"You know," I tell myself, "I never see small birds flying."
I'm squinting into the sun, watching a hawk circle and drop with my head thrown back and my hands behind me, and my thoughts are winding. "I see them hopping through the grass sometimes, pecking at seeds, and every so often I'll see a group of them startle, but I never have to shade my eyes to watch them rising. They never seem to stretch out their wings."
Her voice cuts through my thoughts. "Mommy," she cries, "look at me! I'm flying!"
Overhead, the sunlight flashes; the hawk is diving, but I turn around and look behind me.
Katherine is circling on her bike, pumping her legs up and down, faster and faster, weaving between all the concrete blocks in the parking lot, with the wind in her face and her helmet shining.
"Do you see me, Mommy? I'm flying!"
"Yes, yes," I cry, "I'm watching!"
She skids to a stop at the curb where I'm standing.
"Remember this summer when I was too scared to go fast?"
"Yes," I say, nodding.
"But did you just see how fast I was going?"
"You were really flying!"
"Oh Mommy, that was so much fun! I'm going to remember this moment --- forever!"
She laughs, and her laughter is high and clear. I smile at the sound. Then she pushes her foot off the curb and pedals out into sun, going faster again, and faster, and I tilt my head back up toward the sky.
I noticed the hawk is rising.
Monday, February 20, 2012
Sunday, February 19, 2012
A Family of Bad Dreams
Chris:
I dreamed there was a machine; it had to keep making things, had to keep moving. If I stopped moving my legs though, I knew the machine would stop, but the machine couldn't stop. The machine had to keep moving. Then I realized I was the machine.
Emily:
I dreamed there was a saber-toothed tiger, all stretched out and golden. He stepped onto my bed from above, sneaking in through a picture on the wall, or maybe a wooden carving. His teeth were hooked and jagged, but I knew I had to get past him. He was heading for my children.
Katherine:
I dreamed I was on a water slide. People with spikes on their hands were standing on either side of me trying to tickle me. Their spikes kept cutting. At the bottom of the slide, the pond was full of snapping turtles.
Penelope:
I dreamed about bothery shadows: that one was a hawk; that one was a monster. I told them to leave, but they wouldn't listen.
***
What have you been dreaming about lately? (Do you believe dreams have meaning?)
**This post was inspired by a bad night and an interesting blogger.
I dreamed there was a machine; it had to keep making things, had to keep moving. If I stopped moving my legs though, I knew the machine would stop, but the machine couldn't stop. The machine had to keep moving. Then I realized I was the machine.
Emily:
I dreamed there was a saber-toothed tiger, all stretched out and golden. He stepped onto my bed from above, sneaking in through a picture on the wall, or maybe a wooden carving. His teeth were hooked and jagged, but I knew I had to get past him. He was heading for my children.
Katherine:
I dreamed I was on a water slide. People with spikes on their hands were standing on either side of me trying to tickle me. Their spikes kept cutting. At the bottom of the slide, the pond was full of snapping turtles.
Penelope:
I dreamed about bothery shadows: that one was a hawk; that one was a monster. I told them to leave, but they wouldn't listen.
***
What have you been dreaming about lately? (Do you believe dreams have meaning?)
**This post was inspired by a bad night and an interesting blogger.
Saturday, February 18, 2012
Blackbirds in the Morning
They wheel above the forest, stark, dark, careening in haphazard arcs, two blackbirds tossed against a whitened sky. I watch them, coffee on my lips, nightgown trailing, cotton coming unstitched at the seams, and I think of them as ink spots, psych tests, sadness, until I see they're not haphazard. They're flying patterns, swooping, sideways, wind rushing through their wings.
I push the window open.
{I started writing this because I wanted to participate in Gypsy Mama's Five Minute Friday on Delight this week, but it doesn't make any sense, does it? I'm posting it anyway though, just as a random exercise in writing.}
I push the window open.
{I started writing this because I wanted to participate in Gypsy Mama's Five Minute Friday on Delight this week, but it doesn't make any sense, does it? I'm posting it anyway though, just as a random exercise in writing.}
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Discipline, Interrupted
"Penelope, if you don't get back in bed right this minute there's going to be a consequence. Do you understand me?"
"I'm not sleepy!"
"One..."
"No!"
"TWO!"
"No, Mommy! No, Mommy! I don't WANT to go to bed!" She threw her head upward and backward and toward me, and her mouth was open. She was chapped-lipped, streaked with saliva; her lips were turned down at the corners. Her eyes were scrunchy, crescent moons, glittering and red.
I tripped over my warning.
I can't do this, I thought. Not tonight. It isn't working.
"Never mind," I sighed. I knelt beside her. "Just come here, baby."
She ran to me, head down, legs stiff, but when I scooped her into my arms she rested her head on my shoulder. She softened. I carried her back to bed.
I laid her down in darkness, kissed her quickly on top of the head.
"Wait," she whispered. Her voice was low and husky. She pressed her cheek into my hand. "Stay with me, Mommy. Please, just for a little while. Sing me a song," she said.
Down the hall I could hear the clink-clank-clink of dishes. Chris was cleaning up from dinner. I tapped my foot. I shook my head.
--- then I looked down at her and she looked up at me and I lost myself for awhile: in her eyes, which were impossibly wide and impossibly inky, and in the fringe of her lashes, which were darker than the darkness, and in the space between them, that velvety spot where her nose curves in, and in the curve of her cheek, which was warm and soft and pressed against my hand, and she's just a baby, said the voice inside my head.
And so, I started singing.
I forgot about consistency and consequence. I forgot about discipline and dinner dishes. I just sat down and watched her eyes grow heavy. I heard her breath grow breathy. I felt her cheeks grow hot and thought, oh! oh, that's my baby in her bed ---
**Finding the Bigger Picture through Simple Moments**
"I'm not sleepy!"
"One..."
"No!"
"TWO!"
"No, Mommy! No, Mommy! I don't WANT to go to bed!" She threw her head upward and backward and toward me, and her mouth was open. She was chapped-lipped, streaked with saliva; her lips were turned down at the corners. Her eyes were scrunchy, crescent moons, glittering and red.
I tripped over my warning.
I can't do this, I thought. Not tonight. It isn't working.
"Never mind," I sighed. I knelt beside her. "Just come here, baby."
She ran to me, head down, legs stiff, but when I scooped her into my arms she rested her head on my shoulder. She softened. I carried her back to bed.
I laid her down in darkness, kissed her quickly on top of the head.
"Wait," she whispered. Her voice was low and husky. She pressed her cheek into my hand. "Stay with me, Mommy. Please, just for a little while. Sing me a song," she said.
Down the hall I could hear the clink-clank-clink of dishes. Chris was cleaning up from dinner. I tapped my foot. I shook my head.
--- then I looked down at her and she looked up at me and I lost myself for awhile: in her eyes, which were impossibly wide and impossibly inky, and in the fringe of her lashes, which were darker than the darkness, and in the space between them, that velvety spot where her nose curves in, and in the curve of her cheek, which was warm and soft and pressed against my hand, and she's just a baby, said the voice inside my head.
And so, I started singing.
I forgot about consistency and consequence. I forgot about discipline and dinner dishes. I just sat down and watched her eyes grow heavy. I heard her breath grow breathy. I felt her cheeks grow hot and thought, oh! oh, that's my baby in her bed ---
**Finding the Bigger Picture through Simple Moments**
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
History. Love.
"Nope, sorry girls, but you're having one-by-one baths tonight. You two splash too much when you're together and right now I'm way too tired to clean up your messes. Kat, you go first. Penelope, you can build a castle with blocks while you're waiting."
I braced myself for a fight, but nothing happened. Katherine grabbed her towel and scampered toward the tub. Penelope dumped her blocks onto the rug. I smiled at them and pushed the door to my bedroom open.
Down the hall, I could hear water running, the wooden clink of Penelope's blocks, and Katherine humming to herself, then singing, but the sounds were muffled. The house was quiet.
The shadows lengthened.
Chris was in bed, stretched out on top of the quilts, reading. I climbed in beside him. "I don't know why I'm so tired tonight," I said, resting my head on his shoulder.
"Yeah, I know. We stayed up too late yesterday. I'm tired, too," he said, still reading. He put his arm around me, pulled me in, and then ---
***
We woke up with a CRASH fifteen minutes later, and apparently we'd been facing each other while we were sleeping because my mind registered him before I realized I was waking up, or even that I'd been sleeping. His eyes were a streak of blue, sudden and bright in the haze of my confusion, but I couldn't place him. I couldn't place myself. Our history was swirling.
He was the boy who...
...baked me pumpkin pies when I had bronchitis...
...drove for 14 hours when I wanted to see the ocean...
...battled me for Air Hockey Champion of the World...
...almost beat me at Tag Racing...
...took me to baseball games and tennis matches and miniature golfing, and...
...kissed me in front of the fire when we went skiing.
And he was the man who...
...wrapped his arms around me on sunlit beaches...
...stayed up late researching the latch when I couldn't stop crying...
...guided our babies to my breast...
...brought me tea from England...
...stroked my hair after a nightmare, and...
...kept me up late, laughing.
And he was startled. He kissed me quickly, instinctively, and his lips were like a touchstone; the world snapped back into focus: Penelope was in her room. Katherine was still in the bathtub, singing.
"What was that," he asked.
"Penelope," I said. "I think she knocked down the castle she was building."
"Oh," he sighed.
I rubbed my eyes. "I was asleep," I told him.
"Yeah, me too," he said, yawning.
"We should probably go get them."
"I know," he said, "but let's stay here, just a little longer."
His body was warm. He pulled me closer.
"Okay," I said, and settled my head back onto his shoulder.
I braced myself for a fight, but nothing happened. Katherine grabbed her towel and scampered toward the tub. Penelope dumped her blocks onto the rug. I smiled at them and pushed the door to my bedroom open.
Down the hall, I could hear water running, the wooden clink of Penelope's blocks, and Katherine humming to herself, then singing, but the sounds were muffled. The house was quiet.
The shadows lengthened.
Chris was in bed, stretched out on top of the quilts, reading. I climbed in beside him. "I don't know why I'm so tired tonight," I said, resting my head on his shoulder.
"Yeah, I know. We stayed up too late yesterday. I'm tired, too," he said, still reading. He put his arm around me, pulled me in, and then ---
***
We woke up with a CRASH fifteen minutes later, and apparently we'd been facing each other while we were sleeping because my mind registered him before I realized I was waking up, or even that I'd been sleeping. His eyes were a streak of blue, sudden and bright in the haze of my confusion, but I couldn't place him. I couldn't place myself. Our history was swirling.
He was the boy who...
...baked me pumpkin pies when I had bronchitis...
...drove for 14 hours when I wanted to see the ocean...
...battled me for Air Hockey Champion of the World...
...almost beat me at Tag Racing...
...took me to baseball games and tennis matches and miniature golfing, and...
...kissed me in front of the fire when we went skiing.
And he was the man who...
...wrapped his arms around me on sunlit beaches...
...stayed up late researching the latch when I couldn't stop crying...
...guided our babies to my breast...
...brought me tea from England...
...stroked my hair after a nightmare, and...
...kept me up late, laughing.
And he was startled. He kissed me quickly, instinctively, and his lips were like a touchstone; the world snapped back into focus: Penelope was in her room. Katherine was still in the bathtub, singing.
"What was that," he asked.
"Penelope," I said. "I think she knocked down the castle she was building."
"Oh," he sighed.
I rubbed my eyes. "I was asleep," I told him.
"Yeah, me too," he said, yawning.
"We should probably go get them."
"I know," he said, "but let's stay here, just a little longer."
His body was warm. He pulled me closer.
"Okay," I said, and settled my head back onto his shoulder.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
The Light in Her Room
The light catches my attention.
I'm walking down the hall, heading toward the bathtub, toward the girls, with a tsk on my lips and a stern quit splashing, but I pause. I stop. Outside Penelope's room, I lean against the doorframe. The girls are giggling now. They're directly across the hall and if I turn around I know I'll see them floating on their backs, kicking, wild, water cascading out across the floor, but I don't turn around. I linger.
The light is soft-edged here and warm; it's bouncing off the forest, illuminating the winter-brown branches and the dry, green leaves, but it spreads out at my feet, rose-colored and filtered; it's streaming through thin, linen curtains; it's lighting up the room.
At first that's all I notice. Then the girls start splashing harder.
I turn my head to scold them, but my eyes fall on Penelope's small, plastic kitchen in the corner; it's lit-up and shining, and suddenly I see the room, her room, all dappled with light and shadow: the pink-and-purple quilt with elephants embroidered, the baskets full of books, the scattered legos, teddy bears, dolls, and dinosaurs; this is the door she slams when she's angry; this is the bed where she dreams, and then I start to wonder.
What's it like to be the littlest person in this family? What does she dream about when she's dreaming in this room?
Minutes from now she'll run across the hall, towel-wrapped and shivering, the boss of all that light and shadow. She'll toss a teddy bear into her bed. She'll scoot into her pajamas, shove Alice in Wonderland into my hands and beg for a whole chunk of chapters, and I'll bend down and kiss the center of her forehead.
The light will fade. I'll get caught up in the story and I'll forget about the room, but I think I'll always wonder: What adventures are waiting for my baby?
Where will she go when she grows into her dreams?
I'm walking down the hall, heading toward the bathtub, toward the girls, with a tsk on my lips and a stern quit splashing, but I pause. I stop. Outside Penelope's room, I lean against the doorframe. The girls are giggling now. They're directly across the hall and if I turn around I know I'll see them floating on their backs, kicking, wild, water cascading out across the floor, but I don't turn around. I linger.
The light is soft-edged here and warm; it's bouncing off the forest, illuminating the winter-brown branches and the dry, green leaves, but it spreads out at my feet, rose-colored and filtered; it's streaming through thin, linen curtains; it's lighting up the room.
At first that's all I notice. Then the girls start splashing harder.
I turn my head to scold them, but my eyes fall on Penelope's small, plastic kitchen in the corner; it's lit-up and shining, and suddenly I see the room, her room, all dappled with light and shadow: the pink-and-purple quilt with elephants embroidered, the baskets full of books, the scattered legos, teddy bears, dolls, and dinosaurs; this is the door she slams when she's angry; this is the bed where she dreams, and then I start to wonder.
What's it like to be the littlest person in this family? What does she dream about when she's dreaming in this room?
Minutes from now she'll run across the hall, towel-wrapped and shivering, the boss of all that light and shadow. She'll toss a teddy bear into her bed. She'll scoot into her pajamas, shove Alice in Wonderland into my hands and beg for a whole chunk of chapters, and I'll bend down and kiss the center of her forehead.
The light will fade. I'll get caught up in the story and I'll forget about the room, but I think I'll always wonder: What adventures are waiting for my baby?
Where will she go when she grows into her dreams?
Friday, February 10, 2012
Celebrating Parents: Love in the Little Routines
I intended to tell you a story. I thought I'd sort through my memory, find a sweet moment, and spin it into a celebration, but when I woke up this morning I couldn't think of anything.
I was floundering, so I decided to do some free writing: No looking back. No revisions. Just my own stream of consciousness answer.
What are you proud of as a parent?
Here goes!
When she rides her bike, I make sure she wears her helmet.
Penelope wakes up. Another warm breakfast. Teeth to brush. Bleary eyes. Rumpled hair. Snuggles. Art projects. Spilled paint. Water messes.
Leftover chili. Apple slices.
Stories.
Stories. Stories. Stories.
"Mama, I'm a baby skunk and you're my mommy. Come into the burrow, Mommy!"
After school Katherine rushes home full of fresh air and energy. She's hungry. Penny's hungry. I leave the burrow. Scrounge for food. Feed them.
We go outside if it's pretty. Katherine runs for the good climbing tree. Penelope hops onto the teeter-totter. There are other kids there, always. They organize games. Chasing, mainly. I wave at them when they run past me.
Home again. Homework.
A key in the lock.
"Daddy! Daddy!"
"I'm a magical snake and I'm going to eat you, Daddy!"
"Oh yeah, well, I'm a magical fox and a magical snake could NEVER eat me!"
"Daddy! Daddy!"
Dinner.
"Oh girls, daddy's grilling steak! Come and see the fire leaping!"
And then, the nightly convincing:
"Where do we eat? In our seat!"
"Oh no! Don't eat that! You'll get way too much power! No! No! Do you see this? She's eating her dinner! SHE'S EATING HER DINNER!!!"
"Welcome, everyone, welcome! It's time for another night of The Dinner Game! And let me tell you, the excitement is thick tonight. This crowd is wild! Can they do it? That's the question on everyone's mind as the contestants settle into their chairs. Oh! The forks have been lifted! Can anybody eat a...CARROT?"
And then, of course:
Brush your teeth, honey. Did you brush your teeth?
Okay, good girl. Go climb in bed. I'll be right there for stories.
I was floundering, so I decided to do some free writing: No looking back. No revisions. Just my own stream of consciousness answer.
What are you proud of as a parent?
Here goes!
***
My day starts at the cutting board. I chop mango, cucumber, apples, carrots, purple grapes and red bell peppers. I shell pistachios. I lather peanut butter onto sandwiches. Then I prepare a big, homemade breakfast: omelets and oatmeal and oranges. I check Katherine's backpack, tighten her shoelaces, wind her scarf, and send her off to school.When she rides her bike, I make sure she wears her helmet.
Penelope wakes up. Another warm breakfast. Teeth to brush. Bleary eyes. Rumpled hair. Snuggles. Art projects. Spilled paint. Water messes.
Leftover chili. Apple slices.
Stories.
Stories. Stories. Stories.
"Mama, I'm a baby skunk and you're my mommy. Come into the burrow, Mommy!"
After school Katherine rushes home full of fresh air and energy. She's hungry. Penny's hungry. I leave the burrow. Scrounge for food. Feed them.
We go outside if it's pretty. Katherine runs for the good climbing tree. Penelope hops onto the teeter-totter. There are other kids there, always. They organize games. Chasing, mainly. I wave at them when they run past me.
Home again. Homework.
A key in the lock.
"Daddy! Daddy!"
"I'm a magical snake and I'm going to eat you, Daddy!"
"Oh yeah, well, I'm a magical fox and a magical snake could NEVER eat me!"
"Daddy! Daddy!"
Dinner.
"Oh girls, daddy's grilling steak! Come and see the fire leaping!"
And then, the nightly convincing:
"Where do we eat? In our seat!"
"Oh no! Don't eat that! You'll get way too much power! No! No! Do you see this? She's eating her dinner! SHE'S EATING HER DINNER!!!"
"Welcome, everyone, welcome! It's time for another night of The Dinner Game! And let me tell you, the excitement is thick tonight. This crowd is wild! Can they do it? That's the question on everyone's mind as the contestants settle into their chairs. Oh! The forks have been lifted! Can anybody eat a...CARROT?"
And then, of course:
Brush your teeth, honey. Did you brush your teeth?
Okay, good girl. Go climb in bed. I'll be right there for stories.
***
Honestly, I don't feel like I've done very well with this post or with this project, but I think what I'm trying to understand is that it's the little moments that matter to me as a parent. The failures are awful and the successes are sweet, but ultimately it's the constancy, the little routines, the showing-up-and-trying and the struggling-and-striving work of it all that makes me feel proud.
What about you? What makes you feel proud of yourself as a parent?
Link up and share your story!
Link up and share your story!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)