Seven

Amazing to think this picture was taken seven short years ago. Happy birthday, sweet boy.

You heard it here first

Yesterday afternoon I went in for my eight-week prenatal check-up.

Yeah, that's right.

My OB cautioned me it was probably too early for the Doppler to pick anything up, then (mostly to humor me) he tried anyway. It took a minute or two, and then we heard the baby's heartbeat, soft but strong.

Toothsome

On Saturday a good friend of ours threw an 80th birthday bash for her dad at the Museum of Flight, and the invite included free admission to the museum for the day. So we headed out of town bright and early, drove over the pass, did a bit of shopping, had lunch at Duke's on Alki (mmm, mahi tacos!), and then headed to the museum. We did and saw lots of cool stuff, including walking through a retired Air Force One jet, checking out a model of a PBY (my grandpa flew one with the Black Cat Squadron in WWII), learning about the life and career of Amelia Earhart, and Jimmy's favorite, taking a spin in the X-Pilot flight simulator.

The party was finishing up so late, we stayed at a hotel for the night before heading home on Sunday. That morning before we checked out, Jimmy yanked out his third tooth. It's been dangerously loose for several days now, and I think the threat of losing it while eating breakfast gave him the courage to tug it out (he lost his first tooth last fall in a bite of banana and promptly swallowed it).

This morning he came bounding into our bedroom to show off the crisp dollar bill the Tooth Fairly left him. Funny, I remember back in the day feeling like the dime she left me was a veritable fortune, because I could take it to the dairy around the corner and buy a cherry Popsicle all by myself.

Good times.

Another byline

Boston Literary Magazine's spring issue went up today, and with it my poem "Gooseberry Pie". I can tell this is going to be a good week!

Geography according to Jimmy

A few weeks ago Jimmy got a new clock radio. The idea was for him to not only have a visual reminder to help him get his morning chores done on time, but also help him to get up on his own every morning in time to say goodbye to his dad before Jim leaves for work.

The clock radio also has a CD player, so Jim let Jimmy choose from our vast collection of mp3s and burned him a mixed CD. It's pretty eclectic; everything from "Johnny B. Goode" by Chuck Berry to "Dancing Queen" by ABBA to "Panama" by Van Halen. One of the songs, which is Jimmy's new favorite, is "Nations of the World", from the cartoon series "The Animaniacs".



For the last week he's been humming it around the house, and this morning it occurred to Jim and I we were missing the educational opportunity this song presented, so we printed up the lyrics and gave them to Jimmy. He disappeared into his room and we could hear him singing the song to himself with great gusto.

About five minutes later he emerged with a look of profound realization on his face.

"Hey, Mom! Panama is a song and a country!"

Listening

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.

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.

...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!)

Ludwig van beethoven - Ode to joy download

found at bomb-mp3 search engine

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.

Too funky

I live in a house full of picky eaters. I've long since resigned myself to the reality that Jim dislikes some of my favorite dinners, like shepherd's pie and chicken divan. Lately, though, I've grown frustrated as our dinner options have dwindled due the smaller finicky parties getting more outspoken about those various ingredients which are out of favor with them.

So the other day, I asked Jim and Jimmy to thumb through a cooking magazine and choose a new recipe to try. They both seemed enthusiastic about a slow-cooked fruity pork roast with cranberries, golden raisins, lemon and apple. I was enthusiastic, too, because we still haven't gotten our new range and I'm depending on my crockpot, microwave and electric griddle to get us through to the delivery date of Wednesday.

Tonight as we sat down to dinner, Jimmy took a bite of the pork and said, "Mom, I don't like this. It tastes funky."

I couldn't help myself; I busted out singing, "Get down tonight, get down tonight."

"No, Mom. Not that kind of funky."