This morning, I couldn't find my jeans anywhere. I had just washed them the night before - so I assumed my husband had put them away in some logical location. I heard him down in the kitchen finishing up breakfast with our son, so I stuck my head over the top of the stairs and hollered down at him to see if he knew where they were.
My toddler heard me and ran to the bottom of the stairs to find me.
"I'm up here, buddy," I called down to him.
He looked up, cocked his head in a funny way, and said-asked, "Mama?"
When I confirmed that it was, in fact, me, he began to laugh hysterically.
I looked down at myself, at 32 weeks pregnant, clad only in my bra and underwear, and I started to laugh too.
Pregnancy is beautiful for many reasons, but I am not sure there is much that is more beautiful than seeing it through the eyes of someone with a good, honest sense of humor.
12/31/12
12/18/12
I Happy
My toddler's new favorite thing to say is: "I happy."
When he wakes up, when he is going to sleep, when he has a bad dream and we rock for a few minutes, when he is eating grapes, when he is at a party with my co-workers, when he is in a bubble bath, when we sing his favorite song, when he is hugging the dog, when our whole family is together at the same time . . . these are all times he utters those precious words: "I happy."
They always take me off guard. Before he started saying the expression (and who knows where he picked it up), I can't remember the last time I heard anyone say, "I'm happy."
But I find it totally impossible, after he says those two sweet words, not to look back at him and say - regardless of the day, "I'm so glad you're happy. I'm happy too."
"Happy too," he says back to me - in a way that is matter-of-fact but also disarmingly intimate, as if in confirmation of some pact that we formed, some password into the happiness club. Then he goes about whatever he was doing or - better yet - smiles up at me and starts again:
"I happy."
"I'm happy too."
"Happy too," he will sigh.
And the more times we say it, the happier I am.
When he wakes up, when he is going to sleep, when he has a bad dream and we rock for a few minutes, when he is eating grapes, when he is at a party with my co-workers, when he is in a bubble bath, when we sing his favorite song, when he is hugging the dog, when our whole family is together at the same time . . . these are all times he utters those precious words: "I happy."
They always take me off guard. Before he started saying the expression (and who knows where he picked it up), I can't remember the last time I heard anyone say, "I'm happy."
But I find it totally impossible, after he says those two sweet words, not to look back at him and say - regardless of the day, "I'm so glad you're happy. I'm happy too."
"Happy too," he says back to me - in a way that is matter-of-fact but also disarmingly intimate, as if in confirmation of some pact that we formed, some password into the happiness club. Then he goes about whatever he was doing or - better yet - smiles up at me and starts again:
"I happy."
"I'm happy too."
"Happy too," he will sigh.
And the more times we say it, the happier I am.
11/27/12
Perfect House
My grandmother lives in a perfect house.
Not a house that makes you feel stiff or inadequate or poor, but one that makes you want to better yourself in the right kind of ways.
At my house, if my son spills something on the floor, I roll my eyes and leave it there for a day when I am less tired. But at Nana's, when he dumps potpourri all over the carpet, I cannot leave it. I am compelled to pick it up, piece by piece, and then vacuum over it, and then vacuum over the mismatched vacuum lines on the floor. She begs me to leave it until Monday, "When Nell comes," but that wouldn't be right - not at Nana's house.
Things are prissy at Nana's house, but not rude. She has a sitting room filled with tiny teacups and pictures of trees and rivers that I liked to look at when I studied there in middle school. The room has a hush about it, reminding you that some things are meant to be sacred. But it is a kind hush that beckons my 19 month in and urges him to lift dainty china to his lips in uncharacteristically mannerly play.
At Nana's house, everything has a place - and at one point in time, I knew about every thing and every place. I would roam through the cabinets and the closets and the button jars and the drawers while she teased me about being a snoop and warned me about dinner parties where hosts filled bathroom cabinets with marbles to trap unsuspecting, nosey guests. I would laugh at her warning and move on to the next cabinet, soaking up the same sort of comfort I got when reading Little Women or The Boxcar Children.
Food tastes better in this perfect house than it does anywhere else. Even fruitcake, which somehow tastes like candied tar everywhere else, comes out soft and second-tempting. Traveling salesmen, army boys meant to be "surviving in the wilderness" from Fort Stewart, dogs, wild cats, hungry grandchildren, and then hungry grandchildren's spouses, have all been in on this secret --- showing up hat in hand or purr in throat at just the right time.
At Nana's house - we talk about the best part of our day, not the worst. Everything feels better there. And we always leave better than we came.
It is a perfect house.
Not a house that makes you feel stiff or inadequate or poor, but one that makes you want to better yourself in the right kind of ways.
At my house, if my son spills something on the floor, I roll my eyes and leave it there for a day when I am less tired. But at Nana's, when he dumps potpourri all over the carpet, I cannot leave it. I am compelled to pick it up, piece by piece, and then vacuum over it, and then vacuum over the mismatched vacuum lines on the floor. She begs me to leave it until Monday, "When Nell comes," but that wouldn't be right - not at Nana's house.
Things are prissy at Nana's house, but not rude. She has a sitting room filled with tiny teacups and pictures of trees and rivers that I liked to look at when I studied there in middle school. The room has a hush about it, reminding you that some things are meant to be sacred. But it is a kind hush that beckons my 19 month in and urges him to lift dainty china to his lips in uncharacteristically mannerly play.
At Nana's house, everything has a place - and at one point in time, I knew about every thing and every place. I would roam through the cabinets and the closets and the button jars and the drawers while she teased me about being a snoop and warned me about dinner parties where hosts filled bathroom cabinets with marbles to trap unsuspecting, nosey guests. I would laugh at her warning and move on to the next cabinet, soaking up the same sort of comfort I got when reading Little Women or The Boxcar Children.
Food tastes better in this perfect house than it does anywhere else. Even fruitcake, which somehow tastes like candied tar everywhere else, comes out soft and second-tempting. Traveling salesmen, army boys meant to be "surviving in the wilderness" from Fort Stewart, dogs, wild cats, hungry grandchildren, and then hungry grandchildren's spouses, have all been in on this secret --- showing up hat in hand or purr in throat at just the right time.
At Nana's house - we talk about the best part of our day, not the worst. Everything feels better there. And we always leave better than we came.
It is a perfect house.
11/12/12
Yellow Nursery
Some girls dream
Of the perfect wedding:
The dress,
the favors,
the attendants,
the cake.
Not me.
I really just wanted to look beautiful
And have dancing.
Lots and lots of dancing.
What, then, were my little girl dreams
made of?
White cradles,
yellow walls,
stuffed animals,
cheery pictures,
crocheted blankets,
sunny corners,
and
well-stocked closets
full of tiny
perfect
precious
things.
I did not know
That - when the time came -
I would rent
a condo
Full to the brim
With the collections
Of just two.
I did not know
That my first baby
Would be such a shock
To the system
That indecision would
Prevent any
Tasteful Choices.
I did not know
That parenting
And pregnancy
Would be so exhausting
For both of us
That my husband's
Top wish as
We wait for baby number two
Would be more time
. . . . . to sleep.
I did not know
That painting a nursery
Would be
The straw that
Might break the camel's back
And that I would come to a place -
This place -
Where I pray that
Little girl dreams
Of a yellow nursery
Don't trump grown up priorities
Like love and common-sense.
Of the perfect wedding:
The dress,
the favors,
the attendants,
the cake.
Not me.
I really just wanted to look beautiful
And have dancing.
Lots and lots of dancing.
What, then, were my little girl dreams
made of?
White cradles,
yellow walls,
stuffed animals,
cheery pictures,
crocheted blankets,
sunny corners,
and
well-stocked closets
full of tiny
perfect
precious
things.
I did not know
That - when the time came -
I would rent
a condo
Full to the brim
With the collections
Of just two.
I did not know
That my first baby
Would be such a shock
To the system
That indecision would
Prevent any
Tasteful Choices.
I did not know
That parenting
And pregnancy
Would be so exhausting
For both of us
That my husband's
Top wish as
We wait for baby number two
Would be more time
. . . . . to sleep.
I did not know
That painting a nursery
Would be
The straw that
Might break the camel's back
And that I would come to a place -
This place -
Where I pray that
Little girl dreams
Of a yellow nursery
Don't trump grown up priorities
Like love and common-sense.
11/8/12
Apple Salad
Son in crib
Singing softly
His first Doo-Wop:
"Waa Waa Waa Waa."
We think its cute
And we surrender
Our tired feet
To the bed
Where we stare
At the baby monitor
And listen to his
Fading murmers.
Long week!
And it's only
Wednesday.
Husband closes tired eyes
And I shift
From the left
To the right
And to the left again
Seeking comfort
For that growing
Belly of mine.
Two days of traveling
Have worn me out in a way
That makes my faults
Shine like Miss Hannigan's
Version of the Chrysler Building.
Just as things are starting
To look really bleak,
Perfect, Loving, Dutiful
Husband sighs, says:
I should really go
To the grocery store -
Get something for dinner tomorrow.
Not tonight, I say.
Maybe this weekend.
And (says growing baby #2)
Maybe then we can buy
Apples
And make a salad
With cherries
And raisins
And maybe bananas.
I look at Husband,
Who is always
Gleeful about food
And I am shocked!
He is not smiling.
He is not even a little
Excited.
It hits me,
But I can hardly believe it:
He does not like apple salad!
Over six years I have
Been married
And I did not know that
He does not like apple salad!
I say it out loud
The blasphemous words
Shooting off of my tongue
And he turns to me, sheepish:
It's not that I dislike them . . .
he stammers,
And then he drives the nail
Into his own coffin:
It's just that fruit and mayo,
he says,
well, they must be a Southern thing.
But the combination!
I hear myself say,
The apples,
And the cherries,
And the raisins,
And the bananas . . .
I can't even finish the description
It is too lovely to describe
In this apple-empty house
So I simply sputter
The accusation again,
Forever damning his
Credibility
As the foodie he believes himself to be:
You don't like apple salad!
He tries once again to justify
But I interrupt him
With a crowing cackle
This is just the boost I needed!
Not only is he tragically flawed
(Hallelujah!)
But there will be more
Apple salad for me!
Singing softly
His first Doo-Wop:
"Waa Waa Waa Waa."
We think its cute
And we surrender
Our tired feet
To the bed
Where we stare
At the baby monitor
And listen to his
Fading murmers.
Long week!
And it's only
Wednesday.
Husband closes tired eyes
And I shift
From the left
To the right
And to the left again
Seeking comfort
For that growing
Belly of mine.
Two days of traveling
Have worn me out in a way
That makes my faults
Shine like Miss Hannigan's
Version of the Chrysler Building.
Just as things are starting
To look really bleak,
Perfect, Loving, Dutiful
Husband sighs, says:
I should really go
To the grocery store -
Get something for dinner tomorrow.
Not tonight, I say.
Maybe this weekend.
And (says growing baby #2)
Maybe then we can buy
Apples
And make a salad
With cherries
And raisins
And maybe bananas.
I look at Husband,
Who is always
Gleeful about food
And I am shocked!
He is not smiling.
He is not even a little
Excited.
It hits me,
But I can hardly believe it:
He does not like apple salad!
Over six years I have
Been married
And I did not know that
He does not like apple salad!
I say it out loud
The blasphemous words
Shooting off of my tongue
And he turns to me, sheepish:
It's not that I dislike them . . .
he stammers,
And then he drives the nail
Into his own coffin:
It's just that fruit and mayo,
he says,
well, they must be a Southern thing.
But the combination!
I hear myself say,
The apples,
And the cherries,
And the raisins,
And the bananas . . .
I can't even finish the description
It is too lovely to describe
In this apple-empty house
So I simply sputter
The accusation again,
Forever damning his
Credibility
As the foodie he believes himself to be:
You don't like apple salad!
He tries once again to justify
But I interrupt him
With a crowing cackle
This is just the boost I needed!
Not only is he tragically flawed
(Hallelujah!)
But there will be more
Apple salad for me!
10/2/12
Tired Thoughts of Missing You
Frightened cry
Wakes me up
And I am glad
Not for the dream
That woke you
But for the excuse
To pick you up
At 12:30 am.
For the past
Two nights
Daddy has tucked
You in alone.
I've been at work.
Missing you every second.
But how do I share
The loss I feel
With a one year old?
All you know
Is that I was not here
At home
Where I am supposed to be.
Heavy sigh.
No one taught me
How to be
This kind of Mommy.
As you snuggle closer to me
Your baby brother --
or maybe a sister? ---
starts to kick against you.
You can't feel him or her yet
But this little one loves you
Just like I do
And knows that things are best
When you are near.
What a wonderful big brother
You will be!
I click through tomorrow's list
Wondering what I can skip
To spend some extra time with you.
But - there is nothing.
It all has to be done
Or Saturday will become a work day
And I will resent it all the more
For taking me away from you
On a day we always share.
I love holding you so close
But baby-to-be
Squirms against my bladder
And I realize that I must put you down.
I lay you in your crib
Next to the penguin Dada calls Fonzi
I tuck you in with prayers
That I can't articulate ---
Only feel.
God knows what I mean.
9/13/12
Night-Night, Dada!
Jammies on.
Stories read.
Mama rocking.
Dada says,
“I love you near.
I love you far.
I love you anywhere
You are.
Now sleep, my lamb.
Now rest, my dove.
May Angels guard you
From above.
I'll see you soon.
It won't be long.
Now rest, my darling.
To this song.”
Night-night, Dada!
He tip-toes out.
I close my eyes.
Mama hums
A lullaby.
I hear him patter
Down the stairs.
I hear him settle
In his chair.
All is quiet
When I peek.
Mama is
Almost asleep . . .
Wake up, Mama!
I put my finger
In her nose.
I poke her tummy
With my toes.
Mama frowns
And takes my hand,
"Time for sleep,
My little man."
For a minute
I snuggle near.
Then I pull
On her left ear.
She starts to giggle.
I giggle back.
"Okay, Little Mister,
You're under attack!"
She kisses my neck.
She tickles my tum.
I laugh and I laugh
And I kiss her in turn.
I start to howl
And she joins me.
We're howling so loud
We don't hear the door creak . . .
Dada!!!
He tries not to smile
As he shakes his head,
"Okay, Little Monkeys!
It's past time for bed!"
He scoops me away
Out of her lap.
Mama fake-coughs
To cover a laugh.
He motions her out
As he takes her seat.
He starts to rock.
He strokes my cheek.
I try to fight it.
I want to play!
I poke at his tummy
But I hear him say,
“I love you near.
I love you far.
I love you anywhere
You are.
Now sleep, my lamb.
Now rest, my dove.
May Angels guard you
From above.
I'll see you soon.
It won't be long.
Now rest, my darling
To this song.
My eyes are heavy.
My mind is light.
I start to drift
Into the night.
"Night-night, little slugger,"
He whispers to me.
"Night-night, Dada,"
I fall fast asleep.
Stories read.
Mama rocking.
Dada says,
“I love you near.
I love you far.
I love you anywhere
You are.
Now sleep, my lamb.
Now rest, my dove.
May Angels guard you
From above.
I'll see you soon.
It won't be long.
Now rest, my darling.
To this song.”
Night-night, Dada!
He tip-toes out.
I close my eyes.
Mama hums
A lullaby.
I hear him patter
Down the stairs.
I hear him settle
In his chair.
All is quiet
When I peek.
Mama is
Almost asleep . . .
Wake up, Mama!
I put my finger
In her nose.
I poke her tummy
With my toes.
Mama frowns
And takes my hand,
"Time for sleep,
My little man."
For a minute
I snuggle near.
Then I pull
On her left ear.
She starts to giggle.
I giggle back.
"Okay, Little Mister,
You're under attack!"
She kisses my neck.
She tickles my tum.
I laugh and I laugh
And I kiss her in turn.
I start to howl
And she joins me.
We're howling so loud
We don't hear the door creak . . .
Dada!!!
He tries not to smile
As he shakes his head,
"Okay, Little Monkeys!
It's past time for bed!"
He scoops me away
Out of her lap.
Mama fake-coughs
To cover a laugh.
He motions her out
As he takes her seat.
He starts to rock.
He strokes my cheek.
I try to fight it.
I want to play!
I poke at his tummy
But I hear him say,
“I love you near.
I love you far.
I love you anywhere
You are.
Now sleep, my lamb.
Now rest, my dove.
May Angels guard you
From above.
I'll see you soon.
It won't be long.
Now rest, my darling
To this song.
My eyes are heavy.
My mind is light.
I start to drift
Into the night.
"Night-night, little slugger,"
He whispers to me.
"Night-night, Dada,"
I fall fast asleep.
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