parenting

Nonrefundable Reservations

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day eleven, wall seventeen:
a stack of irreplaceable bills,
nonrefundable reservations
scraping at my dream
(everything i can’t give,
everything i can’t take back)

will it be worth it,
will they open their eyes wider
upon breathing Mediterranean air,
or will the burdens bearing down
on mama and daddy
be heavier than sea-level breath?

if i could slide down the mountains
right down into the sea
and shed myself of my
nonrefundable reservations,
would i be free enough to see the beauty
behind the walls i must still face?

April (2012) Daughters

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Riona

you speak to almost no one.
we see your shy face
hide behind your mama
as if a couple of years
were lost along your upbringing.

yet,
on stage,
your Peruvian chicken costume
in full polka-dot glory,
straw wings,
paper orange beak and all,
you are a star
as you dance front center,
the folk guitar song
giving new life
to my littlest angel.

Mythili

with focused face
looking so much
like a small adult
that i sometimes forget
you’re a child,
you create art.

a windmill in
perfect proportions
copied from a book,
the oil pastel coloring
as detailed as a
gallery painting

the Girl Scout
finger puppet
where you sit surrounded
by Daisies whose
mothers assist in every step,
you speak not a word
but work diligently
on cutting, gluing,
mastering your art.

this is your gift from God,
this is your gift to the world.

Isabella

you shine your light
wherever you go,
upon your persistent pleas
for a gecko,
a cowboy belt,
or dinner alone with mama.

you direct plays
in the backyard,
setting up obstacle courses
and circuses,
your siblings and friends
falling under your spotlight
to shine in your presence

baby sister mimics all you do,
and at first irritated,
you give in to flattery,
making a parade around the house
and reading all her favorite stories,
your brightness shining
on all you do, see, touch

Three Birds in a Row

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the light right now
as i kiss my girls goodnight?
it is unlike any other sunset,
the clouds a perfect concoction
of pink and gray,
and they hold tight to my neck
and beg me for stories of Medusa
that Silverstein told them about,
that i ad-lib with college knowledge.
i’m going to college,
they chime in,
three birds in a row,
so i can know as much as you
and they are my girls
through and through

Good

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just like a baby
my baby curls in to cuddle
her small body
still fits into my lap

i can’t replace the hours we’ve lost
the years we’ve lost
or fill the ache in my heart
for the good i’m trying to do
that doesn’t do me any good

but when her tears creep down?
when she won’t go for a night of fun
because she’s missed me too much,
when the weeks have flooded by
in a pile of work
that i’m so fucking good at
when i can’t just be her mother?

it is too much
and i am five again
just like her
searching for my mother’s arms
to comfort the sadness
that rests so heavily on my soul

January (2012) Daughters

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Isabella

since age two,
in intermittent spurts
you creep downstairs
in the dark hours of morning,
your voice cautious,
Daddy?
(because you know me well enough
to leave me be)

he won’t wake up,
(you are almost nine)
and i send you back up to your room,
telling you that you’re old enough now
to soothe yourself back to sleep

you leave the room sobbing.
i toss and turn
in my already-restless sleep
worrying over the scar i’d created,
a bitter hole in our relationship
you’d remember till you die

when i wake you for school,
you have a happy story
about little Laura and locusts
from the book that soothed you,
fully forgiving me for nighttime selfishness

i think back to my childhood,
how i would have treated my parents
to silence for a day,
pouting in defiance

perhaps you,
insomniac, crazy, loud-mouthed you (me)
are just a little different,
so subtle that i couldn’t catch
your drying tears to see
the beauty of your individual soul
(i see it now,
and i am so proud to be your mama)

Mythili

you are a young woman,
though seven,
you prove time and again
how easily words will come–
you have backtalk and sass
like a teenager
and know just what not to say

one punishment is enough
to teach you a lifelong lesson,
and you take your crone’s hands
and draw pictures
with delicate detail
only mastered by true artists

how you came to be mine,
with your fierce independence
and longing for touch
while simultaneously craving
to be left alone,
will mystify me as you move
into the next step
of your beautiful life.

Riona

you will not speak
at times specified only in
your quiet mind,
a mystery to all of us
who wish to hear your words

i know you hide behind
those dark lashes
a collection of truths
that will someday spill out

now you save your words
for strangers in your first
cookie outings
while we wait
at home, at school,
for the thumb to come out,
for the gentle voice
to roll over our minds
and bring us to the real you.

Nothing Short of Art

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we sit in central citified sun
sipping smoothies and lattes,
munching on freshly baked croissants
and chatting with strangers
on a day so warm it can’t be
the third week of January
(a beauty we all share
as we peel off our winter coats)

they skip alongside on an impromptu adventure,
moving along the zero street,
playing pig and picking out dates
on ovular stamps in concrete.

we enter the train store
and examine the pure wonder
of details so tiny, humans
standing knee-deep in plexiglass water,
monkeys climbing up a fallen-apart billboard,
and fast-moving trains. one declares,
it is nothing short of art

later i pedal into the wind
around the dam and up the hill
until i see the circular beauty of the lake,
and its curvacious path
interweaves me with a hundred pairs of legs,
all taking advantage
of this day like no other

before i am home
i am home,
and can almost forget
the tears whose all night sting
kept my eyes bleeding till morning,
the two dark, cold miles of separation,
and the hollowness of our words
that find their way
into the poems he wishes i wouldn’t write.

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.