Maybe I do need a pedicure so mama's feet can look good when I kick your ass.
---- my quote to our current governmental administration and various and sundry individuals who just don't get the mama message
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Friday, April 21, 2006
Early Spring
Our little house sits on .06 of an acre of land. It is a weird long triangle shaped lot with no real yard to speak of. Still, in that space (thanks to my husband’s power of magical thought) we have a tree that I make crabapple jelly from, a sweet tiny perennial garden, and glorious raspberry bush and prolific rhubarb patch crammed up against the composters. Monster grape and hops vines climb the peeling paint of the back of the house. Skirting the curb in the front are lilacs and the plum tree with Sophia’s placenta buried beneath.
Thanks to an unseasonably warm early spring Sophia has covered our driveway (an infinitesimal square of asphalt) with rainbow chalk murals. Sheep and cats arabesque beneath flowering arches (a la Angelina Ballerina), frogs leap, and shooting stars circle the word “MOM”. We have so little space to use that we have taken her art to the city sidewalks. Along Loomis Street, down School Street, pausing in front of Manghi’s Bakery are the harbingers of spring. She does the art and I faithfully transcribe the text she dictates to me. “Pig Asleep”, “This puppy likes cheddar cheese”, “Mama cat says to baby cat I have some tea for you!” are some favorites. On days when we have done it all Fimo sculpting, coloring, reading, and chalk art we plant seeds.
More, more, more. I wanna plant more, Mom.
Sophia is filling flowerpots of all sizes with soil. We have dozens of seed packets. Some area few years old and are distant hopes but we’ll try them early and if they don’t work we will re use the pots. Already we have some Salpiglossis and Globe Amaranth that went nowhere.
“They just didn’t sprout,” I explain.” We will try others.”
“I guess they just didn’t sprout,” I hear the little voice repeat as she works.
We are shameless. Early April awash in seed packets and we are miserably overplanting. Pots where three or four seeds would do are being packed. They are getting a fraction of the space they want. Sophia makes careful holes with her index finger with no regard to spacing or depth. She drops in a seed, or two or three and pats the dirt down neatly. More, more, I wanna plant more.
Seed after seed, the perfect orbs of sweet pea, wispy fly-aways of bachelor buttons, almost invisible chamomile, prickly needles of cosmos are woefully packed together and over watered and I let her. I say gently, ”Oh let’s just give those a small drink, a sip” I show her. “Maybe the Bachelor Buttons don’t like to be planted quite so deeply, see?” I show her. But when she pokes her finger down deep into the earth I’m not going to stop and measure. She is happy.
Who knows what the hell these pots will end up like? She did them all herself
Thanks to an unseasonably warm early spring Sophia has covered our driveway (an infinitesimal square of asphalt) with rainbow chalk murals. Sheep and cats arabesque beneath flowering arches (a la Angelina Ballerina), frogs leap, and shooting stars circle the word “MOM”. We have so little space to use that we have taken her art to the city sidewalks. Along Loomis Street, down School Street, pausing in front of Manghi’s Bakery are the harbingers of spring. She does the art and I faithfully transcribe the text she dictates to me. “Pig Asleep”, “This puppy likes cheddar cheese”, “Mama cat says to baby cat I have some tea for you!” are some favorites. On days when we have done it all Fimo sculpting, coloring, reading, and chalk art we plant seeds.
More, more, more. I wanna plant more, Mom.
Sophia is filling flowerpots of all sizes with soil. We have dozens of seed packets. Some area few years old and are distant hopes but we’ll try them early and if they don’t work we will re use the pots. Already we have some Salpiglossis and Globe Amaranth that went nowhere.
“They just didn’t sprout,” I explain.” We will try others.”
“I guess they just didn’t sprout,” I hear the little voice repeat as she works.
We are shameless. Early April awash in seed packets and we are miserably overplanting. Pots where three or four seeds would do are being packed. They are getting a fraction of the space they want. Sophia makes careful holes with her index finger with no regard to spacing or depth. She drops in a seed, or two or three and pats the dirt down neatly. More, more, I wanna plant more.
Seed after seed, the perfect orbs of sweet pea, wispy fly-aways of bachelor buttons, almost invisible chamomile, prickly needles of cosmos are woefully packed together and over watered and I let her. I say gently, ”Oh let’s just give those a small drink, a sip” I show her. “Maybe the Bachelor Buttons don’t like to be planted quite so deeply, see?” I show her. But when she pokes her finger down deep into the earth I’m not going to stop and measure. She is happy.
Who knows what the hell these pots will end up like? She did them all herself
Saturday, April 15, 2006
SuperSonic
Supersonic Hearing
March 21. 2006
This morning my daughter woke up, sat straight up in bed, still bleary-eyed and began very softly whispering- 'koo-koo' (Choo-Choo for train), her arm pumping up and down excitedly, still looking half asleep.
I didn't hear any trains (sometimes there is one that passes behind the house), but maybe she did somewhere in the distance with her super sonic hearing. It was pretty cute.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Supersonic Memory
March 27, 2006
We were half listening to Cat Stevens floating in from the kitchen. My daughter was in the living room with me watching her new favorite movie, Totoro. The song Peace Train came on, heard in fragments. All of a sudden, she leaps up, forgetting temporarily about Totoro and shouts: KOO!-kOO! over and over again. At first I dismissed it, not connecting her shouting Koo! Koo! to the Cat Stevens song in the kitchen (my mind was pretty dim that day). There was no trains on Totoro, nor was there any outside, passing by. I just figured she thought of a train randomly and that was it. Then, she ran to the kitchen.- I followed her. It dawned on me then (finally), as I stood at the gate barring entrance to the kitchen: Koo!-Koo!-Peace Train. Oh, it clicked somewhere in my tired brain!!!
She pulled the word 'Train' from that song all the way in the kitchen from the living room while watching Totoro.
Talk about super-sonic hearing.
March 21. 2006
This morning my daughter woke up, sat straight up in bed, still bleary-eyed and began very softly whispering- 'koo-koo' (Choo-Choo for train), her arm pumping up and down excitedly, still looking half asleep.
I didn't hear any trains (sometimes there is one that passes behind the house), but maybe she did somewhere in the distance with her super sonic hearing. It was pretty cute.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Supersonic Memory
March 27, 2006
We were half listening to Cat Stevens floating in from the kitchen. My daughter was in the living room with me watching her new favorite movie, Totoro. The song Peace Train came on, heard in fragments. All of a sudden, she leaps up, forgetting temporarily about Totoro and shouts: KOO!-kOO! over and over again. At first I dismissed it, not connecting her shouting Koo! Koo! to the Cat Stevens song in the kitchen (my mind was pretty dim that day). There was no trains on Totoro, nor was there any outside, passing by. I just figured she thought of a train randomly and that was it. Then, she ran to the kitchen.- I followed her. It dawned on me then (finally), as I stood at the gate barring entrance to the kitchen: Koo!-Koo!-Peace Train. Oh, it clicked somewhere in my tired brain!!!
She pulled the word 'Train' from that song all the way in the kitchen from the living room while watching Totoro.
Talk about super-sonic hearing.
Thursday, April 13, 2006
Vermont’s Mothers Movement
I discovered Vermont’s Mothers Movement after our twins, Carson and Austin, were born. I didn’t define it that way at the time. To me, I was simply seeking advice on tandem nursing at a twin moms meeting, requesting used toys on a local listserv, or chatting with other moms and dads as we passed the time at the playground. But I didn’t put these activities together as the building of a movement. In my mind, that term was reserved for monumental paradigm shifts and for masses of people demanding change. The parents I was talking to weren’t protesting in front of the statehouse or writing angry letters to the editor. We were just looking out for our kids.
Or were we? Webster’s definition of a “movement” as “a collective effort by a large number of people to try to achieve something, especially a political or social reform,” sounds softer than a revolution. It could describe the weaving together of hundreds of interactions by parents daily in our Vermont communities. Behind the fragmented conversations on creative work arrangements or new programs at the local school is a common vision for healthy, happy, knowledgeable families.
So, how can this underground vision, this whispering movement, actually influence political and social reform? Do we have consensus on what we want for Vermont families - high quality health care, excellent education opportunities for parents and children, affordable childcare, safe environments, fulfilling work, rewarding relationships with other adults and confidence? Mothers and fathers are already building a framework one conversation at a time at their homes, playground and workplace. Now is the time to elevate the debate to a higher, public level of discourse. Mothers, as well as fathers, need to be in places where important decisions are made - whether that means speaking up at town meeting, joining a local committee, running for City Council of taking the Executive Director position. Our kids will thank us.
Or were we? Webster’s definition of a “movement” as “a collective effort by a large number of people to try to achieve something, especially a political or social reform,” sounds softer than a revolution. It could describe the weaving together of hundreds of interactions by parents daily in our Vermont communities. Behind the fragmented conversations on creative work arrangements or new programs at the local school is a common vision for healthy, happy, knowledgeable families.
So, how can this underground vision, this whispering movement, actually influence political and social reform? Do we have consensus on what we want for Vermont families - high quality health care, excellent education opportunities for parents and children, affordable childcare, safe environments, fulfilling work, rewarding relationships with other adults and confidence? Mothers and fathers are already building a framework one conversation at a time at their homes, playground and workplace. Now is the time to elevate the debate to a higher, public level of discourse. Mothers, as well as fathers, need to be in places where important decisions are made - whether that means speaking up at town meeting, joining a local committee, running for City Council of taking the Executive Director position. Our kids will thank us.
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
Journal Entry: February 21, 2006
'I long for the day when I can wear perfumed Lotions again. I was never one for actual perfume, but the perfumed lotion-that is my thing. I was just going through the container where all the lotions are kept. Got a bit sad in cleaning it out. God, some of that stuff was absolutely rank. I haven't worn any kind of lotion since I became pregnant with my daughter-just turned 18 months a few days ago!!. '
Well. I'm still longing for that day. As all mothers (most) know, nursing and perfume/lotions just don't mix well. It interferes with that instinctual 'Mama Smell'.
Well. I'm still longing for that day. As all mothers (most) know, nursing and perfume/lotions just don't mix well. It interferes with that instinctual 'Mama Smell'.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Rituals at 2
Rituals At 2
motherhood
Is full of rituals
throughout each day:
Through morning, noon and night,
found in
bath time and the bed time story,
breakfast, lunch and dinner.
in ritualistic fashion
bargaining chips vary
and are played out
with cheerio's one day,
in promises of the park on the way back
the next.
rituals are found
in the churchyard
at the information booth, of course,
among fliers for Ben & Jerry's and the
best bed & breakfast in town.
in our daily rounds
through town they are found:
it is expected
we pass the park and head down to the bakery
where little voices echo and ricochets
becoming huge, if only for a moment.
motherhood
is full of rituals:
they are found throughout each day.
no matter how old we get
no matter how we grow and change
there will always be the rituals
we go through, day by day.
march 2006
not to be used without permission from author.
motherhood
Is full of rituals
throughout each day:
Through morning, noon and night,
found in
bath time and the bed time story,
breakfast, lunch and dinner.
in ritualistic fashion
bargaining chips vary
and are played out
with cheerio's one day,
in promises of the park on the way back
the next.
rituals are found
in the churchyard
at the information booth, of course,
among fliers for Ben & Jerry's and the
best bed & breakfast in town.
in our daily rounds
through town they are found:
it is expected
we pass the park and head down to the bakery
where little voices echo and ricochets
becoming huge, if only for a moment.
motherhood
is full of rituals:
they are found throughout each day.
no matter how old we get
no matter how we grow and change
there will always be the rituals
we go through, day by day.
march 2006
not to be used without permission from author.
Sunday, March 26, 2006
Unseen
I've just scratched out this poem I hesitate to put it up as it is because I wonder if it will be completely understood. Too encoded. But, isn't that the essential center of this piece anyway?
Where We Are Now
Their language is not enough for you.
Comprised of the tangible, the structured
it creates boundaries where you want none.
And yet- language is everything to you
as long as it is
your code
one where there is an overlap,
where several realities can coexist-
one where cats are pouring out of the refrigerator
and the woodstove is a bulldog
on sturdy legs
whose teeth I brush as I scrape out the ashes.
From the beginning I knew your language.
I wanted you to believe me
I know you, I whispered to a wailing infant
Do you understand?
I know you, I pleaded.
When I told you that babies
and baby animals
are cradled in their mother’s belly
before they are born,
you lit up.
Ah, proof that there is this other place.
The air around you crackled as you smiled
“Tell me again
tell me again
Where do they live?”
I am keeping a journal
in an old leather bound book
(words again)
that your father made for me when I was seventeen.
I have a conversation there with you-
the later you-
one where I tell you
what I want to tell you right now.
I tell you that there is magic
that you make your own magic.
I am telling you later what I can’t say now.
That they are afraid of their own limitations.
That their high pitched nervous affectation,
their complete unknowing
seizes me with a cold panic.
Can any of them see what you see?
Are any of them willing to grant you the invisible?
Where We Are Now
Their language is not enough for you.
Comprised of the tangible, the structured
it creates boundaries where you want none.
And yet- language is everything to you
as long as it is
your code
one where there is an overlap,
where several realities can coexist-
one where cats are pouring out of the refrigerator
and the woodstove is a bulldog
on sturdy legs
whose teeth I brush as I scrape out the ashes.
From the beginning I knew your language.
I wanted you to believe me
I know you, I whispered to a wailing infant
Do you understand?
I know you, I pleaded.
When I told you that babies
and baby animals
are cradled in their mother’s belly
before they are born,
you lit up.
Ah, proof that there is this other place.
The air around you crackled as you smiled
“Tell me again
tell me again
Where do they live?”
I am keeping a journal
in an old leather bound book
(words again)
that your father made for me when I was seventeen.
I have a conversation there with you-
the later you-
one where I tell you
what I want to tell you right now.
I tell you that there is magic
that you make your own magic.
I am telling you later what I can’t say now.
That they are afraid of their own limitations.
That their high pitched nervous affectation,
their complete unknowing
seizes me with a cold panic.
Can any of them see what you see?
Are any of them willing to grant you the invisible?
Friday, March 24, 2006
The funny parts of extended family living
The other night, my daughter was getting ready to put my granddaughter to bed (they live with my husband and I). I didn't realize how late it had become and I was still in the midst of re-arranging and cleaning up our home office - in other words, making lots of noise, banging around furniture, playing the stereo too loud, etc.
As I was trying to get the last few things done, my daughter calmly walked into the office (which is right next to the baby's room) and said in that absolute mommy-authority voice that used to be mine, "It's time to settle down now, Mom." Then she calmly turned, not waiting at all for a response from me, and went about the business of putting her baby to bed.
My first reaction: "Damn, I'm not done yet! I'm not finished... I don't wanna be quiet yet!"
My second reaction: Uncontrollable laughter - at how the tables do turn.
Daughter becomes Mama becomes Grandma becomes Daughter....
As I was trying to get the last few things done, my daughter calmly walked into the office (which is right next to the baby's room) and said in that absolute mommy-authority voice that used to be mine, "It's time to settle down now, Mom." Then she calmly turned, not waiting at all for a response from me, and went about the business of putting her baby to bed.
My first reaction: "Damn, I'm not done yet! I'm not finished... I don't wanna be quiet yet!"
My second reaction: Uncontrollable laughter - at how the tables do turn.
Daughter becomes Mama becomes Grandma becomes Daughter....
Friday, March 17, 2006
Equinox
I have been reminding my daughter that equinox (and the equinox fairies) will be here Monday. The first day of spring, I whisper, as hungry for dirt and sweetness and possibilities as she has been. Today we went out into a bleak 21-degree morning to blow bubbles in the driveway. The liquid was literally freezing as it dripped down the bottle. We watched the bubbles trail off into a dull sky.
Our seedlings stretch hopefully toward the grow lamps suspended over the kitchen table. The cat is constantly trampling the shallots. In a few months sun, rain, and soil will have coaxed the tiny kale sprouts into hardy monsters we can barely kept up with. Yet, here we are in March pushing our luck with grow lamps while the wood stove is still running.
My daughter is sculpting a tiny beret for her stuffed calico cat toy. When he (she?) wears it, Sophia scolds "A bas!” (“get down” in French) and dutifully the cat leaps off the couch. She has been a prolific artist in the past few months, pumping out work that I tuck into an already overstuffed portfolio. All drawings of cats- rainbow cats, kittens riding on their mothers’ back, cats named “Rocco”, ”Brown Sleek”, and “Vimo”. This feline army overtakes the table and refrigerator. She refuses my offers of Storytime at the library or lunch downtown. These cats are all she wants.
I am thinking of the day that we walk down Loomis Street and pause under every flowering tree. I reach up to grasp a branch and shake hard. White and pink petals shower over her as she looks up. “Snow!” I always shout.
Hmmm…snow. Happy Equinox.
Our seedlings stretch hopefully toward the grow lamps suspended over the kitchen table. The cat is constantly trampling the shallots. In a few months sun, rain, and soil will have coaxed the tiny kale sprouts into hardy monsters we can barely kept up with. Yet, here we are in March pushing our luck with grow lamps while the wood stove is still running.
My daughter is sculpting a tiny beret for her stuffed calico cat toy. When he (she?) wears it, Sophia scolds "A bas!” (“get down” in French) and dutifully the cat leaps off the couch. She has been a prolific artist in the past few months, pumping out work that I tuck into an already overstuffed portfolio. All drawings of cats- rainbow cats, kittens riding on their mothers’ back, cats named “Rocco”, ”Brown Sleek”, and “Vimo”. This feline army overtakes the table and refrigerator. She refuses my offers of Storytime at the library or lunch downtown. These cats are all she wants.
I am thinking of the day that we walk down Loomis Street and pause under every flowering tree. I reach up to grasp a branch and shake hard. White and pink petals shower over her as she looks up. “Snow!” I always shout.
Hmmm…snow. Happy Equinox.
Monday, March 13, 2006
Poem: The Summer Position
The Summer Position
It is March.
Already she moves into
The summer position
Even though there is still
Snow on the ground.
Hands clutch the plastic tray
(Where the Cheeri-o's go)
Pulling away from the padded seat
Wanting a view of everything
Surveying regally.
She moves into the summer position
Waving at everyone like a queen
In her snowman fleecy.
March 2006
not to be used without permission from author.
It is March.
Already she moves into
The summer position
Even though there is still
Snow on the ground.
Hands clutch the plastic tray
(Where the Cheeri-o's go)
Pulling away from the padded seat
Wanting a view of everything
Surveying regally.
She moves into the summer position
Waving at everyone like a queen
In her snowman fleecy.
March 2006
not to be used without permission from author.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
Motherhood Doesn’t Pay the Bills or Parallel Lives
Motherhood Doesn’t Pay the Bills or Parallel Lives
I love my job:
Holding hands with my little girl, circling from the living room to the kitchen over and over, being led just for giggles
I am passionate about it too:
I lovingly chop kale into little bits, mix it in with organic pasta so that my girl can get calcium from another source besides milk…she’s a little sensitive to dairy
I have fun while I am at work:
Another hike through the woods with my lady love on my back, I laugh listening to her call the dog
I model useful skills:
Autumn runs to the lazy susan, grabs yet another spoon, and mixes up her brightly painted wooden vegetables, then spoons a little to her baby doll
My mortgage payment is late again
The interest rates on my credit cards are up
We don’t pick up the phone when the student loan people call
I have been to the movies twice in two years
What will I do with myself if she goes to school?
As a teenager, I said to my mom, “Why don’t you go to college?”
I always wondered why she didn’t paint any more, she said she used to love art
Why did it seem like she was always vacuuming?
Shouldn’t she be hanging out with her friends more?
Did she love her job?
My dad broke his back working long days, weekends, for us….
Jamie works another double today
He saw Autumn for 15 minutes this morning after he chopped our wood for the day and showered
Then he was off….
He will see her again tomorrow morning
He works for us
He loves my job too
I love my job
Tickling under her chin just to hear her gurgley laugh
Pretending to eat from her spoon while we sit in her tent in the living room
Kissing baby doll #1 and #2 goodnight before I tuck them in with my own little baby doll
Holding her with me in the shower just so I can get clean without her pulling open the shower curtain, getting herself and the bathroom floor soaked
I love my job and I could use a paycheck
I love my job:
Holding hands with my little girl, circling from the living room to the kitchen over and over, being led just for giggles
I am passionate about it too:
I lovingly chop kale into little bits, mix it in with organic pasta so that my girl can get calcium from another source besides milk…she’s a little sensitive to dairy
I have fun while I am at work:
Another hike through the woods with my lady love on my back, I laugh listening to her call the dog
I model useful skills:
Autumn runs to the lazy susan, grabs yet another spoon, and mixes up her brightly painted wooden vegetables, then spoons a little to her baby doll
My mortgage payment is late again
The interest rates on my credit cards are up
We don’t pick up the phone when the student loan people call
I have been to the movies twice in two years
What will I do with myself if she goes to school?
As a teenager, I said to my mom, “Why don’t you go to college?”
I always wondered why she didn’t paint any more, she said she used to love art
Why did it seem like she was always vacuuming?
Shouldn’t she be hanging out with her friends more?
Did she love her job?
My dad broke his back working long days, weekends, for us….
Jamie works another double today
He saw Autumn for 15 minutes this morning after he chopped our wood for the day and showered
Then he was off….
He will see her again tomorrow morning
He works for us
He loves my job too
I love my job
Tickling under her chin just to hear her gurgley laugh
Pretending to eat from her spoon while we sit in her tent in the living room
Kissing baby doll #1 and #2 goodnight before I tuck them in with my own little baby doll
Holding her with me in the shower just so I can get clean without her pulling open the shower curtain, getting herself and the bathroom floor soaked
I love my job and I could use a paycheck
Sunday, March 05, 2006
Waiting for You
written June 2005
Your third birthday
is two days away.
I remember waiting for you.
Standing behind the desk at the library
I pressed the “Date Due” stamp to the inkpad with swollen fingers.
She’ll be here by then, I thought.
My body heavy, blurry, juicy, overripe,
all encompassing.
I shifted my weight back and forth.
Sliding books across the counter again and again.
Fascinated by yogurt lids and milk jugs
In awe of the “sell by” dates.
Waiting and walking.
She’ll be here by then, I thought.
The bones of my feet spreading
hips creaking open.
How did I not know you three years ago?
We were just about to meet.
Inhaling the purple of lilacs on my dresser,
watching them wilt.
Bottling homemade lemon soda in the kitchen,
listening to Johnny Cash.
Waiting and walking.
Always believing this breakfast
or this supper
was the last before
you came.
Maple sausages and raspberry waffles.
Finally, the midnight car ride under low rumbles of thunder.
I see the numbers of the clock glow on the dash.
The last time that time is time.
The last ride without you.
How was there a ride without you?
Or thunder without you?
She’ll be here.
Your third birthday is two days away.
I remember waiting for you.
Just Playing
July 2005
Today we played grocery store.
You chose cans and boxes from off the couch.
Put them in your basket
I, as cashier
rang them through
and asked for
“Ten dollars, please.”
You placed the invisible bill in my palm.
I gave you change
And imagined you carrying your bags out of the store
and
loading
them
into
your car.
Not to be used without written permission from the author.
written June 2005
Your third birthday
is two days away.
I remember waiting for you.
Standing behind the desk at the library
I pressed the “Date Due” stamp to the inkpad with swollen fingers.
She’ll be here by then, I thought.
My body heavy, blurry, juicy, overripe,
all encompassing.
I shifted my weight back and forth.
Sliding books across the counter again and again.
Fascinated by yogurt lids and milk jugs
In awe of the “sell by” dates.
Waiting and walking.
She’ll be here by then, I thought.
The bones of my feet spreading
hips creaking open.
How did I not know you three years ago?
We were just about to meet.
Inhaling the purple of lilacs on my dresser,
watching them wilt.
Bottling homemade lemon soda in the kitchen,
listening to Johnny Cash.
Waiting and walking.
Always believing this breakfast
or this supper
was the last before
you came.
Maple sausages and raspberry waffles.
Finally, the midnight car ride under low rumbles of thunder.
I see the numbers of the clock glow on the dash.
The last time that time is time.
The last ride without you.
How was there a ride without you?
Or thunder without you?
She’ll be here.
Your third birthday is two days away.
I remember waiting for you.
Just Playing
July 2005
Today we played grocery store.
You chose cans and boxes from off the couch.
Put them in your basket
I, as cashier
rang them through
and asked for
“Ten dollars, please.”
You placed the invisible bill in my palm.
I gave you change
And imagined you carrying your bags out of the store
and
loading
them
into
your car.
Not to be used without written permission from the author.
Friday, March 03, 2006
Poem
On The Day You Turned 18 Months
On the day you turned 18 months
Mars moved out of Taurus
Where it had been for seven long months
(Retrograde for 2 months and 8 days)
And into Gemini
Bringing much needed change
From the stale and stubborn Bull.
On the day you turned 18 months
There was a remarkable storm
With fierce winds howling through the trees
Bowing them out, lashing against one another
Bringing much needed change from the stale winter.
On the day you turned 18 months
You learned to open our doors
Quite by accident, but with such ease in your discovery.
I heard the little pitter-patter of feet
on that day
Coming to greet me at the gate and
"Hi Mom" in your sweet jabbering voice, soon to change, one day.
On the day you turned 18 months
I stood in awe of you
This little person who chatters and walks-well, runs-
Who demands 'mo-meems'
Remembering my scrunchy-faced baby
Delicately woven against my breasts.
not to be used without permission from author
february 2006
On the day you turned 18 months
Mars moved out of Taurus
Where it had been for seven long months
(Retrograde for 2 months and 8 days)
And into Gemini
Bringing much needed change
From the stale and stubborn Bull.
On the day you turned 18 months
There was a remarkable storm
With fierce winds howling through the trees
Bowing them out, lashing against one another
Bringing much needed change from the stale winter.
On the day you turned 18 months
You learned to open our doors
Quite by accident, but with such ease in your discovery.
I heard the little pitter-patter of feet
on that day
Coming to greet me at the gate and
"Hi Mom" in your sweet jabbering voice, soon to change, one day.
On the day you turned 18 months
I stood in awe of you
This little person who chatters and walks-well, runs-
Who demands 'mo-meems'
Remembering my scrunchy-faced baby
Delicately woven against my breasts.
not to be used without permission from author
february 2006
Sunday, February 26, 2006
Could This Be The First Step Towards Weaning?
I have seen the light at the end of the tunnel! Very distant at the moment, but it's getting closer, I swear!!
It was Valentine's Day. It was bedtime for my 18 month old Daughter. We went through our usual bedtime routine: bath, dressed in jammies, pop in the Mozart CD( keeping it low so as not to be too distracting), reading books (all of them, as well as several times through), then lights off and rocking in the chair with meems (one of the many endearing terms she has given to my breasts) as usual.
She appeared to be content. Then, without any warning, she unlatched, threw herself to the bed in full dramatics and started screaming. These were no regular bedtime quirks. She was pissed. She got up finally, wandered a bit around the room, obviously tired, not knowing what to do, still screaming, refusing to be picked up. At this point, I thought it best for her to get out whatever she needed to get out, out. She calms down, comes back for meems, repeat.
Suddenly, it dawned on me: she didn't even want to nurse! She just wants to go to sleep! The third time around, after she had calmed down, she went and laid down on the bed and became very quiet. I crept down from the chair to make sure she actually asleep, and not anything else. Yep, she was fast asleep, even snoring softly. I lay down next to her ever so carefully as to not wake her and chance another screaming fit, and just held her for a bit. I began to rub her back gently, working in the massage techniques I learned from books and videos. She moved into the crook of my arm, but not to nurse. She just wanted to cuddle! She went to sleep with no meems whatsoever. What's more, she stayed asleep for the rest of the night!!
When all of this happened, I immediately realized what was going on: She's starting to wean herself, slowly, gradually. Very gradually.
She did this again a few more times later in the week-minus the screaming. She just climbed into the bed and fell asleep without meems after only a few rocks of the chair. Could it be? Could this be the very beginning of weaning?
It was Valentine's Day. It was bedtime for my 18 month old Daughter. We went through our usual bedtime routine: bath, dressed in jammies, pop in the Mozart CD( keeping it low so as not to be too distracting), reading books (all of them, as well as several times through), then lights off and rocking in the chair with meems (one of the many endearing terms she has given to my breasts) as usual.
She appeared to be content. Then, without any warning, she unlatched, threw herself to the bed in full dramatics and started screaming. These were no regular bedtime quirks. She was pissed. She got up finally, wandered a bit around the room, obviously tired, not knowing what to do, still screaming, refusing to be picked up. At this point, I thought it best for her to get out whatever she needed to get out, out. She calms down, comes back for meems, repeat.
Suddenly, it dawned on me: she didn't even want to nurse! She just wants to go to sleep! The third time around, after she had calmed down, she went and laid down on the bed and became very quiet. I crept down from the chair to make sure she actually asleep, and not anything else. Yep, she was fast asleep, even snoring softly. I lay down next to her ever so carefully as to not wake her and chance another screaming fit, and just held her for a bit. I began to rub her back gently, working in the massage techniques I learned from books and videos. She moved into the crook of my arm, but not to nurse. She just wanted to cuddle! She went to sleep with no meems whatsoever. What's more, she stayed asleep for the rest of the night!!
When all of this happened, I immediately realized what was going on: She's starting to wean herself, slowly, gradually. Very gradually.
She did this again a few more times later in the week-minus the screaming. She just climbed into the bed and fell asleep without meems after only a few rocks of the chair. Could it be? Could this be the very beginning of weaning?
Saturday, February 25, 2006
Asleep
Lately I have been cool about the fact that I have a three and a half old. Instead of mourning the fact that we are hurtling toward adulthood (as I did the first two years) I am enjoying the ride. I don’t fear the day she says” Mom, my room sucks. It’s sooo babyish!” or borrows my currently non-existent fabulous jewelry. I love watching the kid she has become. I am trying not to look back but today she fell asleep in my arms and lost it.
She was sick and despite being over half my height she crashed against me, crawled into my arms and thrashed, teary eyed, miserable. I went into mama automatic. Relaxed my body and deepened my breathing. Although I was totally uncomfortable on the hardwood floor with all of my (and her) body weight balanced on my elbow, I let her twist, turn, tear at her eyes and just held her. Astonishingly, she stopped fighting sleep and her body grew heavier. I sat breath after breath and waited. I kicked all of the toys out of my path and made it to the couch. I sank down and crammed a blanket under my left arm; leaned delicately back. Still she slept. I watched her face, hands, the length of her body and I cried.
Hot silent tears trickled down my cheeks. My body remembered every moment like this.
The hundreds of times I looked down, still as a stone. Her eyes did a serpentine slip slide before sleep. As a toddler she struggled to nap and only my milk and arms and stillness would carry her away. I can barely contain her in my arms now. Her legs seem to stretch on forever. I have not seen her nap this way in almost two years.
The house settles, shifts, and slows its breath too. Fire glows and snow falls. My tears stop.
She was sick and despite being over half my height she crashed against me, crawled into my arms and thrashed, teary eyed, miserable. I went into mama automatic. Relaxed my body and deepened my breathing. Although I was totally uncomfortable on the hardwood floor with all of my (and her) body weight balanced on my elbow, I let her twist, turn, tear at her eyes and just held her. Astonishingly, she stopped fighting sleep and her body grew heavier. I sat breath after breath and waited. I kicked all of the toys out of my path and made it to the couch. I sank down and crammed a blanket under my left arm; leaned delicately back. Still she slept. I watched her face, hands, the length of her body and I cried.
Hot silent tears trickled down my cheeks. My body remembered every moment like this.
The hundreds of times I looked down, still as a stone. Her eyes did a serpentine slip slide before sleep. As a toddler she struggled to nap and only my milk and arms and stillness would carry her away. I can barely contain her in my arms now. Her legs seem to stretch on forever. I have not seen her nap this way in almost two years.
The house settles, shifts, and slows its breath too. Fire glows and snow falls. My tears stop.
Friday, February 24, 2006
Lemons
Lemon pound cake is my attempt at salvation today. The recipe calls for the requisite ludicrous amount of butter, white sugar, and the majority of my week’s WIC eggs. I will get no points as Frugal Housefrau today but we need this cake.
A yellow candle burns on the counter surrounded by fat, gloriously yellow fruits. I have whispered my prayer. My daughter is juicing the lemons. I steady her little hands over a bowl. We hold the lemon half in our left hands and squeeze, twisting a Peter Rabbit spoon around inside, pushing out the pulp and juice. “Squeeze, twist” we chant softly. I take my hands away to sift the flour. Little hands continue work, a little voice chants.
We need lemons today. We need yellow magic. We blend a huge pitcher of lemonade, roll and toss a half dozen lemons on the couch, cut out a construction paper bowl and fill it with paper lemons. I watch the sugar dissolve as I whisk the glaze for the cake. An intense lemon syrup shimmering. While I whisk my daughter runs around the living room busily setting up tiny bowls of dry cereal that a line of stuffed animals sidle up to for the rest of the day. I wash the mixing bowl, measuring cup, beaters…I listen to the water rushing from the faucet.
It has been a strange winter. In our bleak front yard sits the long since caved in Solstice snow fort, a mountain of dirty ice that she “otter slides” down. I stand beside her watching. It seems as if this winter has not really set in yet and at the same time has that interminable quality that pulls us into a place not exactly dark but dull. Perpetually overcast. One of my journal entries reads “pit of hellish self doubt = motherhood.”
Last week as we sat down to lunch our food barely fit on the table. A “party” had been arranged. Boxes and random containers were stacked together. Cakes, she told me. Huge, delicious cakes that were not to be moved. Magazine cutouts of ferrets were propped up alongside waiting to nibble at the dainties. She was tearing around reciting stories wearing her underwear, a yard sale find “ALF” life vest (circa 1986), and bouncing pigtails. For a child with such a brilliant imagination every piece of string or lint evokes an entire universe and she is utterly bereft if one is moved or vacuumed away. We vacillate between charmed and damned depending how well I draw a dog or how fast I sing a song.
We need this cake. We eat our slices contentedly.
A yellow candle burns on the counter surrounded by fat, gloriously yellow fruits. I have whispered my prayer. My daughter is juicing the lemons. I steady her little hands over a bowl. We hold the lemon half in our left hands and squeeze, twisting a Peter Rabbit spoon around inside, pushing out the pulp and juice. “Squeeze, twist” we chant softly. I take my hands away to sift the flour. Little hands continue work, a little voice chants.
We need lemons today. We need yellow magic. We blend a huge pitcher of lemonade, roll and toss a half dozen lemons on the couch, cut out a construction paper bowl and fill it with paper lemons. I watch the sugar dissolve as I whisk the glaze for the cake. An intense lemon syrup shimmering. While I whisk my daughter runs around the living room busily setting up tiny bowls of dry cereal that a line of stuffed animals sidle up to for the rest of the day. I wash the mixing bowl, measuring cup, beaters…I listen to the water rushing from the faucet.
It has been a strange winter. In our bleak front yard sits the long since caved in Solstice snow fort, a mountain of dirty ice that she “otter slides” down. I stand beside her watching. It seems as if this winter has not really set in yet and at the same time has that interminable quality that pulls us into a place not exactly dark but dull. Perpetually overcast. One of my journal entries reads “pit of hellish self doubt = motherhood.”
Last week as we sat down to lunch our food barely fit on the table. A “party” had been arranged. Boxes and random containers were stacked together. Cakes, she told me. Huge, delicious cakes that were not to be moved. Magazine cutouts of ferrets were propped up alongside waiting to nibble at the dainties. She was tearing around reciting stories wearing her underwear, a yard sale find “ALF” life vest (circa 1986), and bouncing pigtails. For a child with such a brilliant imagination every piece of string or lint evokes an entire universe and she is utterly bereft if one is moved or vacuumed away. We vacillate between charmed and damned depending how well I draw a dog or how fast I sing a song.
We need this cake. We eat our slices contentedly.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Milk
Imagine that tomorrow morning you are reading the newspaper or online news and under the “Health News” heading, you find this article:
While this “article” of course, is fictitious, the core truth it touches on is not. We all know that, once separated from its mother’s body, milk produced from the mother’s body takes over as the way by which an infant survives, by which he or she successfully steps across the threshold of birth and into the realm of growth and thriving.
But an even subtler truth at work here is that milk produced from the mother’s body is the way by which an infant continues to receive the vital Love-encoding and teaching that began in the womb; the mysterious biological "conversation" that is essential for a developing infant to continue to maintain not only biological life, but also to gain a life foundation that has been saturated with Love.
Most breastfeeding mothers, at one time or another, have come upon this more subtle truth, often only half consciously and unarticulated. Or, even sadder, perhaps quite consciously and beautifully articulated, but with no audience to listen.
But –
Imagine if we lived in a world where everyone accepted this truth as common knowledge? If this truth was indeed, wonderfully and profusely articulated throughout society? If mothers passed on this truth to their daughters – and sons – as a simple, accepted piece of teaching about “how the world works?” If the governments legislated this truth into laws protecting the well-being of milk producing mothers and the right of all babies, human and animal, to receive the Love-saturated milk of their mothers?
Imagine if ALL babies, human and animal, were fed only this unadulterated, unmodified, un-messed-with, Love-encoded milk.
Miraculous Milk
A long-term, well-documented study has shown that certain glandular secretions occur in response to a loving and harmonious emotional state that directly effect the taste and nutritional value of milk.
The study further shows that there is a type of informational download that milk induces in the infant on a vibrational level. It is similar to telepathy, in that milk absorbs and then emits information about the quality and essence of life from the mother and her surroundings.
When Love is introduced into the formula, milk takes on a Eucharistic and sacramental function of uniting the infant with the indwelling presence of the Holy Spirit in form. Within the developing brain and nervous system, this influence lays the foundation for a life of close communion with Divine Consciousness.
The implications of this study are clear: Now that the healing effects of Love-saturated milk are known and understood, it is clear that we must allow no other kind to be produced, whether for nursing by infants or consumption as food. In fact, milk should no longer be looked upon as just another type of food, but in addition be understood as a special Eucharistic substance for spiritual attunement.
The implications of these findings are so important to our collective health and consciousness, that world-wide health organizations are now calling for the physical, emotional and mental well-being of milk producing mothers, human and animal, to be carefully protected by every segment of society, and for an infant's unobstructed access to mother's milk to be considered a legal and ethical birthright of every infant - human and animal.
While this “article” of course, is fictitious, the core truth it touches on is not. We all know that, once separated from its mother’s body, milk produced from the mother’s body takes over as the way by which an infant survives, by which he or she successfully steps across the threshold of birth and into the realm of growth and thriving.
But an even subtler truth at work here is that milk produced from the mother’s body is the way by which an infant continues to receive the vital Love-encoding and teaching that began in the womb; the mysterious biological "conversation" that is essential for a developing infant to continue to maintain not only biological life, but also to gain a life foundation that has been saturated with Love.
Most breastfeeding mothers, at one time or another, have come upon this more subtle truth, often only half consciously and unarticulated. Or, even sadder, perhaps quite consciously and beautifully articulated, but with no audience to listen.
But –
Imagine if we lived in a world where everyone accepted this truth as common knowledge? If this truth was indeed, wonderfully and profusely articulated throughout society? If mothers passed on this truth to their daughters – and sons – as a simple, accepted piece of teaching about “how the world works?” If the governments legislated this truth into laws protecting the well-being of milk producing mothers and the right of all babies, human and animal, to receive the Love-saturated milk of their mothers?
Imagine if ALL babies, human and animal, were fed only this unadulterated, unmodified, un-messed-with, Love-encoded milk.
Monday, February 20, 2006
Birth Poem
1 a.m., Nearly 2, Late Summer
You came so clean
The others were envious.
So wizened you looked
Already, despite your newness:
Scrunchy face turned upwards
Hands folded, Lotus-like,
Clasped and overlapped.
So quizzical and bright
Immediately reaching
Instinct taking over.
What love!
There is no comparison
Yet found to match this.
You took over distances
In that room
Rocking us through and through.
My love
My love
My little cub, my little lion.
November 11, 2005
Not to be used without permission from author
You came so clean
The others were envious.
So wizened you looked
Already, despite your newness:
Scrunchy face turned upwards
Hands folded, Lotus-like,
Clasped and overlapped.
So quizzical and bright
Immediately reaching
Instinct taking over.
What love!
There is no comparison
Yet found to match this.
You took over distances
In that room
Rocking us through and through.
My love
My love
My little cub, my little lion.
November 11, 2005
Not to be used without permission from author
Friday, February 17, 2006
Some mama poems...
For Sophia
March 2005
Years from now,
when you live on your own,
(somewhere like Detroit or Spain) —
your father and I will come visit you.
We will stay in a hotel (definitely)
and meet you after you leave work.
I will give you a bracelet we bought you that afternoon.
You will take us to your favorite places.
Take us where you love to go, I will say.
And I will mean it.
We will truly love it because you have loved it.
I will not bring clutter to fill your apartment,
empty offerings that say,
“I don’t know who you are anymore.”
I will look through your kitchen cupboards in serene non-judgment.
We speak with your friends of your childhood.
Nothing embarrassing, no broken bones, or private jokes.
Only of the way you made me feel
when your little arms wrapped around me,
trusting in our breath.
We will visit for just the right length of time
and be helpful and enthusiastic.
I don’t want this day to come too quickly,
But when it does I will think of writing this down in the sunlight of
earliest Spring,
while you napped indoors on the big blue couch.
If
April 2005
If,
even within the darkness of her mother’s sheltering blood and bone,
a girl child holds within herself
all of the pearly seeds
all of the luminescence that may one day take shape
(take root, take breath, take name)
If all of the children of her future
lay silent within her
(still not a child herself)
then the echo of my daughter’s laughter
was held in my great-grandmother and in her mother before her.
If a gossamer thread runs swiftly through our wombs
past to future, future to past
then the mystery of my daughter was cradled in woman,
a mystery to me.
Who is this mother before the last mother I know?
Who is the mother of Maria?
(Mother to Pasqualina, Mother to Florinda Angela,
Mother to Linda, who was mother to me)
If,
even within the darkness of my body,
of my sheltering blood and bone,
I hold inside myself
all the pearly seeds of memory
of the words that one day were spoken,
then the echo of my mothering voice
was held in my infancy (and the infancy of my mother before me),
in words most powerfully unspoken.
I sift through the layers,
their shadow weighing upon me,
the heaviest deeply submerged.
I must make them unbearably light and glowing,
change their weight and power,
refuse them, rename them.
Not to be used with out written permision from author. February 2006
March 2005
Years from now,
when you live on your own,
(somewhere like Detroit or Spain) —
your father and I will come visit you.
We will stay in a hotel (definitely)
and meet you after you leave work.
I will give you a bracelet we bought you that afternoon.
You will take us to your favorite places.
Take us where you love to go, I will say.
And I will mean it.
We will truly love it because you have loved it.
I will not bring clutter to fill your apartment,
empty offerings that say,
“I don’t know who you are anymore.”
I will look through your kitchen cupboards in serene non-judgment.
We speak with your friends of your childhood.
Nothing embarrassing, no broken bones, or private jokes.
Only of the way you made me feel
when your little arms wrapped around me,
trusting in our breath.
We will visit for just the right length of time
and be helpful and enthusiastic.
I don’t want this day to come too quickly,
But when it does I will think of writing this down in the sunlight of
earliest Spring,
while you napped indoors on the big blue couch.
If
April 2005
If,
even within the darkness of her mother’s sheltering blood and bone,
a girl child holds within herself
all of the pearly seeds
all of the luminescence that may one day take shape
(take root, take breath, take name)
If all of the children of her future
lay silent within her
(still not a child herself)
then the echo of my daughter’s laughter
was held in my great-grandmother and in her mother before her.
If a gossamer thread runs swiftly through our wombs
past to future, future to past
then the mystery of my daughter was cradled in woman,
a mystery to me.
Who is this mother before the last mother I know?
Who is the mother of Maria?
(Mother to Pasqualina, Mother to Florinda Angela,
Mother to Linda, who was mother to me)
If,
even within the darkness of my body,
of my sheltering blood and bone,
I hold inside myself
all the pearly seeds of memory
of the words that one day were spoken,
then the echo of my mothering voice
was held in my infancy (and the infancy of my mother before me),
in words most powerfully unspoken.
I sift through the layers,
their shadow weighing upon me,
the heaviest deeply submerged.
I must make them unbearably light and glowing,
change their weight and power,
refuse them, rename them.
Not to be used with out written permision from author. February 2006
Thursday, February 16, 2006
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