parenting

Grateful Grin and All

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the sun has set in cloudville, but
on the drive home the clouds clear,
a starlit sky to bring in Santa,
who sits up setting up a bicycle
and filling stockings with little girl joys.

the clock ticks on. he is
as silent as the sacred night
and i know (i know)
he will let my tears slide
into the passenger’s view
of the endless drive.

they awaken (not too early)
and my unassuming five-year-old
overlooks the bicycle beside the tree,
pointing instead, grateful grin and all,
to the green Christmas tree Peeps,
the simplest gift of gratitude
that i ache to gather in my arms.

(if i could love)
if i could have for one moment
the beautiful temperament
she came into the world with,
the sadness surrounding my heart
would melt away with the first bite
of overly sweetened marshmallow.

November (2011) Daughters

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Isabella

you have tears again.
they mimic mine like a shadow of myself.
how could you know?
how could you put your heart
into this overly-nostalgic,
made-for-my-generation movie
and cry just as i do?

because you are mine.
my first to witness the struggles
of young motherhood.
my first to test out all my
ridiculous rules.
my first to see the truth
behind the words i try to hide from you.
my first.

and that is why we share these tears,
this joy that comes from
our dual-beating hearts,
our love,
our first. forever. bond.

Mythili

i hated seven.
you take it in stride
with a new mouth
that you’re not afraid to show off.
you memorize music
and pedal across six blocks.
you state logically the reason
behind every decision i make.
you point out the intricacies
of school regulations.
you know by heart the page
with the map of Madrid.
you have a plan,
sure and steady,
and by golly my Mythili,
you’re going to fulfill it.

Riona

you burst down the stairs
in your oversized Daisy shirt,
follow me around the store,
a small shadow to the boisterous girls.
you stand smaller than all
as they sing along to the words they read,
and your lips move into circles of want
and cuteness too beautiful to capture.

you are the baby
who still sucks her thumb,
whose long eyelashes beat back
the quiet fear in her eyes.

you will always be smaller than them,
my cuddly, lovey girl,
the one whose warmth
stays with me even after
i have left the room.

Estamos Bien

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mañana tenemos el
Acción de Día de Gracias tercera

he stands in an airport
with laughter at the back of his voice,
the emotion so close to tears
that they sit waiting
on the edges of my lids

estamos bien.
tenemos una avión mañana por la mañana

because we are all well
with them in our midst–
so un-American to be grateful
for a night longer,
a missed flight,
a smile that we’ve all tucked away
inside ourselves
(that he fishes out
as easily as catching
tadpoles on a hot June day)

Thanksgiving dos,
we sit and share thanks:
one of the four girls
mentions her extra parents
(the highlight of the evening)

i bring forth my Spaniards
(absent)
but with an ever-present influence
on every thought i have,
on every emotion that has crossed my heart
in the four short months
that i have made them mine

Isabella gives me the look
as if i could forget
the reason we are all gathered,
for without these four girls,
none of this happiness
could float in the room
carrying the
feliz día de los padres
mylar balloon
up to the ceiling,
zhuzhu pet attached,
miracle in place
(can you see it?)

and the Spaniards?
they would live somewhere else,
and our surrealistic vision
of tomorrow
would be so.
real.
so.
unimaginative.

instead?
i hear him laugh
about fumando el toro,
the night in the airport
and our third,
and final,
Thanksgiving meal.

The Sun of this Sunday

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they take bottles of clear liquid
wipe the sinks, mirrors, toilets
while we toil with decluttering
and four levels of vacuuming
all before eleven when we
snap ourselves into the tiny car
and drive along sun-streamed streets,
the leaves dancing before us,
letting loose green and gold shade.
we stop and walk to the apple stand
and buy small imperfects
that their hands grasp, juice dripping
before we’ve even ordered souvlaki gyros
to sit on the bench in the shade
and eat with Greek lemon-chicken soup
(i’ll never remember the name).
they skip back to the car
a menagerie of dresses and pants,
and trick-or-treat street awaits
as they measure their steps on the map
sucking in the sun of this Sunday.
we move on to the store that started it all,
the giant scoops of homemade dreams
melting along the sides of the cones
and as we buy our drinks for another day
we move to the library, their singsong voices
unable to contain their excitement over books.
we stop for gas, pack tomorrow’s clothes, lunch,
and evening seeps in to the autumn afternoon
they sit down to veggie sliders
and question our music
and ride their bikes into the night
and remind me
again
again
again
how simply perfect life can be.

A New Tomorrow

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i will rise and wash away this day
i will remember yesterday
the passion that sandwiched
morning and night
the friendlovefriendlove
that has become my life
i will take my daughters’ words
embrace them in my arms
instead of throwing them back
i will be a new tomorrow

Self Discipline

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from the window
i hear a scream,
a bloodcurdling cry
and the baby spatting
at the middle child,
I didn’t bite you
as hard as you bit me!

this after ten miles
for my eight-year-old’s legs
pedaling like a pro
along a creek-crowded path,
hula-hooping for the band
while the little ones
played imaginary games
in the trailer

and i think,
wet dishes from grandmotherly
meal in hand,
how is it that i must discipline
this moment of violence
when i cannot keep
the smile from my face?

Wait

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in your absence
there is nothing but silence
i wait for your return
but the dead air is thick
choking back the guilt
that bubbles up
with work done
nothing left to do but wait

you will pour in
a waterfall cacophony of sound
take every waking moment
to be your exuberant selves
and i will feel a Saturday
that belongs to us
not me

The Big Day

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i don’t want to think
of your new pink backpack,
your hand-me-down uniform,
or your first steps into kindergarten.

wasn’t it just yesterday
that we swung you in the car seat
into the hospital elevator,
calling you Mythili by mistake?

how can we move from birthday
to first day of school in one week?
it’s too much for this old mom,
this worked-through-baby-years mom.

but it will have to be.
tomorrow’s the big day,
the beginning of the endless
letting goes that you and i must face.

August (2011) Daughters

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Riona

Five. FIVE. five…
you wear the pink taffeta dress
(pattern handed down
for fifty years)
a gathered waste,
scalloped pockets and sleeves,
plastic pearls to complete the couture.

you jump in and out of fountains,
climb plastic playground steps,
pretend with perfect attitude
(that encompasses all you are)
to blow the absent candles from your cake

we move from playing with new gifts
on hardwood (you offer me a pillow)
to party number two, where
you surround yourself with
breaking-down children and ask
only that i roast you a marshmallow
in the lightning-flash sky
and circle of warmth

you are five.
you dash to the car in the
pitch-black, too-far-from-city night,
your row of new lip balms in palm,
and before you will sleep,
you divide them evenly amongst sisters,
your generous heart more beautiful
than your perfect pink taffeta dress.

Mythili

it’s been a year, and
baby teeth are gone,
replaced by no-finger-sucking
straight white incisors
that have sent Blankey
to a closeted grave
with their grown-up appearance.

you have school friends now
who you won’t let go.
you know the way down the corridors,
will soon show baby sister,
and, as always,
you speak quite frankly
about the condition of your classroom,
the behavior of other students,
and your ability to stay on task.

how could these two adult teeth
bring deeper wisdom
to the little girl
who, from birth,
could already see the world
in a light
the rest of us can’t see?

Isabella

i find pictures of you
at five, six,
(pudgy cheeks and tiny teeth)
and look into your pale hazels,
your over-freckled cheeks,
hold you against me,
your head now at my shoulder,
and i know
i know
(though i’m afraid to write it now)
you are no longer a little girl.

you are my oldest,
will always be first,
will always move from one stage
to another before them,
will be the one to induce the most fear,
the most intense kind of love,
a kind i cannot describe here
(or to them)
one that is shared from those
moments in our babymoon
to those moments now when
you understand what they don’t,
when you give me the look
a reflection of my expression,
you, a shadow of me
who stands at my shoulder,
ready to grow.

A Sunday Afternoon

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girls pose like little models,
even the baby smiles
underneath the bright flashes
(she’s not a baby anymore–
why must i be reminded
that five years
have slipped into oblivion?)

the clouds move in
on a Sunday afternoon,
a semi-quiet house
where they pretend to pick up
while we lie on the couch
reminiscing the twin bed
we shared so many years ago.

(with money clenched
like fists in pockets,
we borrowed furniture,
walked across ant-biting carpet,
washed dishes by hand,
roasted like oily chicken
in the absence of central air)

is it so different now,
our money spilling out
into the screens of tomorrow,
the cool air tickling our skin
as their tweeting songs
remind us of all we have seen,
all we have yet to see?