Sophie's prayer

Sophie age 6

"Please let the night come smoothly...
Help my heart be brave and strong and ready for tomorrow."

~Sophie's prayer~

Every night I stand on the top wrung of Sophie's bunk bed and hold her hand.
I listen to her voice as it reaches out in prayer.
It trickles slowly.  It is early run-off from a white mountain still frozen.
She asks for help to accept her step-parents exactly as they are.
She says thank you for her little brother and sister, even though they drive her crazy.
She asks Nannie Bonnie and Kitty to take care of each other.  They have both passed on, and we assume they are in the same place, together.
She asks for help to let her gymnastics unfold each day.
Her wording is abstract and poetic.
She takes long pauses in between.
In the end she breaths deep and exhales, "Amen."
Then she reaches for me with arms too strong for her small body.
She pulls me in and whispers, "I love you Mom."


Some nights I am so tired, I almost wish she would forget to pray.
She never does.  My tired toes grip the wooden ladder and my burning eyes close.
I hear the trickle.  It is clear and fresh every time.
And I am put in my place once again.
I remember a simple truth.
It takes 2 minutes.
2 minutes to grow an integrity strong enough to carry me through a lifetime.
This is the best I can hope for.
I hope she walks into the world with roots so thick and so deep that no wind can uproot her.

Sophie's eyes see so much...

mundane angel

opening presents with Mom

Yesterday we celebrated Beckam's first birthday.
Cars...Cars...and more cars.
He is in the laundry room right now grumbling an engine sound to himself.
He is driving in and out of the funnel shaped concrete where the laundry water drains.
"I taught him that," Andrew says every time Beckam vrooms his car.




Most baby boys acquire this skill.
All of my brothers did.
Next comes the machine gun sound.
It is more sophisticated.  He probably won't get it until kindergarten.
Beckam doesn't do anything original, not yet.


family birthday party at Christmas

Maybe none of us ever do.

When I studied art in school, I thought this was the goal.
To paint the most original, one-of-a-kind.
Now I realize even the biggest names never did that.
Van Gogh painted the view from his asylum window.
He painted the sunflowers on his kitchen table.
Monet painted his own backyard.
We can only recreate what we know.

The point is not to be different.
It is to be mindful...to know more.
It is to record all of it.  The mundane.  The simple.  The colors.



me reading.  Beckam escaping

I just took a break to hold Beckam up to the light switch and let him turn it off and on.
I see his two bottom teeth because his mouth hangs open.  He breathes slow.  His baby breath floats up into my nose.  He kicks his feet every time the light changes.  We could do this for an hour.

I put him down and go to my computer.
I am reading about the Sandy Hook Elementary shooting.
26 people were killed.  20 children...20 children...I can't understand this reality.
I read about one of the fathers.  He is speaking out already, about his daughter, Emilie. 
I read about Emilie Parker. 
He describes her as an angel.  A bright spirit who was sensitive to the feelings of others.
I am crying.  She is real.  I can't believe it, and I realize it at the same time.
Beckam's little fingers grasp my pants.  He is looking up at me with all 4 teeth, and wild orange hair.
I scoop him into my lap and hold his cheek to mine.  I hum to him, "I love you buddy..I love you.."


walking

He lets me do this for a long time.  His quiet matches mine.
He pulls away and looks into my eyes.  He is comforting me.  This happens often with my kids, but it is always a surprise.  I am in awe at his intuition.  This may sound silly, but to a mother, it is not.
They are the same.
Emilie and Beckam. "...sensitive to the feelings of others...bright angel...."
They do not need to be different to be precious.
Beckam is mine to experience, for now, and hopefully for a long time.

The only way I know how to honor the families who lost their angels is to care for mine.
To be mindful of them.

This sounds like a simple ideal, and it is.
But had I not sat down to write today,  I would forget.
This is why writing is vital.  Because I cannot always realize my life as I am living it.

Sardines

I've been missing writing - and also not missing it.
I mean, it's more than that.
I miss the self who writes.
She is in a coma, waiting until energy may be spared for her.
I ache for the sleep which is absorbed by every person in this family.

Beckam turns 1 tomorrow.
He squawks every time I walk away from him.
Squawk is an understatement.
He sounds more like a hyena or a shrill monkey from some desert market place.
My ears are raw and nervous from this noise, from the anticipation of it.

I told Andrew last night,
"I wanna drop kick that kid."
I can kick pretty far. He'd go at least across the street.
He's the perfect size for punting.

Of course, instead I pray.
I reach deep into the well and hope for a bit more water so I don't go stale.
I mash fingers into my cheeks and push all air in my lungs, out.
At 11:30 last night it was Sophie, Pepper, Andrew and myself all sardined into my bed.
"Come here, Mom," Sophie urges. With her 10 year-old gymnast arms she holds me.
Age melts.
"We've all gotta go through it," She says.

Beckam wails against the door of the other room.
I can hear from his cry that he is chewing on the wood of his crib.
We huddle there while Beckam works himself into a crescendo of gasping and coughing.
Shit. I think he's going to puke.
I go in to prevent the vomit and find him hanging onto the bars for dear life.

My boy is roaring out, and he is demanding we make room.
I heave him up and out of his cage.
I shush, I rock, I kiss. He still cries, thrashes, and gnaws on his blanket.
His body is too big for me to hold.
I feel inadequate.
But I cradle him anyway until he is asleep.
I lay him back down...tip-toe... he pops up for round 2 of crying.
I exhale, leave the sardines to their can, and do the only thing I know to do.
I get in the shower.
I pray again.
I let the water rain a curtain down, like the thick, velvet drapes of a theatrical stage.
There is no role for me to play in here.
I stay for a long time.
If the hot water would never run out, I would sleep in here.
When I turn off my curtain, the cold rushes against my wet skin, and also the quiet.
Finally.

I remember my original sardine can.
We huddled close through so many storms.
Now one of my family has lost their soul mate...their penguin.
And we are immediately sucked in tight around the pain.
We cannot make it untrue...but at least no one suffers alone.

Happy poop

post-baby powder fight - Pepper won

I remember Grandma telling me about weight loss after her 4 boys.
"I never had to exercise. I burned enough calories just chasing them around."
I wonder, 'Is this what is happening to me?"

My dinner last night equaled five bites of mac n cheeze and a fish stick.
The toddler diet, just add todders, and it's quite affective.
Beckam started walking on Thanksgiving.
I now have 2 toddlers.
He woke up at 5 a.m.
It is now 5:44 a.m.
He is quarantined in the bath tub, banging his toys against the porcelain, and nibbling a graham cracker.
Everyone else is asleep. In about an hour, Beckam will go back to sleep, and the rest of them will rise. I am the only person awake for all of it. I average 5-6 hours of sleep per night. On a good night, those hours are all in a row.

Mom is the hottest commodity in this place.
She is me. 
Funny thing is, she represents only one facet of me.
Yet I am her about 78% of the time, even with my eyes closed.
This time, here at my computer, is one of the only spaces where I am not "Mom."

a bath fixes everything

Other times are:

in the shower (sometimes)

driving in the car alone to pick up Sophie from gymnastics when I get to listen to my own music.

in bed with Andrew right before we both pass out mid-conversation, my head in the crook of his shoulder and his tattoos.

Running

For about 10% of weekdays, I am Art teacher.
However, this also involves children...other people's children.
50 of them...in one day.

I suppose this is why I can go for days without writing.
Because it is easier not to hope for time.
I don't want to start and get interrupted.
It is like a tiny heart-break when I hear their voices at the top of the stairs.
"MOOooooOOOm"
But just like heart-break, there is love in it.
So I get up from the computer, spread my smile on, and greet them.
Pepper's tossled hair pokes out from around the door jamb.
She looks lost and still dreaming.
I scoop up her onsie-feet from the linoleum and hold her like a baby.
"My girl...I am so happy to see you.  Did you have a good sleep?"
To which she rubs her eyes, grins and nods.
______________________________________________________

I can hear Beckam in the bathroom grunting...

Explosion.
Poop out the top of his jeans.
I get it on my hands as I try to take his clothes off.
I'll be good if I can get his shirt over his head without smearing crap in his hair.
At least it's not diarrhea anymore.
I am happy to see this poop.

Now it is 6:23.
My time is up.

 both asleep in Beckam's crib