The Beauty of My Children in Two Poems

Poem from September 2012

Shine of Moon

Her beauty amazes me...

Her long curls
spiral
down
her
back.

Her pale skin that elegant
shade of white and rose
that women bleach and
paint to try to attain.

The sprinkling of freckles
across
her nose and checks,
light
brown and soft looking.

Her almond eyes, my shape eyes, crinkling
when she smiles her engaging
smile, laughs her infectious
laugh, grins in her incorrigible way.

Her long, lean
body is steady
sure
strong
balanced.

Her expressive face
announces her intentions,
determined in her goal or
anxious in her need, tight
with anger or free with love.

She has the beauty of the moon,
pale and engaging,
bright and interesting,
so lovely it's hard to look away.


Glow of Sun

His beauty enchants me...

His face and eyes are round with apple dumpling cheeks.
The hazel of his eyes are becoming the same rainbow as mine,
brown, green, yellow and blue melding together, shining bright.
His curls spring close when his hair is short, loop large when
his hair grows to droop below his ears, soft and silky.
He smiles that smile, stares up with those eyes, charming
everyone who benefits from his attention. He gives a devilish
smile, almost taunting with his eyes, face shining with naughty
excitement, daring you to say no, turning back on the charm
when you do say no. New freckles occasionally appear, on
his chin, his arms, his legs. His body is growing leaner, longer.
His bottom is still round, his hands are still full, but his body is
no longer little and padded. He shines like the sun, warm
and full, strong and gorgeous, so handsome it draws you in.

Sensory Sensitivies

She leans against the tile of the tub,
chin to chest, staring at the white
linoleum floor. Tears are streaming down
her rosy cheeks, her sparkley silver pants
are undone around her waist. She can't explain
exactly what is wrong. She can't find the
right words. She knows only that the pants
don't feel right, the waist hurts, she
doesn't like the buttons. She can't just
get over it, deal with it and move on.
In a hurry to get her to school and get
myself to work, I start to get frustrated.
But she stands there crying real tears,
and my mind brings me back to childhood.
I'm overwhelmed by a memory of a feeling.

(I lean back against the green chair,
eyes cast down, staring at the green-gray
rug. Tears are wet on my cheek, and I'm
kicking the pink shoes with white laces
off my feet. I'm so uncomfortable, frustrated,
upset that I can't explain what's wrong. I can
only cry and yell, insist it's not right. The
shoe isn't tight enough, it doesn't match
the other, it doesn't feel right. I can't just
get over it, deal with it and move on. Nothing
else matters; I can't focus on anything but the
wrongness of the shoe. I won't put my jacket on
and get in the car already. School can wait. This
shoe must be fixed, must be just right or I
won't be able to think about anything else.)

Mimicking my mother from almost 30 years
earlier, I take a deep breath and kneel
down to be on her level. I tell her I
understand it doesn't feel right, tell her
we'll figure out what's wrong. It turns out
to be the adjustable waist band, the buttons
inside the pants. (The shoe string is too
loose on one side, not as tight as the other,
uneven.) I loosen the elastic and fold
it over the buttons so they won't push
into her sensitive skin. (She undoes
the bow and tightens the laces.) I
check with her, and she nods, her face
starting to brighten. I zip and button
the fly. (She checks with me, and I nod,
starting to calm down and feel better.
She ties a new bow.) One last check;
all better. (One last check; all better.)

After dropping her off at school, silver
pants perfect around her waist, I call
my mom. I tell her about my morning. I
thank her for the patience, the understanding
she showed me when I would meltdown over
things not feeling right. I hear her smile
over the phone line. Of course she was
patient about my sensitivities. After all,
she has always had similar sensory issues
herself. Her mother was not as understanding,
and when her memories come to her, I know
she chose to act differently from her
own mom. I respect her even more.

---------------------------

This was a scene from the spring of 2011, and from my own childhood. Though I don't have sensory processing disorder (SPD), I have always dealt with sensory issues, which I believe is also true to some degree for my daughter. I have great respect for those who have to deal with SPD either themselves or with their children. It is not easy to deal with, and it can be hard to find the extra patience and understanding that is needed in situations that arise from the disorder or sensory sensitivities.

Pills

these two to supplement the sun
and two of these to keep me sane
this small one to boost my energy
two bigger ones to help my brain
one of these for my general health
occasionally these for aches and pain
a handful to swallow until the spring
then next fall it starts over again

Last Night

It's his teeth.
Again.
The hard, sharp, white edges
pushing through
soft, sensitive, pink gums.
This painful
process seems flawed in design.

The molars are the worst. They
push through,
recede,
push through again,
recede again,
before finally coming out for good.

His sleep is disturbed.
He can't settle
himself. His cries escalate, disturbing
our sleep. We take turns
going to him
because he is uncomfortable lying down.

I walk with him in my arms more steps
than I care
to count. I pace the floor for longer
than I want to track. Is
he asleep enough now? Or should I continue
another minute,
two minutes, five minutes?

I try putting him down. I rub
his back when
he stirs, settling him back
down. I ease up the crib rail.
He stays asleep.
I tiptoe across the room, avoiding

the creaky spots in the floor.
He stays asleep.
I carefully turn the door knob.
It clicks loudly.
He wakes crying, reaching for me.
I sigh and return to him.
Again.

Baby's Breath -- In Two Haikus

Tiny, white buds are
sprinkled across light green stems--
soft, sweet, barely there.

His small, rosy lips
exhale across my pale skin--
soft, sweet, barely there.

Summer Viruses

Some days are covered in vomit,
shit and snot. Bacteria and viruses
abound in the adorable petri dishes
who live with me. They ooze putrid
liquids, sticky and stinky. They infect
each other and those nearby. In their
misery, they fuss, whine, cry, cling
spreading their sick germs with
every nuzzle of their soft heads,
every embrace of their sweet arms.

These two are not simply offspring-
genetic carriers of my DNA. They are
my and my love's children, the
miracle of my heart walking outside
my body. Their throw up and diarrhea
do not overwhelm me, do not
disgust me. Their slimy snot and crusty
boogers do not offend me. My mother's
instinct has me reach out to catch
upchucked food remnants. The nessecities
of parenthood have me scrubbing brown
stains from underpants. The familial bond
has me spreading cool cream on red bottoms.

My patience isn't boundless. Sick kids
are trying, frustrating, cranky. They are
up in the middle of the night for hours,
unable to settle comfortably. They require
multiple trips to the doctor and pharmacies-
long waits with restless children, missed
hours from work. They do not eat the healthy
meals cooked with care, turn their noses up
at my hard effort of providing good food.
Nothing feels right, they complain
with words, actions, whines and cries.

They curl their bodies into mine, seeking
soft curves to pillow their achy bodies.
I hold them, carry them, calm them,
love them. I see them through their illnesses.
My heart bursts with love, in health and
in sickness. I take time off work, keep them
home with me. I measure the medicines,
check their temperatures, provide liquids,
clean them up. I am not a doctor, but I
nurse them till they are better, even at
risk of my own health. I wade through the bile,
crap and mucus to get them well again.

Oceans of Time

I watch my daughter run
in the surf, the waves
chasing her up the gentle
slope, wet sand clinging
to her legs, curls bouncing
behind her head, laughing
with every step. I watch
her, I see myself.

I look out at the ocean
stretched over the edge
of the horizon. The sun
sparkles on the water,
reflects its light and heat.
I hold my son against my hip,
I feel his weight and warmth.
I recall holding my daughter
on the same beach, in the same
sling. In another year,
he will be running along
side his sister, building
sand castles, searching for
seashells, discovering the
rhythms of the sea.

My mother held me on her hip
as a babe, looking out at
the endless expanse of ocean,
sand hot beneath her feet. I
ran with wet legs, sandy feet,
bouncing curls through the surf,
away from the waves. I played
on the beach and in the waves
with my sister and brother.
When I got older, I laid out
on towels, tanning in the sun,
chatting with friends and family.

Time stretches forward and
backward. My past mingles with
my present, with my future,
with my children's futures.
Like the tides, we will recede
from the beach and advance
again later. Like the ocean,
we are always changing,
continuously aging, yet
remaining overall the same.
The ebb and flow continues
in the timeline of my mind.

I watch my mother, I see
myself. One day I will be
relaxing in a beach chair,
reading a novel, helping
my children with their children,
participating in the vacation
as the grandma. I hold the past
and future in my mind like
snapshots in seashell-edged frames.

Household Rhythms

I wrote this back in January, but have had it in my drafts because I wanted to have another stanza. I've been trying to write the other stanza for three months. (Should it be about fixing breakfast in the morning, getting the kids ready for the day? If so what dance would that be to? I think probably the salsa... And shouldn't a stanza about the mornings and breakfast come first? But how to start it?) I am finally thinking that if needed another stanza, the words would have come to me by now. I can't force more to the poem when it doesn't feel right. So I'm just going to publish this as is, and if more comes to me later, I'll update it.

When I am in step with the rhythm of the house,
I waltz my way through the piles of laundry.
I sort the clothes to a 3/4 rhythm:
lights, darks, reds; lights, darks, reds.
I box step to change over the loads.
Wash, dry, fold. Wash, dry, fold.
I promenade the clean clothes into the closets,
open, turn, close, to shelves, hangers, drawers.
As I twinkle and reverse step through the day,
our clothes are cleaned, folded and put away.

When I feel the beat of rhythm of the house,
I swing the toys off the floor, throwout the
books onto shelves. With a rock step, I chassé
this doll into this chair, another rock step,
and chassé that doll into that stroller. I
cuddle the stuffed animals for a beat, two,
three, and then push them into their places.
A swingout for each ball into the bin.
When I jive out the door, the floor is neat,
toys are straightened, the clean up complete.

When I am attuned to the rhythm of the house,
I dance through the kitchen without missing
a beat. A pirouette to put the clean dishes
away, an arabesque to put the dirty ones in the
washer, a plié to put away dried pots and pans.
I sponge down the counters and the table
with long stretches of my arms, graceful
port de bras movements to gather the crumbs.
Before I chassé up to bed, the sink is clean,
the dishwasher running, the counters sparkling.

Becoming, Age Three

Now that she is
outside my womb
my arms
my house
she is becoming
her own person.

She is picking up
toys
words
ideas
from other people
places
environments.

Now that she is
older
wiser
bigger
taller
stronger
she is more capable
more sure of herself.

She is developing
her own humor
phrases
games
skills
interests
that in some ways
mimic my own
my husband's
but also others'
but also no one's.

Now that she is
three,
she is becoming
a little kid
a big sister
a little person
a big girl
her own self
doing things
by herself
on her own;
as she says:
by her own.

Question of the Week - Favorite Poet/Poem

Did you know that April is National Poetry Month? I didn't realize that until this weekend. Had I realized early and been less busy this month, I would have been writing more poems! I have about three that are currently in process, but are not ready yet. For the ones I've already posted, I created a page that list them with links to them, and you can go to the page titled Poems: My Life as Mother at any time from the link at the top of the screen under the header.

In honor of National Poetry Month, this week's question of the week is really two questions, and you can answer either or both:

Who is your favorite poet/a poet you like? What poem would you like to share (it doesn't have to be by your favorite poet)?

I have two favorite poets, and I am unapologetic about it. One is e.e. cummings, who I first discovered and became fascinated with in 6th grade. I especially love his style (check out She being Brand, and do note that the poem is a total metaphor). My other favorite is Robert Frost. I love the way he writes and what he writes about (I can't even pick one to link to, since so many of them speak to me).

Besides my own poetry and poems by cummings and Frost, I would like to share a poem that has, with irony, been on my mind a lot since having kids: This Be The Verse, by Philip Larkin. (Please note that there is the eff bomb a couple times in that poem, so don't click that link if that will offend you.)

How about you? Do you have a favorite poet? Any poems you love? Something you vaguely remember from 10th grade english class but can't recall what it is? Share it with us! After all, I think perhaps there may be at least some poems as lovely as a tree...

Siblings

She is full of energy,
full of life. She thrives
as the center of attention,
as an entertainer. Not yet
three, she is bigger than her
body, greater than her size.

He is full of humor,
full of curiosity. He loves
to watch, to laugh, to reach.
Just learning to sit on his own,
he is mesmerized by his
sister and her antics.

She wants to make him
laugh. She jumps, spins,
makes faces. His whole body
jiggles with his chuckles,
his two teeth apparent with
his wide-mouthed smile. She
informs us that she made
him laugh, giggling and pleased.

He reaches for her, tries to
grab ahold of her hand, her
hair, her spirit. He investigates
her with his eyes, hands and
mouth. She guides him, letting him
hold her hand but not pull her hair.
She tries to teach him words:
da da, ma ma. He thinks it's
funny, entertained by the sounds.

They already have a strong bond,
love and enjoyment for each other.
They compliment each other in how
they interact, how they play.
Fun and laughter, hugs and kisses,
but also vieing for attention and
competing needs--these are all
part of their life together, in
their future as brother and sister.

Smiles in the Night

Originally written in early December 2009.

He is awake
again.
He wants to nurse
again.
I root around my pillow
searching for sleep
as the baby roots around my
breast searching for my nipple.
His wakefulness and fussing
trump my desire for
just one
more
minute
of sleep.
I unwillingly let go of the last
threads of unconsciousness. Tired,
frustrated, I swallow my yells,
my curse words. He senses that I am
awake. His fussing becomes coos. He looks
up at me, his round eyes wide.
He smiles.
His entire
toothless
mouth is wide,
his entire
face
lights up. His nose and eyes crinkle,
his round cheeks become even rounder. His
happiness at seeing me looking at him
is undeniable.
I melt.
I smile
back at him. I help him
find my nipple, get his comfort. This time is
fleeting in the overall span of my
life. For now, he needs
me more than I need
sleep. The love, the smiles make it
worth every missed minute of rest.

Nighttime Mother

Originally written in November 2009

She shuffles into the room
with sleepy eyes and a hacking cough. Without a word,
she climbs into our bed, around the dog, and flops
down between her father and me. On my other side
is the baby boy, stirring but drifting
back to sleep.

Her cough is keeping her
awake. She coughs so hard, she throws
up. Now, we are all awake.

We remove the pillow, do some basic
wiping up, make sure she doesn’t have any
on herself. Everyone settles back in. She
snuggles into my side, the baby nursing on my
other side. I bask in the feeling of being mother.

Later, the baby is fussy. I put him in the swing and get
back in bed. She climbs on top of me, laying her
entire body on mine, her head nestled under
my chin, her arms
drapped
on either side of me. Her legs
stretched
along mine.
I wrap my arms around her, and I think
how her entire body once fit
inside of mine.

We drift back to sleep,
entwined together,
mother and daughter.

Night of Leonids

His snores
keep me awake.
I lie there with my eyes
open, body aching,
waiting for sleep
to fall.

My thoughts keep me
awake. Will the baby wake?
Will he need to eat? How much
time do I have
to sleep?

Outside, meteors are
streaking through the sky.
I see nothing.
I am up. I look out
windows. But I don't see
any sudden fireworks of
starlight.

I want to go out,
walk down to the lake
in the hopes of seeing
comet debris hit the Earth's
atmosphere, of seeing
falling stars to wish on.
To wish for sleep.
I lie back down.

The words keep
me awake. I debate
getting up to write them
down. My muse is so
fickle in these days of kids
and work and responsibilities--
more fickle than even
sleep.

The cat keeps me
company, happy to
be up, nocturnal. He
purrs and rubs and follows
me. The house is
silent and dark. I've
written the words. Maybe now
I can fall asleep and dream of
falling stars.

Poetry

I used to write poetry.

I used to paint
what I saw, what I felt,
with words.

I used to ohsocarefully decide
where to make
line breaks,
where to place the words and
punctuation marks.

I used to consider my word choices
for days,
weeks,
making sure each word, each phrase,
was just so.

I used to read and analyze and discuss
poetry and literature
using BIG words to describe
deep concepts intended or
unintended
by the author.

I used to draft
write
re-write
revise
my own concepts and thoughts,
my own emotions and feelings
until I conveyed what I wanted
the way I wanted.

I used to agonize over rhyme
schemes, the rhythm of phrases, the
sounds of words,
the structure of content,
figures of speech,
poetic license.

I used to so strongly
need
to write poetry
from my heart, from
my head, from my
soul.

I used to need to express thoughts
in that manner.
In this manner.

I realize now
I still need to write poetry.