten notes. He hid them up in his room and warned me sternly not to try and find them. First thing this morning, though, he burst into my room and presented me with a handful of hearts that read "4 Mom" and "I love you Mom!"

No one can love like a six-year old.

Tonight as I was getting Audrey ready for bed, I was entertained that, on her own, she chose pink pajamas with hearts all over. And suddenly, in my mind, a poem started to come. It's terribly rough and sappy, but a valentine of sorts to my children, whom I cherish dearly (be they ever so squirrely!)


Good Night

We have this ritual, you and I
I offer you plain pink pajamas
(which you refuse)
then a second pair, pink with monkeys
(also refused)
then you spy instead
some in the drawer and those
(multi-colored hearts on pink)
are the ones you wear

We move to the bathroom
and I ask if you want
the toothbrush with kitties on it, or
the one with a handle shaped like a row of ducks
duckies, you say
and the toothpaste with bears on the tube
first you brush
and then, handing the brush to me
you turn your small face upward
opening your mouth
so trusting
and it is my turn
to finish brushing your small, straight teeth

Back in the bedroom
we sit on the cherry rocker
you on my lap
looking at picture books
while I run a comb through the stubborn snarls
in your too-long hair
I should trim it, I know
but I’m in love with the way
the ends curl around my fingers
and I know they will stay straight forever
once they are cut

From the shelf you choose a story
then climb back onto my lap
curling yourself into my chest
I rest my chin on your head
your hair smooth against my throat
I read about bees or bunnies
or green dogs driving yellow cars
while you turn the pages

And then it’s prayers
light’s out
a song
a kiss
tucking your blankets around you just so

Good night, little one
for when you wake up
when I wake up
you won’t be a baby
my baby
any more.

Tuesday, February 02, 2010

...In with the new!

I can proudly say I installed this myself—because I'm too much of a tightwad to pay someone else to install it, and in too much of a hurry to wait for Jim to do it.

(Clickity below for new stove soundtrack!)

Monday, February 01, 2010

The only constant is change

At the exact age her brother did, Audrey has outgrown her afternoon nap. When Jimmy stopped napping, I remember I struggled with having to give up the small oasis of an hour to myself in the middle of the day, but within a few months, I had adapted my attitude and my schedule.

This time around, I'm just conscious of feeling wistful that my baby isn't a baby any more.