Iodine, Bread Crumbs, and Worry! Oh My.

What was she thinking?
Throwing the routine upside like that?

That is what Sam must have been thinking tonight.

When I asked Uncle to do bath and get them to bed.
(Something about that iodine test today, mixing up with this week's overall discomfort turned my stomach into a cauldron of upset.)
I needed to lie down.
Read the New Yorker.
Breathe.
Instead of hang over a bath tub distended and snappy.

Reassured them with hugs,
sweet night night kisses and smiles.
Mommy's fine I just need to go night night first tonight.
How fun to have Uncle put you to bed?

Sam appeared fine with this at first.
The first three requests to sleep in my bed,
were handled with firm resolve.

But this one, at 11:45?
With the screams and the pleas.
With Marcel climbing over me awakened and afraid-
this was hard.

Uncle got Marcel to sleep-
as I cuddled with Sam in the blue chair
the external womb chair
the nothing can touch me here chair
the no matter what I am safe chair.

and I listened.

Like Grettle searching for crumbs to find her way,
our way home.
In the dark, afraid.

Last night in that chair he answered-
You know everything about me mommy.
When I asked him how things were going?
In a rare quiet Mommy-Sammy-Marcel-is-already-asleep moment.

Last night in that chair when asked if he could change
just one thing in the world he says;
I wouldn't be the only brown skinned boy in my preschool class-
if it were different it'd be better for me.
To which I could only agree and say thank you for telling me.
(Told his teachers,
and brought in books from home with everyone brown like me
for circle time too.)
Next year in kindergarten, it will be so different you'll see.
But mom, I don't want to wait that long.

Remember who looks just like you?
I know mom, Obama, and he is the president.
But he doesn't go to school with me.


Tonight I listened to his deep breaths
and his soft sobs
and I said that I was going to be fine
and all I meant when I asked Uncle to put him to bed
and to let me have some quiet time was that my body felt sad
and needed some time alone.

Oh.

This he understood.

The other ten ways I tried to explain it did not make sense.

and that did?

Huh.

He went right up the ladder to his bed, and to sleep.

Just like that.

Attachment? Adoption? Oedipal? Huh?

Worry? Frustration? Control? Huh?

The cat scan today with the iodine was meant to turn my insides into
a light board.
Reveal the mystery lodged back there in the right flank
that is refusing to move on, and let me be.
On Monday the doctors will decipher the clues
and tell me what's in store for that right flank and me.

Soccer game at nine thirty mom.

Time to put us all to bed-
the iodine
the bread crumbs
and the worry.

And I thought I had my bed to myself!

I'm just waiting on a stone...

I love this picture of me.
I took it before I went to the doctor today because I felt relief-

knowing that I was going to get some answers today,
brought that twinkle to my eye.
I wanted to capture it.

I won't take the post appointment shot-
it would be the bleary eyed red one.

Not because of what they said,
but because of all the things that they can't say.

We can tell you that it is one of the above.

It may be this, that or the other thing.

We can tell you that we'll know better after this test.

We can't tell you when you can have this test.

We can tell you to relax.

We can't tell you how to do that.

I looked at that sweet young man,
who I seriously doubted was old enough to have a driver's license
let alone an MD anywhere near his name,
and I thought how proud his mother must be.

The not knowing when your pain is going to be resolved
is like parenting.

I am reasonably certain my children
will grow into compassionate,
well intentioned,
intelligent beings,
who respect themselves, and others.

I will hope that the decor of the principal's office
will not be something either of them will be able to recall with any certainty.
Law enforcement altercations will be as foreign to them,
as not calling me on the weekends from their college dorm room.
These are reasonable requests,
that will take years to be processed.

That I was informed it would take two to three weeks
to get in for a test that my doctor ordered; "STAT"
is an unreasonable reality to me.

What does one do with that?

Where two begin?

Two is here.
Marcel navigated the journey with grace.
In that graceless way only a two year old can.

He insisted that he was five all day.
He ate donuts.
His nose the river ran faster than we could.
He loved his new Lego firetruck.
He didn't share.
He screamed a lot.
He jumps from the furniture.
His head.

In between the morning gathering with one little friend
and several big ones,
and the evening gathering with family extended
I made it to the ER for a kidney stone or two.
There I was in the same hospital where I delivered Marcel
two years before.
For a much shorter stay with much less to show for it when I left.
(Drink lots of fluid, takes lot of Advil. Wait.)
The free socks were old lady beige this time.
Pink when you are a new mom.
White after a miscarriage.

Home alone today
in a droopy silence.
Exhausted from the pain,
and the joy
and the eventuality
of the unspoken.

When Sam turned two my body was a lean plank,
my hair long,
my heart so full-at least that's what I see in the video
we all watched together the other day
to remind the big brother
how he was when he was two too-
and how much more he can do
now at nearly five.

Growing up is hard you know.
Especially when your little brother fits in to your spider man rain boots from the bag downstairs
the boots you didn't even know you ever had,
which makes it even harder to let someone else have them now.
Someone who has already opened one present today.
Enough already.

I look at that radiant woman
only two years into motherhood.
And I see someone so able,
beautiful and willing.

A woman who seems oddly foreign to me now.
Transformed by a pregnancy
and the loss of 4000 hours of sleep-
over five years.

She is the woman in the cubicle next to me
who I listen to all day, but we somehow never managed to connect.

No, she's right here,
underneath the kidney pain,
and the grief of letting go of the baby for the big boy now.
She's on the pages of the Hip Mama magazine
arriving today in the mail.
She's in between the pages of the new vegetarian cookbook
and on the underside of the magenta petals of the farm picked flowers Louise gave me last night
to celebrate me in the middle
of Marcel making it to two with so much graceless ease.

Poets with runny noses

Home with two sick boys today.

Green, the operative word is green.
I'll spare you any more details.

On the way back from picking up party supplies at the store-
in an effort to pretend we are not that sick...
Marcel says;

The football with that man is in the happy sunlight
and the sun makes my body feel right.

Of course he was looking at a homeless man
holding something
football shaped in a brown bag--
but to Marcel-
pure light!

Before that he made blueberry lego muffins
for Duckie and "MarSammy" his baby doll.

He turns two on Sunday.

fair is fair (with Mama shoe flair)

It's not fair when I:
rub his brother's back for longer than I rub his.
give Marcel a kiss first.
Cuddle with him longer.
Sleep in my own bed, alone.

It's not fair when I win at a board game,
in fact it feels like a complete breech to his nervous system if I do.

It's not fair that his brother's birthday comes first. It would help if he could get presents too. That would feel fair-er.

What is fair is the fair.
Rides by himself because he can.
Rides with his brother because his brother can't
alone.
A giant order of cotton candy for dinner, because
I said he could buy what he wanted
with the money he earned
sleeping in his bed five nights in a row.
Watching motorcycle snow mobiles lift into the air
over a giant pile of dirt,
and horses pulling riders in unison.

What is fair is asking for the toy trumpets to disappear
for the car ride home if they want to ever see them again.

All of this negotiating and rewarding
and noticing is making me very, very tired.

I suppose that's fair.

And on the 7th day...

Just a quick update to tell you that the bunk beds
are a huge success.
Stats:
13/14 combined nights of sleep in the beds all night.
1 falling event to the ground from the bottom bed
1 self selected painting event with poster paints
23 pillow fights
0 regrets

Considering that I came in and rearranged their room, removed the only beds either of them remembered essentially, put an end to sleeping with mom, and turned two sleep times into one (Marcel used to go to bed 1/2 hour before Sam) this is an amazing report eh?

Edgy

Without all the help that I am so accustomed to
my, our edges start to show.
Support is something I'm so good at-anticipating,
asking for, and lining up.
That this late September/ October breach to the system
has walloped me.
Left me here at 4:30 am wondering
Just where did everybody go?

Inventory:

One family moved across the country-
I counted on them for humor,
play dates, and advice.
Their loss is a low constant ache
that you cease to medicate.
A facebook wave, an address on an index card
I keep meaning to write.
We drive by your old house,
feelings of longing swirl around your driveway
with the leaves.

Then love swooped one away,
with a new career, and a house.
Changes we applaud and celebrate.
I know things will even out,
you assure me of that and how soon
we'll land back squarely on your plate.
Your tenderness and ease,
your patience, the way you make everything
great! is profound in it's absence as of late.

California.
For five weeks.
A cave it will take that long to find our way out of.
You are missed.

School started.
Senior year.
We miss the you living downstairs
the organic knowing that you are
always here.
Of course you are always.

Uncle's under pressure.
Work demands.
Time has new boundaries.
in this there needs to be some limits on nephew land.
Mom doesn't quite know where to land.
Trying not to mis-understand.

Our upstairs family
lured downstairs for homemade cookies and a check in.
Graduate school, and the new curriculum
were also at the table then.
I miss kick boxing, and
the long walks.
Dinner plans, and the mint we were going to
watch swirl around in the ice.
My kids taking over your home
while I wrote a story or
organized my life.

A relationship that was so reliable and easy
before one became two
This is a miss unlike the others.
It involves missing myself
as only I was with you.
Twenty plus years in the making.
There was no me the mom in the middle,
no elephants to tip toe over consistency and negotiation.
A larger miss, missed, missing.

And then there are the unanswered emails
and calls not because we are no longer important
or even desired company.
Things come up.
Family time takes precedence.
People do have other friends too.
Other friends have needs too.
Schedules just don't allow for impromptu
the way they used to.
I am as much to "blame" as you.

I remember the twenty-four people
crowding the room at Sammy's adoption-day celebration.
How the judge was noticeably moved by this single mother's
extended family.

And I don't have time to tell you all-
Until I wake up at 4:30am in this I miss-You-state.
and write about it in my BLOG
that I miss you.

And it is hard.

It is or was September after all.

Such a shift for everyone.

Or, an opportunity,
one could say to make new friends.
Create other kinds of support-
to follow up the calls to those two girls
from the high school looking for babysitting work.
Accept the offer for the cup of tea.
Call the friend of the friend who is a single mother too.

I did after all really enjoy the weekend-
at the soccer game alone.
The walk and roller blade in the rain to harvest
the harvested tomatoes at school.
The satisfaction of putting the boys down to bed
successfully twice.
And the visit that I finally arranged with the triplets in the park.
The two crock pot meals
that I thought were delicious anyway.

I can move beyond this inventory,
beyond the I miss you.

Hip Mama.... if only

Even though two of my poems are included in this, the newest issue of Hip Mama, it is hard to feel hip in my tired old bones today.

But please CHECK OUT this issues, and BUY IT online www.hipmamazine.com or at your local bookstore and hip bodega. It is their creativity issue which makes me feel particularly HOT no matter what.

Bunk bed update: two nights in, and two nights out for Sam. Marcel has mastered the art of the lower bunk--as long as you never put covers on him, and remember the socks. As long as you rub his back, and not his head. As long as you sing the alphabet song, or Swing Low, but not Summertime. These are this weeks requirements.

Sam, well Sam needed to paint the bed apparently. Poster paint. Green. All over the bed, the floor, and Marcel's lamb. He said it was his, and he wanted to paint it. I was so flabbergasted I didn't even react. I just handed him the warm wash cloth and he got to work. This didn't improve things, made it worse actually. But, it allowed me time to go sit in the other room, and breathe.

I do a lot of that to avoid yelling.

It worked last night.

It's not even a pretty green either.

His logic; "Mom you said I could paint it." (What I said the night before was--Sure we can paint it some day--we'll go pick out paints together if you'd like. )

Translation: Mom, as I become wiser in the world, and can handle language like play dough I am going to explore some more limits with you. Are you ready?

Uncle took the boys to the park so that I could take a nap (Sam woke up four times last night to ask for reassurance that he was supposed to sleep in his bed )before a meeting I have to go to this evening.

Instead I run to the blog.

Because I had to tell you about the green paint, and the fact that the gentleman I have been dating for a few months is leaving town for the weekend to play the part of an invasive beetle to educate people at a country fair.

So this weekend I can say that I am dating a beetle, and it would be the truth.

In some circles that would seem incredibly hip.

Bon nuit*

They are both sleeping.
Sam on the top, and Marcel on the bottom bunk.
The crib is in pieces against the wall in my room.
An era ends.

I sat against the wall on the cushion for ten minutes in the dark, with just the glow of the basketball night light to bathe them and me in this sweet passage together that we are making.

We read three stories.
A picture book with both on the bottom bunk.
A chapter book with Sam in his bed,
and Marcel in my lap.
Another picture book with Sam dozing off above,
Marcel next to me in the bottom.

By the third verse of Summertime,
Sam was snoring.
Marcel ten deep breaths behind.

I'm feeling so much success at this moment.
Two boys arriving so in tact here.
At almost five and nearly two.

And tonight I remember how deep was my longing
to have a child come into my life.
The longing never landed in an image of me there on the floor
looking up at the two of them sleeping
listening to their symphonic breathing
holding their emerging dreams in my heart.

(*This post dedicated to Uncle to whom this particular
milestone being realized is attributed to.)






































Sam helping with the drilling (top). The boys testing the top bunk out (above) and one of my all time favorite pictures of me and Sam taped to his headboard in case he wakes in the middle of the night and needs to see me.

Donuts for Dinner, or You're not My Real Mom.

He has been gone on an impromptu-post soccer game-
play date for several hours.
This in itself is new, and I am eager to hear how it went.
He is striking out in the world on his own,
dribbling down one field after another.

The doorbell rings, he bursts in, and before I can say hello-

You are not my real mom.

This he announces as he sits on the big blue chair,
the overstuffed cuddle chair,
the Marcel nursey-nigh-nigh chair,
the bedtime story chair.
the one we call safe when we are playing in the house.

Kneeling as I help him untie his show, and take a second to gather
my thoughts, and to hush my oh-no-he-didn't-just-say-that-feelings.

I am prepared to answer this, this time.
I have practiced this one.

Does it feel like that sometimes? I begin.
Does it sometimes feel like you have two real moms?
Me, your real everyday mom, who loves you
every moment of every day-
and your real birth mother who carried you in her tummy and
brought you into the world?

He sticks his fingers in his ears, and in a sing song-y voice;
I can't hear you. I can't hear you.

This was not in the version I practiced.
Which part is too much to hear?

I can wait, I say. I rub his knee, I grab his foot.
I can wait to tell you how much I love you, until you are ready.

He jerks away for a second to deliver; You're not my real mom.
When you die you are not going to be my mom any more.

Death, abandonment, and adoption related identity integration
and individualization on a Saturday afternoon.
Who isn't prepared for that?

I breathe. I picture myself back in the family therapist's office,
I give myself a moment.
I get up, and sit with him now.

He is waiting.

I am your real mom. I love you the way only a real mom does.
I will always be your real mom.
[Birth mother's name here] will always love you
and be your real birth mother.
Death will not change that.

He shifts away, and then looks right in my eyes-
which I realize is so rare-to tell me-ask me all at once;
But you can't talk to me when you die.

I take his hands, and gently squeeze, Not like we are taking now.
But, I will always be in your heart.
And when you need to talk to me, I believe that I will still hear you in a way.
I talk to my Godfather all the time ( Uncle Dick's picture hangs on the wall near us)
And although he can't talk back, I always feel better after I have said what I needed to.

How come I can't have a donut for dinner? Don't we have any left?

It is now safe to jump off the blue chair.

Of note...

Stealing a few minutes at 3 a.m.
The beginning of the new school year is just like that.
The blog calls to me in a voice overshadowed
by the seventy or so other voices
that land every September in bold force into my orbit
with a volume I am never quite prepared for.

A stellar landing though.
With NASA like ease and precision
we managed to arrive in the school year
with nary a bump on Fall's solid ground.
The family was ready.
I take full credit for this one.

Of note: Sam's return to the barbershop
and my refusal to let him be cut
by anyone other then our barber
even though two seats sat open.
As far as barbershop etiquette goes
I can tell you that I stood about ten feet tall telling the owner
he'd like to wait.

Pause.

You were too rough on him last time.
You made him cry.
It took us a year to come back.

You could almost hear the lollipops in the basket saying;
No she didn't just tell him that.

Sam rested his forehead on my shoulder.

The other barbers looking from me to the owner with eyes wide and wider.

And then the most amazing thing,
besides me finding my mama bear in the middle of barbershop
where few mama bears even ever dare to go-
was his response-

kneeling down in front of us both
the man who keeps a baseball bat under his mirror that
is not meant for hitting leather
says I'm sorry Sam.
I didn't mean to upset you man.

Talk about rising to an occasion.

When we left
Sam says Mom I look good.
I like it there.

Oh yeah, how come?

I don't know

Is it because you look like everyone in there?

Yeah. And they cut my hair and it looks good.

I do too, I tell him.
But I didn't used to.

How come?

Because now I feel like they know me Sam, and don't mind it
when I come in the door too.
They like us both now, not just you.


Running for the playground, looking so good
despite the unruly mopped little brother running after him
I can tell Sam knows exactly what I mean.

***

Also of note-the Adoptive Families September/October issue
is now at the store(s).
Let me know how you liked it if you saw it.
Let me know if that is what brought you to this blog.
(See link to the right. And if you click on the "home"
button once you get there-you may eventually see the actual piece on line.)

Hip Mama Magazine-issue 44: Creativity
is carrying two poems
and a photo. Due out in a few weeks too.

Of note:
Sam's first official, uniformed, coached, and refereed soccer game
(and I use all the above terms as they are intended in the Under Six league)
was a definitive WIN to him.
And me, in my soccer mom debut.

I have that kid.
I have the one who scores three goals, in ten minutes.
I have the kid who knows which direction to dribble
and knows how to dribble.
I have the kid who makes the sport
look like butter melting on hot early September sweet corn.
Yes I am the mother of that kid.

And he has the mother who hollers, and claps,
and jumps a few inches form the ground when she does.
And he has the mother who directs him to thank the coach
after the game (so she can hear the coach say
in a British accent for added impact)
Lad, you are really switched on.
If you keep working this hard
you'll be really really good at this game.

I am the mother who sees herself at her son's gold medal ceremony-
a little prematurely.

***
Of note:
My remembering to find my way to yes
as the therapist suggested and what a remarkable difference it has made:

Sam: Can I have a popsicle?
Me: Yes, you can have one after dinner.
Sam returns to the train table.

What is unremarkable here-the conflict.

What is remarkable here-the lack of conflict.

That exchange used to take minutes.
I would say "No you can't have a popsicle it is dinner time."
and he would say...
Why can't I-It's not fair-Last week I-You said I-Just one please-At Grammy's I-Please-
I said please-My brother got one when he was sick...

Or something like that.

Now I don't engage in that.

And it took a week or so to get it right
to reset the stage for positive interaction
instead of the NO reaction.
And look at all the space it creates on the Sammy-Mommy scene.
We find so much more ease together in the YES.

***
Of note: I am dating still.
And when I asked him if it is daunting to date a woman
with two young kids
(who he met briefly once,
and for a long while we'll just leave it at that)
he said Yes, shouldn't it?
and But you are a package deal and I know that.
How Librarian a response.
(As in a Libra, albeit one who is very bookish and cute.)
The cast iron medley of roasted vegetables,
and apple fritter he cooked were notable too.
Flavored just so with lingering lines like;
Just so lucky to have met you.

Round and Round

Hula Hoops hang in the air
around him like dancers in flight.
I can do three he claims, and he's right.

School began again-easier this time.
It is always easier.
I love watching them walk in my room on day one.
I love their faces revealing
the mystery the wonderment:
Who is this lady?
Is she nice?
Who are those kids all over her wall?
Are they her children?
Will I be seen by her too?

For Sam a promotion of sorts-he is the oldest preschooler there.
Marcel stepped up to "Toddler B" the youngest in his class. "I in new room Mommy with big kids too."

It's all new, it's all the same.
Practice.
We practice transitions.
We practice new beginnings.
We practice holding onto expectations, and then letting them go.
We practice so that we don't have to practice as much.

Summer is so big, takes up so much space at the four season table.
I'm not as beside myself as some, that she is finishing her desert.
She makes such a raucous with her plans, and little trips, long evenings, and her endless requests for ice cream, and photo opportunities.
Her laughter incessant.
She never goes to bed on time.

So, Fall can relax a little into her own,
now that summer's cleared her pit strewn plate.
Even if she comes back to say goodnight,
we can exhale a little as we shift and notice
the shimmer in Fall's auburn hair.

Caught

With my sandal in the summer,
and my Mary Jane in the fall.

As a mother mama writer with sun drenched skin who makes time.

Who makes sand castles and cupcakes.



Who makes loons out of pigeons.

Who makes observations around the edges.

Who makes changes when it isn't working.

Who makes space for him to tell me when he just can't handle it.

Caught with a list of to-do's to do today for tomorrow
when it all begins again
And a summer to laze around in-in my head instead.

Caught myself last night resenting what he just couldn't handle
as I looked around the room of eight women gathered
for our End of Summer Salon
my poets, my writers, my playwrights, musicians, my artists, my friends-
my son there too, next to the other poems in my lap.
My little muse, my constant rough draft,
witnessing why the Moon is Always Female*
in a four and a half year old way.

Caught a holy mackerel on Monhegan, he told his teacher this morning.
Sam caught a big fish in the water his little brother added.

*The Moon is Always Female by Marge Piercy read at the Salon/Book Launch last night

Grabbed

If I were a child, she said, I would want to hear how I was adored, and cherished, and grabbed up the moment my mother first laid eyes on me.

I listened carefully.

Retell the story, she said, and let him know that he was not placed in your arms gently.

I listened and recast the moment in my own memory--dispelling the doubt and the fear I had, replacing it with an image of an eager and brightly lit me, bursting into her room, and scooping him up, tight to my heart in a whirlwind with no doubt between us.

And I have.

Retold the story to Sam many times since I met with the therapist a few weeks ago.

And it seems to be grounding us both.

I have just ordered Holly Van Gulden's Learning the Dance of Attachment (http://www.danceofattachment.org/Books.html) at a friend/adoptive mother's strong suggestion. I will share my findings here, when I have read it.

To The Lighthouse

To Marcel the lighthouse is big. To Marcel the world is a place to conquer. Language has erupted. He hears the word once, he practices it. Then, it is his.

When he saw this photo he remarked; Look! This is Mah-cell in front of a big big BIG lighthouse. Then Mah-cell fell down on the beach got wet and no eat Mah-cell acorn. In those sentences he recapped the walk we took together yesterday to Ned's Point in Mattapoisett, Massachusetts. He looked some more, and laughed out loud. Then, No Sammy stroller-walk, just Mommy and Marcel. His choice to tell me this reminds me--how rare and important our alone time-out in the world is too.

The narrative ended with; I saw a bunny too mom, and then the bunny went home, and so did the seahorse. The seahorse is a reference to Salty the 25 foot high seahorse that welcomes visitors to the town. He stayed awake just long enough to say goodbye to Salty as we drove home yesterday. Marcel's sense of time, relationship, and the order of things, is like the lighthouse-ever present and BIG.

At daycare I was too tired for tact, so I blurted out that he had essentially potty trained himself over the weekend--I go potty now please Mommy he called to me at four this morning. His diaper was dry. I obliged him with the diaper removal, and he took care of business. He spent the last three days, annoucning the like, and in most cases, following through with great success. The director responded beautifully as always-informing me that his teachers felt that he was ready to transistion to a new room a little ahead of schedule. This means a potty next to the room. This means a class of other potty training children. This means an end to the diaper era in a few months. This is a joyful thought.

Lists, Leaps, and Longshots Landing

Summer is a list:
Fish off the pier, check
Pee in potty, check
Article in magazine, check

Summer is a leap:
Inches marked on a door frame
Sentences where words were
His anger is about feelings he can not articulate, yet

Summer is a long shot:
How about coffee? I'll be the one with a book in the corner
Submit your query to...
Honk if you believe in health care

Summer is a landing:
into brotherhood
into mother-writer and teacher
into this moment with a little less work

Sick is just what the doctor ordered

His fever in almost a moot point.

It was bigger then him, this time.
Flattened him for three days.
He didn't eat for two.

I worried. I pampered. I called the doctor. I worried some more. I googled all those scary mommy sites. Menigitis? Can you move your neck? Will you please just touch your chin to your neck. It is important. I dabbed cool cloth on hot skin. I administered the medicine, and charted the times. I kissed his burning forehead, and squeezed his toes to make the head ache go away. I woke him at intervals with the water and the straw; "just a sip, sweetie, just a sip." Then I held him asleep in my arms. I remembered to smile, and to tell him how strong his body was, and that his body would take care of itself soon. It was only a flu.

But, it was also a gift.

A chance to return for a few days to that place
where I was pure Mom. Where he was pure mama's boy.

We both needed that.

There was no increasing awareness of his birthstory.
There was no anger or rage.
There was no conflict.
There was no doubt about who was what when.
There was just a mother helping her son recover, well.

I am an excellent mom when you are sick.
He is an excellent patient.

I was packing some things in a bag when
I felt his arm around my leg.

A gesture that took me by surprise
in it's innocence-
or by it's absence.

Can I have another cracker?

I am so happy he's better,
and so thankful that we shared this sick.

With an Open Fist

My son's rage
is a fist curled tight
a foot stomped harder
a path carved by tears back
to a birth that was an end

before it was a beginning

It is common she said
for our children to experience rage
on a deeper level
to relive their loss in every loss

it is common she said
for our children to need more
reassurance that we are going
no where

We withstand their screams
deflect their arms raised
embrace their disintegration-
soothe their heart
and swim inside-beside
that pool of loss with them
to witness
what we can't touch

Sam arrived in my room
at midnight
and crawled into bed
with his eyes closed

Then he reached
underneath the pillow
in his sleep
to find my hand-
with his fist wide open

dedicated with gratitude to the six women gathered

Wild Blueberries and the Boys Who Love them

On a little island
on a little lake
in another state

One day is all takes

Picking blues
kayaks for two
who don't need shoes

Sam at the wheel
determination carved in steel
Going growing real

One day is all it takes

Night nights to the loon
whispers settle soon
boyhood eclipse the moon

Magazine Debut!

Here it is! The cover of the issue of Adoptive Families Magazine (September/October)that my article "True Love Times Two" appears in on page 23-the "Our Story" section. I am not certain if a link will appear to my story--but that is why we have book stores. It should be on the stands end of August. (I know it is available at Borders, and whatever the Borders equivalent is in the midwest, and west coast.) I am so pleased to have the piece here, and offer big thanks to Ariel Gore and The Wayward Writers for their editorial input! I will try to post a link on the right.

On Birth Certificates

It was what you would call a feel good moment-typing your son's name into the on-line soccer registration form. The feel good moment that often accompanies a long awaited arrival.

We have arrived at the age where one is old enough to play soccer.Old enough to mind the coach and kick the ball.Old enough to run the lap in the same direction as the rest of the team. Old enough to feel so excited about the new pink (yes pink) laces for the almost new soccer shoes.

After filling out three pages of essential information, paying the fee, and pushing print, I arrived at the little line that gave me a jolt. "All new members are required to mail a copy of their birth certificate to...". Into the closet, into the flame retardant orange box, I am looking for that envelope that I sobbed into the first time I held it.

I smiled at the little post-it I forgot that I had left there. In beautiful, feminine print with red ink it says; "I hope you have a happy mother's day." Those words from the clerk, in the office in North Carolina who received and processed my request for Sam's birth certificate. The documents from the court hearing that terminated the alleged birth father's paternity rights were the final piece that had to line up in order for that certificate to be produced. And, without it, my petition to finalize Sam's adoption in Maine would not have happened. Her pink script is not indicative of all of our communications, but a testament to her choice to see the finish line for a little family in Maine.

In my hand, I am stunned by how I react to seeing my name on the line where the mother is. Of course I am his mother, now, and from the time that he was thirty-six hours old. But it is not a Mothering Certificate, it is a Certificate of Live Birth. And, having done one of those too--I know how much I deserved a certificate for that! One deserves an ocean liner of them for carrying the child and birthing it too. Her name should be there in addition to mine.. (Of course I know that this was intended originally to protect the birth mother's identity which is not something I am in a position to address here--I am strictly addressing my feelings as an adoptive mother to share the stage with the biological mother's identity.) It is not just semantics, it is the importance of that document from the act of registering a four year old for soccer or school, to getting a passport, or proving that you are who you are.

Unlike most adoptive parents, I managed to procure the original one. So Sam will have both. Records of both of his births. His biological birth, and his birth as my son. They are not mutually exclusive. So, I would like them to both appear on this one all important document.

His birth mother and I share in the joy of his life. We do this actively through letters, emails, and calls. He is who is he is because of her and because of me. I would rename it "Certificate of Live Birth and Parentage." Then, the document could be a constant testament to the triad of adoption.

If only the people at the soccer league knew how much thought has gone into that little photocopy that will arrive in their mailbox tomorrow.

In my back woods

In my back woods
I was Nature Girl-
naming potato bugs
that I brought to their little desks made out of acorn tops
and pine cone bits
so I could call on them
at my potato bug school

In my back woods
I was seven-happy-and-eight too picking daffodils
swinging on vines
following the creek to the tunnel under the parkway

stopping before the waterfall down to the Potomac
stopping before Sasquatch got you-
or the naked man who they said
ran the woods at night-
or the teenagers who hid their pipes
in the roots of the giant dead over turned tree
in the red clay earth

In my back woods
I was Luke Skywalker
practicing for hours my powers
to make a stick levitate from the earth into my hand
with sheer will power
if I could channel the good side of The Force

(In my back woods
I was never Princess Leah
because my hair wouldn't roll around my head like that
it was too short
I looked more like Luke)

In my back woods
being alone and seeing a deer talk to a squirrel
or a fox sliding on the ice for fun
or the sun lick a red red berry
wasn't magical
it was just what happened there
when I was alone
not encumbered by all the things I know now
that would stop me cold
from venturing alone into the back woods.

Truck #54

Mommy wake up!
Wakeupwakeupwakeup.

Marcel is pulling at my hand.

He has crawled out of his crib-
the side remains down now
with a chair next to it
so that his escape route is safe.

Because Marcel has places to go

Like out the basement door
and around to the front last week when I was upstairs making dinner and Uncle was in the next room

The very helpful and relieved police officer
(relieved to see the described child in distress
seated at the table eating carrots from a bowl with his truck)
informed me that it was time to get a new doorbell-
since the neighbors tried to tell me that he was out front with a ring
before they called 9-1-1.

Twice.

When Uncle realized Marcel was out front
and not with me
before I realized that he was not with Marc but out front
he came to the rescue
long before Portland's finest.

But nice to know the neighbors are watching
when Marcel is on the move.
(Even if they did tell the policeman it had been half an hour
when it was closer to six minutes tops that
Marcel was at the front door waiting to come in.)

SHHHHHHH
Come here. Come here. SHHHH.
He yells with his finger up to his mouth
and his little garbage truck in his hand-
because you wouldn't want to scare
it away!

Dragged by my index finger out of bed
I wait while Marcel lifts up the curtain to reveal:

Truck #54

RIGHT THERE MOMMY
LOOK!

And I did.
And the trash men did too.
And we all waved and said hello-and thank you for the hard work that you do
And they smiled at Marcel
and he smiled at them
and then smiled at my pajamas
and the drool on my chin
and I smiled at the giant #54 in clean white type against azure blue
my favorite number reminding me
Start the day-don't let the day
start you.

Pom poms, Pubs, and Possibility!

Thanks to dear friends L&L and their brood for the indoctrination of the pom-pom jar. No sticker charts, no late night shopping for the promised reward, and everyone gets to play. Your total investment=.99c. Your reward is endless.

Buy a bag of pom-poms at the art store/dollar store. Put them in a clean glass recycled jar. Put another jar next to it. Introduce pom-pom concept to family like this:

Notice something stellar happening around you. Verbally acknowledge it; Pom-pom for clearing your plate without even being asked! Walk over to the pom-pom jar and take one from the full jar, and put it in the empty jar. Notice something else. Pom-pom for nice sharing Marcel!

Repeat pom-pom in jar step. Encourage everyone to notice pom-pom worthy acts.

Be particularly pleased when oldest son notices that you Did not yell at us all day! Pom-pom for not yelling mom! Let him place the pom-pom for mom's good choice(s!!) in the jar.

Fill up the jar with all of your families celebratory moments.

When someone has an idea about something fun they'd love to do reply like this; That's a great idea--how about go to Silly's for dinner when we fill up the pom pom jar? Smile when everyone yells; YEAH!

Catch: you have to do the thing. Like when you agree to RIDE THE DUCK when the jar is full, you really have to go, even though duck tickets are $24.00 for adults. (What is the Duck? Amphibious tour mobile. Half the tour on land, half around the harbor.)

Sam's favorite part about pom-poms is that you can throw them and no one minds.

Marcel's favorite-you can put them in your mouth and spit them out.

Mom's favorite=our good behavior runneth over!

Publication update: My article in Adoptive Families Magazine will be at bookstore near you at the end of August. They sent me the proof--and it looks marvelous. All the Borders will carry it, and just about any big bookstore you know of. Ask your local bookstore to carry it--it's an amazing resource every other month for the adoption community. And the folks there are doing good work, and are super easy to work with! I am working on a proposal for a more regular column.

The Lit Star Collective Anthology (with a forward by super star/ teacher / mentor Ariel Gore) is out, and looks dynamite. Reads well too! If you have the good fortune to be a member of my immediate family a copy is on the way to you. If not the link to purchase your own is on this site-over there somewhere. The collection is packed with fast reads from 15 plus talented writers. It will inspire your own writing, and amuse you. Please let me know what you think.

Two more pieces are being considered for two other anthologies, and just yesterday a cross your fingers it just may come true response from another editor about a series of poems to be published. Although she didn't commit, it looks hopeful. My goal was five publication acceptances in 2009. If all of these come through (and one more in an unknown zone at The Sun) that'll put me at six maybe seven this year. Pom pom for Mom for getting the work out there!

Possibility At another dear friends urging I have committed to "ten dates in July and August". And because I am not a frolic and blog kind of girl, I'm going to leave it at this: I take my commitments seriously. If my dating life is on the same trajectory as my publishing, 2009 will indeed be a year of multitudinous possibility.

Picture This

The two of you in the sand side by side
on your tummies
watching your questions unfold
how a seagull takes flight
how a roller coaster doesn't

During the week you grew closer still
a brown hand in a browner hand at the water's edge
side by side on the mini motorcycle carousel
your bodies forming a perfect T
in the twin beds pushed together
asleep to meet again on the back of the seagull at the top of the roller coaster
in your dreams

Where-did-Sammy-go? is now one word-uttered this morning in deep sleep
Answered by Sammy's snores a reassuring tuck in around
the edges


It is in your brotherhood that I take most of my parenting comfort
It is there that I can relax into the something-done-well

Later you will help each other
navigate
all the places I didn't know where
or is it how
to take you-
as you head down the street
with all the other lanky looking for something to cure the boredom boys
holding the ball,
tall,
dark,
curly,
determined,
powerful.

Ode to Marcel

How was I supposed to know-
that FEEEEEEEEEEET meant
you were not cold,
you did want a blanket,
you did not want your feet rubbed,
you wanted what at 4:38 am?

Do you want a pair of socks?
I ask in a frantic,
hair about to fall out kind of way.
"Yes" you reply in the sweetest of sweets
now you're back to bed,
and so are your cold
feet.

Midsummer Review

I was more nervous than he was.

In the bag is your lunch, extra clothes, just in case for any reason you need them, and water. Promise mommy you will drink lots of water?

Mom, I know.

Listen to the coach. He has a lot to teach you.

Sometimes he will be talking a lot, but you still need to listen, OK?

Mom, I know.

It is not about scoring, it is about learning how to be a team member, and passing, and most importantly...

Mom, stop talking please.

Right.

Sam is enjoying soccer camp.
Coach says he's doing fine.
Playing well beyond his years.
He is the youngest one there-so he has choice.

Coach says he has plenty of talent-
you just have to stay on him.

This will be the story of Sam.

***

Marcel is speaking in sentences.

Demanding the world be delivered instantly
with more and more syllables.

Un-cle are two of his favorite sounds.

Sam is less and less out of reach-
as a playmate, an ally, a friend.
This subtle transformation
is a chrysalis emerging
turning this baby and this boy into
brothers in flight.

***
This Mom is landing into something
stronger.

It is open, willing, and certain.

It is a voice with good posture.

It is a flat of hand picked strawberries in the rain.

It is corners without shadows.

It is permission to sit in the front row.

It is time.

ghost story

Mom there is a man creeping up right behind you
Sammy says to me after dinner the other night.
I turn around slowly
trying to pretend I am scared.
Noticing I am actually scared.
I get wide eyed and ask him
if he saw a ghost?
No and yes.

He is learning about ghosts.
They like the dark, not the light.
He asks me to talk like they do--make the wooo-wooo sound.
No, not like that! Like this, WOOOO WOOOO.
He wants to be afraid-
he doesn't want to be afraid.

He won't go into the little bathroom at night now
since he decided it was the perfect place for one.
This has resulted in several accidents.
I am planning on hosting a tea party
in the dark and inviting this ghost
so we can befriend it.
This will reduce the amount of laundry I have to do

His ghosts seem so small now
still wary of the light.

He doesn't have the ghost of his birth mother's
choice
to contend with yet.
The ghost of wondering what it would have been like
to have been raised by her,
to have been raised by the beautiful black woman
that shares your blood
and has your eyes
and all the what-else-ghosts
instead of me.

Or is she my ghost, still?

What about his birth father,
what will that ghost look like to Sam?
Will he be the kind that haunts him all of his life
from just behind the door to his identity
of himself as the man,
as the father one day?

Or will that be the ghost Sam meets head on
in his dreams,
or over the phone
when he asks him
how come he didn't want to be his daddy
when he could have been.