mama's day eve

Mama’s Day Eve 2013

Her marker’s almost run dry, girls with curls in triangular skirts,

blue balloons on long, red strings.

She pauses to take a wet bite of pear, the juice

sticky on her hands, then rubbed into the wooden chair back.

She’ll be six soon.  The May clouds surreal in their perfection,

green of leaves twinkle softly in late afternoon sun,

shadows and light, their gentle shift.

Last night our oldest buddy sat in this chair, his girl beside him.

They told us their plans of building a new life in a new town,

of housing prices and recreation opportunities. 

We made our way through the wine, our laughter growing louder,

the bass keeping us young, the children asleep

down the hall.

“This is one fat, red heart I’m drawing, Mama.  It’s for you, but don’t look!”

We leave glasses and plates, shards of baguette and oil thick with garlic,

our neglect of the kitchen a small, unifying rebellion

and move slowly towards the bedroom, the lines more pronounced beneath our eyes.

I dreamed about this moment:

Writing poems in my book, my girl across the table drawing away,

Joni Mitchell croons her raspy range through the radio,

The breeze easy through the open door.

“I know what a person who makes books is called:  a journalist.  I’m gonna draw one of those flowers that you taught me, Mama.”

I pour myself more pinot, watch the way they watch each other.

They haven’t spent more than eleven consecutive days together.

She's beautiful.  He smiles coyly and calls her mi amor.  

I drift in and out of memory, nothing but boxes of books packed in an old car,
how young we were, with nothing to lose.

I remember the bend outside Rock Creek, my first sight of

the Sapphires, the swift moving creek.

what three looks like

The sun sets over this gorgeous valley and I settle into my first quiet of the day.  Work is full and nutty this time of year, the heat riling children up in new and wild ways, my job more like tap-dancing and pleading than teaching.  Anything for some quiet.  Anything.

My children seem to have the same spring thang.  With temperatures close to eighty here today, everyone is wildly giddy.  Eliana just seems to touch and talk about everything in her path.  She's all about doing it herself right now which can be really, really awesome (like when I find her in the kitchen fixing snack plates for her and her brother) or really, really annoying (like when she insists on pulling out her clothes by herself and in climbing the closet shelves ends up dumping the whole lot of freshly folded duds on the floor).  Solomon continues to be non-stop motion.  He had his three year check up today and managed to stand on my thighs (straight up, mind you) three times during the visit.  Dr. Judy smiled and talked about how agile and physical he is, how I handle him so well.  That's all I've known from him.  I feel like Dr. J and I have been having the exact same conversation about him each time since he's been about six months old.  He's always sweet and personable and moving like a mo-fo.  He climbed up on to the examination table on his own, put his little hands behind his head and splayed his little body out like a rock star poolside.  Dr. Judy and I exchanged a lot of smiling glances while Soli showed off how rad he is at three.  Awesome.

......

And my quiet reverie was very rudely and abruptly interrupted by two little chickens leaving their rooms, claiming hunger, demanding toast at which point I realize that the trash is sort of stinky, lift it from the can, and the bag bursts all over the floor of what was, finally, a clean kitchen.  Which turns into sweeping and sifting and then there are no more bags and I'm covered in coffee grounds and grime and need to take a shower and the kids are hustled back into bed by dad.  Now, half an exhausting hour and one lovely shower later, I don't have my same mojo to write.

Which is kinda how I feel a lot of the time right now.  I choose to have Solomon in May because it's always the toughest month to teach.  I kept waiting this weekend to have the energy to blog about Sol, to get an awesome picture, to capture that essential moment.  But the moments just kept flowing and going, one into the other like wildfire, no time to stop and reflect because at the end of it all, I'm just sort of done by the time the get in bed.  That said, I did manage to finally upload a bunch of pictures from my camera on to the computer and there is some great stuff. 

It's been a heck of a ride these past few months. We've blasted into spring, said goodbye and hello to dad, dressed up,  paraded through town, hiked the "M", eaten too much sushi.  We've rocked some really awesome bedhead, rocked harder on little guitars, had cake and ice-cream and stayed up way to late on our third birthday.  We've yelled and sighed and cursed and laughed and danced to, "Footloose" (you've gotta see the way Soli air-guitars those opening bars...).  We are these wild moments. 

three

For Solomon on his Golden Birthday

I don't know what three is
for little boys.
I do know what I see lately -
wild hair, basketball shorts, air guitar,
real guitar, make-believe, racing legs,
words and words and words,
total commitment to us all.

I've always thought about how
seamlessly you landed in our lives,
the average Monday work day,
the way bath-time turned dinner-time
turned Soli time as you quickly made
your way from my body before any of us
really even realized what was happening,
your fist in the air, your fighter body sturdy
and strong, even then.
Your big lips.  I knew you were mine.

The next year was not simple.
Something cracked open inside of me
when you were born.  Something new and
unexpected and so unlike the first time around.
I didn't always know how to handle it all,
how to know who I was in it all,
the redefining, the way I wanted to run away,
you in my arms, flee your defiant sister and
hard-working dad, take you somewhere quiet,
a tall field of wet grass,
a mountaintop,
somewhere we could just be,
the way you absorb into me,
the far-flung romance,
strung out on no sleep,
my heavy wet chest.

I'd stay all day,
find the fastest route back,
fierce and forlorn,
like all things for love.

My husband is gone.  Again.   I woke at four am, wide, wanting.  This time of year always surprises me.  The strength of spring, how alive and and tremendous it all is.  The way that is juxtaposed with my intense exhaustion.  Nine months with the children.  Nine months of words and lessons, provocations and assessments.  My own children have endured nine months of our insane routine.  Ins and outs and all arounds when all they want is to stay in their jammies, play Baby/Mommy, shuffle around in the early hours, slowly flow into their day. 

I didn't plan on having such a big year.  Didn't know that going back to work full-time would coincide with Jeff's fellowship, with all these weeks of going it alone.  Like anything, single mamaing is a muscle and I've actually become much better at it.  I know that burritos and parks work wonders.  I try to sneak in exercise whenever I can.  I rely on my beautiful friends, Jeff's mama, the proverbial village.  But dang.  Sometimes I just miss my husband.  Sometimes I just want to have him here with me, not to necessarily help, but to be.  To take it all in.  To hold these moments. 

Solomon will be three in a week.  He's so big all of the sudden, a mess of unruly curls, all words and songs, heavy flat feet running, running.  Eliana navigates his world with a sense of grace and purpose, albeit, a bit controlling.  They are such a team.  For better or for worse. 

Our little unit will enjoy this weekend. Hell, it's supposed to hit seventy today.  That's alone is cause for celebration.  The way the grass proclaims her return, how vivid and green. 

I don't want to want

I don't want to want
anything.
Want that content wash of
spring when the green is
otherworldly,
the wild smiles of
glacier lilies
breaking forth from
the hard and heavy
ground.

I don't want to want
anything.
Want to hold the
soft skin of my children
carry their words
their songs
race with them
through open space.

I don't want to want
anything.
One egg,
one piece of toast,
cup of chai
apples in the basket
reasonable and smart.

But sometimes
I drive myself crazy
because I really,
really want things.
I want enough space
for a bedside table
would prefer if my
glasses didn't have to sit
on the floor all night
long, when the kids
wake at four I
worry first about
stepping on my glasses
which seems like such
a ridiculous worry
at a time like that.
I'm tired of the bathroom
shimmy, the way we
can't all fit in any space
all together,
the way their toys
spill forth from every
corner, every
imaginable space
inhabited by some
thing that
someone cares about.
I'm tired of the cars
that race by my window
the revving of motorcycles
a front yard littered
with beer cans and
the resin of last nights party
because this is a college town
and we have been in this
little house
ten years already
ten years is a long time
ten years means,
perhaps,
we've grown out of something.

Which is tricky,
because I don't want to want
anything.

The want can make you crazy.

california spring

Break

Spring in Southern California has

a more predictable rhythm.

Tumble of waves and 

pulse of tides.

Buckets and shovels and

ridiculous beach suits,

our color punctuates the

marine layer,

little feet pound wet earth,

siblings in arms,

found burrowed in

yesterday's hole,

our days a watercolor

of fluid and simple

movements,

our smooth

breath when 

together and away.

assignment two, response poem

 

Open

       Inspired by Richard Hugo

The day is a woman

who loves you.  Open.

The trail heads straight,

the sky uncovers

a breath of soft rain,

swift movement of clouds,

light, than dark,

light, than dark,

the ringing creek,

the soft brown forms

of far off mountains,

close and curved

like the body

of a mother.

We make our way,

the sky wide,

children and dogs,

bicycles and helmets,

coats and hats.

On and off,

on and off,

clatter of streams,

of us,

children’s moods

fickle as

spring sunshine,

no schedule,

a slow roll,

amble,

stumble,

stop,

repeat,

as the trail opens and

the green of the valley

pours upon us.

We recreate

the day,

again and again,

the sky wide

as the mouth

of a thirsty girl,

her only purpose

this moment,

her only fear,

being found.