Words of a Mother

Who would write a sestina? Who other than Mother takes pains to repeat
The same words over and over?
Now I am that mother
Dissecting with joy the fine line between thousands of yeses and nos. Determined to balance
Teaching lessons with granting wishes. All blown to hell by the infernal why why why
And I am off: DON’T TOUCH THAT GET DOWN I SAID NO!

But at least I haven’t yet sunk to because I said so. No
I won’t cut off the crusts yes you must eat that why must I repeat
Myself? Your ears work you can hear you spend all day asking me why
Because you won’t sit down shut up listen don’t make me pull this car over
Wait, relax, close eyes breathe into the center find the inner balance
That fled for cover the day I became my mother

Did you really look? I did, I looked everywhere and cannot find it Mother
Look again don’t make me come up there don’t you dare tell me no
Sit down sit up straight will you finish your plate don’t balance
Your fork on top of your milk. Why? You ask me why I repeat
The same thing over and over and over
Again? I’ll tell you why missy. I’ll tell you why

(not because I said so, don’t say because I said so.) No (breathe deep.) Why
Don’t you wait until you have kids like yourself to mother
One day? Then you’ll understand. You will know why I cry over
Spilt milk when it’s the twelfth cup of the day. I too thought what you’re thinking: No
Way will I ever be like that. I’ll keep my cool. It won’t bother me one bit to repeat
Myself all day long. Close eyes, inhale, exhale, breathe in peace find that balance

Make the lunches, drive the carpools, fix the ponytails, (go to yoga?) balance
the checkbook. I’d fry up the bacon too, but the kids tell me that’s a bad choice. Why
Not eat healthy, mom? Let us recycle, reuse the bags that choke our planet. They repeat
The words that I have been saying. They were listening to mother
Paying attention all this time. Who knew? Fiery explosions in the face of each no
Yet something must have clicked. When this battle is over

It’s over until it rears back on us again. So in the space in between let’s head over
To the park for lunch. No you can’t wear your bathing suit will balance
With yes, we can eat dessert first will balance with no
You cannot ride your bike barefoot. And the seasons they go round and round which is why
Each day we happily do it all again. Another chance to get it right. I am their mother
Day in, day out. They get clean. They get dirty. Wash lather rinse repeat

How did I ever think the almighty No would mean that an issue was over?
Like anything of value, I must repeat it, believe it, live it. Then balance
It out by laughing until tears come. I know why I laugh and cry: I am a Mother.

Oh the Food

Oh marvelous, muscle-building, life-sustaining food
How lucky are we who have plenty
Or so I thought before I proved incapable of prying open stubborn mouths
Intent on refusing sustenance. They sit, arms folded head shaking against even a taste
Of whatever horror I have concocted within steaming caldrons of sauce. Flavor?
How could I? Mom if you think we’re eating this you’re crazy

Can’t I see the chicken touching the salad and peas rolling willy-nilly crazy
Across the plate? Still I persevere, preparing day upon day unacceptable, inedible food
It appears to me devoid of sauce, unfamiliar even with the disturbing idea of flavor
Though, alas (of course) I am wrong. There is flavor, it is gross, and there is plenty
Of it. So no, though I proclaim it seasoned with sugar, heated in honey, they dare not taste
A single morsel. My daughters, blessed since birth with mouths

That snap shut with enough force to sever a finger should it venture too near the mouths
I thought it my job to feed. And yes, it is likely my genes responsible for such crazy
Limitations on food. I was that kid. A bull-headed child who guarded my refined taste
Of vanilla yogurt and peanut-butter (no crusts!) against all attempt to deny me pure bland food
Though I too was surrounded by plenty
Of opportunities to eat well, I used them instead to finely tune my disdain of flavor

Ah me, the valiant Mother. I accept this challenge to prepare meals sans flavor
Just as I choose to ignore unwarranted nasty remarks emitted through the mouths
Of my babes. My sweet girls who have known nothing but a life of warmth and plenty
Do not believe their false claims at surprise upon discovering I’ve gone crazy
After opening (again!) a lunchbox descending from the afternoon bus chock full of food
That I woke early to prepare (sigh, drag flour-stained hand across brow.) A taste

Me thinks, of their own medicine would be sweet. What daughters, if I refused a taste
Of that delightful yard pie you concocted last summer? Full of the earthy flavor
Of recently bisected worms? I wouldn’t dare. For then tears would threaten to salt the food
I painstakingly placed plain upon your plates. I see your determined mouths
Even in my sleep, set in such scowls, so certain are you that I’ll try something crazy
Like slipping a shade of green into the bottom of your bowl. What’s this? You’ve had plenty

Of plain? And now the repeated exposure to good stuff in your lives o’ plenty
Is making an impact? “Mom (precocious at four) I have a taste
For sushi,” and I entertain visions of lunching with my elegant little ladies (I’m that crazy)
For who knows what mood they will bring, as unreliable as a drunken flavor
Of the week. Sweet utterances lure me to forget the horrors uttered from these same mouths
I acquiesce, order (per request) edamame and California rolls. And of course, they hate the food

I’ll surely go crazy, for millions of sandwiches may seem like plenty
To me, yet for them its simply the ideal food. It’s clearly a matter taste
And only time will flavor that which gains elusive entry into their mouths

No Office No Doughnuts

No office, no demonic plates of doughnuts that reach up
From mahogany meeting tables to force my hand and ruin my lunch
Ah, but doughnut freedom proves fleeting, for now the kitchen closet candy has found its voice
I'm at home, but weak all the same. The alto of Snickers is loud and the meek voice in my head
Croaks weakly, no, not another hunk of candy, points out the holly-jolly jiggle at my center
No co-conspirators, just me locked in a pathetic struggle over another chocolate break

No office, no half-assed shower at a downtown gym during lunch break
Frankly, not a whole lot of showering period. No one to impress, no longer coated in spit-up
Should I even bother? There’s always a chance that later on I’ll make it to the rec center
Squeeze in a quick stomp on a stairmaster to compensate for what happened again at lunch
Forced to consume peanut-butter crusts, extra chips, leftover pudding. Surely I will head
To the gym tomorrow if I don’t succeed at silencing this infernal internal voice

No office, no endless lineup of meaningless meetings everyone competing to get his voice
Heard while I calculate whether there is time enough for a quick breast pump break
To cower in a supply closet, guarding precious drops and hoping my head
Doesn’t get slammed by a spare ream of paper. Not anymore. No pressing need to button up
“Like Club Med on crack,” my husband muttered, when home for a brief lunch
He encountered this scene: shirtless babes, house a-wreck, a screaming nude (me) at its center

No office, no coworkers digging crampons into my nylons as they claw for the center
Of pinstriped attention. Nowadays the ladders aren’t figurative but plastic and my child's voice
Calls from the tippy-top, she perches, prepared to drop. On the ground I'm still unpacking lunch
While that damn alpha-mommy, lacy thong up her back strides to the top without a break
Without damage to hair or makeup or superiority complex. I watch, below, as she clamors up
to save my kid. I sit, judged, negligent, thong-free. Thong-mom shakes her disapproving head

No office, no blissful cup of quiet to transition my foggy morning head
No solitary jaunts to the bathroom. No flirting with the new guy at the copy center
No happy hours with cheap drinks and bad food and time with friends to play catch-up
No commute, no isolation within public chaos. No grimace for that guy with the loud cell voice
No cute suits, no new dresses for a presentation I won’t prepare for during a quick break
No glass of cabernet with an expense-account lunch

No office, no paycheck to validate my worth. I’m judged on the neatness of triangles at lunch
I’m crowded by small bodies snuggled in bed, not inconsiderate travelers’ elbows to my head
I receive hugs as daily reviews, especially when I wield glue lest something break
I get no sick days no vacation no validation and yet still, at the core at my very center
I am home. I have made my choice. And though some days I feel crazy and my voice
Shrieks STOP STOP STOP… don’t be fooled. I won’t negotiate. I would never give this up

So pour out milk for my coffee break, and grill up cheese for my lunch
It won’t be long before she grows up, so let me plant kisses on her sleeping head
I relish her position at the center of my world. I delight in the surprises in her voice

Dear Mom

It’s been a while since I’ve been such a creep, but still, Mom
I feel I must beg forgiveness: I am so sorry
It seems in fact that you weren’t so dumb after all
It may even be that it was me with the problem
And not (as it so clearly seemed) you. You, who appeared not to understand
You, (who I felt) lacked even the basics of what was required to support my smart

(Sorry) ass. The wisdom of the years demands an apology. That and a couple smart-
Mouthed daughters of my own. Somehow merely becoming their mom
Has rendered me incompetent. Stupid. I’ve been stripped of any ability to understand
Anything. Oh my daughters I am truly sorry
That you have to put up with my inanity. What a burden, this problem
For your small brave shoulders. Dare I point out all

The perks you enjoy, thanks to my meager existence? Do you have any idea at all
What it means to be warm? To be fed? To be sent to school so you can be this smart?
Lucky brats, perhaps you have too much. Do you think that may be the real problem?
I for one would not dare act this way to my own dear Mom
(Shhh, for this small white lie I am sorry
It’s for the greater good. I am trying to make a point, you understand)

Did I mention, Mom, how very badly I feel? Now that I truly understand
What I put you through. Now that I have experienced firsthand all
That eye-rolling has to offer. For these things and so much more I am sorry:
For hands on hips and eyes rolled skyward. For talking back and those smart-
Ass comments I thought so witty. On bended knee I come to you Mom
For you see, I have a little problem

At least, I hope it’s little. I wish to contain it before it explodes, becomes a PROBLEM
That I cannot deal with. See, I do not understand
What kept you from smacking those self-righteous smirks from my face. And Mom?
How did you manage to hold your tongue at my bold conceit? How did you keep it all
Together as time and again I pronounced You: Idiot, Me: Smart
I am so sorry

I know I caused you grief, and that a simple sorry
May not cut it. So I have a deal, a solution to our little problem
I think you’ll agree that it is quite smart
You wished upon me a curse, daughters just like me, and I understand
I do, but now I’m here to bargain. What if I were to take it all
Back? Present you with two lovely granddaughters? Take them, and spoil away, Mom.

For you see, they are smart and witty. What better way to say I’m sorry
To you, dear Mom-turned-Grandma. There, there’s not really a problem
At all. Just a couple of little wonders. I knew that Grandma would understand

Housework is Just No Fun

Periodically something strikes me, and as I look around the house
I am gripped, not by mood or inclination but by nasty claws: Dust
Monsters! They reach out from beneath my bed. I could swipe at them with a tissue, true
This is how I handle many a mess. It’s not as though I do not care
That the toaster crumbs are on fire and the bathroom needs
Hell, it need to be declared off limits. I don’t want to alarm you yet I must confess

That the tub has developed a delightful yellow glow around its edge. I confess
That tumbleweeds of tangled hair roam like angry cowboys around the house
Picking fights with wrinkled laundry while naked beds shiver neglected, but mama needs
A break. Fifteen minutes to plop up my feet and let my ankles carve dust
Angels into the coffee table. Don’t I sound cavalier? I haven’t a care
In the world. Come and sit with me, have a bonbon, listen. My tale is familiar and true

I opted out of office life to watch kids and write. I’m a lucky lady it’s true
The part I hadn’t considered, the piece of it that I confess
Turns my stomach as it turns my white panties pink is this: I’m really expected to care
About crap like oven cleaners and disinfecting bubbles? Lemon scented? Not my house
But I take full blame. Woe is me for I am weak against an opponent as insidious as dust
Lurking, hovering, smothering my paltry attempts for I do try. I heard that a child needs

A well-scrubbed environment. Antibacterial triumph hurrah! Or not. My hero said a child needs
Exposure to filth to build character and bulk up immunity. Ok, maybe that’s not entirely true
But (vindication!) the report did come down on the side of dust.
Oh, since you’re still here, I have another self-serving tidbit to confess:
I get anxious in that woman’s house
You know, the Stepford one with no dust and nary a book out of place? How can she care

So much? I know, she must not live life as fully as I. She must not care
About things that really matter. For surely a house needs
To be a disaster if the family is having a rollicking old time. A house
Remains a house if its sparkling clean. Isn’t it true
That only when draped in the colorful cast-offs of life does a house become a Home? Confess
It, you’ll feel better. There’s something homey and sweet about all my dust

Oh come on, don’t look so concerned my friend. I will sweep the dust
Under the table when you stop by unannounced. Who me? Care?
Oh no not at all. I’m delighted to see you. But alas let me confess
That the maid has been ill. The chef’s out of town. And the lawn sorely needs
Professional attention. You know how hard it is to get good help. Sad but true
It does take a village to render presentable this old house

What else dare I confess, with all my dirty secrets spelled out in the dust?
It’s my mess, my house, so really I don’t know why you even care
It will get done if it really needs to. Really, I swear that much is true.

Riding in a Car, With Kids

Windows down. The scent of crisp leaves freshens the air. I’m blind
To everything outside my own little world. Just for me, the radio blows dust of an old
Tune, a favorite once upon a time. I sing off-key, loud. The wind in my hair shakes away
Any concerns I may have had; Ha! What could they have been? The world was mine,
My oyster, and that was my day in the sun, to do with whatever I please
So young, too young to appreciate freedom. So then -- was it a waste?

Two bites in, and the apple rolls under the seat, what a waste
Soon enough sister smacks sister, pulls hair, and my blind
Rage ramps up. Red light, I turn my face towards the healing sun, please
Give me strength, STOP SCREAMING, I scream, irony lost in the chaos as my old
Head reluctantly welcomes back a familiar ache. GIMME THAT ITS MINE
Rings out from the cretins in the back. Calgon take me away!

Remember that ad? Back before we could comprehend a need to get away?
Food not eaten was shipped to China (poor children). I want to teach about waste
I do, but I can’t slip into the fact that the threatening words must now be mine
Flash in the rearview catches my eye, more screaming (me): YOU’LL MAKE HER BLIND!
PUT DOWN THAT STICK NO GIVE IT TO ME GIVE IT TO ME NOW! This is getting old
So I switch gears, plaster a grin, dripping in sugar set an example: Please?

Sesame Street Rock replaces old Billy Joel, their singing voices so sweet. Please
Let this moment last. I roll up windows, call out “children, pull your hands away”
NO! Her automatic response, and the moment’s gone. She’s back to her contrary old
Ways. Why should I she demands and I talk of hands cut off, the horrible waste
Yet she simply grins, says she’d prefer a hook to a hand. I’m left, as always, blind-
Sided. I glimpse them in the mirror: furious, feisty, funny beings. Undeniably mine

Self-determined, strong willed, these traits and yes, the stubbornness too, they’re all mine
Just as suddenly they turn, defending each other, concerned even for me, so eager to please
I’m caught off guard, as always, and wipe a tear from my blind
Spot before turning away
From the traffic, from the less fortunate cars who don’t have this afternoon to waste
With children singing along to songs from the old

Days. They tear across the grass to reach the swings as I settle into an old
Bench, peeling with age in the autumn sun. The breeze is gentle. The day is mine
Once more. Mine to share with them, and I will pay close attention. I will not waste
A resource as precious as an autumn day. I will remind them to say please
As I hand out sandwiches and they will recycle the plastic and throw the crusts away
How could I envy my younger self? Carefree, yes, but ignorant of all this, still so blind

Youth is no waste, for we live it again as we grow old
Watching them I am anything but blind. These wondrous imps are mine
They ask for one more push, remembering to say please. I smile, and push. They swing away.

Mother Goose

One two buckle my shoe…Hey! I’m talking to you. You’ll never get this if your eyes
Keep wandering. It breaks my heart
To tell you this kid, but you are old enough to do it right
Here, make the bunny ears, watch me first, now it’s your turn
No, your bunny’s ears are not broken
Come on. OK, I’ll do it for you this time. We certainly don’t want you to trip and fall

Remember? Last time our two little monkeys were jumping on the bed? One will fall
Of course, and though the swelling will be impressive and the eyes
Will blacken (purple, really and quite shiny), this time at least nothing is broken
Not even my resolve, though next time I will ignore my softening heart
Which said, come on, let them enjoy a quick jump. Look! Let’s watch my hair turn
Gray. Tell me there’s a lesson in here somewhere, right?

I wonder if Humpty Dumpty’s mother ever got it right
Or does she still blame herself for that dreadful fall
As I do. All I did, I swear, was to turn
My head for a second. ONE second, or maybe it was two. Anyway, I averted my eyes
As I’m sure even Mama Goose must have done from time to time. My heart
Goes out to that old woman in the shoe: so many children, so many bones to be broken

What about Jack and Jill? Was their mother ever the same once his crown was broken?
Did she question that choice, sending such young kids up the hill? Was it the right
Thing, or were they too small to haul water? What did we used to say? Cross my heart
Hope to die (just don’t let it be her, and don’t let it be from a fall
Like this, please god) Stick a needle in my eyes
There, will that protect me? Keep me safe for a while, at least until I learn to turn

From such dark thoughts. Such crazy thoughts. I’ll ignore them, turn
The page. Yes, that’s better. Here are three little kittens. They’ve no mittens, but no broken
Bones either. But wait, look closely. Aren’t their yellow eyes
A bit haughty for such young kittens? I will get some time, right?
Time before the eye rolling starts and after I put these fears of her next fall
To rest? Some time before Georgie Porgie starts kissing her and my heart

Goes out to hers. For surely watching some punk-ass boy break her heart
Will do more damage to mine, and I’ll be too old, even older by then. Before I turn
Around she’ll be sixteen going on seventeen, while as leaves change this fall
She’s four…going on seventeen. Just four, and I’m still able to work magic on broken
Hearts and broken egos. Does the itsy bitsy spider ever get it right
Trekking up that damned spout over and over. Or do we learn simply to avert our eyes

To shield ourselves from the inevitable fall? Forget it, we can’t protect our heart
Any more than we can cover our eyes. They will change, grow wiser. Turn
From children fragile and sometimes broken. That is, if we ever manage to get it right.

Ever After

Once upon a modern time
There sprung, lively and young, two princesses
Frilly and pink. And mine, though none as surprised as me
Suddenly queen! By default (yes) and evil (of course) and hungry (as always) for control
That elusive illusion queens create, as if a crocodile-filled ring
‘Round the castle could offer fabled protection

But alas, the queen’s moat, her valiant attempts at protection
Fail time and again. Cradling princesses wracked with fever she checks the time
Dials the number, waits for the wisdom of the doctor. Ring, ring, ring
Monday morning no way she’ll get through, no way to help her princesses
Who are sick, or bleeding, having fallen to forces beyond Queenie’s control
That’s me

Queen perhaps, yet still just powerless me
I cannot offer real protection
I cannot stay in control
I catch myself, maybe, at a very dark time
Wondering who landed these princesses
At my feet. Who left me in charge. And the phone continues to ring

An absurd connection: I’m seventeen and listening breathlessly, for each ring
Holds such promise, if I can just wait those concert tickets will belong to me
Some have knights in shining armor, daddies who secure for their princesses
The golden tickets. Not me. My protection
Comes from planning. Getting there early. Calling on time
Maintaining total control

She is gasping for air and I am breathing too fast. I have lost control
Damn the phone that does nothing but ring
No time to wait, we rush her in, doctors say, just in time
They poke, and prod, then suddenly are rushing about, urging me
To relinquish my baby, give her to them for fixing, for protection
I do, sobbing, and scared. Do they know how to fix princesses?

Its hateful, the phony, fluffy world of princesses
Sugary pink dresses, tiny shoes and castles that pretend at control
I fell for it, stupid queen, and believed I could offer protection
Stupid queen, I believed in the power of my golden ring
And they, my princesses, believe blindly in me. They trust me
To save them from dragons that I don’t yet know, but surely will meet in time

Who needs protection? I’ll tell you it’s not the princesses
It’s the queen who needs time, with everything spinning out of control
Fighting for access to an inner ring, I clutch the princesses to me

Kiss the Cook

Kiss me, for it seems somehow that I am the cook
Which is not a chore, actually, when we’re together
Little fingers dipping in, offering help
That’s not help, but giggling, tasting, smearing chocolate across devilish faces
Here I am. Not where I was supposed to be, according to The Plan.
I am tired.

It’s shocking to find that it’s me in charge. Me with kids who never grow tired
My eyes sag, my legs drag, and still each night there is dinner to cook
And laundry to do, and errands to run, regardless of how I plan
They laugh in the mundane aisles. Happy to be together
The eternal ins and outs that burden my days brighten their faces
Their smiles shame me, remind me to be satisfied. I need help

I never imagined this, forever in the kitchen, two pixies eager to help
Long days of menial chores and endless errands make me ache, old and tired
Until I turn and am blindsided by the brilliance of joy in their faces
Shake me awake I must savor the times I can cook
Instead of saving the world. Here we are, together.
That’s the new plan.

Once upon a time I had another plan. A grand plan
I had the world to save and the hungry to feed and the poor to help
I wore a suit and felt important. I wore make-up and had my shit together
And the meetings! Oh the meetings where we drank coffee and never got tired
Thanks fore-mothers, for freedom from tyranny. We won’t clean! We won’t cook!
It’s not fair. I didn’t know life would have so many faces

I’m no brave soul who turns boldly at each corner and faces
The music. I am overwhelmed, not emboldened, by revisions to The Plan.
I belittle my meaningless days. I am too good to clean. Too smart to cook.
I am forever surprised at their tireless offers of salvation and help
So frustrated I could scream, its their skinny arms that soothe away the tired.
This must be how to save the world. Together.

We jump in piles of fresh hot laundry together
Steam from mugs of hot chocolate moisten our faces
Forts of cushions shelter us when we are tired
So why sometimes am I haunted by that nagging ghost, my discarded plan
My lofty aspirations. My ambitious goals. Then it seems nothing will help
Alleviate the feelings of unworthiness. Regardless though, I have to cook

And uninspired or tired, it doesn’t matter. We’re bound together
And so we cook. And slowly it morphs, these faces
Are the Plan. And I need no help.

Revolution

My very own captive audience, vessels clean and empty
Ready to be filled with My wisdom, My thoughts, My rules
No cartoons, no nonsensical brain candy in my house, NPR issues the truth
Over our radio. But who knew they were listening? Paying rapt attention.
“Momma,” she squeaks from her car-seat, “what’s a revolution?”
Barely eight in the morning, I am momentarily stumped. I am proud

“We the people work with our President. Our duty to ensure he stands tall and proud
A leader mustn’t disrespect the people. Must not make unfair laws and empty
Promises. The people will rise in revolution
To demand fair rules
Do you understand sweet-heart?” My daughter was paying attention. Close attention.
“Yes, Momma, I understand. Can we get one? I want a revolution.” Truth

Be told the hardest questions come early, before coffee brings clarity and truth.
It was well into December that election year before I stopped crying, again stood proud
“When are we moving to Canada Mom,” said the pipsqueak who pays attention
Best before breakfast or when I’m on the phone. My threats cannot be empty
Ones, and I said we were leaving. She is hungry to comprehend, to decipher the rules
She is laying the groundwork for her own revolution

Into each day, in our house at least, there comes a revolution
Little rebels grow dissatisfied with my nagging insistence on telling the truth
And washing hands and eating dinner and never-bending bedtime rules
I am the dictator, their oppressor. Who am I to say they can’t stand naked and proud
In the kitchen, dumping milk and eggs to the floor until the fridge stands empty
Bright and Cold. Inviting. They crawl in to hide from my glaring attention

Glaring, except for those rare moments when my attention
Gets diverted. By society. By the ones against whom I’d like to stage a revolution
It is their fault that my explanations are empty
Their fault I want to hide from my children the painful truth
About a world in which ugly things happen too often. A world in which I am most proud
Of their predisposition to reject unjust rules

Come on. Who could possibly find fault with my well-intentioned rules?
Balanced and fair, of course, but showing signs that I am starting finally to pay attention
To stuff that really matters. Playing dress-up, yes, and NPR too. I am proud
They show concern both with dancing princesses and presidential debacles. Revolution
Maybe. Listen to the children, they know the truth
They see when threats are unjust, when promises are empty

The little ones stand proud, quietly studying the rules
Discerning at once what is empty. They pay attention
And are ready for revolution. Let’s arm them with the truth

Circus

Come one come all, before its too late
The circus is shutting down
Bid farewell to those who have made you laugh
(Since that wasn’t actually the goal.) You were meant to be amazed. But the balance
Was too damn hard to maintain. Same goes for the wild animals. Seems that control
Was merely an illusion. After all, this is a circus

Closing down is the only realistic thing to do. After all, keeping three crazy rings of a circus
Going is hard work. All those balls in the air all the time? So, sometimes dinner was late
Grab some popcorn, circus clowns, balanced dinners don’t necessarily mean control
If no one’s on fire and the tents are staked down
Why should I worry about losing my balance
Up on the tightrope, juggling knives, fire, self-worth. Isn’t it enough to have tried?

Go on, you try it. Bring home some bacon, fry it up. You’ve never tried
Using an advanced degree to bring order to this place, to manage this circus
The key, they’ll tell you, is finding balance
Which takes nerve wracking soul-searching and 36-hour days. Never-mind. It’s too late
I’m done. Just let me pack up the peanuts and crackerjacks. Take the striped tent down
And I’ll be off. What’s that? You think I’ve lost it? Finally lost control?

That may be but I’ll let you in on a secret: It was all just an illusion. A magical illusion of control
You want me to stay? Fine, but the illusion act has to go. I have tried
Too hard and the effort has worn me down
Let’s try instead for a free-range circus
Our monkeys will jump on their beds and stay up way too late
And if we have pancakes for dinner sometimes so what? We can always balance

It out with a nice big salad for breakfast. Can’t balance
Be about something more than delivering what’s expected. Can’t it be about losing control
And surprise! finding yourself? I don’t know, maybe its not too late
For me, I only tried
To do it the way they expected. Keeping it all together. A clean, well lit, orderly circus
But it wore me way down

I don’t know, maybe I should wait before I untie the last stake and pull down
The big tent. It certainly seems impossible, but maybe just one last shot at balance
What if the answer is that the circus
Works best without a set schedule. With no predetermined ideologies. No tight control
If I’m going to be honest that’s the one thing I never tried:
Relaxing my grip. Who knows? Maybe I can learn to go with the flow, if I’m not too late

Perhaps our circus could prosper with the tightrope torn down
With the popcorn popped late and no attempt even at balance.
For the illusion of control is just that, a mirage, best relinquished once tried.

First Date

First date
What a sucker was I
For romance the likes of which I haven’t seen since, fancy food, plentiful drink
Comparing art, discussing weighty issues I’m sure
We were so witty so irresistible back then, that first Saturday
That first night

Way back when, when Saturday night
Meant dressing to impress, and not knowing what to expect from a date
(You know how first dates can be…) Was I nervous that Saturday
A million years ago? I would have been, I was so young, wasn’t I?
Remember what weekends meant, back then? Different now for sure
But back then anything could happen, would happen if perhaps a strong drink

Materialized to help move things along. Alas these days it takes but one drink
To put me out for the night
Not that I wouldn’t love to stay up, discuss world events, I’m sure
Even sex sounds great, that is if we could just skip the date
Part. You know how exhausted I
Get. Who can be bothered what with dinner, wine and a movie. I know, next Saturday

We’ll send the sitter out with the kids, for dinner somewhere on Saturday
And we will stay home with a bottle of our own to drink
You can tell me how it used to be, back when I
First fell for you, though I see now it must have been a ruse, that night
Was too perfect, wasn’t it? Not real, the city air was not full of soft music, that first date
It must have been me caught up in the newness of you, before I knew for sure

Through the haze of years newness and uncertainty seems harsh, though I’m sure
My younger self, an addict to excitement, would scoff at my ideal Saturday
Which has crept closer to quiet. Some kind of spell has kids upstairs asleep and our date
Begins curled up on the couch, a movie to watch and wine to drink
Crazy is making it up ‘til midnight
Stealing moments before sleep when again you and I

Laugh. Maybe about something the kids said, or maybe about something I
Heard on the radio and made sure
To remember. A detail to savor and share with you should we get the chance at night
To connect. That’s the wonder of Saturday
Stolen time carved from chaotic life. We smile and clink and drink
A toast to our first date

12 years ago it was you and I
On that first date. Young, insecure, unsure
Not yet knowing we’d have many more Saturdays to share a drink

The World, Their Stage

Brave new world, big wide stage, brand new play
Act one: we watched enrapt, they peed, they cried, and yes! rolled-over
Each coo, each rash, something to document, and treasure
Our days now, unpredictable to a lesser degree. Harder to quantify, as each stage
Pounces, unannounced, and catches us unprepared
For mean girls, dirty looks, loose teeth

All those books, yet not one chapter dedicated to the value of lost teeth
We struggle to decipher tears and fevers, but what to pay? How to play
At tooth fairy? Welcome back, proud gummy grin, you caught me unprepared
Won me over
To this post-baby phase where stage after stage
Flies by, blows in with wonder, and pain. I am learning to slow down, to treasure

Unexpected moments. In the quiet eye of the storm I sift for treasure
Buried within life’s unpredictable debris. Kindergarten past in a flash, now teeth
Are jumping ship. Actors in their own right, manning their stage
With confidence, (dare I say perfection?) Redefining their roles, it’s their play
They decide on their own who they will be, this bowls me over
I may sit here unprepared

But they are ready to conquer the world. Not anxious, never unprepared
Though I would affix training wheels to their sides, protect my treasure
Raise them like so much veal, sheltered until all storms blow over
But no, I know they must cut their teeth
Fall down and bloody their knees. First bike. First grade. First time singing in a play
Belting out their own tunes on such a big stage

Ready or not, here they come, my baby (not a baby, I know) up on stage
Brave loud proud, it is not my child who is unprepared
Raring to go, she doesn’t need me to orchestrate her days, her play
How many sleepless nights did I think eagerly of the treasure
Of this independence? Ridiculous to miss those teeny tiny teeth
They march enthusiastically onward. What about me? Should I start over

With diapers, and endless nights and life splattered out all over
What a mess. But the awe, the awe of each achievement, each stage
Was incredible, remember? Sitting up. Reaching a cheerio. Cutting new teeth
Of course we were laughably unprepared
Who could anticipate the momentous weight of such a tiny treasure
Rendering our lives forever unrecognizable. Suspenseful mystery, this play

Gone are baby teeth, and it’s time for me to get over
it. Embrace plot twists in the play. I may be gripped with stage
Fright, unprepared. But look how sweet my treasure.

What Baby Showers Bring

Another baby shower, mama-to-be aglow, look closer, see how she squirms
Uncomfortable in the spotlight
Awkward, uneasy, unsure yet exclaiming appropriately, (she is so appropriate)
Her squeals match the others, oooh how cute, yes, so sweet, oh so tiny
Surely she can sense there is reason to be scared
She sits, smiling, yet surely she longs to run from the room screaming

All around her the experienced mothers sip tea, ignore the screaming
Of their own snot-nosed brood, a single gal (friend from college) squirms
Wishing she were anywhere but here, more uncomfortable than scared
As breast pumps and nipple shields take center stage, before the spotlight
Again returns to cute burp cloths, onesies with dancing bears, so tiny
And green, approving mothers nod, appropriate

For either boy or girl, for this mama refused technology, thought it appropriate
Simply to wait. To be surprised. Ha, they laugh, the midnight screaming
And inconsolable wails will be surprise enough. Soon she’ll be wrestling with twenty tiny
Fingers and toes as darling baby squawks and squirms
And steals the spotlight
While she huddles in the dark, in over her head and scared

But look quick and you’ll catch them, subdued behind false giggles of “don’t be scared!”
Though if you are that’s ok (aren’t their nods reassuring?) It’s totally appropriate
But hey, what if we spun that spotlight
Around, shined it on those who’ve got their shit together (inside, you know, they’re screaming)
At night though children sleep deeply, they lay awake and squirm
Nostalgic for sweet little fingers, and impossibly tiny

Toes. That all seems so easy now, looking back on the days of tiny
Diapers and plaintive cries. Now there is so much more to be scared
Of. Mean girls focused on her own sweet daughter who squirms
Blames mother, who unjustly refused her that outfit. Too much skin! Not appropriate!
She never thought herself the type to say such words, so un-cool. The screaming
That results a far cry from the whimpers of a hungry baby. Yes, turn the spotlight

On those mothers, they’re not so smug anymore. See what the spotlight
Illuminates. Their naked longing for the simplicity of tiny
Babies so easily soothed, just a little warm milk stops the screaming
You see, those mothers, with such ready answers about your newborn, are scared
They don’t know the rules anymore or what to expect. No idea really what’s appropriate
For their own school-aged babes. New stages keep advancing, see how they squirm.

There would be lots more screaming if the spotlight
Revealed us, caught the fear as we squirm, fear once insignificant and tiny
Blooms full grown. We are scared, which is of course, only appropriate

Pink

My house drips with a sticky glaze of pink
Weak confections, bubble gum and cotton candy, things my little girls
Were not supposed to be made of. I pry my mind open
Like I once believed it was. Before. Before hazy fuchsia light
Dimmed my sight, and fluffy tulle tangled my legs. I misjudged the princesses.
Powerful. No damsels in distress. They have taken over my world

With their tiny toes and narrow waists, they lord over my girls’ world
Luring them in with plastic baubles. I am disoriented, coated in pink
My opinions strong and rational do not hold sway with the princesses
Hypnotic, unblinking eyes, pointy painted nails sink deep into the flesh of my girls
Who are drawn like pathetic moths to dazzling sparkles of light
It’s scary. The pull is so strong. The Disney precipice gapes open

Like an angry wound, into which my dreams for their futures are splashed open
Driven, brilliant, hungry to learn, empowered to change the world
They could be anyone, do anything under the guiding light
Of my lofty aspirations, crushed to dust under an unforgiving spike of pale pink
It’s in the water I myself feed to the girls
Who turn from me. Blissfully trading their souls to the princesses

Cinderella, dust rag in hand, proves formidable, as do the other princesses
Whom I dutifully applaud. Though tears hover in my eyes, they are now open
Watching them spin and laugh, then kick the stupid shoes aside, for my girls
Realize they’d rather run free. After all, there’s a whole wide world
Out there to be conquered. Ski helmets mounted on tiny shoulders are shocking pink
Hot pink with the exhilaration of life. Like their eyes, blazing and alight

With pure joy. They own the mountain, on clunky ski boots, they are fast and light
And sturdy and serious, and I think I see the princesses
Eating their dust. Quiet, demure, the pathetically soft pink
No match for the vivid color in their cheeks. Eyes mischievous, minds open
To the possibilities of the wondrous world
The princesses folded in the corner, neglected at last, for my girls

Have found power in a different pink and have moved on. My girls
Ski, and dive deep into blue water, and hide in the dark with a flashlight
That illuminates a world
Cracked wide open and able to hold without conflict both worms and princesses
Their minds, so open
And mine considers finally the possibility of pink

It is their world, they own it, my girls
Including the feared pink, dark and light
Equal opportunity princesses, in their hands is the world cracked wide open

Expecting

First comes love, then comes marriage. Now comes baby
It will be all they are expecting
And more. She is blushing, beautiful. Pregnant, perfect, normal
She is exhilarated as she prepares her body
Prenatal vitamins, prenatal yoga. The perfect cocoon, her womb ready
I am in control, she thinks, and is completely happy

She hears horror stories, sick babies, and feels guilty for being so happy
For her blood and urine hold the promise of a perfect baby
She splashes non-toxic paint, sunny yellow, making the room ready
She is hungry for information. Women who know tell her what to be expecting
Talk of pain laughed off. The epidural (wink wink) takes you out of your body
That pain (they hold the wisdom of the world) is not normal

What does she know of normal
Her hand feels the rhythmic kicks, and she sighs, tired, but happy
Resting on the deep knowledge, nestled somewhere in her body
That tells her, as it has all women before, how to grow her baby
That’s where she got stuck, at the baby. She hadn’t thought to be expecting
Anything more. Which is why she wasn’t ready

Which is why, sliced open, she felt cheated. Angry. Blindsided and not ready
To explain her feelings, which they told her were not normal
Those who would offer comfort were not expecting
Her to care so much. Why couldn’t she just be happy
With that beautiful baby
Cooing, curled up and warm on her serrated body

She couldn’t explain it, why suddenly her body
Mattered. Overwhelming love, midnight feedings, for this she was ready
She would gladly have cut off an arm for a perfect baby
Or get sawed in half, she jokes, but they don’t find this funny, it’s not normal
That she cares about this, when she should just be happy
She got a healthy baby. That’s all she had been expecting

She didn’t know enough to see that she was expecting
More. She is selfish, unappreciative. Furious with her body
For its betrayal. But really it just did as it was told. She had been more than happy
To soak up the stories. Eager to avoid feeling. Easier that way, to pretend she was ready
Maybe they are right. She isn’t normal
Needing more. Ridiculous, when here she has a perfect baby.

Years later she will be happy, again expecting
A perfect baby. Experience and knowledge fill her body
Which stands ready, prepared for birth, age-old, normal.

Eleven Years Old

It smells
Like laundry and pine needles and restless girls
Bunked together in a stuffy cabin, damp and cool
Darting eyes search, awkward bodies gather in old sweatshirts for warmth
Fingers of rain tap against foggy glass, insistent and impatient
Drawing the girls out, offering freedom to the young and wild

A cleansing rinse in the deluge. Upturned faces joyful and wild
Scrubbed pink. Urged to forget inequitably doled out changes and unfamiliar smells
Raindrops dance with happy girls, brave, not too impatient
To grow up. The storm is the kingdom of little girls
Back in the cabin, trials with makeup, piercings, budding bodies ripe with warmth
Emit an uncontrollable heat, urging little girls to slow down, be cool

The summer air, washed clean, releases the burden on narrow shoulders to be so cool
Still, showers of pine needles carry a hint of something wild
Steam rises from wet grass as warmth
Returns suddenly. She catches something, smells
Fall in the air like a promise, and walks away unnoticed, from the other girls
Who like her are uncertain, and impatient

The unfamiliar aches in her body leave her anxious and impatient
The breeze shake youthful tangles in her hair, blows cool
Branches against bare arms yet offer protection from the prying eyes of the girls
Who judge, as she too now does, with labels that stick, too timid, too wild
Too fast, too slow. Rebellious urges locked in small bodies, musky smells
Alone in the wet branches, she sighs, hidden, safe in the embrace’s warmth

Night’s fire glows hot, but inclusion in the huddle offers real warmth
Giggles over blackened marshmallows, melted chocolate, impatient
For the innocent stickiness of s’mores, the way that childhood smells
When girls can be just girls for a little longer, buried under blankets against the cool
Night. The nurturing fire holds back the mantle of wild
Flickering soft light, innocent smiles, sweet girls

Boys will be boys they say, but what of our changelings? Our girls
Who struggle to choose—which path will provide warmth,
When is it ok to let loose and scream, to be wild
It’s a trick, there are penalties for each choice. She is alone, worried, impatient
Stomping muddy boots into hard ground, she hopes she seems aloof enough, cool
Wet ashes from the night fire mix with early morning smells

The rugged landscape, wild, releases the awkward girls
Amid a confused gumbo of smells, pine scented air, stifling warmth
Which way to go, impatient, burning hot, trying to be cool

To My Mermaids

Don’t be scared of mischievous night. From inside, the slap
Of punishing waves is quiet, weak. You may be jostled but you won’t rock
Regardless of intent, it is nothing. Sway with it, isn’t it nurturing? Angry gusts
Gather power beneath dark clouds, but look, they are merely hints of wild
And soon the coddling brightness will come. The illuminating glare
Of the emerging sun. It’s impossible

Of course it’s impossible
And so absolutely wonderful, you see, I say, and I slap
My glittering tail against the surface of the water, shattering the glare
Into tiny diamonds that scatter across the sea. Secure against the warmth of my rock
Salty queen of all I see, my kingdom is wild
Tossed before me, dancing with surly gusts

Out at sea a tightly wrapped sail escapes its night cocoon, billows out and gusts
Uncontrollable, like my hair, seaweed strewn and impossible
Why try to tame the wind? Let go. Its ok for your eyes to blur and your hair to go wild
For always the soft yellow sun will attempt to bring peace, to silence the slap
Of salty air, demand obedience, for it favors those who are rock
Solid and predictable. It colors even the waves with its orange glare

But only temporarily. So sweet child, I beg you to close your eyes to the glare
Turn your back to feel the support of blustering gusts
Join your voice to the wind, sing with dolphins from your throne of jagged rock
There are those who may try to set you straight, shield you from the impossible
But cling fast to your dreams, the ones that beg to be mocked, present a stinging slap
To the face of distasteful reality. The face that scorns things wonderful and wild

I will tell such tales to my children, stories of places where the wild
Things go, where anything goes. Give them power to silence nay-sayers with a glare
For every now and then don’t we all need a refreshing slap
To remind us that limiting rules offer nothing but limits, reality blows gusts
That whine of what can’t be done and whimpers of what is impossible
Let my children defy it, deny that world. I’ll give them the boat, teach them to rock

To stand astride, arms thrown akimbo as stones fall and rock
Walls crumble to dust. Intimidate with no more than a willingness to dream, wild
Thoughts shine from bright eyes. Don’t you dare say “no, that’s impossible”
Peer around hidden corners and search within the blinding glare
Add fairy dust and sparkles to icy gusts
And watch: they deflate beneath the rainbow-dusted slap

What is impossible? Nothing my child for you will rock
This world. You will refuse the slap by daring to be wild
Head held high, glare. You are the one to conduct the gusts

Child, Sun

Far from where her mother sits, a child
Dances with the shoreline, and the waves
In foaming crests enchant her with their splash.
She squeals, licking her lips to taste the salt.
While mother reclines, sipping the wine that remains from the picnic,
Shielding her eyes, thoughtful on a blanket under the swollen afternoon sun.

Her shoulders are tender and pink from this stolen day in the sun.
She needed urgently to come. To share this with her child.
Packing the car, preparing meticulously for the picnic,
Thoughts of her own mother, memories warm and soft, came in waves.
She folded sandwiches, anticipating them flavored with the salt.
The warm beach blanket, and life’s forgotten sounds, screeches of birds and the splash

Of loyal surf. She watches her child kick the teasing ocean, returning splash for splash,
And aches for the old summers, days spent in the maternal embrace of the sun.
Behind closed eyes she tastes the expansive freedom, the itchy caress of salt
The luxury of sand crunching in her teeth, treasures of a child.
Free to simply be, blissfully unaware until mother calls, waves
Her over. Remembering mother’s toes sifting sand, she is hungry for this picnic.

She gave them little thought, that ubiquitous line up of picnic after picnic after picnic.
But now she misses their predictability, and sighing deeply she lets the tears splash
As she sways, feeling the rhythm of the hypnotic waves.
The red tank, her freckled skin, her mother growing stronger under the watchful sun.
Breathing in the warmth left in the day her eyes find her own dancing child.
Sighing, smiling, subconsciously tasting leftover tears, she feels nourished by their salt.

Shaking the plaid wool blanket, she scatters shells, sand, and salt.
She feels strong, for reclaiming this day, their first summer picnic.
Stretching, reaching to the darkening sky, she moves slowly toward her content child,
Grabbing a sandy hand, they stand, feeling the water tickle and splash.
They dig heels into wet sucking sand. They feel the affection of the sun
Draping protectively over their shoulders, and her heart moves with the waves.

She is grateful. The beach’s distracting din, the repetitious lulling of its waves,
All still here for her. The sea air accepts unconditionally, with open arms of salt.
She hears her mother in the calls of the waves. Warm in her love of the sun.
She feels at ease, a welcomed and beloved guest at this beach picnic.
The soft sand wiggles up through the space between her toes, and a sudden splash
Of evening red and pink stains the summer sky, bleeding its color down onto her child.

The continuity of the splash. A child waltzing with the waves.
Youth in the musical spray. Sustenance in the sea salt.
Stability, of the beach picnic. Support, of the forgiving sun.

Blue

Peaceful landscape unfolds into endless skies that offer plastic comfort
Unnatural, uncomfortable like new jeans
With sharp seams stained an evenly false blue
Premature, this blue has not yet lived, wears no distinctions, no edge
The great western sky wide open, light. Beautiful? I grit
My teeth against such perfection, and miss the surf

Colors in constant evolution. Unpredictable chaos churns the surf
Intense rage in black green, a pinch of soothing turquoise for comfort
Smooth vanilla ice cream crunchy with grit
Shards of sand and grating salt water erode my jeans
Which bend to meet my body, perched above on a rocky edge
Against steel cliffs, above the harsh surf, I succumb easily to the blue

Never confused with babies eyes and endless skies, my reckless blue
Is unpredictable with chilled secrets hiding beneath an inviting sapphire surf
Demanding. Pay attention! Life is here, at the edge
No pretense at comfort
That deceives the eye, like those rolling fields and unbroken jeans
Predictable stretches of immature beauty, lacking imperfections and salty grit

Primary colors of a child’s drawing fail to reach the paper’s edge
Yellow sun, green grass, scrawls of sky in a soft cartoon blue
With the mandatory marshmallow puffs of white. How will my jeans
Tear through? Knees that haven’t felt the sting of surf
Can not blow out. Cannot relax into reliable comfort
Without an occasional peak over the edge

Angry waves broken shells stinging spray dance at the edge
Spinning in a wonderful turmoil of grit
Unavoidable, it lodges with delight and comfort
Against my skin, my eyes, raw as I stare out at imperfect blue
Too dark, too light, too cold, united within the indifferent surf
Sand spills out as I shake down the torn cuff of my jeans

The knees have worn thin on my salted jeans
Rolled up to bare legs that dangle over the rocky edge
Whistling wind signals the continuing dance, egging the surf
On in its endless movement. Scrubbed clean, alive with grit
The ancient blue
Offers possibilities and comfort

Roiling surf tugs at my jeans
An aloof uneasy comfort, this welcome mat at the edge
Treasure-tossed grit in a wondrously, fickle blue