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.

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.

***