I absolutely reveled in the nine months I spent nursing each of my daughters. It brought sweetness, peace, health, relaxation, natural breast enhancement, rapid weight loss – what’s not to love?
I’ll tell ya: PUMPING.
Now, I haven’t tested the latest model portable breast pumps, but I’m pretty darn sure they’ve evolved greatly from the one I used 15 years ago. The contraption was unwieldy and uncomfortable. It took quite an effort to assemble and put to use. Worst of all, it was noisy.
No, make that NOISY.
I recall a particularly cringeworthy 20 minutes spent pumping in the ladies’ room of a client’s office during a meeting break. It’s quite possible passersby thought the restroom was being renovated — if not completely demolished and rebuilt from scratch — as the monstrous whirring of the milking machine echoed off the tile.
But of course it was worth the effort to be able to provide that free and natural wonder food for my babes while I was away from them. And I was recently reminded of my pumping days when a dear friend, the mom of 6-month-old twins, told me she’d tipped over a full bottle of breast milk and…had a bit of a freak out. All that time and effort down the drain — or the side of the kitchen counter, as it were.
She knew I’d empathize.
She knew I’d understand that she wasn’t overreacting.
She knew I’d write a poem about it.
So, here’s to you, dear friend, and every breastfeeding mom out there: May your pumps run smoothly, may your freezers stay full and may you never spill a single drop.
.
Sob Story
After hours at a pump that’s been plying
Liquid gold from them, there’s no denying
Moms of lactating ilk
Know there’s one kind of milk
That – when spilt – fully justifies crying.
AS CHILDREN, my sister and I always had homemade Halloween costumes, so it’s no surprise that I’ve eschewed store-bought outfits for my two girls – for nearly 15 years now.
As "Edward Scissorhands," Halloween 2009.
Given today’s generally disappointing (and often infuriating) selection of overpriced costumes offered at major retailers and Halloween superstores, I find it far more satisfying, both financially and emotionally, to create something from scratch.
Of the two, my younger girl is more of a Halloween fanatic. No sooner has she said her last “Trick or treat!” and scored her final handful of Kit-Kats, than she’s already brainstorming about next year’s get-up.
Her dad and I are somewhat artistically inclined, so we eagerly embrace each year’s new costume challenge. He’s a master with an X-acto knife and foam core. I have a sewing machine, pinking shears and a hot glue gun — and I’m not afraid to use them. Collectively, we’ve logged many a midnight hour in service of cobbling together the coolest kid costume in the neighborhood.
We typically don’t mind burning the midnight oil for these creations, although they do take a bit of planning. Which of course means that we can never expect things to go exactly as we hope – especially when we factor in the simple truth that we are, after all, making a costume for a kid.
And you know what that means…
.
Quick Change Artist
Right after Halloween last year,
she already had a plan
about her costume for THIS year,
how it’d be better than
the one she still was wearing,
so intricate and cool,
the one that prompted “Epic!” cries
from all the kids at school.
And so throughout the holidays
and in the brand new year
her costume thoughts and planning
were all that I would hear.
She talked of it past Valentine’s,
right through the end of spring;
in summer, she did research
on every little thing:
the outfit and accessories,
the make-up and the hair,
she even noted how to walk
and how to talk, I swear.
And then, when autumn finally came
and Halloween drew near,
‘twas time for me to organize
and get my act in gear.
Out came my pins and velcro,
my trusty hot glue gun;
and soon the fabrication
of her costume I’d begun.
After many nights of
cutting,
pinning,
stitching
and
glue gunning,
I proudly held that costume up
and it was…simply stunning.
So carefully I brought it
to her room for the revealing,
assuming that with pure delight
she’d soon be loudly squealing.
She met me with a smile
as she surveyed that fine creation;
Her reaction, though, I’m sad to say,
fell far short of elation.
Instead, she handed me a sketch
of a costume she’d designed:
A different one (to make tonight)
because
You can call me on the (juice-stained) carpet for sweeping generalizations, but it’s been my experience that in your typical suburban household where each parent has a car, Mom’s car will be the messier of the two. Throw a pet like my Daisy (right, riding shotgun) into the mix, and disorder and debris are your destiny.
I don’t think I’m off base here. Just a cursory scan of cyberspace found plenty of mothers lamenting the woeful state of their wagons. One even had a contest that sought out the most unkempt car.
If only I had known. If I’d submitted a pic of my own slovenly sedan, I guarantee I coulda been a contender. That is, if I could find my camera…
Giving birth has been analogized ad nauseum (to death, even?) — perhaps most commonly as something akin to “taking your lower lip and forcing it over your head.”
Indeed, childbirth can be quite an arduous process, so it’s no wonder that once someone’s been through it, she’s going to want to talk about it.
A LOT.
If you’re unlucky enough not to have one of us moms handy to bend your ear with the trials and tribulations of her beautiful birth story, you’ll find plenty of material online, from the funny to the frightening to the The Great C-sectionControversy. You can even listen to birth stories on podcasts, or share your own.
And odds are, you’re dying to do just that.
.
Labor Talks
Do tell me how your water broke
In the midst of a business meeting;
How you almost gave birth in a Buick,
Thanks to icy roads and sleeting.
Oh yes, my dear, I’d love to hear
How many weeks you were dilated;
How people pestered you day after day,
While you waited…and waited…and waited.
I’ll eagerly listen to your description
Of delivery doctors and nurses;
And of the ones for whom you saved
Your most foul and creative curses.
Don’t fail to tell me each detail
Of the pain and the shot that you feared;
How your brave and beloved partner
Fainted just as the needle neared.
I’ll gladly savor your tale of labor,
How you painfully pushed for two hours,
How your grasp left marks on your midwife’s arm
Through your show of womanly power.
Yes, tell me your story, no matter how gory;
Spare me nothing, and take your time.
I’m happy to hear your tale of glory,
But first…you gotta hear mine!
At 10 and 12, my girls have developed their own fashion tastes, so my babywear buying sprees are now limited to my opportunities to play “Auntie” to my younger friends’ little ones.
The other day, though, I came across this book on my shelf, and it reminded me of my favoritest baby outfit ever…
.
The Naked Truth
Dress ‘em up in Gymboree,
Little jeans from Little Me;
Bedecked with teddy bears and bows,
So precious in those baby clothes!
Moms and grandmas share a passion
For such tiny toddler fashions,
Even itsy-bitsy Nikes
Don the footsies of our tykies.
Mini-dresses, mini-suits,
Mini-shirts so very cute;
Mini-skirts and mini-T’s,
A calvacade of mini-me’s.
Overall they look quite posh,
Overall OshKosh B’Gosh.
Dare we doubt that they are happy
Dressed up oh-so Baby Gap-py?
Yet—-
what parent hasn’t viewed
Children longing to be nude,
Tugging off their socks and shoes,
Hoping other clothes come loose?
As if charmed by some mad piper,
Off they tear their dresses, diapers–
Grateful for this stolen chance
To do the Naked Baby Dance.
Even those who hate to bathe
Face the tub looking brave,
Shedding clothes with wary glee,
‘Cause naked’s what they get to be.
And truth be told, what store-bought wear
Could you find that could compare
To the soft and dimpled skin
They’re all in when they begin?
For much as we all love to dress
Our darlings in such preciousness,
We’ll never see clothes quite as cute
As a babe’s own birthday suit.
To date, I’ve thrown 22 birthday parties for my daughters.
None of them — not even the monkey-themed one where we rented an inflated chimp bouncy thing and I baked a monkey-in-a-coconut-tree cake — would be considered remotely extravagant. Especially in this era of “reality” tv shows like “My Super Sweet 16″ and “Platinum Babies.”
Still, my kids’ parties have been a far cry from the simple gatherings of my childhood, where we played “hot potato” or “pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey” and went home with nothing but a tummy full of cake and ice cream. Goodie bags? Huh?
Until recently, conspicuous celebration seemed to be the rule rather than the exception, and not just for celebrity parents. With the bad economy, though, some moms and dads are scaling back.
My daughters have never been to one of these over-the-top parties, so I haven’t had to deal with whatever questions or issues attending such an event might raise. But if they were invited to, say, a Girls’ Spa Day Party, I think I’d have to put my foot down…and go with them.
I really need a pedicure.
.
The Birthday Party
You’re invited! You’re invited!
And we would all be so delighted
If you’d accept this invitation
to Hannah’s PRINCESS celebration!
Next Saturday from noon till eight,
it’s Party Time, so Save The Date!
There’ll be inflated Bouncy Castles
with satin drapes and silver tassels.
Minstrels and Magicians, too,
and a Medieval Petting Zoo!
Don’t miss the Knight upon his Horse
with flowing mane (all white, of course!);
plus you can ride a Unicorn
complete with sparkly rainbow horn!
We’ll also have a Tumbling Group,
Face Painters and a Ballet Troupe,
a Clown who twists and shapes balloons,
a Dee-Jay spinning Top Ten Tunes!
And over on the second stage?
That Boy Band that’s just all the rage!
And next, but certainly not least,
comes the Royal Birthday Feast:
hot dogs, burgers, shish kebab,
curly fries, corn on the cob,
canapés and caviar,
tapas and a sushi bar,
shrimp and oysters, shucked and chilled –
enough for guests to get their fill.
We also had the bakery make
a seven-layered castle cake,
and hired the gourmet ice cream mart
to bring their new gelato cart.
Each guest will get a Goodie Bag
that’s stuffed with precious birthday swag:
candy, toys, a princess crown,
a Princess Barbie, princess gown,
jewelry, make-up, DVDs,
an iPod and some new CDs.
Enclosed you’ll find all information
needed for our celebration:
•maps
•directions
•wristbands (two)
•a schedule of events for you
•the website for RSVPs (Just e-mail us; no phone calls, please.)
And so that parking won’t be trouble,
attached are tickets for the Shuttle.
And please: no gifts.
(But if you must, she’s registered at Toys’R’Us.)
You’re invited! You’re invited!
And we would all be so delighted
If you’d accept this invitation
to Hannah’s PRINCESS celebration!
I’ve seen “Super Size Me,” “Fast Food Nation,” and “Food, Inc.”
I’ve read “My Year of Meats” and “Animal, Vegetable, Miracle,” and I just finished “The Omnivore’s Dilemma” last week.
I know there’s a childhood obesity epidemic in our country.
I certainly get why it’s bad for us and our kids and our world to eat certain things.
But I will confess that there was a time in my life when a trip to McDonald’s with my little girls was a fairly regular event — and a blessed one at that.
I know, I know.
Still…
.
Ode: McDonald’s
O, thou gold and gleaming arches
That promise meat and salt and starches,
And ‘scapes on which our babes doth play,
We sing thy praises sweet today!
Where else might mothers bring their brood
For warm and cheap and ready food?
Where else find treat and toy combined
For but two dollars fifty-nine?
Ah, happy, happy, happy meal!
Our sanity lauds thy appeal;
For naught can quiet whines and cries
Like burger, drink and ketchupped fries.
And such repast is quickly downed
By children wishing soon to bound
About on wondrous molded plastic,
Slides and towers and tubes fantastic.
O Friend of All Maternal Folk!
You give us peace and Diet Coke.
If we could bottle up thy essence
Why need there be antidepressants?
Let’s face it, kids and vegetables go together about as well as Lady Gaga and inhibition.
Now, some parents have offspring who will gobble up green beans and scarf down squash. I haven’t been so blessed. While my daughters used to have pretty adventurous palates and once enjoyed a rainbow of vegetables with their meals, they’ve now become a bit more picky discriminating.
Luckily, we live in Texas, where the quesadilla is king. (Or queen, if you prefer a little alliteration.)
Thus, my current nutrition strategy involves smuggling a variety of veggies into these tasty tortilla sandwiches.
They’re not just good, they’re good for you. (But don’t tell the kids.)
.
Recipe for Success
They barely ate their broccoli
and hardly touched their spinach.
Their vegetables — deemed inedible –
were never, ever finished.
I yelled. I sighed. I bribed. I lied.
I begged upon my knees.
And then, the answer dawned on me.
A voice inside cried, “Cheese!”
Of course! That family-friendly food
of magic, molten gold
can sway the most demanding brood,
even fussy four-year-olds.
Swiss or cheddar makes it better,
and there’s nothing like Velveeta
to turn a diehard veggie-phobe
into a veggie eater.
So grate those greens, go slice ‘em, dice ‘em;
Cook them as you please –
Just make them ooey, oh-so gooey,
smothered all in cheese.
Heck, I kind of suspect The Bard himself (father of three) might have done it, too…
“What’s in a name?
That which we call a rose
by any other name would smell as sweet…”
.
Mistaken Identity
When I called my daughter, “Daisy!”
she looked like I was crazy;
in my multitasking fog
I’d summoned not her, but the dog.
I know moms who’ve done the same –-
called a kid by his pet’s name –
or, to make it even worser,
done exactly the vice-versa:
yelled for daughter or for son
when she meant the furry one.
Have I so much on my plate
that I can’t keep their names straight?
Still, the worst (or worser-ish)
would be mistaking kid for fish.
Especially, it must be said,
if – like ours – said fish were dead.
Although it proved a bit challenging to get started with my first daughter, I recall my days of breastfeeding quite fondly. And not just because I found it incredibly relaxing and a beautiful way to bond with each of my two daughters. It also had the added benefit of filling out my silhouette. Specifically, the middle of the upper half of my silhouette.
BOOBS! I finally had some!
This may be total overshare, but after being a card-carrying member of the I.B.T.C. for nigh on two decades, I was delighted to progress from perky to a perfect 36C when my milk came in. See, unlike many women, I didn’t gain much in the bustline while pregnant. I received my bounty afterward.
Now, while that measurement might not seem a big deal to some readers (especially women who were already nicely endowed and who swelled to uncomfortable Pamela-esque proportions during breastfeeding), for me it was an added bonus to an already wonderful experience.
I’m just sayin’ that I enjoyed those 18 months as a sort-of full-figured woman. As un-PC as it may be, I admit that I did feel different, and in a good way. And no, I didn’t feel less attractive when I resumed my regular shape. But I did miss the “enhanced” me — just a little.
Of course, I imagine that there are not a few men out there who appreciate the natural benefits this form of nourishment provides their progeny and their partners. Which brings me to today’s poem.
Although many new moms may contest
Either viewpoint re: “Bottle or Breast?”
Most new dads will attest
That a milk-enhanced chest
Leaves no question: Indeed, breast is best.
She might be mortified if she knew I had revealed this, but my 10-year-old only stopped pronouncing “animal” as “aminal” about a year ago. I thought it was kinda cute. Not sure she’d agree.
This morning, I’m wondering: what mispronunciations have your kids come up with?
.
Lello Boobots
I recall her wide-eyed wonder
spying wions at the zoo;
and how she made her boobots beep
when playtime wockets flew.
I loved requests for favorite foods,
especially pasghetti.
And how she waited for the wash
to get her geen dwess ready.
In summertime, I watched her chase
the fire fires on our lawn,
And framed the picture
of the smiling lellow sun she’d drawn.
But soon enough my little girl
began to speak more clearly,
and that’s when I began to miss
her mispronouncements dearly.
My girls are in 4th and 6th grades now, and we haven’t had a case of pediculosis for a year or two now, but back in the early elementary school years, we got them a lot. I became surprisingly skilled at seeking out and destroying the little buggers and their hard-to-spot nits. Once I got past the ick factor and realized that (contrary to popular belief) lice aren’t a sign of uncleanliness, it became kind of fun. Like a game. (Yeah, I know. That’s weird.)
When I read a recent New York Times article about professional de-lousers charging squeamish parents $300 a head for their services, I began to wonder if I’d missed my calling. After all, I’ve always been detail-oriented. But this would be taking “professional nitpicker” to a whole other level…
.
Lousy Advice
Lice aren’t nice,
but if you want my advice,
don’t sweat ‘em
‘cause you’ll get ‘em — if you’ve got kids — maybe twice.
How does a critterful collection
sprout without a mom’s detection?
Well, it happens to the best of us
and even to the rest of us:
that sighting on the head
as you tuck the kids in bed…
or the letter they bring home
suggesting chemicals and combs.
Sure, you’ll start to feel lousy
once you know they’re in your housey
as you scratch throughout your hair
though there may be nothing there.
You know what you gotta do:
get a lotta that shampoo,
and although it’s rather icky,
take that comb and get nit-picky.
It’s not as bad as you might think;
you just wash ‘em down the sink,
then you scour clothes and sheets
till the creatures meet defeat.
Lest you start to feel ashamed
make sure other kids are blamed
long before it is suggested
that your home was first infested.
Lice aren’t nice,
but if you want my advice,
don’t sweat ‘em
’cause you’ll get ‘em — if you’ve got kids — maybe thrice.
Adjusting to the role of mom can prove quite a challenge, even for the most accomplished woman. Sure, we feminine types are famous for our multitasking skills, but there are some simple, everyday activities that are surprisingly tough to pull off with a kiddo in the casa.
Which is why, after a dozen years of motherhood, I’ll never, ever, ever take for granted a few sudsy minutes with my loofah.
.
A Dirty Shame
As a modern working woman
you’ve accomplished quite a bit,
worked your way on up the ladder,
won acclaim with charm and wit.
You’ve managed projects by the dozen,
mentored people by the score.
You could do in just one day
what would take most others four.
Such a dedicated doer,
you could tackle any task;
so now that you’re a brand new mom,
the question must be asked:
How is it such an Amazon,
a paragon of power,
now finds her biggest goal today
is just…to take a shower?
Ahhh, the joys of dating. For many of us, they’re but a distant memory. For others among us, they’re still very much a reality. Because we’re talking playdates here, that ingenious invention of late-20th-Century suburban parents.
Like their social predecessor, playdates come with their ownworries and a whole newset of rules. So if you’re happily hitched with some growing brood to your credit, and thinking you’re out of the dating woods….well, think again, my friend.
Think again.
.
First Date
The call just came – you’re going to meet!
Now: What to do? Where to eat?
A morning stroll? A picnic lunch?
A dinner chat? A weekend brunch?
What to wear? What to say?
Meet at night? Or by day?
All these choices you must make
are stressful with so much at stake.
You hope you’ll click. You hope it’s fun.
You’re thinking this could be the one.
While on your way, you say a prayer
that all goes well when you get there.
You want this first date to succeed,
so best behavior’s what you need.
That means good manners, smiles and caring;
taking turns and nicely sharing.
You hope there’ll be no tears while dining.
And no tantrums. And no whining.
No fussiness, no arguments,
and please, oh please, no accidents!
It’s tougher than when you were single,
cruising bars to mix and mingle;
it’s hard, it’s brutal – even mean -
this merciless new dating scene.
For nothing sets your nerves aflutter
than meeting with another mother
and her child to know just whether
the four of you play well together.
And afterward it’s just as bad,
for if you liked the time you had,
you’re just more anxious, after all,
because, you know, she said she’d call…
While some might consider today the official First Day of Summer, at our house the season’s start isn’t defined by the tilt of the earth’s axis or how the sun appears to move in the sky. Nope. ‘Round these parts, the onset of Summer is heralded by a number of other telltale signs, manifested in the demeanor of my two daughters. Here are just a few:
heavy sighs
general crankiness
glassy stares
increased sibling infighting
dramatic, aimless wandering about the house
more heavy sighs
Once these start to occur on a regular basis, I know that Summer Has Arrived.
Now, I firmly believe that in most instances, boredom breeds creativity in kids. (What’s bred in those other instances? Crime.) But when you’ve got a long, hot, school-less three months ahead, it’s the parents who have to get creative to fight the summer doldrums.
For moms and dads who might already be at their wit’s end this early in the game, rest assured there are plenty of resources out there, including this clever idea and this website whose URL says it all.
In the meantime, Happy Summer to all. And to all…Good Luck!
.
Summer of Their Discontent
They’ve got a trampoline
and bicycles
a pool just down the street
a cabinet full of art supplies
a chess set that’s complete
a couple shelves of good books
a library nearby
a sibling and a hamster
and games in good supply
a best friend ‘round the corner
and another right next door
a basketball
a volleyball
a soccer ball
and more
a skateboard and a scooter
a fishing pole and net
a Frisbee™ and a dog
(that pet we had to get)
a front yard with a tree to climb
a back yard with a swing
a water hose
a sprinkler
balloons to fill and fling
a Game Boy and a Wii
a stereo, CDs
a laptop and a tv
a zillion DVDs…
With all these things to play and do,
I have to say I’m floored
to hear that dreaded, dreadful phrase –
You know the one: “I’m bored.”
Our sweeties can treat us to flowers or jewelry or fancy dinners (or all of the above!) on Valentine’s Day, and we’ll be quite appreciative. But maybe they should be breaking out the rubber gloves and Mr. Clean instead. For, according to recent studies, women are more likely to feel amorous when their partners help out around the house. The media’s even created a term for the phenomenon: chore-play.
It makes sense to me. Who can focus on romance with a stack of dishes in the sink, or dust bunnies under the bed? And even though it’s the 21st Century and gender roles have been evolving for decades, the majority of housework still falls upon the woman’s shoulders.
So guys, take note. After you place that call to the florist, you might want to give these folks a call, too. Or dust off that dust pan and get to it.
The saying goes, “One man’s junk is another man’s treasure.” As a lifelong flea market frequenter and second-hand store shopper, those words ring ever so true for me.
When I was a girl, my eyes were often toward the ground as I traversed our neighborhood, searching for the Bazooka Joe Bubble Gum comics that I collected to redeem for prizes. If anything else remotely interesting caught my eye, I’d scoop that up, too. There were buttons that doubled as plates for my Malibu Barbie and crayon nubs that I made into candles for her romantic dinners with Live Action Ken. Pennies were always picked up, because back then you could still buy something for a single cent. Sparkly rocks, bits of hardware and plastic rings all made it into my collection. To the childhood me, everything was a treasure.
As it turns out, my youngest daughter shares that philosophy.
As you may or may not know, it’s National Poetry Month. And for those of you who may consider poetry an inaccessible or overly “intellectual” pursuit, please reconsider.
After all, there’s poetry everywhere in our lives – from the songs we enjoy on the radio to the Dr. Seuss books we read to our kids to the dialogue we hear spoken on tv and in movies.
Because I so fervently believe in the power of poetry, throughout April I’m going to attempt to post a poem every day – some of them mine, and some from other sources.
I’m always on the prowl for new sources of poetry, and a few weeks ago I stumbled upon a site that collects poems illustrated via video/film/animation. I discovered this charming video of a three-year-old reciting “Litany” by Billy Collins – 2001 Poet Laureate of the United States.
I was amazed that a three-year-old could recite this lovely poem from memory, and even more appreciative of the fact that his mom had encouraged him and helped him to achieve this feat. Obviously, poetry figures prominently in that family’s life, as the boy’s mother notes that her son loves this literary form and welcomes suggestions of other pieces for him to memorize. While he may not understand the meaning of all the words at this young age, he’ll be developing an appreciation for the sound and the rhythm and the feel of the language. And if a three-year-old can do that, I have no doubt that anyone can.
. Addendum 4.4.11: For those of you who might be interested in some interpretations of the poem, read the comments section of this blog post from another poetry site. I found the insights very compelling.
Early in my first pregnancy, I had to travel to San Francisco for business, and I hated it.
Having been advised to abstain from eating raw fish, I had to avoid sushi - while I was in San Franciscoon an expense account, no less. Alas!
That first time around, I made a whole-hearted effort to follow expert advice (from doctors, books and experienced mom friends) on healthy maternity eating. But I’ll admit that I didn’t always follow the rules. Though my baby and my health were never in danger, I overindulged in my cravings – sweets and carbs – and paid the price with some stubborn post-partum poundage.
The second time around, I got even more lax with my eating habits. I justified extra helpings with ye olde “eating for two” excuse. I couldn’t resist the creamy concoctions of our favorite local sweet shop. And I remember with a certain fondness an all-you-can-eat Mother’s Day brunch buffet. Pre-pregnancy, I could never seem to make it to a second helping at such places.
This time, suffice it to say I got my money’s worth.
.
Full Advantage
The best thing for me
about my pregnancy
(aside from the child
that eventually would be)
was the way I could behave
with the food that I would crave:
no more calories would menace,
no more diets would enslave.
Full advantage did I take,
eating “for the baby’s sake,”
though my doctor hadn’t quite
recommended chocolate cake.
Nor was ice cream on her list
and somehow she also missed
plates of pasta, fries and pie
in every flavor that exists.
Anchovies, butter brickle –
no, my tastebuds weren’t too fickle,
though I have to say I never
ever ever craved a pickle.
(Now of course I had my share
of the good and healthy fare,
but rhyming “broccoli” and “orange”
is a challenge I don’t dare.)
Bagels, lox and creamy cheese;
crackers, bread and spreads of brie;
had me munching day and night—
“Pass the queso, could you please?”
Mashed potatoes heaped in mounds,
meatloaf sliced in saucy rounds,
made their way into my tummy
made me gain a few more pounds.
And while the weight I gained so fleetly
didn’t go away completely,
I still hunger for those days
and remember them — quite sweetly.
During a particularly hectic day last week, I tossed my mail on the table by the front door, thinking of it no more until days later, just this afternoon. For some reason, the pile caught my eye and one piece in particular found its way into my hand – a postcard from the Harry Ransom Center at the University of Texas, announcing an evening with W.S. Merwin, the United States Poet Laureate. He’ll be reading from and signing copies of his 2005 collection, Migration.
It’s one week from today. It’s free. I’m going. And I’m absolutely giddy about it!
Now, I admit to not being well-versed in details about our esteemed Poet Laureate, but I do know that he’s a two-time Pulitzer honoree and that I like his work – particularly his more recent collections. For me, the looser style is more accessible than the more traditional and formal structure of his earlier works. And the fact that I’ll be able to experience this poetry rock star up close and personal in my own city is beyond belief.
Did I mention that I’m giddy?
This video from Poetry Everywhere gives a brief biography before showing the poet himself reading his poem, “Yesterday,” published in 1983:
.
Yesterday
My friend says I was not a good son
you understand
I say yes I understand
he says I did not go
to see my parents very often you know
and I say yes I know
even when I was living in the same city he says
maybe I would go there once
a month or maybe even less
I say oh yes
he says the last time I went to see my father
I say the last time I saw my father
he says the last time I saw my father
he was asking me about my life
how I was making out and he
went into the next room
to get something to give me
oh I say
feeling again the cold
of my father’s hand the last time
he says and my father turned
in the doorway and saw me
look at my wristwatch and he
said you know I would like you to stay
and talk with me
oh yes I say
but if you are busy he said
I don’t want you to feel that you
have to
just because I’m here
I say nothing
he says my father
said maybe
you have important work you are doing
or maybe you should be seeing
somebody I don’t want to keep you
I look out the window
my friend is older than I am
he says and I told my father it was so
and I got up and left him then
you know
though there was nowhere I had to go
and nothing I had to do
My younger daughter enters middle school next year. She’s a small girl with a big personality. She’s been feeling a little sensitive about her size compared to her classmates’, who are all undergoing major growth spurts – especially the girls. But I feel confident she’ll fit right in. She’s a pistol.
When she went for an orientation at her new school last week, she spent part of the evening choosing an instrument to learn in band class. Her older sister plays the flute, and there was an assumption that she’d do the same. It was the first instrument the middle school music teacher handed her. She positioned her lips over the mouthpiece and blew a pretty good first note. The teacher looked pleased.
Next came the clarinet. She did okay, but her arms looked awkward grasping the long body. She wasn’t a fan, and neither was I.
The teacher bypassed the trombone (far too big for her to handle) and picked up a trumpet. I’d almost told the teacher not to bother, we’ll go for flute, thanks, see you in the fall.
But when she picked it up and put her lips to the mouthpiece, something remarkable happened. She blew a big, strong, long and brassy note that sounded to the heavens. Her dad, the teacher and I were still for a moment. Then the teacher asked her to try again. She blew another clear note, even longer and stronger.
And so, come fall, my little girl will be making some big noise as she heralds the arrival of the school year with her new instrument.
And I wasn’t wild about peddling cowbells for my junior high booster club, or running my senior class Krispy Kreme sale.
So it’s not surprising that I abhor the first few weeks of each new school year, when my kids inevitably bring home the dreaded Fundraiser Packet.
Their dad is self-employed, so it falls upon my shoulders to schlep the order forms to my office and stalk my colleagues in their cubicles, trying to convince them to subscribe to magazines they won’t read and/or buy cookie dough that’ll contract freezer burn when it’s long forgotten in their fridges.
But each year, I suck it up, find my inner Ricky Roma, and get out there and SELL. After all, such things just come with the territory.
And I just happen to be Sales Director.
.
Sales Force
Who wants to buy some magazines?
Who needs some cookie dough?
If you’ve run low on frozen cakes
or chocolate bars, just let me know.
I’ll bring the glossy catalog
and order form right by;
I’ll bring a pen and recommend
which products you should try.
It’s for a worthy cause, you know –
it’s for my kid – for school;
because
their club
their band
their team
lacks funding, as a rule.
You probably don’t need pizza dough
or popcorn in a tin,
but don’t you care about my child
and prizes she could win?
So what if you’ve been dieting
and don’t need wrapping paper?
This is what we parents do
to coworkers and neighbors.
It just comes with the job, you see –
it’s like a type of hazing;
a particularly painful one
that’s known as school fundraising.
And rest assured, when your kid
comes around to sell his candy,
I’ll try to buy a bar or two –
Well…if my checkbook’s handy.
