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