daughters

March Daughters

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Isabella

I thought by seven you wouldn’t want
to wear those fancy, “spinny” dresses that,
at age two, caused you to flop on the floor
in tireless tantrums, insistent upon wearing
a dress—OR ELSE—so much so that
even if I pulled out a pair of pants
or a onesie for your baby sister,
you expanded into a volcano of screams.

Yet, on a day when you are free from school,
I know I will still see you emerge from your room
clad in the neck-to-toe Victorian style dress
with the gold Christmas paint on the navy blue
background, the embroidered buttons, and
the ballet shoes over your tights, spinning just
as happily as if you were still two
(oh how I love you now but still miss year two).

Mythili

we have no need for gifts in our house.
you create your own.

finding on the floor of my car
a bright yellow foam brain
(product of my school district’s
ridiculous expenditures),
you snatched it up,
reclaimed it as a mouse,
carried it to the park
and named her Lola

Lola hurt herself falling
off the seesaw
and jumped for joy dashing down
the twisty slide,
settling in next to your mouth
(fingers inside)
for your nighttime soother
(of course under blankey)
every night, causing panicked screams
when misplaced,
your beloved, favorite found toy.

we have no need for gifts in our house.
we have you.

Riona

at Mary Poppins, in between
your animated reactions to the
bright colors (“it’s turning green now”
“look, Mama, it’s bright red!”)
and the tap dancing (“see all the
chimney sweepers in black shoes?”)
my friend Hanna counted fifteen times
your turning to me and whispering,
“I wuv you Mama,”
making my heart melt more
than you in your pretty dress,
your first (perfectly obedient) night
at the theatre,
your first musical,
your first time walking everywhere
I once rolled or carried you,
because no matter how many times
you say it to me,
I feel as if it is my first time
hearing your lovely words.

I’ve Been There

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he has carried her in the crook of his arm
to the point of exhaustion for both
yet
even long distance I can hear her cries,
I can feel the stress rising up over phone lines
and all I can reply is, “I’ve been there.”

she handles it as flippantly as a new mother can,
mentioning only her concerns about the schedule,
the lack of sleep,
the looming return to work,
but he is not so sure
and when she tells me she must go
it is not because of the crying (now settled)
(innocent, newborn) baby,
but because he is stressed.

and all I can reply is, “I’ve been there,”
knowing the words will
never be enough to
cover the overwhelming burden
(of love)
that comes with becoming parents

The Fierce Heat of Living

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(Inspired by David Whyte)

How do I survive in the fierce heat of living?
by taking her hand within my own
and dashing across the stalemate parking lot
on our way to our next adventure,
plucking up her sisters (trapping their
thrilled screams in boxes)
to ride a bike behind my new two-wheel rider,
to ride a plastic horse for a penny,
to choose another fantasy from the library,
everything free (almost free)
just like the way life was, once,
before we knew better.

How do I survive in the fierce heat of living?
by taking her hand within my own
and dashing into the blue moon night
on our way to our next adventure,
plucking off our clothes (trapping their
tangled mess in piles)
to scream out into the darkness
to roll our nakedness in the snow
to choose another fantasy from our minds,
everything free (almost free)
just like the way life is, now,
because we know better.

Six-Penny Happiness

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A lackluster errand to the bank
(located inside the grocery store)
seems tedious as I sit in the driver’s seat
of my compact car with three
antsy girls who unbuckle themselves,
scratch the back dash,
bang on the window
as I count quarters that have
spilled out of their paper sleeve
(I lost $1.50 in the depths
of Hyundai oblivion)

They are seven, five, three,
and don’t attempt to contain
the excitement that bursts at
the thought of what is to come:
a free kid’s cookie for each,
a slice of orange meant to entice
paying customers (that they will
suck the juice from and abandon),
and the pennies they’ve discovered
(in their search for quarters) that
will pay for six rides on the horse.

They take turns, maneuvering from
tail to saddle to head to leg,
the shiny plastic horse never
moaning under their ample weight,
and every time another penny is inserted,
a new wave of thrilled screams erupts,
making this six-cent endeavor (this
tedious, hideous errand) worth more to me
(to them) than a million dollars that
I will never have to count (or spend)
to bring them happiness.

Swallowing Our Sadness

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After two gloriously quiet hours,
they are ready for the flourless cake
that this time (after multiple envious complaints)
I have made just for them.

They emerge from the family room
after watching The Velveteen Rabbit,
tears streaming down their
reddened-with-sadness cheeks.

“What’s the matter, don’t you want cake?”
Daddy asks, his voice dripping with confusion.
“The movie was so sad.” Sobs erupt
from their throats and trap any more anxious words.

“Really? What’s it about?” he asks, never having seen it.
As I begin to describe the rabbit becoming Real
(Isabella chimes in about the high fever)
their tears find their way into my own eyes.

I look at the three pained faces of my girls
who for the first time have been touched to tears
by a movie, and I wonder if I’m crying because of
the story or because they’re now old enough to understand it.

Either way, as I slice up the cake
that they take tiny bites of and abandon,
swallowing their sadness with delectability,
I am not able to swallow my own sadness.

Before I have even had a chance to stop time,
I have a houseful of growing-up girls
who reminded me today how precious
every bite of cake, every rite of passage, can be.

Ten Random Thoughts

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1. Though I thought I really had earned that 99-cent bag of Cheetos after my eight-mile run, I decided, as always, that it’s better to share it with my girls. Everything is.
2. Libraries are the best places I know. From browsing through the online catalog and reserving books and CDs to their wide variety of audio books and DVDs, I can think of few places where our tax money is better spent. It’s a shame more people don’t think like me.
3. A frugalista’s version of a car wash is to squeegee all the windows at the gas station. It’s not like we need to see out of the doors or the hood, so why do those need to be cleaned? Ever?
4. Having a handful of kids’ DVDs can make the weekend much more relaxing.
5. Why didn’t I think five years sooner to give the girls a bath BEFORE dinner? That way they’re mostly ready for bed before we even eat and their hair dries on its own. Duh.
6. Having second-degree-burned myself as a child (resulting in plastic surgery and permanent scarring), now when I make a quick burn mistake I have catlike reflexes, rushing to the sink and running my hand in ice-cold water, preventing another scar. Or, everything happens for a reason.
7. iTunes and iPods are the greatest modern inventions. In ten minutes I made the perfect playlist for running with an iPod that fits in my tiny yoga-pants pocket. Remember the days of mixed tapes and Walkmans?
8. Always go for the sale items. Today I saved 30%. Tomorrow I’ll have money to pay my bills. So simple.
9. Cheap wine (my favorite is Barefoot) tastes as good as expensive wine if you share it with someone you love.
10. The only thing I remember from that Life’s Little Instructions book my mom gave me when I graduated high school: “Marry the right person. It will determine 90% of your happiness in life.” Almost twelve years later, I must concur.

Decisions, Decisions

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What can I capture from today?

The angry parent email
with threat to principal and
superintendent, all over a book
she shouldn’t have read
(for surely she didn’t understand
its genuine meaning)?

The morose groans of CSAP prep
and note-taking
that I put my students through
year after year
(yet do they listen)?

Or

The perfect rectangle of dough
rolled and ready to fill
with a mix of scallions, dill,
butter, garlic, and parsley
(everything already chopped)
laid out by my husband’s hands?

The well-behaved seven-year-old
daughter who carried in posters,
collected pennies for tastes,
sat listening to every presentation
and (for once)
asked permission before every request?

The gutak herb fritters
and sour cream, cider vinegar,
lemon-pepper sauce
that filled everyone’s faces
with smiles and everyone’s
stomachs with thanks?

The choice,
just like my fretful decision to bake,
my too-young-to-be-married decision to marry,
my too-early-for-grandkids decision to have them anyway,
is obvious.

Dear Mother

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Dear Mother,

I know you think
that being a Girl Scout
troop leader means
I can be nothing less
than a perfect role model.

But underneath every
perfectly polite
member of society
lie the cusses,
frustration,
and brutal honesty
that you hate
for me to share.

Can I have a place
to fully expose
myself
without worrying about
what you think

considering

you never could take
the time away from your
(true love) work to be
MY
Girl Scout troop leader,
but rather,
were a cussing, raging,
violent mother
behind closed doors?

Love,
Daughter

P.S.: Thank you
for taking the time
to see me for who
I really am
and, alas,
relentlessly criticizing me.

February Daughters

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Riona

You were getting into bed last night
still waiting for us to cover you up
when you told me a story,
your three-and-a-half-year-old
version of a story

“I had to get my piwow
and then I saw that Snoopy wasn’t
he-ah, so I got Snoopy and
put him down they-ah,
and it’s my Snoopy not Isabewa’s
she thought he was hers
but that one’s mine.”

And I realize as I write this
that I have a poet
for my youngest daughter,
and if not a poet,
a poem.

Mythili

Holding your stomach all
through the crowded mall
you let me know
it was time to go
you rushed to the van
holding out your hand
“I need my blankey
I need my blankey”
the door opened wide
and you dashed inside
five minutes couldn’t pass
with your eyes turning glass
your fingers curled silk
like it was mother’s milk
your lids relaxed
sleep came fast
and all was calm in Mythili land
because of the blankey in your hand.

Isabella

Turning seven to you
means a tea party
filled with pink cupcakes
and a houseful of girls
daintily sipping from china cups
only to abandon the table
for screaming pursuits
of chopped-up white snowflakes
foam doilies and spilled glitter glue,
cat chasings and scavenger hunts
whose competition almost drew blood
a smile on your face
as you hand out goodie bags
blow out your candles
and remark more than once,
“Three hours is not long enough.”

Happy birthday my love,
my first child
whose energy fills our lives
for every waking moment.

Consumerism on Presidents’ Day

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We went to the mall today. Packed with shoppers. We almost never buy anything there other than a shake that we all share from Chik-Fil-A. We take the girls to play on the little play area and peruse the puppies in Pet City and to kill an afternoon without spending more than $5. Isabella had to go to the bathroom and suddenly we were in the back of Macy’s when we started looking at all the nice leather sectionals that were $2000. “When we get our tax return,” Bruce joked. Who has $2000 to spend on one piece of furniture? And that was the sale price, the Presidents’ Day sale.

We started walking out and the girls examined the plate sets, the men’s shirts, the towels and sheets. “Hey, this isn’t the mall, this is like a regular store!” Isabella announced, having never really been inside one there before. Everything was on sale, we could have got some real deals, $20 dress shirts instead of $40, a $15 lingerie Valentine set, already marked down the day after. All because… because why?

Why do we have the day off today? Have we all forgotten? Here we are stuffing ourselves with fast food concoctions and filling our shopping bags with sale items and doing anything but taking a moment to realize why this is a federal holiday. This is the typical American interpretation of a holiday: consumerism.

I’m sure Lincoln and Washington are turning over in their graves right now. What were they fighting for anyway? What have we forgotten in the course of 230 years? Is this really what freedom and equal rights and human sacrifice have all amounted to? A winter clearance of coats and boots in every store countrywide?

Sometimes I ask myself, what has this country come to? How is it that the things that sustain us—the buying and selling of goods—are the same things that destroy us? How can we simultaneously prevent and prepare for a recession, just as Einstein once asked the same question about war?

When I buy anything, I am wrought with guilt. I think about the person in China who made my product and a hundred others like it for a dollar a day. Instantaneously, I think of the store-owners and employees who will be out of work if I don’t buy more. I think of the destruction of natural resources from the production of each item. And I think of how spoiled we all are, how we think we need more than what we need, and how my children’s future will be impacted by this.

But today, as I witnessed sale after sale in honor of Presidents’ Day, all I could think about were arguably the two most influential presidents of all time and their idea of the American Dream. Did Washington read the Declaration of Independence to his suffering troops during the winter at Valley Forge, did Lincoln sign the Emancipation Proclamation and take the first step towards equality, for us to save a few bucks and add to the debt and environmental nightmare that we’ve been swimming in for years? And if this is how we honor our presidents, the leaders of this great nation, where is our country headed?

I can’t answer that question. I can only reach out and take my girls’ hands and lead them out of the mall. Perhaps this is the first and most important step to guiding the next generation in the direction of the real American Dream: the dream our presidents had, once. The one about freedom. Not consumerism.