Not Quite A Secret

5:40 p.m.

Big: Is Mother's Day on Friday?Me: Nope. Sunday.

Big: Yay! Yay! Yay! 'Cos I need to bring it home from school and I can't do that on Saturday because school is closed and could you imagine going in to school on Saturday just so you could bring it home and then you'd get stuck at school?

Me: Huh?

Big: I can't tell you.

8:13 p.m.

Big: So there's Friday. And then Mother's Day is Sunday.
Me: Yes. Time to go pee.
Big: You can make me try to tell you what I have to bring home on Friday, but I won't.
Me: Please go pee now so you can go to bed.
Big (skipping in the opposite direction of the bathroom): I won't tell you! I won't tell you! I won't tell you!

8:45 p.m.

Me: What are you doing out of bed?
Big: I can't sleep. I'm scared of the dark.
Me: C'mere. Let me rub your back.

8:46 p.m.

Me: How's this?
Big: Mommy, do you know what sashay is?
Me: Like the dance step?
Big: Yes.
Me: Sure.
Big: And it smells so pretty, right?
Me (confused for a moment, then): Oh, sach-et! Yes, those do smell very pretty. You sure you want to be talking about this?
Big (with a gasp): No! No! No!
Me: Don't worry. It's OK.
Big: Yeah, you'll probably forget before Sunday, anyway.

My life is a Seinfeld episode.

All Charged Up

Charged on my credit card today:

Two backless booster seats--pink, natch
"Pure" sunscreen that probably is not
A Mother's Day present for Mom
End of year gifts for teachers

I'm just living the American dream.

Listening So Well

For five days I did not
wear a watch
use the phone
check my email
(OK, maybe once)
watch tv shows

For five days I spent time
with my friends
listening so well,
to their rhythms:
both the familiar
and the new.

Thank you, Kate, Amy and Laura,
for five days.

Offered

She licked her lips, eyes closed
as the tower of beanbags toppled.
But this time she tried again,
smushing and stacking, one by one.
She could do it, she knew.
Even though a crowd was watching
her worst nightmare—failure—playing out
in front of dozens of people,
she ignored her instinct to run
into my arms or lash out.
She finally topped off the tower.
Her cheeks reddened as everyone applauded.
A circus trick her teacher showcased—
something she taught him, he said.
In return, he offered a glimpse
of who our girl will become.

Facebook Guilt

A post I saw on Facebook:
There are 940 Saturdays between when
A baby is born and when
she leaves for college. At 5,
my eldest has already used 260.
The youngest's burned through about 90.
My first thought: How terribly sad.
Then: Not all colleges start exactly
the same weekend! And what about
taking a gap year to travel
Europe or the Outback or Argentina?

That number's not locked down, right?

Please be more specific, Facebook.
I need to know exactly when
to be overwhelmed by the guilt
of missing out on Saturdays passed.

Truth is...

I don't know who I am.
The lying hurts me the most.
I can't nurse you anymore.
You've been acting like a bully.
The crying and whining are endless.
Not reading together is fair punishment.
Sometimes I want to run away.
Each day gets a little worse.

I understand myself better than ever.
The lying is just a stage.
I'm not ready to wean you.
I've been acting like a bully.
The crying and whining are outlets.
I hate not reading to you.
I'm where I want to be.
Each day gets a lot better.

Story Time

The motorcycle is racing away fast.

See, the mouse is saying “pbpbbbb!”

He’s hiding under the grandfather clock.

One-hundred seventy six pages of text

shared in whispers. She leans in

and tells the dog another story.

Unkind

Poor Daddy Long Legs scuttles about

the bathroom, looking for the exit.

Meanwhile, Wingy Bug of undetermined species

emerges from Daddy's same hiding spot.

We scoop Daddy into a cup,

carefully sliding a paper under him,

and carry him outside to safety--

a home with a garden view.

I stomp Wingy with my sneaker

and tissue up the black smudge.

I've got limited reserves of kindness,

and Daddy outranked the little dude.

For more Six Word Fridays fun—this week's topic, "kind"—hop over to Melissa's place at MakingThingsUp.com!

Last Laughs

Last hour before bedtime spent

*laughing*

For more Six Word Fridays fun—this week's topic, "last"—hop over to Melissa's place at MakingThingsUp.com!

Again?

It's April! Why's it snowing again!

For more Six Word Fridays fun—this week's topic, "again"—hop over to Melissa's place at MakingThingsUp.com!

Gambare

"There is no other way that we can survive than we say to each other like a prayer, 'Gambare' — go for it, go for it, be positive, be positive. That's why we say that a lot." 

—36 words from Yoko Kumagai, 59, who is living with her family in a sports hall in Rikuzentakata, Japan, after her house was washed away in the tsunami.

When Melissa at Making Things Up shared this week's topic for Six Word Fridays—"Go"—I had no idea what I would write. This morning, on my way to work, I just happened to catch this story on NPR, about the emotional toll of the tsunami and nuclear crisis on the people of Japan. It was the first time I'd ever heard the word Gambaro—and its variant, Gambare—which, loosely translated, means "Go for it!" Many thanks to Yoko Kumagai, who, in 36 words, gave me another way to look at life, loss and hope.

Listen to the entire NPR story here.

And hop over to Making Things Up to add your own six words!

We Hope

Catastrophe strikes, and We all unite.
We devour the news in horror.
We reach out to each other.
We offer help, comfort and hope.
Being part of We is safe.
We can skim the surface together,
feeling bad, but not really feeling.

To feel means to ask myself:
What if this had happened to me?
What if my home were destroyed?
What if my babies were lost?
What if this danger were mine?
Thoughts I can't bear to consider—
typing them now, I can't breathe.

So I rejoin the safe haven
That We provides—strength in numbers.
(Yes, it's a cowardly cop out,
but I can't move forward otherwise.)
We offer help, comfort and hope.
We hug our babies extra tight,
allowing the questions to remain unanswered.

Many thanks to Melissa at Making Things Up for this special installment of Six Word Fridays. This week's topic is HOPE. For every comment on her post this week, she and her family will make a donation to the relief organization Save the Children. Please write a post, share your own six words, and, if you can, make a donation. Together we can send a message of HOPE.

Seconds

Six pairs of Lucky Brand jeans
purchased at Sam's Club last weekend.
The seam at the seat's wacky—
my guess is they're probably seconds.
But, hell, for twelve bucks apiece,
I can wear them on weekends,
or maybe sell them on eBay.

For more Six Word Fridays fun—this week's topic, "seconds"—hop over to Melissa's place at MakingThingsUp.com!

In Sum

What my personal ad would say:

Mom with a full-time job,
who—due to weather and illness
(both her own and her children's)
and perhaps some unknown karmic infraction—
seeks: Some calm amid the chaos;
No more crying (hers/her children's);
And end to identity ping pong;
Some way to thank her bosses
(both the kid and adult variety)
for being so patient with her;
A reprieve from all the pressure
of being everywhere and yet nowhere.

That just about sums it up.

For more Six Word Fridays fun—this week's topic, "sum it up"—hop over to Melissa's place at MakingThingsUp.com!

A bit of WARMTH

My girls, you're

Wunchy
Adorable
Remarkable
Musical
Ticklish
Huggable

to me.

For more Six Word Fridays–and to link up your own six words–check out MakingThingsUp.com!

The Christmas card I've never sent you

The stack of holiday cards is heavy in my hands. I butt them against the table—long end, short end, long end, short end–feeling their corners align in a satisfying way. My work is done: addresses checked, stamps stuck, return labels smoothed, flaps sealed.

But I don't have a card for you.

You and I became friends right before we had breasts and body images and boys. Right before pimples and periods. Right before it became stupid to spend an entire afternoon smashing up fruits and vegetables to concoct the perfect poolside drink. Right before it occurred to us that jumping off the side of your porch into the snow-covered bushes 15 feet below could be dangerous. Right before we realized we ought to keep our mouths shut about the tingle we got from spinning around and around on the tire swing.

And then you left. Right before we took the plunge into full-on adolescence. You took with you our secrets and our shorthand. And I had to start over, because we'd never really had anyone but each other.

***
I always look for you at Christmastime. Not that our holiday memories were oh-so-special. It's the cards. The work of corralling addresses. Of deciding whom to add and whom to prune off the list. Of pinpointing the last bit of news exchanged and then crafting an update.

You've never gotten a card from me, but you've always been on my mind.

I found you once in the nearly 30 years since you left. I tracked down your phone number and made a Hail Mary pass, never expecting you to return my call. When you did, I was so scared I had to shut the door to my office before picking up the handset. We talked for less than 20 minutes.

I cried after we hung up, because I realized we'd lost that glorious moment of knowing each other "right before." Right before you'd had a rough go of it. Right before you'd made decisions that didn't turn out the way you'd hoped. Right before you became rudderless, wild and damaged. Right before you went from being "my best friend growing up" to "this girl I used to know."

A few days after the call, the photo you promised to send me arrived. I wasn't surprised that your face was blurry.

***
These days, it would be easier than ever to locate you. It takes a lot less courage to ping your in-box than to place a call or commit pen to paper. But, I'm sorry, it's just been too long.

So I will simply wish you a happy holiday. I hope you are safe and warm. And sober. That you are surrounded by love. That your travels are safe. And that someday maybe our paths will cross again.

Happiness is a warm tush

I stand before the "Giving Tree,"
eyes scanning the families' wish lists.
I'm transfixed by the humble requests:
Diapers; baby rattles; crafts for mom.
These are the ones I unpin
and stuff into my coat pockets.
"More," I decide. "They deserve more."
I shop for toys, games, magazines,
scanning the aisles for little goodies,
what I believe they should want.
But I'm not helping this way.
I think of what happiness means—
the simple pleasure of a cross-stitch;
a newborn making her first music;
a month of warm, dry bottoms.
I fill my cart with these.


For more Six Word Fridays–and to link up your own six words–check out MakingThingsUp.com!

"Gift"

At bathtime, BIG's giving a performance.

"Babies aren't invited," she says to LITTLE,
who's watching the show with Daddy.

"I am not a baby," says LITTLE,
with Daddy acting as her spokesman.
(Sadly, we have become THOSE parents.)

With conviction (she's 31/2, after all),
BIG lobs an excellent, impromptu comeback:
"Yes, you are. You have a
big head and don't know words."

(I want to use that line,
next time someone pisses me off.
It helps that I'm an editor;
I'm always dealing with big-headed people
who do or don't know words.)

BIG has a way with words
and a sharp sense of humor
that would cut to the bone
if she weren't so damn sweet.
And I'm grateful for these moments—
gifts you can't get at Walmart.



For more Six Word Fridays–and to link up your own six words–check out MakingThingsUp.com!

Dreams of Home

Home— will infect whatever you do.
—David Byrne, "Home"

I've got tangled dreams of home.
A jumble of yesterday and today.
The house is of my childhood,
The brown siding and blue shutters.
The maple tree up in front,
The oak tree down in back.
The rooms exactly as I remember:
The dance of light and dark,
The gewgaws and spices just so.
Mom and Dad are still together,
Grandma's alive and whole for now.
Often my girls are playing outside,
Though they've never visited this house
Sold long before they were born.
I go there in my sleep,
The muscle memory so easily familiar.
No need to concentrate on navigation.
Freeing me to worry the knots
Of conversations, emotions, impossible to unravel.
Each time I yearn for resolution,
But the dreams are always interrupted.
I'm confused a moment. Eyes focusing,
I see this home I've made
And am relieved to be here.

For more Six Word Fridays–and to link up your own six words–check out MakingThingsUp.com!

"So much change!"

She digs deep
in her pockets
full of bupkis.
Seeking a token,
she finds me.
She is relieved
and slightly uncomfortable.
"So much change!"
she says, expecting
me to sympathize.
"While I've got
you," she says,
"Let me ask:
When is Chanukah?"
She is audacious.
She is ignorant.
I'm not offended.
Not terribly, anyway.

For more Six Word Fridays–and to link up your own six words–check out MakingThingsUp.com!