All the love

Mom I gave Eddie all my love.

I heard, I am sure she could feel it.

But, now what do I do?

Do?

Do I not have any love left?

Cool thing about love Sam, the more you give out, the more you have to give.

How?

Magic.

Actually Mom, it is not magic. It is your heart.

***

Meanwhile Marcel, aka the Great Disperser (if it is contained, he will free it, dump it, throw it, send it to a new destination) is gathering words by the mouthfuls to add to his impressive store. At the moment he is waddling around the room talking about hockey (Sam's calendar) bus (which means let's get in the car, and go look for buses his current obsession) poo-poo to celebrate his morning constitution, and Eh-dee because I mentioned to Sam that she is coming for dinner this week, and Marcel has been looking all over the house for her ever since. My favorite is Watch this! And then he jumps in the air a centimeter and screams WOW.

The writer Mama has been on hiatus, and it is time to ramp it up again. A new class begins in a few weeks, a major poetry performance looms on the horizon (yearly school staff talent show, where I have performed for the last two years, and have a little parent and student following now. Most importantly, Sam is looking forward to it, and even suggested topics for the poem last night; "me when I was a baby again, or me doing karate, or a poem about how you yell."
When I told him that I had written a line of the poem in the shower he asked if it got wet. Of course that begins another poem entirely.

Next entry--photos from the newly refurbished, and kick'in playroom, which Sammy described last night to Eddie on the phone as "totally awesome". This was unprompted, so you know he really digs it.

Only in Maine

Do we dress up and drive out thirty miles to plod through the mud and melting snow to wait outside in line two hours for an opportunity to eat pancakes and drink mediocre coffee outdoors with hundreds of other like minded foragers for this seasons' first official taste of the new batch of maple syrup.

syrup verdict: a little light

Maple Syrup Sunday highlights: woodsmoke in your hair, petting an ox, moo-ing at cows, scratching a pig, free vanilla ice cream under a not too generous sample of maple syrup, biggest home made see-saw you ever seen or saw. And mud. Lots of good, free, best of the season mud.

Line Up

Mom? Did you know what I was thinking about when I was watching T play bass?

No, what?

Darth Vader dying and knowing that Luke loved him.

Whoa. The music brought that to mind?

Mom, if you eat everything you are supposed to we won't have to burn you on a pile of wood, because you won't have to die. So let's eat a lot tomorrow OK Mom?

Indeed.

***
We saw a show tonight, at a local coffee house, where Sam's beloved T(ia) was playing bass, and hosting the songwriter's showcase event. It was the coveted Mommy-Sammy night out. The music was phenomenal, being around non toddlers was in itself intoxicating.

As usual he was the only one under the age of 21 at these things, and was adored by all. Dang he is so precious. Could he get any more charming? He spent the evening nestling into various musician-friends' laps, while I kept him well hydrated with pomegranate fizziness.

As I watched him work the crowd, ask his heart felt questions about musical this, and musical that, I was astounded by his confidence, and his ever increasing independence from me. Last week his namesake, Samantha reminded me that as a mother I am the air that he breathes, he doesn't need to be reminded of my presence, at this age, mom is just a given. You are just there, and if I have done my job right, he knows that, and trusts it completely.

So my lap was empty, my pomegranate drink was empty, and in some way I felt a little empty too. Across the room was a bunch of should-be-in-college kids, drinking root beer, writing in their journals, text messaging their other friends and looking slightly ill at ease in their grown up bodies. I imagined Sammy there in fourteen years, and realized how much more at home he is in his skin now, then I may have ever been. I can relate to those kids, in some ways more than I can relate to him at that moment.

He is already quite an improvement on this older model.

You know you're a good mom when....

Your son feels so securely attached that he easily makes meaningful connections with other loving adults in his life.

He transitions easily to a new school, and impresses everyone when he elects himself to be the one who helps another new student adjust by being his special buddy, and helping him when he felt shy or sad.

You decided to stop yelling a week ago, and haven't yelled since.

You give your son a selection of pictures to take to school for the "family" wall, and he looks through them, and chooses one of everyone he adores, and also picks a picture of his birth mother, because she carried me in her tummy to you.

You made pork chops for the first time, and they were good.

You let your four year old take a picture of you with your nice camera, and it comes out well.

Your 18 month old, has so many words and ways to express himself, that you actually understand more then don't what he needs.

Friends rent houses 5 minutes away, to be close to your family.

You have successfully navigated over the past year and some, a co-parenting relationship with your older brother who moved back to the states, your state even, in big part to be nearer to your children.

You have bought him a booster seat for his car, because it is time, and he is fine with that.

You order huge appliques of sports figures to put on the wall of the playroom, and include a few girls too, so that all our friends want to come play.

You practice the karate bow, so your son can get his first belt tomorrow.

You make time to do the stair master at least 15 minutes a day, so you can continue to not yell.

You remember not to wash his hair because the ruptured ear drum could get infected if the soap gets in there.

You kept your son pain free with tylenol and motrin safely.

You inform the doctor at the Saturday office location (who actually has her practice there and isn't just filling in) that this is the third and hopefully last time you need to call to someones attention the fact that the six giant 18x24 color photographs of all white children in the lobby do not take into consideration the needs of all of her patients.

You thank her as she agrees. And, so does your son.

You recorded a happy birthday video for their grandfather, and sent it on time, because the kids wanted to show them how they do yoga.

Your kids do yoga, even though you don't know how to.

The book they often request to read is the book you made on Shutterfly about their summer vacation in Washington--because they like to "read about themselves".

For all the self aware hyper critical introspection you do, you are able to praise yourself for your excellent parenting when it is time.

For Posterity's Sake

What inspired me to do the asking, or the recording, let alone the publishing here I'll never know. But dag gone if his answers didn't get me thinking more about my parenting. Maybe that's the problem--I spend too much time thinking about it, and not enough time improving on it.

I asked Sam the questions, his answers are recorded here verbatim.

1. What is something I always say to you? Don't do that
2. What makes me happy? When I say I love you
3. What makes me sad? When I say I want someone else to be my mommy.
4. What was I like as a child? You were like me.
5. How old am I? Twenty
6. How tall am I? taller than a lot of people
7. What is my favorite thing to do? Go for a walk.
8. What do I do when you're not around? That's crazy.
9. If I were to become famous, what will it be for? Writing a book or a poem.
10. What am I really good at? Making things happen for us.
11. What am I not very good at? Yelling.
12. What do I do for my job? Help people be nice, make good choices and learn to write and read
13. What is my favorite food? Eating all the time
14. What makes you proud of me? When you read your poems in front of people with a microphone
15. If I were a cartoon character, who would I be? Darth Vader
16. What do you and I do together? Special things without my brother.
17. How are you and I the same? We play basketball.
18. How are you and I different? Our skin.
19. How do you know I love you? I am in your heart.
20. Where is my favorite place to go? Do you go anywhere?

Respect is free for the first month

After our initial "private lesson" Sammy is a "little ninja" in training.

On Monday he gets his first white belt, and an official invitation to start karate group lessons the next day.

Homework?

"Yes ma'am" (no really that is the homework, for him to practice saying Yes and No ma'am.)

Sammy modeled his new belt-less costume, while Marcel ran around kicking things in his bathrobe.

Not only does the place give you the first month of lessons free, but teachers get a discount, and his teacher is a woman, who is going to insist my son learn respect and self control. If someone else wants to take over that piece for a month for free, I say; Yes Ma'am!

***

A new feature to this blog is going to be the Thursday Line Up.
A collection of one liners from the week that you, my adoring fans of my adorable and beastly children will appreciate.

Minimal context, high impact is our goal.

(Pretend it's Thursday.)

Thursday Line Up

Fashion: I walk out wearing the new bathing suit I had ordered online. It features "boy shorts" and a tankini top. When I walk out of the changing area Sam hoots; "Show us what you got sister, uh-huh." I stop laughing just in time to hear this; "Uh Mom? A little too tight huh?"

Beauty: Feelings were left in tact, because he was right. I emerge three minutes later wearing a black cotton dress with a nifty neck line. But this time I hear, "Mom that dress is too big, it hides your beautifulness." I simply trust the child, and put that in the to return pile too.

Athleticism: Marcel's teacher to me; "He had a good day. He ate well, slept great, and besides needing to be reminded not to kick his friends he had super fun throwing the ball at people."

Politics: Sam: Mom I saw Obama walking down the street.
Me: I doubt it hon, he doesn't walk alone anywhere.
Sam: Why?
Me: Well, he's too important.
Sam: Is that why you are never alone too mom?

Nutrition: Me: Marcel use your words. What do you want for dinner?
Marcel: Ice-keam and cookie. Mine. Mine. Now. NOW!

not to worry

Sam loves his new school, and I am coming to appreciate all sorts of communication styles from all sorts of people who love my children.

Tia is transforming our basement into a magical, colorful, weatherproofed, and all around inviting space.

Karate lessons start on Friday for #1 Son.

New words include: mine, my, book, baby, cookie, ice cream, and chocolate for # 2 son. I trust all are noticing the priorities in this house.

It is melting, the snow.

face plant

Maybe the hardest part about it was that we were having a really good weekend. You know, lots of outdoor time, almost no yelling, and at the very moment when he announced it the baby was napping and he and I had just finished thirty uninterrupted minutes of mommy-sammy time drawing pictures and doing mazzes and connect the dots at his request. I felt almost award winning at the time. I am in the small bathroom putting some clean clothes away (it doubles as a walk in closet) when I hear; "Mom, I wish Eddie was my mom." My rib cage turned to sand and I collapsed internally. (Eddie is our friend, his now retired 21 year old nanny.) What woud you have said?

It really is a blur how poorly I handled the situation, but it went something like I have feelings too, and how would you feel if.. and just go in the other room because I need a few minutes alone. Basically I relinquished all medals at that point. I redeemed myself several minutes later when his guilt had bought him several hundred hours of future therapy credits. I said I understood that he loves Eddie, and she is family isn't she. I went on to ask what I could do more of that Eddie did that he might be needing. He twisted the knife deeper with his immediate response to that too; "just hang out with me more."

So the kid can share his feelings, and certainly has no problem in the attachment arena some of you might be saying. Nice try. Oh and then later he is dancing around the living room singing his birthother's name punctuated by the words "love, love, love" in a Beatles kind of refrain. If I had hours to list them, you would be privy to an impressive array of my insecurities that were dancing next to him on that dance floor.

We ended the weekend with leftovers, Star Wars, chocolate brownies and whip cream. He got a line up in the tub, and wrote his name, and mine (he can't spell Eddie yet) on the wall of the tub in shaving cream. After M went to bed, Sammy and I read three stories, cuddled and reviewed the highlights of the weekend. He said the best part was licking the spoon to the brownies, and the bike ride- until he fell, but that was cool too. He reminded me that he would be coming in my bed later if he woke up. I knew it was time for me to get more exercise when I wanted to tell him that it was too bad Eddie was out of town, or else I'm sure she'd welcome a late night wake up call.

I have to go find a way to scrub the pencil drawing he put on the new futon cover, and then patch his favorite jeans or I'd write more.

here's looking at you

a little early morning March check in
from a new format.
It feels like an important week just
happened. How often to I get to
realize that?
Marcel is routinely, dare I say it, sleeping through the night. And I mean sleeping
not a peep
snoring
out like a light.

and language-
We've got it!
Just a few weeks shy of 18 months, my little brainiac is busting out!
every day a new word
with glory and
certainty.

Mama wook baby my! translation: Mom look at my baby (doll).
I'll spare you the list
but one more highlight care of Uhn-kle:

I duhn NO.

And really he doesn't know.
Marcel where is your shoe?
I duhn know.
Marcel are you done?
I duhn know.
Marcel can you stop screaming please?
I DUHN NO.
(we think the sound of NO is what makes this so appealing.)

Omniscient is Sam's newest word.
Mom, you are so omniscient he tells me.
Of course he knows what it means.
Thanks Uncle.
I had to look it up.

Sam's to do list this weekend:
sign up for karate
eat pancakes
roller blade outside too
it's fun in the playroom but he wants to JUMP more
help mommy the first time she asks
(I swear this is from his mouth, with only a little suggestiion)

My to do list:
Notice how it feels to be rested
exercise outside
print out five working chapters of memoir (!!!)
get the crock pot back to work
figure out how to record a few books on tape for sam
play more
fuss less

Marcel's to do list:
he doesn't know

plateau

the director reassured me
that this is normal
this not being sam's reaction to his new school-
but mine:
needing information, details, a sense of
the child's day

complicated conversation convinced
me
to exhale, trust and believe
that he is where he is meant to be-
and i might be the one who learns something
this time around.

we don't believe in the behaviorist model
but we understand that some households do.

huh.

it's not like the stickers are going to earn him
a candy bar I hear myself thinking out loud

we believe that children are learning
during the bad days too

kind of like I am learning not
to feel judged for the sticker chart
I have wedged over the car's visor
to immediately reward him
for one more day of
good listening the moment
he plants it in the backseat
and announces he had another
GOOD DAY MOM.

hooray.

my sticker chart
wedged underneath the chocolate chip
cookies and the
strawberry ice cream
for a Mama who didn't
scream
when she really
wanted to.

four + one = forty-one

A snow day here in the land of
four and one
and forty-one is another gift
to unwrap slowly
today.

Royally treated again:
waking at the farm house in Hiram
for pancakes cooked for me
and twenty minutes to read about
that other famous mom
Michelle with the beautiful arms
in a magazine
on a couch
with a warm cup of
brewed coffee brought
to me followed by
a spontaneous song and dance on a dirt
somewhere under the snow
covered road
announcing to bent over birches
that I
am still standing
tall, and bringing it in
with my best bring it on
surrounded by love on a perfect
First Sunday in March

Balloons, flowers, and festive
signage
welcoming us home
on our return to town
an ominous
weather report giving me full permission
to dress it up
live it up
toast it up
on a
a Girls Night Out
with babysitting
provided by a Boys Night In

Home safely
well celebrated
I revisit the
voice, text and email shouts large
from the world at large
and feel the love radiating to me

Holding my favorite
home made card boasting every letter
in no particular order of
HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOM
written proudly
by himself

hearing over and over
a one year old's
self assured
bursts of
Hippy-Birday MA-ma
which
reminded me
over and over again
that what I give up
yearly
to be here daily
is worth another
birthday wish devoted to
asking
for it to be no other way
then I had it today
for part two of this life well lived
from zero to forty.

Forty-one to eighty
I'm ready.

At a loss

Wracked with doubt since last night about sam's new placement. Did I move Sam to the new school for reasons that I thought would justify this huge transition for him? It has only been a week, but yesterday at pick up, the teachers tell me that they "both want to have a conversation with me about how I get Sam to be, to be, to be less uh, to be more checked in, and here, and just you know listening to what you need.."

What?

That parental dread feeling washed over my insides in one three second woooosh. Sam's not working out. Sam doesn't belong here. Sam is not listening. They don't like Sam. They are not connecting with him. He will not make friends here. What a mistake I have made. Is it too late to move him back to his old school??

The teachers are lovely, and they love Sam. The school is ethnically, racially, economically diverse. They school is accredited, subsidized, flooded with light, and has the biggest playground in all of Portland. These things seemed so important at the time..

However his new teachers are not parents themselves. Parents of boys. Parents of active boys like his old teacher was. She got him. She is also an adoptive mom. And his other teacher started crying when he left. They adored him.

Why didn't I get that?

And Marcel and him were together in the same building where they were had each other. They both loved that. In 4-6 months they new school will have a spot for M too.

What kind of a message am I giving if I say--well that didn't work, we gave it a week--time to beg and plead to go back to the old school. Am I showing that I am not afraid of admitting I was wrong? Or am I showing him it's OK to give in, and give up at the first sign of dis-ease.

Friends say to trust my instinct. Others say to wait it out.

Sam was crying and pleading with me to go back to the old school last night.

These are the moments when I so wish I had a partner who felt as invested in the outcome as I do. Who lived with this boy day and night and could help me see through the trees to the beach, or through the leaves to the swamp, or pick an idiom that works cause I'm at a loss.

uphills and downhills

two drop offs every morning,
two pick ups every afternoon
shoveling shoulder inflamed
and still
hoisting marcel up the two flights of stairs to
the purple room every morning
and afternoon
$65.00 more a week
worth it when I see
the brown skinned girl handing Sammy a crayon
who says you look like my brother
and I want to sit with
you at lunch.

learning the names of 18 new friends at the
new new school
(the kid has been through a few too many
of these these transistions..)
an accident on the playground
when he didn't know that you couldn't
get to the bathroom from
that door...

across town
clinging onto the picture of
nah-nah (big brother)
as he looks down the hall
where Sammy should be when
a little guy needs a hug before
nap


three andersons
on one sled
in full sunshine
in any empty
park we call our
backyard.

mom look at the crows!!
they are coming back-
because the snow is melting and they know
it will be springtime soon.
Welcome back!
We hollar in Anderson
unison
almost as loud as the
raucus
cau-caw-cus above
us

coasting along
with daffoldils
in glass jars
peanut butter and frozen peaches
for dinner
and Mommy telling her sons
how she met Claudette Colvin
at school today
the 15 year old girl
who didn't get up nine months
before Rosa Parks said
I've had enough
too.

Mom, I am taking a real bus
too,
on a field trip
next week
did you know that
I could do that?

I do love
yes I do.
And Claudette*
does too.


* Claudette Colvin(born September 5 1939), who some historians say is the "Mother of the modern Civil Rights Movement". In 1955, at the age of 15, she refused to give up her seat on a Montgomery bus to a white person, in violation of local law. Her arrest preceded civil rightsactivist Rosa Parks' (on December 1, 1955) by nine months.

On Friday
tulips for his
"best, best, best, best, best, best, best
teachers ever" gets everyone crying.
They do goodbye right.
A giant card with quotes from his
friends;
I love you Sam because you:
wear cool slippers,
hug me,
are my best friend
I love you Sam because
you smile at me
play kitty,
and share your fruit snack.
And from the teachers on the back
"energetic, helpful, your smile lights
up the room."

Vacation week review:
accountant (the one time being a single mother is rewarded)
the dentist
the new playroom
and studio
But, mom you never play with me
the flowers Sam picked out
from the sale bin of Valentine's
bouquets that didn't find their
Valentine-
until now
internet issues
surprising lack of tissues
long lovely visits from Sage, Eddie, Alex, T-T, and Weezie-Bruce
thawing summer visions
and a $296.00 visit to the grocery store
with me clapping and asking if I can just add four more?
transitions
permissions
omissions and so much new
space for
three.

Space Mama

I am taking up space- it feels crazy, risky, necessary. The recently vacant downstairs apartment was up in the air. Rent? Bed and b'kfast? Playroom? Studio? Office? I won't bore you with the details, the cons, the pros, the what ifs. All those of you reading who are making hard decisions on your own, you know the territory I've covered solo the last few weeks.

Then the wise friends chimed in; your boys need to run around. You need a place to write that is yours. You need a place for friends and family to sleep..

It has a long way to go, but Lamoine's Lowdown Lounge, is in the making! The main room is furniture free. Just balls, nets, hoops, trucks, did I mention balls? The once bedroom, off of the main room is storage and the DRUMS. And the room you go through to get to Mecca is the guest room/office, writers room.

Uncle is going to help me get the free standing hoop out of my living room and into the lounge.

I am going to have an almost TOY FREE living room. (exception-train table and trains, and books remain upstairs as they are quiet activities).

I have gone from feeling like an urban mama in a cave, to a queen in her sprawling mansion. The heavy lifting has been extreme, the cleaning tiresome, and the paint job that Sam requests is going to be FUN. He wants each wall to be a different color. We have enough paint to make that happen.

And today, because the IRS loves the single mama, I ordered a giant mural of a space man in full regalia for one wall--because Sam says he wants to be an astronaut, or a hunter. I won't be ordering any deers with targets painted on the side for the other wall of this I can assure you.

B is for Brown

Last night while waiting for me to get Marcel to bed, Sam sat back to the heater (his favorite place in the entire house, even in the summer the metal cools him) coloring his new adored book. Normally, I would frown on this behavior. In this case, I even gave him the marker, and showed him how. The book, Z is for Zamboni A Hockey Alphabet by Matt Napier is just what you would expect in a board book. Chunky, infinitely colorful, and inviting. Well, inviting if you are a hockey phenom in the making (Sam) and white (not Sam). So we remedied this with the brown marker.

I explained to him how traditionally hockey has not been a sport that brown skinned people have been drawn to for several reasons, the one my heater loving son could truly appreciate is that historically people with skin his color preferred warmer climates. Places that did not have frozen ponds for learning to skate on like he did twice today, and almost every day I can arrange to get someone to take him there. (I use Marcel as an excuse to stay home unless it is sunny out.) Uncle took him twice yesterday. When we came down to watch, I did not recognize Sam. His agility on the ice has improved five times in a week. According to Marc, Sam draws constant praise from any skater who comes within earshot. They refuse to believe he is four. Last night when I mentioned my disbelief at his skills, Sam responded; I know mom, and I can button my pajamas and write my name too. True that. As I type this, Marcel is coloring his pajamas with markers. There is no more room on his hands or face.

meaningful?

How do you make Valentine's Day meaningful to a four year old? I had him sign his name, to the twelve home made cards I made for all his friends. By about the tenth labored signature, before completely giving way to his inner pirate's need to run around the house and whack things with a sword, Sam had mastered the placement of the A after the S, and before the M. I ran around after him asking for quotes to scribe from his point of view; "Sam (I duck to not get beheaded) tell me something you love about Emily..."

"Mom, I just love her. She plays with me." Oh right. That is what I am supposed to be doing instead of trying to maintain appearances with all of his friends' parents.

En guard!

Counting the family (Sam's poetic debut)

One for Marcel
and two for you,
and three for me.

Four for Eddie
And Tia makes five.
KK is six
Uncle is
seven.

Sarah and Jay
are eight and nine.

Nana is ten
and Weezie eleven
Alex is twelve
and Sage is too.

And my birthfather is thirteen
We can hold a number for him, for when you might get to know him better. How about your birthmother -number fourteen?

And Chuck and Jen and Parker and Rachel and Muriel

How many is that?

Uh nineteen?

Grammy and Grampy and we'll save
the other numbers
for all the
other people
in our family.
Our family is big mom.
It isn't just
three.

Movement

The stomach flu is the latest visitor to Marcel's little too willing of a host body. I'll spare you the details. After one of Marcel's more prolific moments all over mommy (OK I almost spared you the details) Sammy shouted; "Mom put yourself in the trashcan! Gross."

Sammy's movements are more significant in some ways... He will be starting a new school in a few weeks. The decision has been weighted, and weighed, over-thought, and well researched. The down and dirty version (it's a theme around here) the new school has an excellent reputation for several reasons, and although I am content where we are, I want to be thrilled. And, in the new daytime digs Sam would be one of several children of color, and our family would be one of several families brought together by adoption. The teachers seem so upbeat and gentle simultaneously. Sam needs this. The room is girl heavy--meaning many more of them then the boy variety which is good for Sam too. He likes girls. Wonder why. The fact the boys will be in tow schools is going to be a management nightmare for me. But, eventually they will both be there. We are waiting for an opening for Marcel. Hopefully by the fall. It is also going to cost me an extra chunk a week, even with the sliding scale. But, the playground is 3x the size, and they go out TWICE a day (where he is now, it is sometimes once a day). Did I mention the on sight chef, and the fact that I will not have to prepare his lunch every day? He said; "they don't have friends there. But they will when they get to know me." Brilliant child.

Me Still writing a ton this year. My online class continues to feed and push. The memoir is taking shape slowly but with distinct curves and raised bits here, and tucked bits there. I have a new intern working with me at school that is working out so well. My teaching rises to the occasion, like my parenting when it is witnessed.

The biggest movement of course being that our E the most excellent Nanny-Sister-friend has indeed moved. I breathe through the grief and the fear there with the comfort that she is up the street a piece, and will always be a part of our family. My family would not have made it here without her. We all know that, and so does she. But when it is time to move on, grow, push those tendrils, then it is time.

Speaking of time, someone needs his two tablespoons of pedialyte.

Worth Noting

Disney on Ice
Watching his jaw
drop to his knees
While the mountain sized
Sea Witch emerged horrific
in black lighting.
Sensing Sam searching for clues
to navigate the ice between
fear and amazement.

Marcel lost his independence
when his fever broke.
He clings.
My barnacle boy.
Breathe Mama breathe,
there's no use putting him
down.

Reassure me that the world is-
that the world at arms length from you is
as safe as I once knew it to be.

He insists as he sucks unto my thigh,
arm, and hip.
I want to set him
down,
and run
back to my early 30's
instead
I grab my frustration
exhale and picture when I can't
remember how it felt to be able to reassure
him that the world is-
anything

Wearing his magic cape,
and my blue gloves
Sam did the dishes
from start to finish
because I asked him to.
And he could.
And he felt success.
While I made the lunches,
and put out the clothes
for another tomorrow
when a groundhog will
see something else
worth noting

Snow Day Tribute to an Emergent Speaker

Words We Share

mama
more
look
up
No
wow
oowweee
uh oh
tah dah
nye-nye and
bye.

Words that will be yours alone:

donor
who helped create me
biological mother
who chose to make me
this brown skin
lighter than
an older brother
to watch over me


Words that will be his alone:

birth mother
who relinquished
adoptive mother
who claimed
my black skin
as dark as the man
who I don’t know and
a younger brother
who adores me

Words that you will never know

no black man
will ever be
elected president

Words that we will share

family
love
together
because


Words that I look forward to

Yes
Please
I love you too
I do
Remember at your graduation when
It doesn’t snow here

ER visits and Hockey Sticks

You would think the two are related. Actually they happened simultaneously. While Marcel and I were in the ER waiting for the parade of doctors to poke, pry, alarm, confuse, and confer with us, Sam and Uncle were buying a hockey stick. I sanctioned the latter, in a weaker moment this morning after a kind stranger named Ed lent Sam his stick to play with on "the pond". Sam grew five inches as he sent random ice pucks soaring from one end of the outdoor "rink" to the other. Ed was there trying to learn how to skate and play hockey to keep up with his kids. Instead of seeing to his own, he hoodwinked mine into believing he was "professional" and "skilled" and a born ice hockey phenom. Gee thanks. By the time we arrived home, Marcel asleep in my arms for the third time in as many hours, I gave in to the 50th request to go buy a hockey stick, if Sam agreed to nap, eat lunch, and be a great listener for the rest of his life. I think he agreed to at least one of those. He must have, because now he has a stick.

Marcel meanwhile was succumbing to some pernicious little virus that was sucking the vitality out of him, and leaving in it's stead no appetite, 104 degree fever, and a clingy lump who would not be put down. Since he had just finished a 10 day course of antibiotics Thursday, the triage nurse on the phone urged us to the ER in case of pneumonia, or persistent ear infection. Thankfully neither were the cause, although we don't know where the infection is coming from, nor might we ever know. Best guess is viral, and I'll put money on him waking feeling at least 60% better. He is a resilient little dude. Best line was from the visit was the nurse who thanked me for "remembering to bring the refreshments" when Marcel started nursing.

I also had fun educating the very warm, and gentle good doctor who was having a hard time with the "adopted brother, biological baby, no father involved (his words)" correction. I said, there is no father to be involved. He looked at me with that; "Oh no here comes too much information" look.

"I am just reminding you doctor that families come in all different shapes and sizes. I am a single mother by choice not by circumstance." His voice cracked as he said; "Yes, yes that is fine." And, indeed it is, and we are, and he well, he'll be fine too when he goes home, and asks his wife what I was going on about.

January 20, 2009

On my lap in the eighth grade tech ed room, Sam watched Obama become president. We were surrounded by students of every color and background, all as focused and awed by the moment they were witnessing. Sam kept saying Obama's name quietly to himself, it is soothing somehow.

I kept my tears to a minimum, but I screamed louder than anyone in the room when it was official! Sam was antsy during the speech, and not captivated by the poet (nor was I, but I'll be spending more time with her poem over the next few days to see if I can find my way in) but couldn't take his eyes off the screen during the benediction. The minister's shaky, deep, wise voice had a music to it that Sam's body was moved by, even when the words were hard to discern.

An hour later in the hallway looking into one of the classrooms he says; "Obama is in his house now, and he should eat cake." Everyone agreed.

Rashes, Crashes, Flashes and Splashes

Marcel's diaper rash covered uncharted territory. I fancy myself an expert on few things, but I certainly thought I had this one tied up, so to speak. Wrong. In my defense, he is on Augmentin, know in pediatric circles as poopmentin. (To treat last week's pink eye and ear infection combo platter.) After finally getting that sorted out, to the point where he can wear clothing again, (with lotrimin, yes the athletes foot antifungal cream) Marcel changed courses dramatically when he tripped over a round block, and took a chunk out of the window sill. With blood drizzling down his chin like a new snow melting spring stream he looked at me in complete panic. Or was that me panicking? Happy to report that I didn't. Panic. As Sam slept through the entire event less than four feet away in front of the heater on the kitchen floor (the desire to get "up" before Marcel is creating strange habits over here) I applied pressure with a dish cloth and watched in awe as the tooth, which was almost a 90 degree angle to Marcel's face righted itself magically before my eyes. Sam awoke to Marcel bloody face and neck asleep in my arms. Seeing my blood splattered robe and neck Sam rightly inquires; "Mom what are you doing?"

Several hours later after attending Rohan Henry (The Perfect Gift) and Charlotte Agell's (Dancing Feet, I Wear Long Green Hair in the Summer)Martin Luther King Day Childrens Event and reading on the Bowdoin Campus, we explored. Grampy went to college here, I explained, and one day you might too. I realized the power of those words. Soon, I will be sitting in the audience watching him cross the stage of one graduation ceremony and another, until finally this one. The lion(s) in winter, is in front of the Bowdoin Art Museum.

Splashes you ask--didn't I miss one? Sam and I watching a You Tube video montage of Dr. King, and Obama, and many others allowed me a moment to let some of this in. And out. I cried a few little tears, but then like Marcel's gums, sucked it in back in. Not yet. How about tomorrow when Sam is on my lap at school surrounded by my students, and colleagues watching as Obama says; "I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States." How about we all just wait and see what that collective moment of exhultation brings out of us. Amen.

Reflections on a legacy

Recently being the mother of children of color has ushered in thoughts that have nothing to do with freedom, and everything to do with creating it from scratch on a good day. Like when I was slathering Sam’s skin with lotion after bath, and crumbled internally as I had an image of him, or his great, great, great, great, great grandfather being slathered with a salve to help him heal. Heal from the sores bore into him by the chains he wore across the Atlantic ocean, before being auctioned off above ground the next day. My chains are made from little strips of paper, glued in a circle, while being linked to the next piece, handed to me by my mother, and her mother, and her mother's mother. A chain begun one day under the shade of a banana tree in the West Indes. When she ran out of paper, her servant was asked to bring her more.

Shoving books in Sam's daycare teachers arms with a smile and a need that could fill the basement of that church five times over; “It’s about a little (black) boy who (looks just like Sam and who) saves the world from being taken over by urban sprawl... the kids will love it,” I add with such certainty. And, and, and for at least the few minutes while you are reading the story Sam won’t be the only person of color in this entire building, except for the slightly worn out looking graphic of Dr. King that is posted on the wall behind us as we talk. But they listen, and accept, and include, and they read the book.

Four and half years ago I had freedom from the constant hum of race. I had freedom to feel comfort in the margins of my own racial awareness. Is this a new kind of freedom? Freedom to accept how far I have to go, how daunted, not afraid, I am most days of the work I have to do. Does that in itself bring me a little closer to picking at (if not up) those words by Dr. King and holding them in my curious, if semi sheltered lily white hands; "Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!"

Tattoo

(This is a piece I wrote in response to a "quick write" assignment in the kickin' online writing class that I am taking under the tutelage of one of my all time favorite editors and writers Aerial Gore. I am working on getting the first six or seven chapters of my Mama C Single Mother/Adoption/Conception memoir mapped out during this course. So far the writing is going exceptionally well, and the feedback has been wildly encouraging. Stay tuned...)

It is the shape of Africa smoothed over one too many times by a rolling pin. It is not a tattoo, but a birthmark on Sam's right temple. He doesn't see it, but the world does. If I have anything to do with it, he'll incorporate into his identity as a source of pride, and not a undesirable splotch of pigment. It is from his birthmother, and for that I imagine he will feel grateful and proud if I continue to do my adoptive mother job right. The herniated belly button that was the result of shoddy workmanship on the part of the delivery doc, most likely noting the medicaid arm band on his birth mother, and the color of the child's skin as reason not to worry, to hurry through this one. His pediatrician now tells me we can fix it, so it doesn't stick out so much if kids start to tease Sam about it looking like that. I figure he'll be picked on for being black, when I'm not, and fatherless, and adopted, but not for that belly button. He'll just turn the other cheek, let his African tattoo catch his would be tormentor's eye and close his gym locker door with a little more power than usual this time.

Anticipation

Zooming through the grocery store for the essentials; ice cream sandwich incentives (more for me then them) milk, bananas the fruit little fingers can feel in control of, and a cheater chicken I am stopped in my track by the poster box. There right in front of the check out madness is Obama smiling with one arm up waving away, and that "what don't I have to smile about" look on his face. The title in red on the top says "Destiny". Underneath is his quote; "Destiny is not chosen for you, you choose your destiny," or something to that effect. The box is almost empty. Obama is sitting right smack in the middle of the impulse buy territory and he is being snatched up. I want to buy one for the house, my classroom, the car! I pause when I realize that had it been another president a few years back I would have found the mere presence of that box an irritant in my shoppping flow--an old shoe in the middle of the stream I was trying to cross.

The boys' daycare announced they are going to figure out a way to broadcast the inauguration. Sam informed them that he has plans to see it with mommy at her school, because "Obama won and he looks like us." He is right on all counts. He is going to watch with me and the eighth grade house. His fan club, the basketball boys are competing already for who gets to sit next to him. I wonder which part of it he'll remember more? My currwent fascination is Obama's inaugural poet Elizabeth Alexander. I have read everything by her I can get my hands on, and find it infinitely satisfying to read her over and over again making my way into a line or stanza. Emancipation is the title that I read with my students, if I had more time I'd post it here. Her web site it easy to find.

The morning parade has to begin here in a minute on five degree morning. I'm back to work with Marcel's ear infection and conjunctivitis miraculously under control in less than 24 hours. How did a single mother keep a job without antibiotics?

It isn't a dream is it?

The Call

At 1:15 the little cell phone rang--which is unusual mostly because I never have the ringer on. And the good Mama would like to say I had it on intentionally, but that would have been a lie. It was my brother calling to let me know that "We're not going to make it," he said with a little flabbergast around the edges, "Sam is inconsolable. I'm bringing him home." Before I have time to fully wake into what time it is, and what this must have meant for both of them over the last 45 minutes or so, I am saying, "OK OK" and hanging up the phone.

In seconds all of the implications are jumping up and down on the mama brain screaming for attention; Are they taking a cab, or walking home in the 17 degree icy air? Should I call and say leave Sam's suitcase (he has to pack the bright pink camouflage thing for every overnight adventure but don't forget the blankie!!!!!) and carry Sam. Did he try to cuddle him? Rough housing doesn't work at 1:00am... Did Sam want him too, or did he just need to come home. What could I have done to prepare them both better for such a meltdown? Anything? Probably not. Should I not have packed the picture of me, really as a joke, but did it backfire and make him feel farther away then just up the street? How awful for Marc to have to bring him back now--he has a cold and he must feel like he wished he could have come up with the magic phrase to soothe Sam back to sleep. Shame. How do I tend to Sam's shame at not being able to stay and applaud his courage in telling Uncle I just have to go home. Minutes later, Sam in his PJ's and day clothes, boots and spaceship silver winter jacket sits on the little trampoline crumbled up. Marc unzips the suitcase to find his blankie without anyone asking, he loves Sam so much, he wanted this to work more than Sam or even I did I realize instantly.

"Mama can I go in your bed? "Sam asked half asleep, and clearly uncertain of his world for the moment.

"Of course of course. Go. I'll be right there. Quietly baby. Don't wake your brother..." I answer trying not to smother, wanting to smother.

I thank Marc, quickly, words are not in order now. We'll talk about it when we can find a moment without Sam, maybe online, maybe in code while they throw a football in the living room as I do dishes and Marcel pulls books off the shelf.

The baby wakes up the minute I have Sam in my arms whispering; "I love you, Sam." There isn't time for everything else, but I know he needs to hear it, because his eyes are WIDE open as he stares at the space right over my shoulder.

By the time I come back from soothing Marcel back to sleep, Sam is snoring safely snug back in his comfort zone for the moment. I don't have anyone to admit this to, but I'll sleep better now too. Moments before I drift away I have this awful realization that phones call at 1:15 am will not always be so easy.

What 2008 brought us...

1. The first time I can easily buy a calendar with a joyful black man on the front for our kitchen.

2. Two thriving, beautiful, fanatical children who grow more in love with each other daily, and who seem to be figuring out how to put up with me as well.

3. Several times my name in print. Magazines this year, and hopefully more of the same, if not something even juicier in the years to come.

4. My brother established and staying put in Maine. (At least as far as I know..) A growing relationship with him for me and the boys. This is something I have always wanted since he moved away over ten years ago.

5. A new address for the crack dealers next door. It took four years, but finally I feel breathing room and a much larger safety net around our home.

6. A new appreciation for my students, the work we all do together and my capabilities as a teacher. A grant that I wrote that was just funded for my classroom, and a new mentee to help me in the spring.

7. A farewell to a friend Linda "We can do this" Mansfield, a colleague Scott Pease, my students' brother James Angelo, Eddie's Uncle in Haiti, a legend Paul Newman, and my dog Lily (who is enjoying another life in New Hampshire).

8. My 40th birthday. And, I must say that I love this decade so far. I feel easier on myself. Things are less pressing, less complicated.

9. New connections. FB and my online writer's group that is beginning, and one of my single mama list serves are the moments of "ambient awareness" (thank you Kerry) that deliver me from the confines of a single family household in Maine with humor and embrace over and over again.

10. My inner chef! I cooked some kick-in cuisine this year. By the time my boys actually eat what is on their plate they will have something to be happy to eat!

11. much closer to believing something called a relationship might come into my life one day. Before the year ends that relational status category's going to be popping up with a little red heart for me too. It didn't happen this year, but it will.

12. Friendships that have carried me and knuckle one and two to this moment in time with so much help and support. A special shout out to our Eddie who is moving out of her role as nanny, and into her role as our Eddie who lives in a warm place now... From before the baby entered the stratosphere until now she has been our savior and our sister.

13. The belief that alignment is possible. 2009 is for allowing it to happen.

Under the tree

I am the first one up. I think that has been the case since I was three. The boys are both sound asleep in my bed, a common place eventuality over here. Nana is here, arrived safely from Virginia and is as I had suspected she would be, sufficiently dazzled by the dynamic duo I am raising well. I rarely give myself the chance to acknowledge this fact, this feat. My friends ask me all the time "How do you do it?" or even better, "You are doing an incredible job with them, they are terrific kids, and full of joy and life, and..." They tell me, because they know that I do it because they help me in so many ways. And yet, I also do DO IT alone in other ways at the end of each day. So as a Christmas present to myself, on the day where another mother is often celebrated peripherally (she had that manger looking tidy and welcoming before those kings arrived even id she had just given birth I bet you), I want to put it out there, that though I am not always as patient as I would like to be; "Sam PUT HIM DOWN NOW!" and though I should spend less time cleaning the house, and more time messing it up with them-I'm a fine mom. Look at that tree--oh not that one--why it scans in all blue is beyond me--the one in the other room. It is ripe with expectation and possibility. My economy (to borrow a line I read on another post somewhere) is thriving with possibility. I manage the money I have well, and my time just well enough. I am for today anyway, navigating the waters of situational poverty with grace and style. My children have their needs met--emotionally, physically, intellectually, and presents under-the-tree-ally.

Marcel is scrunching and twisting--his signature pre-waking bell. Sam will this morning, uncharacteristically wake easily when reminded what day it is... Nana is up well rested and ready to participate in the frenzy. Time to boil the water for the instant coffee, and text the big brother to get himself here as soon as he is able. He's bringing the stuffed bird, and the cranberry sauce. Mom and I made the pies. (We're having the Thanksgiving meal we missed while he was at sea--promises to surpass the turkey burgers and supermarket pie I pulled off instead.) Our blessings to all. Merry Christmas.