Alone time for Mama Duck

We managed it quite well this time-that holiday. This year we called it; "The Day of Fatherly Love" when we honor and celebrate all the people who love us in a fatherly way.

We made them pancakes, and gave them gifts we made at
preschool. We called some,and joined others at a baseball game.

We reminded each other that we do just fine the way we are--in this family that doesn't have one.

We listed all the people who love us, and who we love, and forgot for the most part that we were any different then anyone else. We asked if Uncle was our dad. We asked if our birth father was our dad. We asked about little brother's who don't have a birth father, and what does a donor do? We went to the park when we had asked enough questions.

Then it was time to do the hair. Sunday is hair night. Sunday is tangles, owees, combs, buzzers and popsicles.

Sunday was late to bed, and long, deep sleeps. In my dream I was evacuated from a plane in a lake on a dark cold summer's night. A giant loon appeared, and guided our raft to shore. Lakes and loons are harbingers of creative activity. The plane crash that wasn't a crash? Need a few more days to work through that one...

Monday is rainy listening to snoring children as I drink my instant coffee and imagine all the possibility of a safe landing... Monday is me almost kicking my heels in the air as I leave the kids at school for a day all to myself. Monday is a reminder to do nothing, as hard as that can be for me. Monday is for not making plans.

Monday is playing in the dirt, gardening in the rain.

I am off work for the summer.

I have two healthy, communicative, loving, whimsical, crazy, adamant, beautiful children to enjoy, nurture, rediscover, adore.

I have a nearly complete memoir and several pieces of published and soon to be published pieces out there in the world. I have so much more to say.

Of course it was a giant loon.

Poised

On the edge of summer time.
A watering can in one hand,
a bathing suit in the other.
The park concert schedule soaking under
the watermelon rinds on the counter.
After dinner park romps
in search of an ice cream truck and
a baseball game.

Poised on the edge of summer
when the wading pool, the playground
and picnics at the beach
tangled up in kite strings
are the closest thing we have to a plan-
a destination.

A foyer filled
with bike helmets,
baseball bats, and
boasts from boys
with dirt under their nails
and heroic intentions
to catch the ball and
dive my head under the water
this time.


Poised for summer with
seedlings to encourage
under the windows
to open
inviting in the soundtrack of
the season: from bees
brothers
and boom boxes
to come on in and make it official:

summertime and the living
is easy.

Look what the Yes brought in

When the raindrops hit the little pond in the park, they leave giant bubbles in their wake. Tossing cheerios to the ducks in the rain with Sam and Marcel, I noticed those bubbles, hundreds upon hundred of them with a childlike awe. Then the mama duck with the couldn't-be- much -older-than-a-day-brood rounded the corner and I felt this crazy empathy with her. (I try not to count how many babies are there--so I don't have to grieve her loss when I come down the next day or so, and see that she has less.) I always shout out my congrats to her, for her success in the hatching department. I still can't believe I ever birthed one, and welcomed another-and here she is with seven or eight..

Uncle is here. He lives here. He shares meals here. He is right downstairs. He says "sure" when I ask if I can pop out to the store. I went grocery shopping alone. I took my time. I carefully considered which fruit would ripen sooner, but not too soon. I did not get irritated when the check out line was slow. I rather enjoyed looking at all the magazines that I would never ever read.

Uncle is here. He installs things, and removes others. He says things like an "antenna is a passive device.." and then he explains what that means. He lets the boys climb on him, and each play the recorder really loud at the same time downstairs while I cook dinner. I cook dinners that require things that are fresh to be cut up, baked, stirred, dressed and steamed. I set the table for four and notice that the t.v. has not been on all day. This is the fifth meal that has not come out of the freezer.

Uncle is here. He notices when Marcel speaks in more and more complex sentences, and grins when Sam turns a new phrase. When Sam eats all of the fish on his plate without being coaxed , I am not the first to say something. Uncle is gone for hours with the boys at the diner, and the park helping them burn off the chocolate chips in the pancakes, and the jam packages consumed for fun. I come back from kick boxing, and walk around my empty house imaging all the things I would ask Uncle to help me with if he were around. And he is.

How long is Uncle going to be here? Is Uncle living here now? Will Uncle be here tomorrow? Sam had a couple of very rough days at school last week--right about when Uncle's arrival became a reality. I am imaging that all of this could be pretty confusing to a four and a half year old in search of order, control, and mastery of all things related. You know where the ball is when you throw it against the wall and it comes back. Uncle living downstairs is far less predictable.

And finally a note about no. Or should I say, and on a positive note, a word about yes. I am noticing how often a no, need not necessarily be. Inviting the yes back into the morning, the afternoon, and the night. Yes we can stop at the playground, and yes you can have a piece of gum. Yes we can read another chapter, and yes you can wear your pajamas all day. Yes you can run in that puddle, and yes doesn't mean I am losing control of the world.

Foghorns and Gongs

uncle's boat is miles from the coast
he's been three weeks
at sea.
his boxes are down stairs
where we'd like him to be
when is uncle going to live here mom?
eventually
and now
***

sitting across from the therapist
i describe sam:
social, active and athletically gifted
sensitive, stubborn and dramatic
he knows what he wants
and that is that

(god he sounds like me)

sitting across from the therapist
i answer the question
carefully
what brings you here?

a parenting check up.
an imbalance
a feeling at the end of the day
that Marcel gets all praise and kisses
as Sam gets NO NO NO
and perma-frowns for
near
misses

when a parent walks in the door
of a therapist's office as a
preventative measure
it must be like walking into the garage-asking
the mechanic what I can do to care for the car better,
in a way to avoid any
unnecessary wear and tear
to steer clear of a collision

walking home the words
sophisticated parenting
continue to ring sweetly

while the possibility that he is a lot like me
was more like a gong

Countdown

The countdown began
last weekend
on a visit to the beach
in Mattapoisett.

Grammy, Grampy, Uncle, Cellie and Sam
and I together for Memorial Day
felt an awful lot like that time
of year when Saturdays
turn into more Saturdays...
When ice cream is a legitimate
dinner food
When sand from the beach
replaces sand from the salt truck
on the foyer floor
When taking the bike out for a ride
is just a part of the day
not a planned event.
When a baseball game
is easily
stumbled
upon
and yesterday's picnic sack
is unpacked to make room for today's...

We're not there quite yet
as the 5:00 am cupcake cooking
for today's Civil Rights's Extravaganza and Bake Sale
attests.

But close enough
that we are meeting
friends for frogging this afternoon
and signing Sam up for soccer camp
and strategizing on all the ways
to normalize father's day
when you don't have
one.

Close enough
when your 20 month old utters
Catch the ball, in his sleep
and your four and a half year old
reminds you that there
is never a reason to wear anything other than shorts
as he plays his guitar on the stoop
waiting for you to get your shorts on
to go to the sprinkler park
and don't forget your wallet mom
in case the ice cream/dinner truck
should magically
appear.

Summer's very very near.

solutions

When crazy hair day is posted
as this weeks Friday activity
(last week was a picture of your pet,
the week prior a souvenir...)
you, the mother of the only
African-American child
in the preschool class
has the right to
pause
and consider
your approach.

Do you comment,
boycott,
suggest an alternative,
adapt
or educate?
You consider
each of the above
in three second
intervals
and land
on the combination
you are most familiar with:
adapt and educate

When your son's hair
does not invite
barrettes, gel, or braids
you have reason to consider
the value of
crazy hair day.

On the Thursday before
you mention to the teacher in your most
diplomatic
engaging
and cautiously insistent
voice that it would be appreciated if the class
could consider options for all kinds of hair
for success tomorrow.

Excuse me?

Well, crazy hair day can be a little
complicated for tight curly hair
like his.

A flash of realization washes over her face.

Oh my, I hadn't considered..

It's fine.
We'll figure it out.
They have hair sprays
you tell her, in pink and blue..

Your scour the shelves of the drug store
and explain to the manager
wearing the toupee
your predicament.
45 minutes later
as the groceries melt in the trunk
you find it,
the perfect solution
tucked behind the blush
and the tanning cream

***

Three days later and Sam still has
silver sparkle intergalactic eyeshadow
in his hair-
in five
long
Star Wars pilot Darth Vader
stripes.


It was a huge success.
and lasted longer then the braids,
the gel, the rubber bands and
all the other
Caucasian hair accoutrements.

Crazy.

Welcome Uncle

Uncle Marc moved in
downstairs.
A new era, as short or long as it is-
has begun.

Exhaling.

Cooking dinner
packing for the trip
to Grampy and Grammy's
en famile
tomorrow-
including Uncle.

Contacted three counselors
today, researching
the possibility
that Sam and I need an outside
hand to guide us through
those
bigger
moments
that seem to knock us both
off of center
collectively.

Guided my students
through new poetic
landscapes this week

they are so proud
of the territories they have
claimed
conquered
jumped up and down
all
over

Exhaling
into all of the good choices
we are making

color me finished

Last night was a celebration
today was frustration
laced with
humiliation and
shame.

That orange belt was taken away
from Sam
when he hit me in the face with his
karate attendance card
because he didnt want to
and i wanted him to

go to class

that's when they took his belt
without giving him a chance to
recover
uncover
discover

why a four year old hates karate so much

parenting on the fly, samantha called it
parenting in a panic i felt it

do i make him?
release him?
listen to his tears
when he screams;
i hate it-
i hate that it is so long
i can't sit so long

my son
needs
movement


i have learned to listen to sam
even when hundreds of years
of parenting wisdom
contradicts it

i have not learned how to handle being punched
outside of my home
when i said
no to a guitar lesson and a BBQ
because your behavior was so
rotten.

the parents who tried
to help sam,
and me
maneuver the tantrum
were so appreciated
the understanding smiles-
the outstretched hands

uncle arrived
at my tearful
beckoning

and rescued the afternoon
with a tennis
match
between them

samantha
returned the
breathless
call

and reassured
me that i
parented
well

alone
calmer they
left me

alone
to pack the lunches
and unpack
the indecision

graduate

My little ninja
prior to receiving his
orange belt.

Pride is a many color thing

Tonight it was orange.

An orange belt
followed by orange cake.

He was surrounded
by family and friends as he
proudly recited his champion
creed.

Only Saturday?

Kick boxed with Sarah
this morning while
Sam played goalie across town
with Uncle
and Marcel watched baseball
Helmet.
with Jay.

The farmer's market
for flowers.

Helmet. Helmet. Helmet.
and a nap.

I planted those flowers
while Sam watered them
with a pump action
squirt gun.
A few perennials.
Mostly annuals.
It's a source of so much joy
my 4x6 plot of possibility.
Even though
the bird bath never
has any
birds.

Then boredom
led to the box-
the cardboard box
from the two cases of diapers-
delivered

One box.
Two kids.
Several transformations including:
"A transformer that you ride in"
"A doughnut that you fly in"
"A tummy"
and then after they
"kicked it to get out"
"a soccer goal."

Helmet and Kick it and Ball and Obama
(Yes, it does sound like Mama)


In the car before dropping by our friends house
to deliver a get better melon
(you know how you draw a face on the outside
of the melon with markers and hand it to
the man who just got
home from the hospital because he had
a stroke and artery surgery
and tell him it is a get well melon, right?
OK so it was that or the pumpkin pie
that just came out of the oven.
Need I Say more?)

Before going in
I remind the child that
we are going to be great listeners
and quiet, and only stay long enough to deliver
our good wishes and a card.

He marches in,
hands off the melon,
forgets the man almost
died
and pounds out a few
songs on the piano instead.

In the car on the way home
he asks if he
is going to have a stroke too.

When he is satisfied with my answer
he says good-
because I want to have
three kids
and they will need me
to be their father
for a long, long, time.

Star Wars
popcorn
broccoli
talapia
and
pumpkin pie

goodnight
sparklers in the fog

Gratitude Day

Mother's Day
is Gratitude Day

for our family
birth family
donor

for our friends

and caregivers

for moments of self directed play
and long cuddles on a Mommy-Sammy-Marcel day

for frozen pizza ready in ten
for all of you who say, Sure? When?

for "not once have I ever doubted my decision"
a birth mother's words delivered with precision

for the desire and ability to write
for this blog, and Adoptive Families* for bringing it to light

for Sam who made me a mother 4.5 years ago-December
and who will not let me forget to remember

that the day to day with him and Marcel
is the necessary potion for the everyday-is -Mother's-Day spell

*this week I received a reply from the editor at Adoptive Families Magazine that they are interested in publishing a piece I submitted. It looks very promising.

Big Words

I hate you
he said.

(I had said no after all
No we can not go to the playground.)

I hate you,
and I don't love you too.

That was clear.

It hurt.

I thought I had eight more years before we had to navigate that one.

Then, in the car on the way home from
"baseball practice "
(aka t-ball introduction)
(which is next to the playground)
he informs me through
mouthfuls of pb&j
that the reason he yelled
(oh, and kicked me twice, and hit me in the head
with his mit)
was because he was hungry.
very, very, hungry.

As happy as I am that my son
connects his blood sugar
to his mood
I still could have done without it

that I hate you line
was still rubbing under my skin
pushing my heart
beats harder and closer
to the surface

later that night I realized
that the card we had written
to his birth mother
and mailed right before
practice might
have been more at play
then a missed opportunity to go down a slide backwards

Sam, it is OK to be angry and love her
all at once I say in a cuddle on the
big
blue
cuddle
chair

Would I be mad at
her because
she has three
kids and not
me growing up
with them too?

I hurt all over again,
but this time for him,
and for
her.

Yes, I think I would feel sad and mad
if I were you.
And I would love her
because she chose to bring us
together for everyday
and always too

Can we read a story now? he asks his
voice big and ready for something new

Yes, and Sam I love you.

I don't not love you anymore too mom.

***

recording it

Sam's words to Marcel on Saturday (I was around the corner folding laundry so you know he meant it): Marcel, I think that I am falling in love with you.
Marcel: shriek- followed by Oh-my-gosh.

***

I've finished another piece to submit out there to the publication ether. This one is about a miscarriage. I work-shopped the piece, and it's as good as it's going to get. At the moment I have two pieces, no three, waiting for a yeah or nay, and one in the warm up circle. The regular out-go feels so important and impressive. Lots of great staff feedback from the reading on Thursday.

***
This morning one of my students met me for breakfast and memoir writing. It's an over due assignment he needs help with for another class. I brought the bagel, he brought the material. He lost a family member last year to gun violence. I challenged him to make notes about that over the weekend. He came in saying that he was at a funeral over the weekend and it brought up all sorts of memories that were too hard to talk about.

Then, he started talking. I just listened. Fifteen minutes later his memoir was essentially written. It was the first time that he spoke about his brother's death in such detail to me, and probably to anyone. I typed down everything he said, as I remembered it. He looked over it, and made some edits. The piece organized itself on the paper. It was such an amazing testament to the power of listening, recording, and memoir. He was at least eighty pounds lighter when he left my room that morning. He described the way he feels about everything around him as in a cloud that only he can see.

***

I am not reading enough. I am trying to write, and not allowing myself time to read. It doesn't work that way. Sam and I completed our first chapter book, Stuart Little. He can now listen without pictures. I had no idea how much joy reading longer books would bring me. My father used to read Alice in Wonderland to me from a little leather bound copy with the silk ribbon bookmark, that I always got to place in between the pages. I could not wait for the moment that I would hear his feet coming down the hallway towards my room. His gentle gait. making it's way to me. His enthusiastic reading, his determination to bring Alice's magic into my room.

***

When I woke up this morning I wondered if I am making a difference in the world. At all. What is the point of my being here. Blogging tonight has reminded me that I am . A is off with the kids in the park--her Monday gift to me. An hour to myself, to do this, and make dinner, and prepare the lunches, and not yell.



***

the audience...

loved it.

i had an amazing reading.

wish you all had been there.

sammy was wide-eyed from the 6th row

marcel, as if on cue screeches MAMA in an otherwise silent room of over 300.

perfect.

We Your Boys

I had a great insight around the poem today, and it took a sweet leap of it's own.

We Your Boys

We Your Boys. We
Make noise. We

Nix naps. We
Log laps. We

Pass plates. We
Share traits. We

'Night Moon. All
grown soon.


When I removed June from the equation, the poem opened up and became about my family, and it became my poem. (We Night Moon, a nod to Goodnight Moon and our evening ritual) The "All grown.." allows for my twist to take up it's space... and for the poem and the children to "grow up" so to speak. In other ways the word choice is actually a much tighter response to Brooks.

Here's to poetry month.

***

Sam's preschool teacher told me that the entire classroom has actually "Settled down" with his return. His leadership there was missing. How about that.

Marcel now says "Oh my gosh," all the time.

I am wildly excited and nervous about the talent show.

On the Fly: Fast Fiction

NEW FLASH

Two of your favorite bloggin' single mama's creative non fiction pieces will be included in the upcoming anthology On The Fly: Fast Fiction. Great writing by many a talented writer I assure you. Consider your holiday shopping taken care of! More details to come. Stay tuned.

Dog Day

thanks to Lily for a sweet reunion day.
Talking about how your
dog
was placed
for adoption
essentially-with another family
because you were not able
to provide her
with the care,
attention,
love,
and time
she needs to thrive
made for some very
thoughtful
sentences
on my part.

Stay tuned for how
we continue to process
this one.

(Lily was visiting for the day
and will return
for a week
this summer.)

Sam remembers
her vividly
and loves her
dearly.

Tribute

At the upcoming faculty talent show
I am going to read again.
Black Enough had its
debut there three years ago.

This year I move
away from the free verse
poetry to new forms.

First I will read this little tribute to
Gwendolyn Brooks' poem
We Real Cool*

We Your Boys

We make noise. We
break toys. We

skip naps. We
run laps. We

clear plates. We
share traits. We

crave June. We
sleep soon.

***
Then one prose pieces-Tattoo
That appears here
in January I think.

***

*We Real Cool

The Pool Players. Seven at the Golden Shovel

We real cool. We
Left school. We

Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We

Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We
Die soon.

Over the hill

I made it.
Up the huge hill by the cemetery
twice.
On foot.
At a reasonable pace,
running.
On my right the markers of the mothers
and others laid to rest, for the long
haul.

After lunch
our last meal together
before she returns south
my mother wonders out loud-
if death is when we
just get to revel
in the moments
we missed enjoying fully
when they happen-
like Marcel feeding the ducks
yesterday.
I was nostalgic
about that time with him
when I was walking by the pond alone
this morning...
Why didn't I enjoy it more then?

That cemetery on my right,
and the airport
over the hill
and to the left reminded me
to keep my wings on-
so that I don't find myself
at rest
too
soon.

Wings for what?
That's what I wondered
as I ran up that
hill of promise
for the second time-
and it was oddly easier then.

What are all the
what ifs I could accomplish
if I remembered to:
Write.
Write more.
Laugh.
Find the love.
The grown up kind
that I am
am
am
ready for now
I insist with each lunge
up that steep
incline
ready for now
that the buds are
anxious to unfold-
and the little black feathers
curling around the drakes'
landing wings.

Running up that hill
the cemetery on the right
with all the dead leaves
begging at the
fence to be let in
felt like a promise
I was keeping to myself-
to move.
To take up space
while I am able.
To not settle into the
grip of small fear
to move beyond those too.

Running past the hospital
I imagined those just
beginning-purple, brown and new.
Those nearing the end of their
medical records, of all
that will be written about them
here.

And I run faster.
Neck strait.
Feet sure.
Breath bold.

I am not old.
I am not anything
that I don't choose to be.

I am one day closer

to this up and
over the hill
me.

He's got the whole world..

in his hands.
At his new old school,
(or is that his old new
school?) where Sam
returned
for the day.
To hugs,
Welcome Back signs,
Circle time leader,
and where
you make the Earth
out of clay.

They began with red,
the sun, followed by
orange, the warm part
he explained. Then green
and blue, mom, for the ocean
and the land.
Did you know here is
New Mexico, and South Portland
on this globe of his own design.

The coolest part is what happens
next. It comes apart-
split right down the middle
to reveal all that work he did
today, creating this planet
from start to finish.

I am no longer
split down the middle-
I think as I hold the
two sides in my hand.

So it was a good day
back then? You were happy
to see your friends,
visit Marcel
care for the planet?

Mom, actually
the entire was
all about
me he
self reports
contentedly.

(And me.
Privately.)
Who knows she made the
right decision
with new certainty.

Easy Street

Sam's on it-
Easy Street.
It's a new ease
in his listening,
humor, willingness
and with him self.

Sarah called it a shift
in his processing,
like he gets things
quicker, he comprehends.



I agree.

I notice that I am
repeating and
requesting and
negotiating less.

That I am laughing,
and conversing,
and suggesting more.

I am waking lighter.

We are doing things
together with giggles
and OK's and Sure.

This is what I imagined
parenting would be someday-
easier.

Then there was Marcel...

If you ask me..

A week on vacation means:
more sleep for me
(and mom)
more words to learn
like the gasses
on my face
and more BUSses to announce
balls and tantrums that need throwing
and so many more opportunities
to wrap my arms around mama's
up-pee, up-pee legs and whine-
Sounds like a fine fine
time to me.

Vacation Sweet

We're on April break.
Off to karate
after waffles and Dr. DoLittle.
Library, playground, bike-ride
before the nap.
(While mom cleans the house)
and then we'll see-
maybe just take it easy.
Nana's coming tomorrow.
We can't wait.

Divine

Coolness personified
in the way only
Uncle can capture.
Sure the car helps
and the shades bring it all
together
to that moment
somewhere between
his lips and his
brow

Where his mother
looses her child there
for a moment
in a mirage
of a young man
poised for the
possibility
only he will
divine from our
collective
imagination

the goldfish bowl is murky

the goldfish bowl
is murky
but Balloon swims on
two bowls of water to be added
sit nearby waiting
for me to make time
next to the bills
things for the calendar
and the notes
about a campground in Alfred...
Balloon's fine.

So is Marcel
despite the gazillion purple
bumps and 103 at waking
doctor says a virus is to blame
I think his body is still
angry about all those
shots last week.

Narrow escapes
come in so many forms.
the building inspector next door
who noticed the cover to live
wires of the fatal to the touch
variety
on the ground
at my house
the electrician who was nearby
and reinstalled it for free
just because
he could

The Easter Bunny really knows what I like

This looks like one of those photos that the editor removed the ball, and you try to draw it in the right spot to win a prize. Don't let the bagel throw you, we are on an egg hunt here, and apparently both boys have just made visual contact with some prize material.

After opening up all his chocolate filled eggs, Sam declared that the EB really knows him well, to know how much he likes chocolate.

I am home sick today. I am trying so hard to dodge whatever it is. I have had the energy to write--and have not had the energy to clean. How blessed an event is that?

I just completed an important piece that speaks to how I felt as a biological mother verses an adoptive mother. Since I want you to return here frequently to read the piece, I am not giving away the answer. I will be submitting it to Brain, Child and other publications this week. I'll post part of it here as soon as I have sent it into the world in it's entirety first. Wish her well! I am taking my Wayward Writers Online class again with Ariel Gore, and it is moving the tectonic plates of my writer self again. The movement is even deeper this go around.


It really is impressive that I haven't even put a load of laundry in, or gone grocery shopping. This is progress.

in the eyes of a stranger

coming home on the 7:40 ferry tonight
after dinner and two hours of playgrounding and strolling
with T on the island
my wind swept
well giggled
and nourished family
sat content across from each
other at a table.

We smiled
ate cookies,
shared cookies,
recapped,
and charmed the
lobster buoys
off of the three couples
sitting quietly
and smiley
around us.

Marcel's scrunched up
WHOA pronouncement
as he points to the WA-WA
outside, immediately followed by
COOKIE, and an offer to any
who would like it, scored a perfect
10 each time

Sam's sweet reminders to
his brother to
chew carefully
bottom on chair
and repeat the numbers
from 1-10
(between chews of course)
drew adoring stares from
the loving crowd.

And I just sat
and watched.

Exiting the ferry, a young woman
a mother too
I think from the
way she delivered the lines;
You are such a good mother
no, really.
You are.

And for once I did not
try to disagree.
Although really
sometimes
they make it
so easy.

and then it was dark..

I am not convinced that I made the right
choice
In fact I feel horrible.
Did I act too quickly.
Did I listen to Sam's words
with the best intention,
but with poor judgement around what a
four year old
(even such an aware one) knows about
where he is, or where he wants to be

Can you tell that I talked to the director
of the current school
and the teachers
who were shocked, saddened
and confused.

Now they tell me how
happy he is,
how bright this star shines
how much everyone loves him here...

Now they tell me about the
weekly progress reports,
and photo journals they were keeping
and how if I had just asked
they would have shown me

BUT I DID ASK

and all I was told was that he was

fine.

And fine is just not a word I have
ever been
comfortable with.

A decision that is done
and done and done

feels thick
and undigested in my
swirling what ifs

had I had a partner
to have gone in and asked where
I was getting nowhere

or to have heard another
side of Sam's story
then what else might I be writing
about tonight?

It's not like
me to second guess
to wonder if my instinct needle
is set to true north

or not.

Living with an 18 year old

today I finally made a long
and labored
decision to throw in the new school towel
and run back home...

translation:
Sammy is returning in two weeks
to the preschool he has been in since the Y's
sudden demise.



why did we leave?
more importantly-why are we going back?

sam

he kept asking.
he kept asking and asking.

he tried.
he made new friends.
he ate the food.
napped in the new place.
and learned the new rules
requests, and circle time
rituals.

and then he'd ask again.
mom can I please go back to my
old school?
please.

the most convincing argument besides-
my teachers love me more there
and my friends really like me
and I want to be in school with Marcel
but mostly I just was happier there

was when after I explained
that some decisions we will make
together,
and some I will make on my own,
and some he will make
alone.
But for the most part he would
have to wait until he was eighteen
before he could make certain
big decisions by himself.

thinking we were done
talking for the night
I turned to put away the dishes

a few minutes later
I look over and tears are racing
down both cheeks;
but mom I will be too old to go to my old school
when I am 18...

Observations

Mom I want to be a girl.

Oh, why?

Because they get to wear a thing on their head when they get married.

You can wear a veil at your wedding if you decide to get married.

No, I can't. Boys don't wear them.

If I get married, you can wear my veil.

OK.

***
I went to my friend Andrew's book release party
(www.andrew-mcnabb.com) tonight. I could only stay long enough to purchase, hug,marvel, get signed, eat chocolate, admire wife, stare at beautiful young children, and realize how close I am to sharing such a moment. I walked home with The Body of This proudly under my arm, and a renewed commitment to have my children at my book signing in the near future.

***

Marcel is apparently patterning blocks. This is apparently not a pattern for those his age. I took too much pleasure in the momentary delusion that somehow his proclaimed genius made me somehow other than I am.

***

Going to see David Sedaris tomorrow. He is performing in a venue ten times the size of the one I saw him in last time I saw him five years ago. More inspiration.

***
A few short pieces will be included in an anthology that will come out this summer. Movement.

***

A Civil Rights Movement unit with my eighth graders that is pushing them, and me. My teaching continues to stake out new territories. Growth.

***
Things pushing up in my little six foot by two foot garden. I removed the debris, and welcome each sprout. I swept the sidewalk, and picked up garbage all around the house, and sidewalk. Uncovering.

***
Marcel and I went to the park. The snow was gone. We yelled at ducks. Arrival.

***
Staff talent show in three weeks. A commitment to read two new poems. Unknown.

***
A promise to myself to get out once a week. Survival.