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Monday, September 3, 2012
Thursday, July 19, 2012
Love and Safety
he won't sleep. and I, for whatever reason, want to write. right now. at midnight. and I am hungry. I want to write about Alaska before I forget... the memories slipping.... like all memories do, for me, into the inaccessible grey matter, where most things are lost, perhaps forever.
I stopped, and went to hold Aiden, his crying was more insistent. When I picked him up he immediately stopped crying, nuzzled his sweet face into my arms and fell asleep. It is wonderful, beautiful to know you are their place of safety. I would like to always be a safe place to run and snuggle into.
Alaska, has to wait. I have a different story running through my mind right now, but Alaska will come because it has a story to be told also.
I remember the sky was dark and close, with rolling grey clouds. The ground was covered in snow, and it's glow and white light were inviting. I wanted to know what made it sparkle. I was sure that if I could capture it, keep it, I could use it for treasure. Something so beautiful and shimmery had to be valuable. But I could not. So, I did what all sensible children do and played in it instead. As long as I was in the light that surrounded our home... What I could not see frightened me. Who knows what could have been hiding in the shadows: a robber, with a shiny knife held in his mouth (all bad people carry knifes in their mouths), or a black dog foaming, barking and baring his fangs (this image was probably the fault of The Never Ending Story http://www.youtube.com/watch?
"The skunk is coming! It's going to get you!"
"The last one in is a skunk!"
We all ran piercing the night with our fear. My moon boot got caught in the icy crust of the snow and came off
"Help!" I shouted. "Don't leave me!"
The others just laughed, maybe not hearing me, and let the screen door shut. It didn't matter anymore that I was in the sheltering light of the house. I was alone. I felt panic, skunks are very dangerous animals... and if they weren't dangerous, the had a way of making things stink. I pulled on the boot trying to free it, but it stuck in the snow. I could feel the cold seeping through my unprotected sock. It was too much, I could wait no longer. I ran without the boot, my one foot plunging into the icy depths. When I got to the door my mom was scolding my siblings, "Don't you frighten her like that!"
"It was just a game mom!"
She turned to me, "Andie! Where is your boot?"
"It came off in the snow!"
"You'll need to go and get it, you can't leave it out all night."
"There's a skunk, can't we just leave it till tomorrow?"
"If it snows tonight you'll loose it, you need to go and bring it back in. I'll stand right here and watch, you'll be safe." I don't remember if she stood at the door or if she came with me while I retrieved my boot, either way her presence made everything safer.
Of course, there were other days, other nights playing in the snow. Days and nights when my fingers and toes slowly turned to ice, until I could no longer endure it. We would run in asking for hot chocolate. When my grandpa was there I remember him holding my little hands in his large hands, looking in my eyes with a knowing smile. I still remember his blue eyes with hazel flecks. He would cup my hands together while his enveloped my own, he would blow on them and then rub them together, asking, "Does that feel better now?" I don't know why, but whenever he did that, I felt safe. I felt loved. It really didn't matter if my hands were warmer or not.
Years, and years later.
It was snowing. The flakes were delightful, falling fast and fluffy, small, freezing, wet cotton balls swirling around us. Asher and I were walking back to the car with our groceries. There was a small hill just barely covered in snow. I could see brave little grass blades incorrigibly pushing their green stems through the snow. The hill, the snow, was an invitation to Asher. "Please climb me it said." So, Asher did. Up he went, slipping and sliding, laughing. When he finally reached the top he smiled and said, " Look at me Mom!" delighted and proud. My mother's heart yearned to preserve this moment forever. Coming back down the hill he slipped. "Was that fun and scary all at the same time, Asher?"
"Yeah!" The slipping and falling quickly became a game. Climbing up the hill and then sliding down on his bum. It was fortuitous that he was wearing snow pants. Up and down, climbing and sliding calling out "Wahoo!" every time he slid down. Pure joy. It was pure joy for me. I stood there watching him, knowing nothing would happen to the groceries in the freezing weather, nothing would happen to us.... but soon, his hands were cold and he started whimpering. He came to me almost crying "It hurts mom, make them better!" And I remembered. So I looked into his big brown tear brimming eyes, took his hands, cupped them in my own and blew on them... then rubbed them together. "Is that better?"
"Yes." he said, trying to be brave... and then... "No, it still hurts!" followed by very sincere tears. We climbed into the car and blasted the heater. I suppose it didn't matter how his hands were warmed, I just wanted him to feel safe. And loved.
I stopped, and went to hold Aiden, his crying was more insistent. When I picked him up he immediately stopped crying, nuzzled his sweet face into my arms and fell asleep. It is wonderful, beautiful to know you are their place of safety. I would like to always be a safe place to run and snuggle into.
Alaska, has to wait. I have a different story running through my mind right now, but Alaska will come because it has a story to be told also.
"The skunk is coming! It's going to get you!"
"The last one in is a skunk!"
We all ran piercing the night with our fear. My moon boot got caught in the icy crust of the snow and came off
"Help!" I shouted. "Don't leave me!"
The others just laughed, maybe not hearing me, and let the screen door shut. It didn't matter anymore that I was in the sheltering light of the house. I was alone. I felt panic, skunks are very dangerous animals... and if they weren't dangerous, the had a way of making things stink. I pulled on the boot trying to free it, but it stuck in the snow. I could feel the cold seeping through my unprotected sock. It was too much, I could wait no longer. I ran without the boot, my one foot plunging into the icy depths. When I got to the door my mom was scolding my siblings, "Don't you frighten her like that!"
"It was just a game mom!"
She turned to me, "Andie! Where is your boot?"
"It came off in the snow!"
"You'll need to go and get it, you can't leave it out all night."
"There's a skunk, can't we just leave it till tomorrow?"
"If it snows tonight you'll loose it, you need to go and bring it back in. I'll stand right here and watch, you'll be safe." I don't remember if she stood at the door or if she came with me while I retrieved my boot, either way her presence made everything safer.
Of course, there were other days, other nights playing in the snow. Days and nights when my fingers and toes slowly turned to ice, until I could no longer endure it. We would run in asking for hot chocolate. When my grandpa was there I remember him holding my little hands in his large hands, looking in my eyes with a knowing smile. I still remember his blue eyes with hazel flecks. He would cup my hands together while his enveloped my own, he would blow on them and then rub them together, asking, "Does that feel better now?" I don't know why, but whenever he did that, I felt safe. I felt loved. It really didn't matter if my hands were warmer or not.
Years, and years later.
It was snowing. The flakes were delightful, falling fast and fluffy, small, freezing, wet cotton balls swirling around us. Asher and I were walking back to the car with our groceries. There was a small hill just barely covered in snow. I could see brave little grass blades incorrigibly pushing their green stems through the snow. The hill, the snow, was an invitation to Asher. "Please climb me it said." So, Asher did. Up he went, slipping and sliding, laughing. When he finally reached the top he smiled and said, " Look at me Mom!" delighted and proud. My mother's heart yearned to preserve this moment forever. Coming back down the hill he slipped. "Was that fun and scary all at the same time, Asher?"
"Yeah!" The slipping and falling quickly became a game. Climbing up the hill and then sliding down on his bum. It was fortuitous that he was wearing snow pants. Up and down, climbing and sliding calling out "Wahoo!" every time he slid down. Pure joy. It was pure joy for me. I stood there watching him, knowing nothing would happen to the groceries in the freezing weather, nothing would happen to us.... but soon, his hands were cold and he started whimpering. He came to me almost crying "It hurts mom, make them better!" And I remembered. So I looked into his big brown tear brimming eyes, took his hands, cupped them in my own and blew on them... then rubbed them together. "Is that better?"
"Yes." he said, trying to be brave... and then... "No, it still hurts!" followed by very sincere tears. We climbed into the car and blasted the heater. I suppose it didn't matter how his hands were warmed, I just wanted him to feel safe. And loved.
Friday, January 13, 2012
Snap Shot moment (a few days ago)
Yesterday, Asher and I had a moment. One of those sweet, perfect moments where you take a mental picture (having forgot the camera) and hope that it stays there... printed forever just so... perfectly so.
The snow was falling, soft and full flakes... white and entrancing. The first 'real' snow fall of the winter. Isaac was taking a nap so just Asher and I left for the store to get gluten free bread so dad could have lunch. (The boys had their lunch first and now all the bread was gone. One of the many sacrifices of parenthood.) We went to the BYU Creamery on 9th and with one child the shopping trip was fairly painless. Asher pushed around a cart and mostly missed the other shoppers there, but only because I reminded him to not run into people. It is so hard for a young person to be aware of others and realize the consequences of their actions. If he could, I think he would just run with the cart, maybe worrying a little about the cans and food he knocked over and occasionally realizing he bumped a person or scraped a shin but maybe only if they told him. The biggest issue for him was whether he should get a donut, a gluten free sugar cookies, or tic tacs... it changed according to what was in front of him at the time. The tic tacs were the last thing for him to see before we went through the cashier's line so they quickly replaced the pink sugar cookie for the desired treat. It was only after we walked passed the front door that Asher saw the donuts and realized that was what he really wanted. The large (for Asher) maple bars he loved so much were the original desire and having seen them again, he remembered what he had really wanted. But it was too late, the food had been bought and we were heading out to the car. Fortunately there were no tantrums. Just a brief explanation.
"Asher, you already chose to get the tic tacs instead of the donuts. Maybe next time you can make a different choice."
Kids don't have to say much to voice their frustration an
Ughhhh... or Ahhhhh... said with the right tone gives it all away... but he didn't fight. After all, he did have the tic tacs still. Part of me felt like I cheated him because I hadn't reminded him of the donut. I was hoping he would forget. Part of me hoped he would learn something about getting what he really wanted instead of getting just what is in front of him in the moment... is that something a five year old will process? After crossing the road to go back to our car Asher ran up a small hill covered in snow laughing and so proud of himself. (This was the magical moment.) Did I mention the snow was falling?
"Look at me mom!" as he ran, fell and slid down the hill.
I laughed, "Was that fun and scary at the same time!"
"Yeah!" he replied getting back up and running back to the top of the hill.
Soon he was running up the hill and sliding down again on his bum. (he was wearing a snow suit for playing in the snow after we brought dad his food). Who knew that bums could be such perfect sleds. Up and down the hill he went, his little bottom making a new track in the snow every time he came down. I think by the end there were nine little tracks going down the hill.
Each time he would yell out, "Yahoo!" or "Wahoo!" in his perfect four year old voice and laugh.
I just stood and watched, smiling and laughing with him, while I held the groceries... the snow wasn't going to melt the ice cream I had just bought. Half way through our moment of fun, a young woman drove up in her car to offer a ride home and to tell us how fun it was to watch this adorable moment.
Mom's always appreciate someone appreciating their kids.
Every now and then Asher would hold his hands in a ball up to his mouth and blow on them, trying to keep his fingers warm. It reminded me of all the times my hands had been cold and my parents, or grandfather would hold my hands, rub them together and blow on them. It only ever helped just a little, but it gave me the feeling of being loved, being kept safe. Now Asher's poor little hands were experiencing what almost every toddler experiences, the bite of the cold snow. We hadn't been planning on playing in it so he didn't have gloves on. Soon the battle was lost and he came to me with tears in his eyes,
"It hurts mom, make them better." He held up his hands to me and I held them in mine. I took his hands, as others had taken mine, and rubbed them together looking in his brown eyes full of small tears. How I loved him.
"Is that better?"
"No, it still hurts!" at which point his tears became more sincere.
There are things that even moms can't fix, even with all the love we have in our hearts.
I got him into the car, knowing he needed warmer air and some mittens for playing out in the snow later.
I turned on the heater as warm and as high as I could... but even then it took a few minutes for his tears to stop and his hands to feel warm. By that time he was talking excitedly about playing in the snow again... finding a sled... doing anything outside in the cold white snow. Either the fun outweighs the pain or children or eternal optimists.
The snow was falling, soft and full flakes... white and entrancing. The first 'real' snow fall of the winter. Isaac was taking a nap so just Asher and I left for the store to get gluten free bread so dad could have lunch. (The boys had their lunch first and now all the bread was gone. One of the many sacrifices of parenthood.) We went to the BYU Creamery on 9th and with one child the shopping trip was fairly painless. Asher pushed around a cart and mostly missed the other shoppers there, but only because I reminded him to not run into people. It is so hard for a young person to be aware of others and realize the consequences of their actions. If he could, I think he would just run with the cart, maybe worrying a little about the cans and food he knocked over and occasionally realizing he bumped a person or scraped a shin but maybe only if they told him. The biggest issue for him was whether he should get a donut, a gluten free sugar cookies, or tic tacs... it changed according to what was in front of him at the time. The tic tacs were the last thing for him to see before we went through the cashier's line so they quickly replaced the pink sugar cookie for the desired treat. It was only after we walked passed the front door that Asher saw the donuts and realized that was what he really wanted. The large (for Asher) maple bars he loved so much were the original desire and having seen them again, he remembered what he had really wanted. But it was too late, the food had been bought and we were heading out to the car. Fortunately there were no tantrums. Just a brief explanation.
"Asher, you already chose to get the tic tacs instead of the donuts. Maybe next time you can make a different choice."
Kids don't have to say much to voice their frustration an
Ughhhh... or Ahhhhh... said with the right tone gives it all away... but he didn't fight. After all, he did have the tic tacs still. Part of me felt like I cheated him because I hadn't reminded him of the donut. I was hoping he would forget. Part of me hoped he would learn something about getting what he really wanted instead of getting just what is in front of him in the moment... is that something a five year old will process? After crossing the road to go back to our car Asher ran up a small hill covered in snow laughing and so proud of himself. (This was the magical moment.) Did I mention the snow was falling?
"Look at me mom!" as he ran, fell and slid down the hill.
I laughed, "Was that fun and scary at the same time!"
"Yeah!" he replied getting back up and running back to the top of the hill.
Soon he was running up the hill and sliding down again on his bum. (he was wearing a snow suit for playing in the snow after we brought dad his food). Who knew that bums could be such perfect sleds. Up and down the hill he went, his little bottom making a new track in the snow every time he came down. I think by the end there were nine little tracks going down the hill.
Each time he would yell out, "Yahoo!" or "Wahoo!" in his perfect four year old voice and laugh.
I just stood and watched, smiling and laughing with him, while I held the groceries... the snow wasn't going to melt the ice cream I had just bought. Half way through our moment of fun, a young woman drove up in her car to offer a ride home and to tell us how fun it was to watch this adorable moment.
Mom's always appreciate someone appreciating their kids.
Every now and then Asher would hold his hands in a ball up to his mouth and blow on them, trying to keep his fingers warm. It reminded me of all the times my hands had been cold and my parents, or grandfather would hold my hands, rub them together and blow on them. It only ever helped just a little, but it gave me the feeling of being loved, being kept safe. Now Asher's poor little hands were experiencing what almost every toddler experiences, the bite of the cold snow. We hadn't been planning on playing in it so he didn't have gloves on. Soon the battle was lost and he came to me with tears in his eyes,
"It hurts mom, make them better." He held up his hands to me and I held them in mine. I took his hands, as others had taken mine, and rubbed them together looking in his brown eyes full of small tears. How I loved him.
"Is that better?"
"No, it still hurts!" at which point his tears became more sincere.
There are things that even moms can't fix, even with all the love we have in our hearts.
I got him into the car, knowing he needed warmer air and some mittens for playing out in the snow later.
I turned on the heater as warm and as high as I could... but even then it took a few minutes for his tears to stop and his hands to feel warm. By that time he was talking excitedly about playing in the snow again... finding a sled... doing anything outside in the cold white snow. Either the fun outweighs the pain or children or eternal optimists.
Sunday, January 8, 2012
Progression of My Child
Baby
Small Bell-pepper
Moving, twisting, seedling
Butterfly kicks; cherished bonds
Salutations
Baby
Sweet Heaven
Nestling near me
Treasure embraced to my
Heart
Child
Energetic Sapling
Shedding baby lisps
Replacing them with fearless
Sentences
Child
Of Mine
Evolving, Adapting, Becoming,
Embryo of a full
Life
Love
Despite my
Slipping Apron Strings
Butterfly moments are infinitely
Ours
The first and the last cinquains are my favorites.... the others are all right. :)
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Christmas Decoration Fail
Today, I woke up and didn't feel as sick as I did when I had morning sickness AND the flu. I worked hard, played with my children, did yoga, went shopping for Christmas decorations and then came home and threw up. Then I was grumpy and exhausted. We had just barely recovered from the flu and a long semester of school. And now here I was attempting to orchestrate a perfect Christmas moment. My kids were going crazy trying to decorate the Christmas tree all by themselves... with all my new fancy decorations. I watched with horror as they did there best to shake the ornaments out of their boxes, tried to hang them on the tree without proper hangers, through them, bang them together; I felt like I was putting out five dozen fires all at once. It was supposed to be a pleasant experience. But it wasn't. I had been anticipating this moment 'forever'. But this was not how I pictured my beautiful Christmas tree or how I imagined this moment with my children. The golden beads were draped in knots on the lower half of the tree, strategically placed there by Asher. He was so proud of himself. The ornaments were haphazardly placed or strewn on the floor. We were late getting things up because of school and illness. So, I had been anticipating this moment 'forever'. I wondered how my parents did it, letting the kids help decorate the tree. We didn't have shatter proof ornaments back then just glass ones that would have knife like edges if they broke, how did she stay sane? I don't remember my mom pulling her hair out as little kids shook the boxes of ornaments trying to dump the shiny spheres on the floor and then grabbing as many golden, red, and green globes to place on the tree as their little hands could carry. I don't remember chaos. (should I even mention Isaac stuffing his mouth with ham and then spitting it out on the floor and then running off. Or how about when Asher and Isaac tried to play in the large Christmas Tree box, nearly breaking its home?) Did I do it wrong? Should I have waited to feel better and be organized? Was it the morning sickness? Was it the late night? Was it because Josh was sick still with the flu on the coach while the kids ran a muck with the Christmas balls strewn around the floor and falling off tree limbs. Despite my frustrations, my boys were so enthusiastic and so excited to finally have "Christmas" in the home. Isaac kept exclaiming loudly, "Christmas!" as he hung the ornaments haphazardly at his own eye and hand level. As if this, this is what Christmas is... these golden sparkling, red shiny, green and golden embossed circles are Christmas... this is it! And Asher now feels safe that Santa Claus will find us with the tree lights on. We had some lights up earlier but I took them down, because I was tired of the boys constantly plugging and unplugging them, pulling them and tugging them to 'redecorate' or play with them. When I took them Asher broke down into tears claiming Santa Clause would NOT be able to find us without the lights up. I assured him, in my non-sympathetic frustration, that Santa would find us. He stopped crying but I think he feels much better about his chances of being visited by the white bearded, cherry faced, round bellied gift giver now that we have decorations again. It is funny how these moments are a mixture of feelings for me. Disappointment in my reactions. Pleasure in my children's sweetness. Frustration that I can't control them. Desire to change and do it better.
I know I should not excuse myself with tiredness and morning sickness, but do I at least give reason to my insanity? It is easier to be a 'good' mother when I am not feeling exhausted by it all. I wish I could be that 'perfect' mother no matter how difficult the circumstances... isn't that part of learning? Learning how to do what we know is right even when things are difficult/hard? Practicing and practicing, working and working at continually improving? I suppose it takes time and practice and learning to 'let go'... for all of life.
I think though that I have learned several valuable lessons. 1. Use homemade ornaments or at least ornaments that don't make you cringe with fear every time the kids pick one up. 2. Wait until you can be organized (not right after the flu and morning sickness and late night shopping). 3. The memory you create is more important then the preservation of your things. (not that they should break them all... I think they only broke one in fact... but maybe it's how you deal with the breakage that can build or destroy the memory) The End. Lesson Learned. Hopefully. P.S. All the ornaments are on the top third of the tree... out of the reach of little hands.
I know I should not excuse myself with tiredness and morning sickness, but do I at least give reason to my insanity? It is easier to be a 'good' mother when I am not feeling exhausted by it all. I wish I could be that 'perfect' mother no matter how difficult the circumstances... isn't that part of learning? Learning how to do what we know is right even when things are difficult/hard? Practicing and practicing, working and working at continually improving? I suppose it takes time and practice and learning to 'let go'... for all of life.
I think though that I have learned several valuable lessons. 1. Use homemade ornaments or at least ornaments that don't make you cringe with fear every time the kids pick one up. 2. Wait until you can be organized (not right after the flu and morning sickness and late night shopping). 3. The memory you create is more important then the preservation of your things. (not that they should break them all... I think they only broke one in fact... but maybe it's how you deal with the breakage that can build or destroy the memory) The End. Lesson Learned. Hopefully. P.S. All the ornaments are on the top third of the tree... out of the reach of little hands.
Thursday, December 22, 2011
more school work
I hesitate sharing my work from school because it isn't Shakespeare, Dickinson, or Keats. It is all right, maybe good/warm, but not brilliant. :) Maybe presentable enough to show a few public/friendly eyes, those who glance this way, but not more than that. :) My teacher approved of this one so I thought it wouldn't embarrass me too much if he liked it. :)
Reading with Father
calm, winter's white night
filled with warmth of bread
melting butter and honey.
Golden beauty dripping
illuminated by firelight and
strengthened by father's baritone.
children are curled on the floor
in a fortress of pillows, afghans, patchwork quilts.
his voice, creating impressions
we follow; we pursue
traveling worlds newly made
wonders envelope our minds
as father gives life to words
stark black and brilliant white.
outside, the snow falls
Saturday, November 19, 2011
A memoir for my class... a really short one... around 500 wrds
“Somebody stole my man.... Somebody stole my man,” Alta sang as she shuffled her walker forward. It was her favorite song, tuneless, angry and heartbroken. Most often she would sing it as she meandered on her morning constitutional. You always knew, that on these days, Alta was feeling lonely. To me, her singing was humorously tragic. Her lament had the soul of the perfect southern jazz song. It made me smile. But it also made me wish that I had time to spend freely talking to her. But I didn't.
There were others, like the “Relief Society President”, perfect, pure, and pristine, who came out one Sunday ready for church, looked at her panty hose and, echoing the sentiment of most women, said, “Damn panty hose, they got a run in them!” She promptly went back to her room and changed. There was the World War II vet who would wait in his room for family to come. They rarely did. One day he said to me quite bitterly, “I wish I could die. I am ready to die... But He won't take me. Almost everyone I know is gone, but He won't take me.” Being young, I didn't know what to say. How could I find a way to relate to someone who had suffered the horror of war, the pain of old age, and the loss of family and friends. I felt so inadequate. Then there was Norma, who never said a word. But her walls were full of pictures of her young self, smiling, waving, embracing her husband, camping... not the same shell I helped to dress and shower every morning. She never said a word to me; just smiled or grunted in frustration.
But, of all these I remember Alta most.
The first day I had heard her singing her song, I came into her room and found her sitting on her bed and she looked at me and said, “She took him away from me. He left me for THAT women. Left me alone. You be careful! You can never trust a man.” Once again, my bashful tongue left me without reply. How do you comfort an older woman who has been abandoned by her husband? "You'll find someone better?" "He doesn't deserve you!" "Men are jerks!" Everything felt trite and emotionally untrue. And for me, giving a simple hug or a pat on the back was like jumping from the high dive; completely scary. Another time, after her slow march and song, I went into her room and she spoke differently of her husband's betrayal, “He left me, he wasn't supposed to die first. How could he die and leave me, alone!” Her bitterness was the same, her loss just as deep even though this time her husband hadn't run off with another mistress. Death was the female fatal. I wondered which story was true, but knew there wasn't a way to know. Alta suffered from Alzheimers.
It wasn't long before the disease began to take its final advances. I remember walking into her room and seeing feces on the floor; a trail leading to the bathroom with Alta inside it, moaning in pain. That day, I learned part of the process of death, loss of bowel control. As I cleaned up the mess from the floor, I wasn't disgusted. There was a tranquility in the room that minimized the nature of my work. I imagined that maybe her husband, setting the record straight had come, ready to bring her home. The reunion would have been sweeter on the other side of the veil, if that was the case. There wouldn't be any more blue songs for Alta to sing. She would have her man again and know that, maybe, maybe he had never left her.
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