Two conversations, in which my tone was terse and bedtime ready. I had been dodging their idonwannnagetreadyforbed volleys for going on an hour — Robotically getting them cleaned, and dressed, and attending to their oral hygiene — I tucked them in – Gave them appropriate cover, and handed over perfunctory kisses. When all seemed settled, I started turning lights off around the apartment and discovered — Read the rest of this entry
I haven’t been writing — because shit is hard. There’s too much to write down, to get out, and unless I become a fiction writer soon — that is just start making things up… I’m going to have to get past this writer’s block. I’ve written a whole lot of haiku in the last few years, like, a whole a lot, a lot. And really, if I can’t manage seventeen syllables a day — well I might as well start tossing the writer’s notebooks.
So for my baby, on his birthday —
Five years past, and you,
were just an idea, But now,
always my sweet Keegs.
Two boys. Crazy, and wild, and over the top- side-way smiles – knock knock jokes – fiends for stickers and Nano bugs and Legos and screen-time – lovers of snacks, sneakers of chocolate, delivers of hugs and snuggles- one with dimples- one who likes to run- sensitive and smart – story tellers- eyebrow raisers- comedians at five and three- believers in magic and wonder. Two boys.
A day-care provider for five years, who tended them, loved them, taught them their letters and colors, fed them, did not ban them from her day care when they bit other children, did not have a heart attack when they insisted on climbing higher, who tended me- didn’t give me a thing to worry about, because I knew my children, my babies, my infants were safe and loved.
A preschool teacher who has had both my sons now- who helped one to stop hitting his classmates, who is helping one to appreciate the potty – a teacher who has structure and love, and a play loft – she who created a preschool for Hadley, who is just about to retire, who has been the teacher to even my senior students who are about to graduate – she who has taught my sons songs, and numbers, and to to cut paper, and write their names, she who transcribes stories and helps them to share.
Today, the small went off to his first fay of preschool – and tonight, in honor of that I read this at open mic, in some nostalgic nod to a time when I could hold him close and nearly sing everything away. – First posted here way back when he was not even six months old.
Totally knackered. Not in a good way. Not in a way I learned in Ireland, when I would hand a bar-keep a pile of coins, and he would reward me with a frothy Guinness, or a tangy cider. I’m mom knackered. Last night. The temperature in the small one hit a number I hadn’t seen before, nurse on the other line suggested a midnight ride. Women in scrubs lingered and said things to each other like ‘he’s tachy,’ while I held my son, who would not sleep, who sounded more teradactyl than human, and willed his fever away. Before dawn they deemed him fit enough to go, and I drove back through the night. At home I handed the small one to his father, who tucked him in under his arm, while I took off the layers I’d been wearing for 20 hours or more. Wandered the house, turning off the lights I had left on while I packed a desperate diaper bag. Stopped to pull the covers up over the energetic one who moves even in his sleep. Climbed in under the warmth, and watched the small one inhale the familiarity of home, rested my hand on his chest, and drifted off to the sound of baby breath.
It’s been a while since I’ve had a guest blogger —The energetic one made his debut at age three — and tonight I thought I would have the small one fill in with his thoughts on motorcycles and the Batman trailer.
“Launch me mama, launch!”
Don’t everyone freak-out at once. But, I am going to be super cheery right now.
No. No. You haven’t clicked on the wrong blog. And don’t worry, it’s okay I’m sure I’ll be mad at the world, or the media, or the political sphere – anytime now —
But for this minute . . . Things I’m loving . . .
Afternoons with Keegan. Keegan and I have barely had anytime together on our own. Read the rest of this entry
Top eleven songs I sing my sons at bedtime. I question the appropriateness of many of them… but this is the least of my parenting problems.
11. Turn the World Around – traditional
10. The Wind – Cat Stevens
9. Rocky Racoon – The Beatles
8. If I Had a Hammer – traditional
7. Bye Baby Bunting – traditional
6. Taps – only the first verse
5. Hush Little Baby – traditional
4. Nobody but the baby – Emmylou Harris
3. Goodnight Sweetheart – The Spaniels
2. Good Night Ladies – from the music man – lyrics reworked by me
Goodnight Kai james, Goodnight Keegan Jay, Goodnight my boys, it’s time to go to sleep.
Mommy loves you, daddy loves you, Goodnight my boys, it’s time to go to sleep.
No More crying, no more whinging, Goodnight my boys, it’s time to go to sleep.
And the one I sing every night without fail,
1. Strangest Dream – traditional