she turns eleven
drama sits on morn’s doorstep
yet she cries so well
you’re almost convinced
you’ve met an Oscar winner
(perhaps someday… yes)
until then? she’s apes
for her newest birthday gifts
Grandma, Grandpa win
competition? no
just a constant lost battle
to be what she wants
ice cream brownie end
the day that marks her entrance
into my world
couldn’t taste better
than the likes she shares with me
my middle, my love
another rushed night
such is double income life
no time, bit more cash
menu broken down:
grass-fed beef, onions, cabbage
(and fridge-popped biscuits)
yes, life has become
hydrogenated oil
and jarred minced garlic
because you can’t win
(either work to death or cheat)
without Pillsbury
building challenges
hermit crab obstacle course
get ready to win
pancake characters
make Sunday Funday better
Yoda one for me
but blue, best of all:
skies to steal mountain town, hike–
like soft spun taffy
he comes after dark
midst of dinner-laundry rush
(the witching hour)
gone are easy nights
him cooking, cleaning, shopping
short hours, slow work
i sit amidst stacks
of plans, ungraded papers
stacks that won’t die down
the girls do small chores
to minimally help me
cope with “overwhelmed”
and i quit my class
that would’ve taken me now
sucked more from my life
yet i’m still swimming
in a haze of “unfinished”
waiting for relief
he takes over now
broiling steak, washing plates
gives me a moment
i wait for one more
one drive across the country
to make this worth it
Monday off: a gift
wrapped in science fair success
and wagon smiles
and you won’t have this:
spinning autumnal joy swing
her trapped in between
and you’ll never know
what it’s like to live for them
(to live inside joy)
and you just can’t see
how losing this would mean all:
girls, home, husband… life
’cause it’s not a park
with green lawns, blue skies, red leaves:
it’s my livelihood
you’re a pic undone
where the sidewalk ends, my friend:
(leaves fall. i blossom.)
three-girl agreement
rare these days–two schools straddled
ice skating it is
My small poet is lost in the world of text citations, a phrase I never heard until I was a junior in high school… Not as a fourth grader. And while my fifth grader keeps the world laughing with her dry humor and is at or above par in every subject, I can only imagine how Rio feels when she hears from the fourth teacher in her life, “She is so shy.”
It is the label of introversion. The stamp on her personality. And as she sits there in the hard plastic chair, her whole body shrinks underneath the shawl Heather made all those years back. She presses her knees tight against her chest and her eyes redden in her quiet attempt to hold back tears.
How did they end up with the same teachers, and why did we have to bring the kids with us? These are things that go through my mind as I see the 1’s and 0’s on her paper. As the English teacher lowers her voice to just above a whisper, almost mocking the small voice of my youngest; as the math teacher blatantly tells her she needs to speak up in science since there aren’t tests and that’s the way she can prove what she knows.
“It’s not as bad as you’re making it out to be,” he assures me when we arrive home.
Not two minutes later, Rio asks me to cuddle with her in bed. I read her part of her book, then close it and wait. She has that pouty I-want-to-tell-you-something look. “Is it the conferences? Is it someone at school? Is it something you don’t understand? Is it your daddy?” (Because dark thoughts enter when I am so, so scared for her.) She negates all questions, and finally, in a barely-audible whisper, tells me, “I’m scared to go to sleep. I have scary dreams.”
It took her twenty minutes to divulge this to me, so I don’t press her for more. I talk about the weekend, about carving pumpkins, about me taking her trick-or-treating all by herself, just with me, as her older sisters have outgrown going with Mama and Daddy and have friend plans. Her red eyes soften when I ask her to think about these things, to dream about them.
But I will never know what’s really going on inside her mind. She will never tell me. It could be the disgruntled drive over to conferences when I discussed with her daddy an allowance-and-all-other-activity cutoff after so much backtalk about chores this evening. It could be the teacher’s tiny voice mocking her small soul. It could be Isabella’s snide remark when she asked her if she wanted to listen to her read her poems aloud last night, and the teary rush into the other room when it looked like she’d offered a voice to someone who didn’t want to hear it. (Isabella made up for it later when Mythili asked for a full reading and Izzy complimented–and was quite impressed by–every last one of her poems). And it could be… that she’s just having scary dreams.
But I will never know. Just like her teachers will only know her as the “shy girl.” Her sisters will always think of her as the “easygoing one.” And her mother? Everything about her–her dark hazel eyes, her small smile, her desperate need to wrap her entire body around mine when she wakes in the morning–will always be an endless mystery to me. One with clues I will pick up as she grows–from those sweet lines of poetry to late-night whispers of fear–as I try to find the meaning behind the poetry that is my small, shy, loving angel.
a grumpy Monday
drained by rudeness, overtime
but brightened by girls
science fair success
anthology finally done
we can breathe… for now
go to sleep with grins
knowing we tried our best try
to get through this day
It is Sunday night, and I haven’t thought about you all weekend. You have been sitting in ungraded piles on the tables by the door of my classroom. You have been unread and unmarked emails that I have chosen to ignore. Because I am raising three kids. And I am raising thousands of kids. And I have to have a balance between the two.
Because Saturday was running from store to store to party to party to house to house to out to dinner to home/friends/love/hate.
Because Sunday was more running (to the Lego store) to appease my middle child who always feels a bit left out. And another party, and another set of meals to make.
Because I need to breathe for a moment and think about what is most important. Is it my administrator telling me she’s tracking our usage of tablets that don’t work half the time so she can send the data to the district? Is it the kids in my first period who have been pushed into lockers and called faggot/whore/freak/thot [that ho over there]/cunt and causing me to stop the entire lesson to beg me to listen?
Or is it my girls, who beg me to teach them cross-stitch and ask me to stay at the advisory party and want me to skate with them and want me to wake them up at 6:15 so that I can make pumpkin spice bagels and vanilla chai tea and spend a moment before work with them?
You tell me. Tell me how to decide. Tell me how I am supposed to carry the weight of a thousand students inside the hazel eyes of the three girls I gave birth to.
Because thirteen years in, I am still not sure.
Because it’s Sunday night, and I am sitting in my dream house, that, thirteen years in, I can afford. Because the candles are burning and the music is playing and my girls have gone to bed. Because I’ve had a few glasses of wine and I have thank-you cards to write and grocery lists to make and weekend plans to destroy and a thousand kids, including my own, to raise.
Because there is never enough time.
And that is why I write. Why I love them. Why I hate how much they take from me. Why I live for how much they GIVE me.
And why I will not live by administrative threats. By school district doomsdays. Why I choose to live by these small requests that pile up around me like leaves falling in autumn. “Do something, Miss.” “Listen to us.” “Take me to the mall even if you hate it.” “Stay at my party, please?!” “I need you to cover me up.”
Because we all need that soft touch. That quilt of love wrapped around all that is evil in the world. That mother’s love. For all the thousands of kids who have it, who will never have it, who long to have it.
That is why.
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