Tsukismom Speaks

Blog Action Day Climate Change

2009-10-15T06:02:00.009-04:00

The world without ice? There's a new book asking us to imagine it. Today is Blog Action Day on Climate Change. 7,000 bloggers around the world are writing about global warming today. I'm one of them.

October 24th is global action day when people all over the world are taking action on global climate warming issues. Write a letter. Park your car. Take a bus. Make it a habit.

Think global climate change isn't your problem? Check this out.

Think there's nothing you can do?

Yes, you can.

A few thoughts:

Eat fewer corn chips and don't buy stuff with high fructose corn syrup. Scientific American tells us, "Corn grown in the U.S. requires barrels of oil for the fertilizer to grow it and the diesel fuel to harvest and transport it."

Eat less meat, or possibly none at all. Start small, give up a little beef. Beef requires tons of corn to grow, see above.

My neighbor, Wan-ru, is showing me how to eat more rice, more ways. When she adds meat, it's in small pieces. I now make "green bean soup" from dried beans--a healthful meal that's filling, nutritious, low fat and easy on the environment. And it doesn't give me gas! Ben and I already eat lots of noodles, and we can do even better.

Turn off the lights when you leave a room. Wear a sweater. (Thank you, Jimmy Carter, for these lessons we have forgotten.)

Drive less. Shop with a neighbor to combine trips and have more fun.

Buy less stuff. This is s tough one for me, but I am trying.

Remember, a world without ice also means no pinot noir, as the thin-skinned grapes that give it its luscious flavor are already "baking away" in the best Oregon vineyards.

And, since wine makes mummy clever, this would be a big loss.

Benjamin becomes a writer

2009-09-25T20:59:00.004-04:00

Benjamin has a writing workshop each day in his class. He is beginning not just to tell stories, which he has been doing for about a year: now he wants me to write the story he dictates.

Here is tonight's endeavor. After making sharks with play dough, he wanted to write this story.

About Fish

Sharks have teeth. Sharks eat fish. Sharks eat snakes. Sharks swim. Sharks leave all the time. Sharks go to their family. Sharks play together and wrestle. Sometimes they be alone by themselves. When sharks be alone, sometimes they be worried about fish. When they show up together, sometimes they lose their teeth, sometimes they get bigger teeth when they have grown.

Some sharks don’t have teeth because they just bite hard. When they do something, somebody catch fish, sometimes the sharks are the first ones there.

When they get some fish they play together, when they don’t like fish they open their mouth and take them out. When they play together and when they eat snakes, they are together. When they play together, they are responsible.

The Force

2009-09-18T10:43:00.001-04:00

The pull away is almost as strong as the pull toward.

We walked to school this morning, the end of Ben’s second week as a kindergartner. At the top of the hill, he met up with a neighbor and friend, and said he wanted to walk in alone. I fell back a bit.

Ben spun around. “No, Mom, I can walk alone. I want to walk alone.”

“OK,” said I, “I’ll just walk behind to make sure you get to your room.”

“You do NOT need to make sure I get to my room. I know where my room is.”

“OK, I know you do. Do I get a little hug?”

A serious eye roll with hand on hip followed. Then he ran back to me and gave me a huge hug.

“Maybe you could walk with me and say hello to my teacher?” he asked.

Of course I obliged.

Sunday Morning

2009-07-26T16:42:00.007-04:00

This morning, a lazy morning. Blueberry pancakes at 10, sunshine warms us while they slide down.

On my midmorning I’ve-had-four-cups-of-coffee trip to the bathroom, I find the seat down and spattered with pee. I don’t know whether it’s my five year old in a hurry, or my 83 year old dad who can’t see well enough to know if the seat is up or down. A third possibility is the dog, who prefers the toilet to the fresh water in her designer bowl on the kitchen floor.

I promise myself I will remember to leave the seat up. No sense getting all worked up about it if you can’t pinpoint the culprit. All would deny responsibility, and blueberry pancake Sunday mornings are no time to go on a warlock hunt.

At noon, we have a neighborhood squirt gun fight. It starts out as just a challenge to Billy, our neighbor. While Ben and I are getting ready, loading our arsenal and, of course, taking shots at one another, our upstairs neighbor asks if she and her daughter could join the fight. Then comes Billy and his mom. Then we are joined by new neighbors, tentative at first, but they reveal a killer instinct and fine marksmanship. Mutah and Tina are the team to watch. Once we are all thoroughly soaked an weak from laughing, we decide to adjourn to the pool, where we continue the fight with lots of ammo all around us.

My dad disapproves of the gun pay. I did too for a year, until I gave into my son’s endless gun noises, figuring forbidden fruit becomes far more attractive. Water guns are, honestly, just plain fun. Dad had wanted to go for a bike ride, and was pouting and was going to go by himself. When we came back from the pool, he was just getting ready, so we got clothes on and went with him.

He is so crabby. Within a quarter mile of home, he had already yelled at Ben, and I decided it was too nice a day to referee a constant fight. I asked my Dad to take the lead, explaining that once we got to the top of Barton Dr., he should look for the bike path that leads along the river. From there we can ride across town on the path. It’s a great ride, which leads across the river over a dam. We could loop back home by the train station, maybe in time to see the Amtrak arrive.

My Dad, in a snit, takes off, and we don’t see him again for a while. Ben and I get to the park, and we can’t find him. We ride along, then we back track to the main road. I ask a couple of cyclists if they have seen him. A brief panic sets in as I think maybe he rode up the ramp to the interstate, then I think that can’t be. We retrace our path, and it begins to pour. Ben and I take shelter under a bridge, then head back out to the main road again, just in time to see my father come along and wipe out on the road, literally bouncing on the shoulder.

Ben and I quickly ride to him, in spite of him yelling “Get away, I’m alright,” and I help him up. His elbow is badly gouged, his legs covered with road grit, but he seems ok. I help him back across the road and onto the bike path. “I’ve been looking for the path, let’s get off the road, it's not safe here,” he snaps.

I say, as gently as I can, “Dad we are on the path. We’re safe.”

When we get home, I draw a hot bath for him and bring him a grilled cheese sandwich, tubside. Ben and I eat at the table. I try to explain to Ben why Grandpa is crabby, and how it might be easier if we both just try not to argue with him. That it is hard to get older and not be able to do the things he used to be able to do. Ben argues that Grandpa was not safe riding on the road and should have been on the sidewalk with us. I agree with him, but say that Grandpa is an adult and I can’t be the boss of him. Ben gets that part.

Ben picks up a blueberry and says, in a funny little voice, “Hi, Benjamin, I'm a blueberry. Want to play?”

“No,” he answers, “I want to eat you!” He does. Life is good, if you're not a blueberry.

Ben takes a corner in the July 4th Bike Parade

Memorial Day

2009-05-25T14:24:00.002-04:00

Gardening has consumed our weekend. Even when we went to our friends' houses, we talked about what is blooming, what sort of shrub is that, how to best prune lilacs (pick them!). We shoveled compost and dirt, built raised beds, planted seedlings nurtured for a month, transplanted potted plants.

There's lots to know and easily learn about how to grow plants. What's more mysterious is the realtionships we share.

My friend Tatiana, a brilliant mathematician, talks about her excitement at solving a problem. She flies to Maryland on a moment's notice to work all day with a colleague, then flies back at the end of the day. What is most occupying her marvellous mind is her three year old daughter, who cried when she and her dad left dropped Tania at the airport. "You can have a brilliant career or a family," she says, "I have made my choice. I missed Tasha."

My friend Salima and I talk of having more children. I wish Benjamin had a sibling, but I don't think I am up to it. Salima has two. "Your life is over when you have children," she says. She is a physician, who became a stay at home mom. "Yet, the next generation is what we are here for, to guide them and grow them." I ask her if she would have another child, she's just 40. "No, the middle child becomes invisible, I think."

I am a middle child. I spent so much time in my family trying not to be noticed, I know what she means. Whenever the spotlight of attention was on me, it was never good. To this day, when someone asks to speak to me, I expect the worst. I led a charmed childhood, disappearing for days on end on horseback, playing in the woods at the end of Spruce Drive, pretending I was no longer a daughter, a child, but a mother to my youngest sister. Now, when my family argues, my greatest fear is that I, and they, will disappear after that last cruelty one of us spews.

A man who lives in our building, who always washes clothes early Sunday morning as we do, is moving. I stop the car in the driveway as he is loading his truck. "Are you moving?" I ask. "Yes, he says, "I just can't handle the heat surcharge, and noone will negotiate." We chat briefly about the wretched new management company. He looks at the pavement. "I will miss," he says, raising his head to look me in the eyes, "everyone. I have lived here ten years." I do not even know his name. I have lived here two years.

My neighbor Chun comes outside with her son, August. She has a lovely white sun hat on, and I tell her I love it. "I am sensitive to the sun," she says, as August wheels his trike away from her.

We are invited for brats and salad to our friend's the Marshes. Kristin worries endlessly about her weight and fitness. I am sure she weighs half of what I weigh. Neil taunts her about the brats, about her "diet," about the umbrella she hasn't removed the tag from. He wanders in an out while my Benjamin and their Oliver and Alexander play. "Whenever I feel like Neil doesn't pull his wieght," she says, looking directly at me, "I think of you. Your being single, truly alone, grounds me, and I am grateful."

I am grateful for the ghosts who brought me into being. My family, flawed like any other, and my mistakes, as gruesome as any, have made me who I am. I am blessed to have a son, to love and cherish, and friends to confide in and relish.

Happy Memorial Day.

Mother's Day

2009-05-12T23:53:00.002-04:00

It's nearly midnight as I write this. I fell asleep with Ben, awakened a bit ago by Lily whining because her water dish was dry, and there were too many toys on the bottom bunk for her to crawl in.

Thinking about the Mother's Day weekend we had--preceded by an awful fight with my sister and mother, but rescued by grand friends and my sweet son. Hallmark just doesn't understand families. My friends and I are planning that next mother's day we are all going out together: moms and non-moms alike, for brunch, mimosas and a spa visit. Our day. Maybe top it all off with a movie.

Today, as we left for school, after Ben's fifth consecutive day of actually, completely, dressing himself, he turned at the still open door. "Good bye, Lily, have a great day," he said.

Then he sang:

Skimmirink-y-dink-y-dink
Skimmirink-y-do
We love you.
We love you in the morning
and in the afternoon
we love you in the evening
underneath the moon
skimmirink-y-dinky-dink
skimmirink-y-dooooo
we love you!

For Lily. My heart sang just about all day.

May 3rd

2009-05-03T20:08:00.001-04:00

**

It is evening. The last load from the dryer is still damp:
Across the dining room chairs the blanket is spread.
Chickadees call, announcing their territorial pride;
I answer them from the kitchen where dirty dishes mark mine.
I wander whistling into the bathroom where my son sits,
Shooting bubbles with his bright green gun,
Still calling to the chickadees, I spread one more damp sheet
Across the dresser. My upstairs neighbor sits outside
Under the flowering crab, reading a thick book.

Flu don't kill people, guns kills people

2009-04-29T19:57:00.005-04:00

I'm trying hard to figure out the hysteria, yes, hysteria, over swine flu.

36,000 people in this country alone, give or take a couple thousand, die each season from flu, and it never even causes a ripple in the headlines. Roughly 650,000 people in this country die of heart disease each year, give or take 10,000.

Roughly ten children between the ages of 1 and 4 die every day from homicide and accidents in this country alone.

Yet swine flu, which has claimed one toddler's life in this country (a toddler who had "other complicating health problems") causes hysterical panic. Schools are closed. Vacations are cancelled. But mostly, an entire people, Mexicans, are vilified.

I think we are a people in search of a panic. We seem to need to feed our fears each day: the economy, the threat of terror, and now, the flu.

According to our very own torture-mongering CIA, the infant mortality rate projections for Mexico this year are 18.42 deaths/1,000 live births. For the good old US of A ? 6.26 deaths/1,000 live births.

Oh, and 89 people in this country die every single day of the year from homicide or suicide with guns.

Now there's a statistic I can get hysterical about.

Poetry Month is almost gone

2009-04-28T06:28:00.001-04:00

This is today's pick from the fine folk at Poetry Daily. A good day to drink beer and overeat, and celebrate.

"Terence, this is stupid stuff”
by A. E. Housman (1859-1936)

"Terence, this is stupid stuff:
You eat your victuals fast enough;
There can't be much amiss, 'tis clear,
To see the rate you drink your beer.
But oh, good Lord, the verse you make,
It gives a chap the belly-ache.
The cow, the old cow, she is dead;
It sleeps well, the horned head:
We poor lads, 'tis our turn now
To hear such tunes as killed the cow.
Pretty friendship 'tis to rhyme
Your friends to death before their time
Moping melancholy mad:
Come, pipe a tune to dance to, lad."
Why, if 'tis dancing you would be,
There's brisker pipes than poetry.
Say, for what were hop-yards meant,
Or why was Burton built on Trent?
Oh many a peer of England brews
Livelier liquor than the Muse,
And malt does more than Milton can
To justify God's ways to man.
Ale, man, ale's the stuff to drink
For fellows whom it hurts to think:
Look into the pewter pot
To see the world as the world's not.
And faith, 'tis pleasant till 'tis past:
The mischief is that 'twill not last.
Oh I have been to Ludlow fair
And left my necktie God knows where,
And carried half way home, or near,
Pints and quarts of Ludlow beer:
Then the world seemed none so bad,
And I myself a sterling lad;
And down in lovely muck I've lain,
Happy till I woke again.
Then I saw the morning sky:
Heigho, the tale was all a lie;
The world, it was the old world yet,
I was I, my things were wet,
And nothing now remained to do
But begin the game anew.
Therefore, since the world has still
Much good, but much less good than ill,
And while the sun and moon endure
Luck's a chance, but trouble's sure,
I'd face it as a wise man would,
And train for ill and not for good.
'Tis true, the stuff I bring for sale
Is not so brisk a brew as ale:
Out of a stem that scored the hand
I wrung it in a weary land.
But take it: if the smack is sour
The better for the embittered hour;
It will do good to heart and head
When your soul is in my soul's stead;
And I will friend you, if I may,
In the dark and cloudy day.
There was a king reigned in the East:
There, when kings will sit to feast,
They get their fill before they think
With poisoned meat and poisoned drink.
He gathered all that sprang to birth
From the many-venomed earth;
First a little, thence to more,
He sampled all her killing store;
And easy, smiling, seasoned sound,
Sate the king when healths went round.
They put arsenic in his meat
And stared aghast to watch him eat;
They poured strychnine in his cup
And shook to see him drink it up:
They shook, they stared as white's their shirt:
Them it was their poison hurt.
—I tell the tale that I heard told.
Mithridates, he died old.

No turning to salt

2009-04-25T16:37:00.005-04:00

We've turned a big corner in the development world.

After Benjamin’s swimming lesson on Thursday, the last one of this session, I got into the pool with him for a while. A lifeguard asked us if we would mind playing with this other kid. The “other kid” was Darell, who, unlike all the other kids in the family pool, looked to be about 14. He had some obvious differences, looked forlorn, and needed to have some fun. I invited him to join us in Ben’s game of jumping into the pool.

He did join us, and pretty soon all the kids in the pool joined us, having a total blast, although Darell’s splashes were the biggest of all. Ben really loved it, and, after we got out of the pool and showered and he was in his jammies, he insisted on walking back into the pool room and saying good bye to his new friend. Darell gave him a hearty high five, and we said good bye. Ben was disappointed he had to get into his jammies, because that's "for little kids." No more home-from-the-Y-in-jammies.

Yesterday, after dinner, we went back to the Y. Ben’s new pal was there, and once again we all played. Benjamin kept swimming away from me to play with the kids. He barely noticed I was there. He got out of the pool to go pee all by himself, and came back with his swim trunks actually pulled up all the way.

When we got home, he got himself into his jammies, because we had taken a clean set of clothes to the Y for apres swim wear. This morning, he dressed himself completely.

Today, he has been outside most of the day, playing with his friends, coming back once in a while. He has learned that we are number 112, and picks the number out of the line of buzzers outside, opening the outside door when I buzz him in. Just a moment ago he came back in to get his hooded vest, and his Obi Wan light saber, to play jedi with a new friend, Evan.

I just heard him give away his ride-on excavator, a prized possession since his auntie gave it to him three years ago. He gave it our neighbor, three year old August, because "I'm too big for it now."

Unlike the first few steps he took when he learned to walk, he hasn’t even looked back to see if I am there.

March First!

2009-03-01T12:14:00.003-05:00

Today is very cold: 24 degrees and windy. But it's so bright and lovely, or at least it was during my walk with Ben and Lily. We went the the playground and then walked along Traver Creek. Ben poked the water and ice with his stick (he always picks a new one up,) and was thrilled when I told him he could bring this one into our apartment.

These funny little ice sculptures are all along the creek, no doubt from changing water levels and temperatures during the last week.

Grace notes

2009-02-28T19:16:00.004-05:00

The bright white melon slice of the moon tonight hangs in the blue sky. So clear and bright in the twenty degree air, the top circle, the shadow of where I stand, is gray and visible. Bare trees reach up, straining for the coming spring sun. There is no blue as deep and clear as the Midwestern winter evening sky--the bottom third above the horizon light, pale, fading into the deeper color. I have seen the Caribbean, the high Mexico desert, Pacific, Atlantic and Gulf of Mexico waters, the sky in the Austrian Alps. Nothing, save maybe a particular part of Monet's lily ponds, matches this blue.

I have my sweet son back after his vacation in Port Huron: time spent with his beloved cousin, auntie and uncle, and friend Linda. I love having him back, the rhythm of our life together restored after the quiet distance of his absence. Clean sheets on our beds, I secretly hope he will waken and crawl in with me sometime between now and dawn. I'll have pajamas on, not like when he's gone and I have the luxury of naked sleep. I missed the sweet breath of his morning sleepiness on my pillow for two long nights.

My sister and I hooted late into last night over wine, Facebook, old friends found, and our shared excitement over discovering online Scrabble. Each of us has found our lost best friends from elementary, middle school, and college. Bright melon memories lit our smiles and tales. Our sons sleeping in shared space, we marvelled over the hues of our lives.

The First Running Away Fight

2009-02-24T21:23:00.007-05:00

Ben was upset with me today. He's on winter break, creating a nightmare of child care questions for a working mom. Today, he spent the day at Lana's house. Lana's parents are both physicians, and they live in a gorgeous, huge house with every toy imaginable, plus a daddy.

When I arrived to pick him up, Lana's mom invited me in to have coffee, which I did. I like her and her husband, they are witty and very welcoming. They are French Algerians,very liberal in their politics, and very gracious. We had a lovely conversation for about a half an hour, then it was time to get home.

Ben cried. Wailed. Wanted to stay. Did not want to go home, and made it plain. I got him in the car, somewhat against his will, he was still very mad at me, and was quite articulate in expressing it. I explained that I wanted to get home to take care of Lily, and I wanted him there too, I had missed him during the day, wanted to have dinner. Nothing would console the prince ripped from the friend's bossom.

When we arrived at home, he parked himself on the couch and announced: "Mom, I am very mad at you. You did not make a good choice. Tomorrow, Uncle Markie will come and take me to Florida."

"Really?" I replied, "I will miss you so much, I like living with you. I love you, even when we are angry."

"Please may I have some hot chocolate," he said.

"Get it yourself," I said, "since you are leaving for Florida!" I admit I was petulant myself.

"Mom," he laughed,"I am going to Florida TOMORROW. Today, I want hot chocolate, please!"

The Runaway and His Excellent Play Dough Train

Yellow bird

2009-02-16T08:56:00.003-05:00

Yesterday a yellow bird appeared at the birdfeeder. At first I thought it was our first goldfinch of the season, which would be amazing because it’s only February and it just snowed again. Then again, the purple finches are looking more and more red lately. Last weekend, while Ben and I were walking near Black Pond, we saw two robins. Birdsong is more varied and jubilant in the mornings, even when it’s 27 degrees Fahrenheit. It lifts one’s spirit and reinforces the hope that winter will not last forever.

This bird is canary yellow and has virtually no black on it anywhere. And it’s lemon yellow. Shaped just like a finch, and finch-size, wings and tail white, with one thin black stripe running along the wings. Orange beak, no black cap or any black anywhere except the wings.

A mystery, an anomaly, a pleasure of backyard birding.

February Trees

2009-02-06T07:46:00.001-05:00

In the bare, bent
winter branches:
nests.

A Fun Boss Meeting

2009-01-12T22:55:00.003-05:00

The nature of Ben's learning problems have to do with an unspecified language processing difficulty. It's not clear how much of what he hears gets processed right, although I suspect far more of it gets through than the professionals see evidence of. Ben is a gifted mimic, but isn't always sure of what it all means. He also has certain conversational defaults: he wants so much to converse, and falls back on Drummond Island, his cousin Cameron and Thomas the Train when he runs out of things to talk about.

Recently, he has made a tremendous leap forward. During my evening dinner table litany, from the setting titled "How Was School," he responded pretty completely. Then he looked me in the eye and said, "And how was your work today, Mom?"

I was thrilled. "Well it was good."

"Did you do anything fun today, Mom?" asked the solicitous son.

"Well, yes," I replied, barely able to keep from cracking up, "yes, I had a fun meeting with my boss."

"Oh!" he exclaimed, "so you had a fun boss meeting? Good for you!"

Benjamin, my love, you succeeded in bowling your momma right over with this display of conversational prowess. Far better than the most fun boss meeting.

Sweet snow

2009-01-11T15:16:00.003-05:00

If you've ever made apple crisp the old fashioned way, before food coop hippies invented the rolled oats variety, you know what the snow in our driveway is like. You take cold butter and cut it with a knife into the flour, cinnamon and nutmeg until it looks like sand. That's the snow. As we wade through it to the car, I think of apple crisp.

I love snow, really, I can't get enough until about the Ides of March. Then, enough already. But right now it is lovely. Lily comes in from each romp with white muzzle and snow up to her belly on all four legs. The floors are a mess. Our heaters are loaded with warming boots, mittens and hats.

The birds are very absent. I keep the feeders free of snow so they can come and dine. I hope they made it through the blizzard.

Epiphany

2009-01-06T23:42:00.002-05:00

I can’t take the tree down yet, though everything in my Midwestern-white-person-Lutheran-raised self says it would be proper to do so. Ben and I got a new one this year, and it’s so lovely, looks almost real, and it’s loaded with ornaments, seven and a half feet tall, the paper star just grazing the ceiling. As I write, the white lights are the only artificial light on except for the glow of this monitor. This year Ben enjoyed looking at the ornaments, hearing stories about when we got them or where they came from.

This year the tree is also special because my friend Laurie came from Port Huron with Vincent, her son, and the four of us put the tree up together. They even made the trek to Kmart with us to wander down the aisle, pick out the best tree, chop it down and bring it home. We laughed and laughed, and Laurie and I stayed up until after 2 a.m. just catching up. Vincent was born on Ben’s nine-month birthday, and the two boys, both Cars fans, got along very well. I’d neglected my friendship with Laurie, and it was great to renew it, and I’m so glad they shared putting up the tree with Ben and me. Vincent got to put the star on top, and Ben got to put the traditional chicken on top. (My trees have always had a chicken on top and a pink flamingo in the upper third.)

Vincent sparked a slight debate, calling for the star to be placed on the top, his mother having been more responsible about his spiritual training than I have been with Ben’s. The compromise was that we would put both the chicken and the star on top, and the boys would split the duties. Luckily, I had a paper star in the box of ornaments—a paper star that looks more like a gold snowflake, which actually was from my childhood trees. Those were mostly always of the fresh variety, always put up just moments before Christmas and always left up long into January until the fallen needles obscured the carpet in a perfect circle beneath the gilded tree.

Maybe by Valentine’s Day I’ll be able to take it down.

My celebration of Christmas is far more pagan than it used to be—no more church choir centered holiday. Mostly for me it’s a time to pause and relish the gifts I have, know them and name them.

Fabulous ever-green trees and the tall black spruce outside our back door. Birds—chicken, flamingo and the hardy Carolina wren who still swoops down to the suet feeder. Boys who talk and laugh and run and play. Friends who bear with me throughout the winters. Stars from my childhood. The half-moon tonight so bright it casts shadows.

Pairs, pears, pancakes and eggs

2009-01-04T20:37:00.003-05:00

This morning as we ate a breakfast of eggs, pancakes and fresh sliced pears, Ben asked, “Mamma, who made me?”

“Your birth mom and your birth dad made you, honey.”

“Mamma, who made me?” the question came again, this time as he turned to look at my face.

I smiled broadly. “Your birth dad, Timothy, and your birth mom, Vickie made you. Remember? You grew in Vickie’s tummy.”

A brief pause, as he took another bite of pear. “Was it dark in there, in her tummy?”

“Yes, I think it was dark in there.”

“Did I get to eat pears?” he asked, turning to look at me again.

“No, not pears, just whatever could fit through your little belly button.” He laughed.

“My BELLY BUTTON?” he grinned, pear juice sliding down his chin.

“Yes, when babies are in their birth mommy’s tummies, they eat through a cord connected to their belly buttons!” I laughed again.

He was quiet again for a moment. “Mom, can I have more eggs?”

I’ve learned to just follow his lead, let him ask, and always, always answer honestly.

“Yes, of course you can have more eggs!”

Winter walk

2009-01-03T19:25:00.003-05:00

Ben. Lily and I took a late afternoon walk today along Traver Creek, the small slip of water which bisects our apartment neighborhood. Bold chickadees cheeked around us, cardinals flashed. Lily looked like she wanted to jump in despite the cold. About an hour into our exploration, we found solitary great blue heron tracks heading straight for deer mouse tracks: both trails formed a forty degree angle and ended at water's edge. A tasty snack for the heron, no doubt. One clump of rocks looked like a lucite shelf fungus had grown around it--ice. Bare heads of prairie coneflowers were gray matches for the rows of low lying clouds promising more snow. The sunset as we headed back was perfect turquoise and apricot.

New Year's Haiku

2009-01-02T08:16:00.002-05:00

Lopsided light, sweet, drunk smile
reclines in bare trees.
New Year’s moon in Michigan.

While we breathe we hope*

2008-11-05T00:22:00.004-05:00

On Election night, Ben and I gathered the polling place signs in the First Ward in Ann Arbor. He wanted to sleep, but insisted I wake him so we could go the the “Barack Party” at the Dem headquarters.

By 10, he was sound asleep in the back seat, and I took the last sign out of my trunk. Pennsylvania was blue, Ohio was likely blue, Massachusetts, Vermont, New Hampshire, New Jersey, Connecticut, all blue.

I opened his door and gently said, “Do you still want to go to the party, or do you want to go home and sleep?”

“I want to go to the party," he said. “Will you carry me?”

Forever, my son. It is a new world.

*President-elect Barack Obama, November 4, 2008, Grant Park, Chicago

The Class

2008-11-02T01:10:00.003-04:00

This is Ben's whole class, just after the Halloween school parade on Friday. I love this picture because each kid is doing his or her own thing. The array of costumes cracks me up. Miss Janice, the only adult in the picture, is singing to them, which she does all day long, making up songs about them, using their names and singing what they are doing. Parents ring the blue rug snapping pictures like so many tourists at the zoo.

New Glasses

2008-11-02T00:28:00.004-04:00

Yesterday, we picked up Ben's new glasses. He put them on at the optical shop, looked at me smiling and said, "I can see!" I swear, his balance is better and his gait more steady already, although he's been dancing and wiggling all day from too much Halloween candy, so it's really not easy to detect the difference.

After he got in the bathtub, I realized he didn't have them on, and I didn't see them on the bathroom counter. I asked him, slightly panicked, where they were.

"I put them in the case on my table, Mom, so Lily wouldn't get them," he answered. He's already a more responsible glasses-wearer than I: last week I stepped on mine in the middle of the night and bent them a bit. How they got on the floor I will never know, but they sure weren't in the case.

Homemade Halloween

2008-11-01T23:21:00.008-04:00

Last night was Ben's first real Halloween. Three days ago we finally settled on him being the Conductor from Polar Express. I took a 12 year old suit coat of mine (Jones New York, yet) and cut it down for him, hemming cuffs and bottom with that iron-on fusing tape. Then I ironed on metallic gold ribbon for cuff stripes and replaced the black buttons with gold ones.

Two years ago he inherited a real New York Central Railway conductor's hat from an old friend of mine who was a train fan, so I took that and added "Polar Express" across the front with letters from the scrapbooking store.

Then, I ironed on more metallic ribbon to an almost too short for him pair of blue slacks. Add one button down shirt and tie, and presto! The obvious favorite costume of every adult who opened a door for us. People kept saying, "Oh, I love that book," or "Oh, I love that movie." One scholarly type said, "Did you know that author was a Michigan grad?" We do live in U of M territory, after all.

Ben was in character all night, intoning "All aboard!" in long form to anyone who would listen. He really got into it, loving the hastening darkness and every cheesy Halloween gimmick from the giant spiders and fake cobwebs to the amazing witch on a wire at one house who zoomed down from a tree to say "I want candy."

My mom used to make our costumes, and usually added make-up to shame Hollywood. Now I understand why she put that effort in. How wonderful to see your kid loving your efforts (no matter how amateur or lame) and lapping up the admiration of perfect strangers, who rewarded him with gobs of candy.

Last Sunday's Fanged Fiends

2008-10-23T06:32:00.004-04:00

Our trip to the apple orchard included buying those great waxed fangs, remember the sweet gummy flavor? Ben's friends Tasha (the younger woman) and his pal Alexander and my basketball-bound, 98th percentile little man model them for you in the delicious October sunshine.

Please note Benjamin's campaign button!

It's been a little too heavy around here lately

2008-10-20T22:09:00.006-04:00

This morning Ben was sitting on his top bunk bed while I tied his shoes before school. He looked around with his great smile, admiring his carribean blue with white cumulous clouds painted walls, and said, so sweetly, "Thanks, Mom, for painting my room." Yeah, baby, it's a good sky to sleep under and wake up in. But what's even better is you noticed and thanked me. What a sweet kid.

Time for a little thanks from me to sister bloggers whose work sustains me.

I am way overdue in introducing some new favorites in the blogosphere, and I finally got around to updating my links. Please see, to the right and a little lower, Julie Zickafoose's wonderful site. She got a real gift for describing paw paws, kids and birds, but it doesn't stop there. Then, there's Jayne who writes honestly and takes great photos, and who has been a lifeline for me. Finally, don't miss Organic Mama who is always a freath of bresh air (not a typo, a spoonerism, she loves them and salty language, too.)

If it's true that the blogosphere is now our online town square, please follow my lead and visit these extraordinary women. I guarantee you'll find voices to make you laugh, make you cry, and definitely make you think.

Peace to all. Don't let the bitebugs bed.

Toward a barrier-free heart

2008-10-18T10:55:00.008-04:00

It’s been quite a week. Ben spiked a fever Tuesday night and was wakeful all night while it ran its course. Wednesday I had a meeting with Benjamin’s team at school: the teacher consultant, both his pre-school teachers and his occupational therapist. What I heard was daunting. Adaptive clothing to soothe his need for sensory input, his constant movement and challenges. His difficulty with crossing the midline in body movement and participating in group songs or movement. In spite of these things, I also heard that children are drawn to him and want to play, that his verbal skills are so good he teaches the class new words, that he negotiates well when he can hold his anger in check. Sleeping fitfully the night before did not make this meeting any easier.

From there, I picked up Benjamin and went to the pediatric ophthalmologist. While we were waiting to see the doctor, Ben surprised me by writing an “E”. He’s been making a "B" for a couple of days, but I didn’t know he knew an “E.” The eye exam revealed a stunning fact, however, he is far-sighted, and with a huge difference between his right and left eyes. The doc said in kids they sometimes don’t suggest correction, but he said with Ben’s exam, it would not be wise to forgo glasses. He said he really can’t see much up close.

From there we went to the optical shop and picked out frames: unfortunately there is not a model which is unbreakable and unlose-able. That evening, as if the simple diagnosis helped him, my son succeeded in writing his whole name, BEN, on his chalkboard in his room. This was a huge accomplishment, and in fact was an IEP goal for the end of the year!

And then we had a consultation as a follow up with the FAS clinic folks. More evaluations are needed there: the dreaded ADHD inventories came out, then a neurological consult was recommended, and finally a genetics referral. On the way back from that meeting, Ben was talking about Polar Express and said this: “What comes out of Polar Express’s funnel is smoke, actually, not steam, Mom.” He then continued by patiently explaining the dynamics of crossing the track covered with ice in such a way that the “locomotive” did not drop through the cracking ice, complete with hand gestures which would have rivaled the most expressive Sicilian.

Sometimes it’s hard to remember he’s only four years and nine months old.

I have been awash in conflicting emotions, emailing friends about it because I’m too emotional to talk on the phone about it all. I am by turns angry with his biological parents and sad that his first mother was so gripped by addiction to alcohol that she couldn’t stop bathing his developing brain in ETOH. I won’t be able to protect him from ridicule because he is different from other kids, then I realize that’s a projection more about me than him. I endlessly replay the parade of experts we met this week and the counterpoints after each meeting—the gems of Ben-ness set against each frightening diagnosis. He managed to have a very big victory at each time I thought I was hitting bottom, buoying me and reminding me that Being Ben is a mystery which is still unfolding, full of potential and unexpected gifts which defy measurement by the experts.

Benjamin has gifts he was born with which balance the burdens his pre-natal life placed on his shoulders. We are blessed with good friends who gave me realistic and hopeful feedback and support, offering to answer the phone whenever I needed to talk, planning visits to Ann Arbor, reminding me that I need to reach for my own oxygen mask before I can help Ben breathe.

One of those precious friends offered this: “Benjamin has only one real barrier: It’s whatever you know in your heart is beyond him. Everything else is meant to be the markers he will pass over, under or simply go around as he pursues his own goals.”

What I know in my heart is that I don’t know the barrier. Each time I think I do, Ben reminds me that, actually, I know nothing about his limits and everything about how he passes our markers and blows by the lines we draw for him.

The Amazing Benjamin with his art and, of course, a car

"Untitled" and "This is a mountain, this is a village"

The Road Taken

2008-10-11T17:29:00.004-04:00

There was one gift I craved all my adult life. That gift was the ability to give of myself without reservation and to feel, really feel, the complete generous love of a child.

I put it off for one reason or another for many years, not ready yet, I now believe, to claim the gift in any way that would make it a scared gift. There were opportunities, but I was too timid to reach out and take what I so wanted.

When I finally, finally, reached out and received Benjamin into my life I thought that was it, this was the gift, now I had it, this little blob of person-to-be, and the rest was living in the arrival.

I had no idea what he had in store for me. The person he is becoming changes all the time, keeps me guessing and doubting, hoping and rejoicing, fearing sometimes too, feeling both up to the task and woefully inadequate. He keeps me from any feeling at all that we have arrived, but keeps me feeling instead that we are still walking, looking, reaching for each other.

I have to keep reminding myself that being is the key. Listening to his endless questions about the road we are on and trying to answer them truthfully in ways he will understand leaves room for little else other than being.

Coming home from a rendezvous with friends today we left the highway because the highway makes him anxious. It is a gorgeous day, why not take a few extra minutes to take the country road home? We found two farm stands to buy tomatoes, honey crisp apples, butternut squash, gummy bears. Fresh corn and cider too.

When we got home he wanted a cheese sandwich. Why not? Is there really anything better than a glass of cider with a toasted cheese sandwich on a glorious October day?

We both needed a nap. As we crawled under the covers, he took my hand. “You’re a great mom,” he said.

“And you are a wonderful son,” I answered.

I am. He is. We are. Every single moment of every day we have together on this spinning orb. The hardest and easiest thing in the world.

Bumps in the parenting road

2008-10-10T06:44:00.003-04:00

Benjamin and I rode in the Blue Water Ramble on Sunday. It was a 30 mile tour, Ben on the trailer bike, and it was great. He did beautifully, really enjoyed it. I whined much more than he did. I'll get around to pictures soon

I am exhausted lately. I am tired of not having any money and Ben having a voice.

Oh, did I really say that? Some days I swear if I hear "Mommy why do caribou eyes glow in the light from the train" again I will scream. Instead I try to answer the same way each time.

Until I cracked last night and said, "Because they are fake eyeballs made in China by children who have to work for a living instead of living in unbelieveable luxury and being able to watch Polar Express three nights in a row!"

He laughed. "Silly mommy, no, really why do . . ."

I drove off the road. I am writing this from beyond the grave.

Fact is I am too weary to even do this artfully, but go to this poem. Read it. Tell me if it isn't just the most wonderful poem or not. Thank you, Poetry Daily. Thank you, Gary L. MacDowell for writing this lovely poem and reminding me that there is life beyond the glowing caribou eye.

http://www.poems.com/poem.php?date=14155

My son, the Capitalist

2008-09-07T22:38:00.004-04:00

We attended a birthday party for Ben's friend Alexander at the Ann Arbor Hands On Museum yesterday. Alexander's mom sent this to me today, a perfect birthday present. Ben had weighed my purchase of plastic lettuce and peaches, and was ringing up the sale. He can be a capitalist, but I don't know how I willl cope if he becomes a Republican!

Isn't he dashing?

How I feel about pit bulls

2008-09-06T22:44:00.002-04:00

Tomorrow I’ll be 52. When I turned 50, I felt quite liberated from so much: what a gifted woman called "the tyranny of the male gaze," the opinions of fools, the insecurity which haunted me so much of my life. On the eve of my 52nd, that feeling of liberation has a layer of calm and ease.

Impending birthdays can’t help but engender some retrospection. I have led a full life, largely because of the random luck of having been born into a family with two parents who valued and insisted upon education. I have a wonderful job in a time when so many in Michigan are unemployed. I have the joy of an informed life. My son and I live in comfort unimaginable to most in the world: a secure future, a warm home, a safe neighborhood and the blessings of interesting and supportive friends and community.

We don’t hide from bombs falling on our street, we don’t fear death by random violence, we have plenty of fresh and healthy food, Ben has a wonderful school and supportive speech and occupational therapy. The lies and idiocy of our own national leaders haven’t made our lives difficult because we have the insulation of social status and class, and nationality. Bush didn’t invade our country, he just stole the presidency, twice.

Benjamin knows who Barack Obama is. We see his picture in the paper, Ben wants me to read the article. He wants to see him on TV, thinking that we might be able to just turn it on and find him. He knows he will be our next president.

I wonder what Mrs. Palin would think of our family. Trans-racial, single parent by choice, favoring HPV vaccination, socialized medicine, zero population growth. I am anti-war, pro-choice by experience and philosophy, and for the teaching of family planning in all levels of public school.

I know my family would strain her idea of family values.

But then, at 52, I live a maverick life rather than talk about it. And I am glad for it, because for me, that maverick life has included defending criminals, welcoming strangers, sexuality unconstrained by conventionality, siding with the oppressed, wrestling with ideas every day.

And I think pit bulls should be neutered or spayed, whether or not they wear lipstick.

Morning moon

2008-08-17T07:09:00.003-04:00

The full moon,
setting,
sunrise tinted,
rare pearl
round,
not white,
hangs
between
two oaks.

Last night,
rising,
it caught my breath;
now, I stop,
the dog reaches
the leash end
abrubtly,
turns to ask
why.

When good parents give bad haircuts

2008-08-16T20:24:00.003-04:00

When I was in 8th grade, my mother gave me the worst haircut of my life. She had always cut my hair, and I never remember that it was a bad haircut, ever, until then. I had longer hair off and on, alternating with a bob in my elementary years, then a “pixie” starting in sixth grade. I should say that my mom still cuts her own hair, and usually did in those years too, so it wasn’t like there was a double standard. It was low-maintenance all around.

In retrospect, her life wasn’t that great when she gave me The Haircut. Her second marriage was breaking up and it was ugly. I’m sure she was scared, having moved her kids from Michigan to Ohio, and with a new baby, brand new. She just didn’t stop cutting. Then, getting one side short, she had to get the other side shorter. And again, to even up the other side. In the end, it was awful. I remember wanting to die in my sleep so that I didn’t have to go to school the next day.

The cruel boy who usually made my life hell anyway started laughing as soon as I got off the bus. It is god’s pure mercy I don’t remember his name, and can barely see his face, but I can still hear him clearly. “Look, it’s a BOY,” he sneered, his toadies laughing with him like he was funny as Bill Cosby. Tears burned in my eyes as I slinked in to find my locker.

Homeroom was more of the same. Even my best friend, Carol Mohr, made a joke. But the worst was 4th period, Algebra, Miss Sokolick. As the class filtered in and took our seats, she looked over at me and snickered. “Well, Butch, good to see you!” I didn’t know what “Butch” meant to the kids who roared, until Carol explained it. She leaned over and said, “She’s calling you a lesbo!”

Nothing could have been more humiliating. I think as a direct result of The Haircut, I nearly flunked algebra. I just couldn’t get past having been called “Butch” by the teacher, an ugly, bitter, red-head spinster in every pejorative sense of the word. My mother called her on the carpet and complained, and she apologized, which only made things worse. I hate that woman to this day, and hope her life ended lonely, in a sub-standard nursing home that reeked of old urine and death. I hope some maladjusted butch nurse made her life hell, frankly.

That history is why I am so mortified that I gave Benjamin the worst haircut of his life today. Because of his sensory overload issues, even Mr. Rush can be a traumatic experience. He seems to take it better when I clip his hair. I have a good quality electric clippers, and the weather is so nice we’ve been able to sit outside. We can take breaks, drink juice and play in between clips. His hair was way too long so I decided it couldn’t wait today.

So I did it first with the 3/8 inch comb on, and there were tears. I switched to the ¼ and things were much better. I just couldn’t get it even, and that’s when I made my fatal mistake. I took the plastic comb off, and took a swatch out of the front. Then I had to even it up, just like my mom had had to 40 years ago. He looks bald, sort of. Except where he isn’t, because I can’t get the cowlick spots to be as short as the rest. It looks awful.

When he looked in the mirror, he said, “I’m not Benjamin anymore, my hair is gone.” He was smiling when he said it, but all of a sudden I was that too tall, too smart, big toothed, butchy eighth grader. I wanted to cry.

So my improvement on the last generation’s parenting? At least he’s not in 8th grade and he’ll forget about this, if he even knows it’s awful. On the other hand, my life is great and I don’t have an excuse, just that I was over-confident.

Anyway I look at it, it is still a bad haircut, the worst. It may even be worse than my pixie.

Luckily, there’s no Miss Sokolick in his life.

beginning thoughts on a much larger topic

2008-08-15T02:02:00.003-04:00

We want our families to be perfect. They’re not. The hell of it is we can’t choose the families we come from, we can only choose to turn away from them or embrace them.

The fact of being human is we are human. We say things which are stupid and thoughtless. We hold our families to standards we don’t ourselves measure up to. And sometimes, even our best just isn’t enough. For some, there are such gaping holes there is never enough.

At 51, my life is full just trying to parent well, work and create my life each day. I am done living that life to please anyone else except Benjamin and me. Of course I also have to continue to please an employer, but I love my work and am lucky enough to have pleasing the employer be a subset of pleasing myself.

Today, as a part of my new job, I presided over the finalization of three adoptions. The family that really got to me was a couple who four kids. This adoption today added the youngest brother and oldest sister to their existing two, making it a quartet of kids.

I couldn’t help but hope that it’s more hopeful for families that actually do choose each other. No doubt Benjamin, and each of those four chosen kids from today's docket, will have complaints about how they were parented. The trick is to learn something in each generation, hoping to improve the outcome for the next.

There are no guarantees, only promises to listen and keep trying, and always, no matter what, love.

And that is enough.

Belated Drummond notes

2008-08-10T22:30:00.008-04:00

Last weekend I decided to make a trip to Drummond. My neighbors, Benjamin and Tania, the post-doc mathematics students, decided to come too. We rented a car big enough to hold all of us and the two dogs, and left late Friday afternoon.

It was a fabulous trip. I needed to shed a nasty week and they love the outdoors. My Benjamin adores their two year old, Tasha, and she idolizes him. The dogs--well--Lily hates all other dogs, but her bark is far worse than her bite and she eventually made peace with Pola--sort of a Soviet bloc cold war benign neglect sort of peace. Pola is a feisty Sheltie who wouldn't be pushed around, even though Lily kept trying.

Saturday, Tania, who is Polish, made pieczonki: layering bacon, onions, carrots, cabbage, polish sausage, beets and potatoes in a big stew pot and setting it right in the white coals for an hour or so. It's a traditional Polish camping dish, and she regaled us with tales of huge iron pots of the stuff made for outdoor family gatherings.

Although Tania was the official camp photographer, we documented her culinary arts. Here she is placing the pot on the fire, while Tasha uses up the batteries in the flashlight. The stars are so bright there, we don't need no stinking flashlights, anyway!

After it cooked, Tania stirred it up and it all turned a wonderful rose from the beets. I never tasted anything so wonderful. Tasha and Benjamin loved the one trip to town for ice cream--Superman of course, the colors of which I assure you pass unchanged through the four year old's complete digestive tract.

Lily is not dead, just dog tired after swimming behind the kayack around the point to the beach. She hasn't been this clean in months! Actually, we all slept like this up there, with wonderful fresh air, loon calls, and clear water. .It can be dicey travelling with someone else but our friendship was solidified in this trip. I am so glad they will be here at least another two years. From pieczonki to these pictures, Ben, Tania and Tasha made our quick trip north pure magic.

Thanks, we needed that!

Is Barack Obama My Daddy?

2008-07-23T01:56:00.003-04:00

Benjamin has been talking a lot about his daddy. Regular readers know that Ben and I adopted each other, I heard his heartbeat before he was born, he was in my arms at four hours old and hasn't left since. I adopted as a single parent. There is only my name on his birth certificate.

Benjamin says "We have a small family: Momma, Benjamin and Lily."

We have friends, of course, who have daddies. Daddies pick up and drop off at Peach Tree. One daddy named Benjamin lives in our buiding and is our friend, his daughter Tasha went for a walk with us tonight.

A few months ago, he said to me, "I'm sad, Momma, I don't have no Daddy." I thought about the grammar, but didn't correct him.

"Honey, of course you have a daddy, everyone has a daddy. It's just that your daddy doesn't live with us."

"Where does he live?"

"Your daddy lives in Detroit."

"Let's play trains, Momma." And we did.

There have been more questions. The inevitable "Why?" The poignant, "Could my daddy pick me up?" And corrections: Benjamin is often convinced his daddy is in New York. Or that his daddy just got back from Africa. And funny things: his friend Alexander announced to his parents that he wished he had a family like Benjamin's: no daddy (and no little baby brother.)

Not long after our early discussions, Barack Obama was speaking in Detroit. I wanted to take Benjamin. But I was afraid we'd get into a big crowd downtown, and maybe have to wait a long time, and then maybe not even get in. I couldn't afford to pop for the expensive tickets which would guarantee a place at the party. So Ben and I did the next best thing, we snuggled on the couch and watched the event live streaming on my laptop.

We listened to Jennifer Granholm's rousing and honest speech, Al Gore's great speech, looked for friends we knew were there in shots of the crowd. When Barack took the stage, Benjamin looked at me earnestly and said, "Is Barack Obama my daddy?"

I did laugh, I admit. Benjamin giggled. "He's in Detroit, Momma, is he my Daddy?"

"Honey, if you'd like Barack Obama to be your daddy, I think that's great! Let's pretend that Barack Obama is your daddy."

Benjamin laughed, a deep genuine laugh. "No, silly Momma," he said, a twinkle in his eye, "Barack Obama is my PRESIDENT, not my daddy."

Since then, we've had a few other jokes, like when he was being dramatic and saying in his best fakey woe-is-me voice, "I don't have a daddy," I said, "well, I think we should go to the daddy store tomorrow and pick one out for you." The Barack thing sort of broke the ice and made it ok for us to be light about it. Benjamin is processing this issue, just the first of many he will have to grapple with.

But, secretly, I love the idea of Barack Obama being Ben's daddy.

The Freep at Fair

2008-07-20T08:57:00.004-04:00

15 years ago, I stopped home delivery of the beloved Detroit Free Press in protest of management tactics in the writer’s strike there. Then, the Freep (as it is affectionately known) entered into a Joint Operating Agreement with the Detroit News, known as the "Snooze," the conservative competition for the Freep in Detroit. I was part of a group of volunteer lawyers from the National Lawyers Guild who represented some of the strikers as they fought back against thug tactics with various acts of civil disobedience, like trespassing, lying down in front of delivery trucks. I never went back.

At the Art Fair I signed up for a contest to win a grocery shopping spree before I realized it was the Freep and Snooze booth. The guy hawking subscriptions engaged me with his spiel. Holding up my hand and shaking my head, I said, “No thank you. I quit home delivery 15 years ago, over the strike.”

The young man widened his eyes. “Wow,” he said incredulously, "that was FIFTEEN years ago!” Maybe he celebrated his tenth birthday during the strike.

“Yes, I know,” I said, “I'm a dinosaur. But I am a committed dinosaur.” I know two other Guild lawyers who have held to their boycott over the years, so I'm not the only one.

The truth is I miss it. The Freep was a great paper. I was a fan, bigtime. When I first moved to Detroit to do law school, I would buy the paper every day. I would bring it to Contracts so my pal Sue Shernit could read it too. We’d talk about the stuff in the paper, read the comics. My favorite strip was Brenda Starr, and I still have in my office a panel from that strip: sexy Brenda saying “Justice works out a payment plan for everyone,” her head tipped back and her eyes half closed.

My favorite Freep columnist was Jim Fitzgerald. When I graduated from Law School, what I really wanted was to have lunch with Jim Fitzgerald. Suzy set it up for me, and I ate burgers and drank beer with Jim Fitzgerald at the Lindell AC, a downtown bar known for its burgers and local sports mementoes. (Suzy wanted to have coffee with Robert Jones, a local public radio blues DJ, and I set that up for her.)

All these memories flashed through my mind in a moment standing there at the counter. I love reading papers, and as Benjamin gets older, I have more time for it. I loved the Freep. It’s not the same, but maybe it was time to begin again the civilized practice of reading two papers a day: the Ann Arbor News and the Freep, and on Sunday, the NYT makes it three. My parents always read papers each day, it's always been a part of my life.

The sales guy was going on and on about how there are four unions at the Freep, there’s no more JOA, things are different now.

“And, real newspapers are becoming a thing of the past. I miss the feel of newsprint from Detroit in my hands,” I said. I signed up.

And he gave me $20 in gift cards from a grocery store.

The Ann Arbor Art Art Fair is upon us

2008-07-17T06:23:00.004-04:00

We went to the Townie Party Monday, our "local" celebration of Art Fair. The actual fair started yesterday, bringing to town hundreds of vendors and thousands and thousands of visitors. I cruised a little yesterday on my way to a meeting: this will be my third AF and already I have favorite vendors. The paper featured a guy, a potter, who's been here every AF since it started in 1960.

The guy with the great wooden earring holders you hang on the wall is here again. This year I'd like to buy one, we'll see. My favorite fabric art person is here too, but her stuff I can't afford, yet. When preschool-which-costs-as-much-as-college is done, maybe.

Then there's Amanda, a Peach Tree School parent of twin girls who does amazing painting. This year I actually set aside a little scratch to buy one. I'll hang it in my new office on the third floor of the courthouse. It'll look elegant, and it will help Amanda's family pay the tuition. I'm also hoping my metal sculpture guy from Pinckney shows up; the crow I bought from him at our first AF is lonesome and I'm thinking she needs a pal.

Friday night, Benjamin and I will gather with other parents in the courthouse parking lot, load some kids in our wagon, and set off in search of corn dogs, treasures and lemonade.

We haven't lived here long enough to hate Art Fair. It's still a first class adventure to us, and I'm hoping it always will be.

When I am older I will stay still

2008-07-10T22:14:00.003-04:00

Tonight, as I usually do, I lie down next to Ben and snuggle as he falls asleep. After he has drifted off, he will often say something: his eyes remain closed and often it's a complete non-sequitor.

Tonight, after we said good night and I sang a couple requests (his current favorite is Java Jive, which he sings with me) he drifted off fairly quickly. He's skipped a nap at school two days in a row. His eyes closed and that sweet, sighing breath came slower and steadier. Then he said,

"Are you going backward or forward?" His eyes were closed tight, but his legs were twitching, as they often are before he is fully asleep.

It seemed a profound rhetorical question. "I'm not moving, sweetheart, I'm staying still." Up on one elbow now, I was studying his face closely to see if he really was asleep.

"I can't stay still," he said. His eyes stayed closed, he didn't move, except for the little twitch of his legs.

"Yes you can, sweetie, you can stay still," I said softly.

"When I am older I will stay still," he said. I moved my arm from under his, and there was no response. His eyes were still closed.

He never awakened, and is sleeping still. There's plenty of time for him to stay still, later, when he is older.

Building with fireflies

2008-07-09T23:51:00.003-04:00

The road home flickers with fireflies, a canopy of old hardwoods overhead. This is the last night I will teach our monthly parenting class. It was a poignant one: three couples came together, a college student father and his mother, several single parents. They all had questions and a few of them even said thank you. My favorite teachers were there: Brady Mikusko, my own coach, and Siri Gottlieb, the first friend I made in Ann Arbor.

I won’t be teaching the class anymore because we take a month’s hiatus in August, and then I will move from the Friend of Court to Probate Court, where I have been asked to serve as Register. I didn’t apply for the job, I went up there to help out and they wooed me. It was very gratifying to be wanted and appreciated, and finally they made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. I will miss my colleagues at the Friend. I will miss the gratifying moments when I actually felt I got through to parents and maybe made the lives of their children a bit easier. In my two years with the Friend, I have had many of those moments.

Ben was asleep by the time I got home, Miss Patti having fed him, bathed him and gotten him into his jammies. All I can do is climb the ladder to the top bunk and kiss him once before I sleep. I think of how much he loves fireflies, and how his life is filled with joy. The other day, I thanked him for making me a mommy. “I built you?” he asks.

So much rides on how we are built, and by whom, and with what love. How we are knit in the womb begins it, and so much more follows: the building continues until the last day we breathe and our lights flicker out. The fireflies seeking love flash in the leaves, my son breathes softly in his bunk, Lily lies sighing and dreaming at my feet, a vase full of brown-eyed susans graces our table. Our life of ease is so good, joyful, and still I worry about building it right, making the right choices for Ben, doing right by him.

In the end, it’s all that matters at all.

Back Home

2008-07-06T21:38:00.004-04:00

We are back home tonight. Ben fell asleep about a minute after his bath. He's wrung out. He's had days of biking, friends, water, sun and Mom, and was glad to be home.

It's been a wonderful vacation. I'll be posting about Drummond stuff, but the last few days we've been in Port Huron, connecting with old friends. We spent two glorious days at the beach: Lake Huron is significantly warmer down in Port Huron than in Drummond (my toes were numb after ten minutes up there.) Every person Ben saw said something like "I held you when you were just this big," or "My goodness you've gotten to be a tall guy," all of which made him smile.

He got to spend quite a bit of time with Vincent, a kid who was born on Ben's nine-month birthday, and is now dubbed by Ben his "best friend." Today, Vincent's mom, Laurie, handed us a montage of photos she and Vincent made: Ben at nine months at Laurie's baby shower, me holding just born Vincent, me holding Ben and Vincent. Ben wanted to hang it on the wall as soon as we got home, and we did, on his art wall.

We also got to spend a wonderful afternoon with Jill and "Katie-Cate"--Jill's two and a half year old daughter. Everything about me resists the idea of arranged marriage, but Katie-Cate would be the one. She's so verbal and bright, tall and sweet, and very devilish in a most attractive way. In fact, I suggested to Jill that maybe when they get to be a certain age, we keep our risk-loving, head-strong children apart, and another friend there said, "Yes, maybe from age 8 on."

Both Vincent and Katie-Cate live in trans-racial adoptive familes, so it was really like being home and very comfortable. I feel refreshed and recharged, sweetly tired and sunburned, and ready to tackle the job transition ahead.

Vacations do that.

Gone fishing

2008-06-27T00:05:00.002-04:00

Ben and Lily and I are off to the northcountry. Up there, we have no electricity or running water. Seven sweet days of reading, swimming, biking, cooking over the fire and listening to the loons.

Head north, cross the bridge, turn right drive until the land ends. Take a ferry. At the stop sign, turn right, drive until you see the bay. We'll greet you under the twin black spruce, by the boulders.

I'll be writing, and posting on our return. I'm tired. I need this time away. No cell phone, no emails, no sad angry folks needing me to do something which is never enough.

Peace.

GObama!

You know your colors!

2008-05-30T23:45:00.003-04:00

Ben has finally learned his colors. For nearly two months now, he’s been naming them all mostly correctly, and now there are nuances which include gray, black and white. This achievement is celebrated by me and his teachers, and also by him.

He teases me: “Mamma, what color is this car?”

I puzzle a minute, playing along,then say, tentatively, “red?”

“Greaaaat,” he intones, patronizingly and in perfect mockery of my mother-proud voice, “you know your colors. High five, mamma.”

But here’s the fact: now he is noticing our colors. Last night, we were lying together as we always do after reading books in his top bunk. He was silent a long time, studying my face. “Your hair is gray,” he said, softly.

“Yes, it is.”

“My hair is black, mamma.” Yes, it is.

His favorite book recently is “A Mother for Choco” in which a whimsically yellow, fat-cheeked baby bird finds a perfect mother in Mrs. Bear, who looks nothing like him. It’s a book about differences and needs, and how even people with big physical differences can love and comfort, and mother, each other.

“I want to be Choco’s mother,” says Ben.

“K “ I say, wondering where this is leading.

“I mean, I will be Choco’s daddy, you be his momma.”

“OK,” I say “sounds like a plan.” The differences between boys and girls, mommies and daddies. He knows it’s only about penises and vaginas, so far.

Ben calls us a family. Momma, Ben and Lily. He says, "I have a Daddy. He's in New York. He's from Africa." It's the myth he's created around the truth I have told him, that his daddy was from Detroit,and I don't know where he is right now.

He holds his hand next to mine, palms up. That way, they look alike. “Look, Momma, my hand is almost as big as yours.”

“Yes," I say, “and they look the same."

“Yes,” he says, “yellow.”

I wonder, high yellow? When will he learn that term?

He turns his hand over, then with his other hand, reaches to turn mine over. “Look, momma, our hands.” He doesn’t say anything more.

“Yes,” I say, “Aren’t they beautiful?”

“Noooo,” he says, and I hold my breath. “They are COOL mamma, not beautiful.”

Right, cool. “Yeah,” I say, “like chocolate and vanilla!” I wonder if I should have said anything, but I want to make room for the conversation which I fantasize is on his mind.

He laughs. “No,” he says, “brown and yellow!”

When he was just two, my brother-in-law's brother and his family visited from Mississppi. Their daughter, Kate, who was all of four then, was fascinated with Ben. At Thanksgiving dinner, she wandered over to me. Ben was on my lap. She put her snow white hand under Ben's dark chocolate one, and said, "Miss Cindy," in the sweetest southern drawl, "isn't that a beautiful sight?"

I don’t want him to live in a colorblind world. I want him to know his colors, our colors. I want him to know that looking different doesn’t mean anything except looking different.

Tonight at the grocery store, he asks for chocolate ice cream. He’s never used the term before, just, “that kind” before, usually strawberry or mint (which he dubbed “too tasty.”)

As I write this tonight, I look at his art on our dining room wall. It’s changing. There are “guys” now, with eyes like moons and legs coming from their heads. And smiles. And one guy with tears coming out of his eyes. And my favorite, a mountain and a village. He calls it “Promise Mountain.”

I promise you my son, we will celebrate and honor our differences, and we will always, always be a family.

And it is great that you know your colors, even though your momma winces at what more you will be taught by the world about them.

Rushdie said it best

2008-05-27T23:41:00.002-04:00

I am still wading through Sunday's Times. Modern Love a disappointment (in so many ways.) China's images seared into my brain, a poem forming. But a fun article about Rushdie yielded this gem:

“'There’s a writing self which is not quite your ordinary social self and which you don’t really have access to except at the moment when you’re writing, and certainly in my view, I think of that as my best self,' he said. 'To be able to be that person feels good; it feels better than anything else.'”

Maybe that's what the blogging is about. Not only the rush of writing, but the added layer of knowing someone, anyone, is reading your best self.

Random thoughts on blogging

2008-05-26T09:42:00.002-04:00

Reading Emily Gould’s piece on blogging in the NYT Sunday Mag yesterday made me think. I started this blog to record the changes Benjamin and I went through in moving here. All five of my gentle readers know most of that. Then it sort of morphed into a record of our lives for Benjamin—a way of recording his life, my thoughts, for the future. Something for him.

But as I was taught in English classes, can you really trust the narrator? Is this a bare sharing or an edited version? Of course it’s not completely bare, although some entries certainly are close. But most of what goes on in interior thought is not on these pages because it’s a permanent record. Or could be. And, to some extent, public.

Google me and this blog comes up first. Last week, during a difficult client interview, the really disturbed father looked at me and said, “I want more time with my son. You know, for things like kite flying.” I shuddered to think he might be reading the blog. He might. Anyone who can type my name in might.

So then I thought, especially after reading Emily’s piece, maybe I should take it down. But then, there are risks inherent in life. I haven’t taken any steps to obscure my identity because I don’t think that’s right, somehow. Knowing that the few of you are reading is warming to me, and I check the sitemeter regularly and try to imagine where you all are, how you like it, what might make you smile. I’m too cheap to upgrade, so all I know is geographical location when you log in and maybe your ISP. Most of you I know, some I don’t.

I appreciate other blogs I read where the author is known, a real person, not an identity someone slips into to post thoughts. But then, how do I really know? The identity can be, in the internet world, a somewhat fungible thing.

And right now? Ben is watching the Little Einsteins, and for the first time in forever, he’s actually doing what they ask—helping them blow to raise a balloon. And he’s doing that with a mouthful of cheese sandwich, his holiday breakfast of choice.

Peace, shalom, salaam, this Memorial Day.

Blank pages

2008-05-19T21:10:00.003-04:00

The blank page sits before me like a beacon.

All I can think of is the way my son looks sleeping in the back seat of the car, or how he laughs when finding a new friend to play with, of how he loved singing his Japanese songs at Peachtree on Friday. Random images, all of them of Benjamin, all of them sweet and sustaining.

Our life here in Ann Arbor has shifted into a regular gear, from day to day we do the same things, moving through our life more like natives rather than newcomers. There’s the Y or Jungle Java when we are needing activity on a weekend, and like yesterday, it’s raining and gray. The bikes with our favorite routes to two different playgrounds in the warm evenings after supper. Getting up early to ride the bus or bike to school, or when we are being sleepy, driving the car. Shopping on payday or the next Saturday. Walking the dog. Finding the delights of living in this town where resources abound and new adventures lie around every corner.

And then there are the days when I know the reality of raising Benjamin means dealing with his issues: all the issues an adopted kid faces, with the added layer of being adopted by someone old enough to be your grandmom; his high risk for learning disability, which is obvious many times; the sheer enormity of being a single parent facing all sorts of decisions and challenges in schooling choices. Ben got three vaccines today, which knocked him back a peg and I realized, guiltily, how easy grocery shopping was with him subdued. And of course his wonderful pediatrician, Dr. Terry Joiner, wanted to talk about academics, IEPs and pre-school transistions today. He's urging me to make some choices which mean taking Ben out of Montessori life and beginning to face the real world--which here in this town is rich in resources for Ben.

I wanted to say, hey, it's enough getting him to his four year old well-baby visit only five months late! I'll deal with all the other stuff tomorrow. But of course I must begin to engage in these choices and begin making them for Benjamin, hoping against hope I am doing the right thing at every turn. I have to admit that not having someone to talk to about these choices when they waken me at 3 a.m. is a source of sadness for me.

But right now, Benjamin sleeps sweetly in my bed, because he was feeling crummy and wanted to, and I caved. Lily lies at my feet, and outside, the cardinals are singing their evening songs. There's a part of me that's glad I don't have to negotiate those choices: the sweet, day to day domestic ones. It seems for the moment worth the trade off of single parenting.

Life, even with all its challenges, is good, and the blank page still beckons.

Mother's Day

2008-05-11T18:50:00.005-04:00

In my world, Mother's Day is what I make of it, so I decided that the best way to celebrate the day was to take my son to see Thomas the Tank engine at Greenfield Village. Little did I know it was going to be raining and cold.

Nevertheless, we carried on, and Ben and his pal Alexander held out and were real troupers. We rode on the train, we got tatoos, and we celebrated mom's day in grand fashion, all in the rain and cold of a Michigan Mother's Day.

We closed with a glass of wine and fleece blankets at Alexander's house.

I love being a Mom, there's just nothing else to say.

First Bike-to-Work of 2008

2008-05-05T22:21:00.003-04:00

Sunday night, my four year old son is pumped. “Mom, our bike goes really, really fast!” he says, sleep beginning to show around the edges of the light in his brown eyes.

“Yep, and even faster when you pedal!” I say, reminding him of trail-a-bike teamwork.

The next morning is so different, no foot dragging, no reluctance. “Hurry up, Mom, we need to get rolling,” he says, dressed in record time and waiting for me for a change.

On the way down the Plymouth Rd. hill, another biker is trying to pass. Benjamin makes motor noises, and the biker makes his own. “We’re beating you!” my son yells in a cheerful challenge. He greets all pedestrians with his amazing smile and his loudest “good morning.” At the Main St. light, he chats with a motorist through an open window.

When we pull up to his pre-school on Ashley, all his friends crowd around the window. He’s a hero, and he is beaming. He graciously lets them try on his red helmet.

This Monday morning is a breeze, a breath of fresh air, a twenty-minute smile: for us and, I suspect, for each person my sunbeam son greeted on our commute.

Poems and Elitism

2008-04-23T13:03:00.003-04:00

The fine folks over at Poems.com have a great gig this month. Instead of a poem and links a week by email, all month I've been getting a poem a day. This was today's poem, and a fine one it is. At 51, this poem resonates more than I wish, and is, for a 400 year old beauty, still relevant, wonderful and meaningful. The critical observations following the poem have been omitted here, but are well worth perusing. Sign up today, you won't be sorry. And while you're at it, write a check and donate to keep this elitist beauty alive for all of us. I do every year, but then I love thinking, writing, reading and talking, even though it doesn't play well in small towns. Come on now, would you really want a president who isn't smarter than you ?

"To His Coy Mistress"
by Andrew Marvell (1621–1678)

Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love's day;
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood;
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow.
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.

But at my back I always hear
Time's winged chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long preserv'd virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust.
The grave's a fine and private place,
But none I think do there embrace.

Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may;
And now, like am'rous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour,
Than languish in his slow-chapp'd power.
Let us roll all our strength, and all
Our sweetness, up into one ball;
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life.
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.

It's Poetry Month and I've been silent about it

2008-04-22T09:45:00.002-04:00

Reflections on a digital picture sent by email

A necessary distance
keeps you two dimensional
in my house.
Unoccupied daily reality
rules out
an unwanted
stony silence,
back to sleeping back
in a bed shared
too many nights:

digital image replaces
fingers brushing away
my proffered touch.

The sun on your shoulders,
a blooming cactus,
your smile soundless,
odorless, though I know
the smell of your lunch.

I count the gray hairs
in your eyebrows,
notice for the first time
one longer incisor,
take comfort in the
familiar illusion of
dark depth in your eyes.

Bunk beds!

2008-04-22T00:56:00.004-04:00

I can finally see the full moon and not weep. I’m either getting old or getting healed. Tonight it is wonderfully clear, and the moon yellow and late to rise. No peepers tonight, but as I returned from a midnight walk with Lily, a robin sang. The moon and the damned mercury lights on our building probably combined to confuse.

Ben has been a challenge the last few days, although the excitement of making his twin beds into bunk beds has carried us through some tense moments. He was thrilled at the new set up, and he has a lot more room now for toys in his room. “These are so cool,” he has said several times. “My bunk bed is so high, Momma. Not beautiful, but cool,” says the pint-sized sage.

If he’s rolled over against the wall, I can stand on a chair and adjust his covers, but I can’t reach him anymore for that last kiss before I retire myself. I guess that’s OK, since he is now of the opinion that “kissing is just for grandmas and grandpas and your sweetheart.”

Informal Haiku

2008-04-20T08:24:00.005-04:00

Finches brown and red,
we call them purple.
Spring in Michigan.

Photo from Cindy Mead's Gallery

Spring peeps

2008-04-19T23:24:00.002-04:00

Tonight is the first night the peepers are singing. It’s an otherworldly sound after the long Michigan winter: a high pitched trill, shifting a half tone up, then down, then silent, then up then down. This is the first night Ben’s window is open also:it’s after eleven and he’s just settled down.

Today, we went to see Ben’s friend Will play in the baseball tournament in Chelsea. Will’s team won and Will was the courtesy runner for the pitcher, and he was wonderful, even though he struck out in the 7th inning, it didn’t matter. He got his runs in with grace and speed, and his team won. Ben got to retrieve three spectacularly foul balls from the blue team hit back over the stands, and return them to the purple team players in the dugout. One of the boys asked him if he was Will’s brother, and though he swelled with pride he answered truthfully.

Ben also made two new friends, even though we were rooting for the purple team and they were rooting for the blue (their big brother was dressed in blue. ) We spent the third through the sixth inning at the playground nearby, Ben and his two new friends swinging and sliding.

And there, at the playground on the edge of the Chelsea Schools athletic fields, was a nature preserve. A swampy and marshy area with a real muskrat (we saw him dive into his burrow), two Canada geese and bluebirds. A nesting pair, right there between two baseball games and the slides, in boxes provided by the school district. The real treat was when two fledgling bluebirds came out and were fluttering about, parents hovering, learning to fly.

Two wing beats

2008-04-15T22:07:00.003-04:00

Last winter, between Christmas and New Year’s, Ben and I were walking Lily in a blinding snow storm. We were skirting the edge of Traver Creek, a tributary to the Huron River that runs through our apartment complex. Something odd caught my eye, and there, not more than ten feet from us, was a magnificent Great Blue Heron, walking down the middle of the creek, slowly, like his feet were really cold, moving as they do: step, neck, head, step, neck, head. We watched in awed silence (even Lily) as the magnificent bird walked into the blinding white.

I really wondered why he was here, so late in the season, still walking in the creek. New Year’s Day, when we met up with our neighbors to play in the great snow, I mentioned it to Tanya, who is a great out doors enthusiast. She told me she felt so bad because earlier in the fall she had had her dog off lead, and Pola, the dog, had chased a great blue who was striding up onto the lawn from the creek.

Today was a magnificent warm day, sunny and dry. Ben watched TV while I took Lily out for her after dinner walk: I figure I ask so much of him to spend 9 hours in day care, I can let him choose Thomas the Train over the pooping walk. As Lily and I rounded the corner of building, there, at the edge of creek and heading toward the lawn, was a Great Blue again. This time, we couldn’t close the distance more than 5o yards: she took flight, a few running steps then those great, huge wings stroked once, twice, and she was over the roof of the next building, and off toward the Huron.

What is it that is so enticing, exciting about the great birds? They are so huge, and so deliberate in their movement. In early March, I was out with Lily early in the morning and two swans flew overhead. Truth be told, they stay all winter where there is open water, and thermal pollution is so bad that there is usually open water around here—but when they flew over it was magical and I believed them to be harbingers of spring—they are so huge, how do they stay airborne?

How did the Great Blue tonight clear the two-story building with just two beats of her wings?

New car, not orange!

2008-04-12T17:14:00.001-04:00

A few weeks ago, I was parked on a quiet side street, and someone backed into the driver’s side door of my car. It turns out it will cost about $3400 to fix it.

My tired old Grad Prix is 11 years old, has 137,000 miles on it, only one working windshield wiper, bad rust on the running boards, and an ominous sound in the front end. I could kiss the woman who backed into me.

So today, Ben and I took a drive in a 2009 Vibe. We’d tested a Honda Fit, which I like because of the great mileage and the cheap price, and Ben liked because it was orange, but it’s just too small for Ben, me and Lily. So I’ve been researching the Vibe. Made in a joint venture with Toyota and Pontiac, the Vibe is reasonably priced, gets pretty good mileage, has a luggage rack, room for Lily. With a Toyota motor and drive train, it retains value like no other Pontiac. Side curtain air bags are standard. The old Grand Prix has been a good, steady car, but it’s time to change.

The salesperson was a very handsome, very nice young man, father of three, who took a real shine to Ben. Even though Ben and I had come from a very muddy visit to Pioneer’s baseball field to watch his friend Will pitch in the JV baseball game, he welcomed us into the new car, muddy shoes and all. He was soft selling the car, and we will have further discussions. Ben loved the car. When he sits in the back, the front passenger side seat folds flat so he can, for the first time ever, see out the front window. We can also fold down the seat beside him, so that he has a play surface. He didn’t want to get out of the car when the test drive was over.

So for the first time in a lot of years, looks like a new car is on the near horizon. I’ve really liked not having a car payment, but with the insurance money and a little supplement from my Roth IRA, we can keep our payment under $300.

And Ben didn’t mind it wasn’t orange.

Kite Flying Sunday

2008-04-08T06:48:00.003-04:00

The day’ s perfect, but there is an errand for Grandpa, then lunch, then a concert and nap, and then, finally, the long awaited inaugural flight of the kite.

Ben wants his sunglasses on--a wrap around Hot Wheels variety, deep red, blood red. He wants to ride his bike to the kite flying site—not too many trees, no power lines and a big hill to run down to get the kite up. The same hill we were sledding down in moonlight just a few months ago. Perfect thermals, judging from the two turkey vultures who hang around, watching from way up high as they float like kites without strings: too far away to see their ugliness, they can be mistaken for eagles.

My son is an expert after a few false starts and one tangle with the only tree (we are able to free the kite with minimal damage.) He spends the rest of the time in the bright late afternoon sun effortlessly holding the taught line, watching the kite soaring and fluttering in the too blue sky, half as high as the vultures.

People come along and watch the kite, some smile from passing cars, a Chihuahua looks up and barks a warning. A few kids come and Ben graciously gives them a turn on the string. One dad, wistfully smiling, takes a turn too, saying they have a kite they haven’t flown yet at home. “Go get it “ says Ben, a blunt invitation to join the celebration, a statement of obvious, universal wisdom, undoubtedly ignored to the peril of the dad’s spirit.

There is no better way to spend the late afternoon than watching the kite. I lay on my back in the newly dry grass, watching the fluttering vision of Mater and Lightening McQueen high above us, relishing every moment of this magical first day of kite flying ever for my four year old who confidently holds the line, smiling broadly at his prone mother.

He wants to ride the kite, I try to explain he can’t, but he’s unconvinced until I bring the kite down to the grass, and let him sit on it, and show him it cannot rise with him on it; a hard lesson to realize that the object of our fantastic dream cannot sustain, support the weight of our reality. Clarity comes only when we are able to replace false hope with love of the moment. He will have more lessons like that, but this is enough for today. He gets up, and asks to fly it again, a smile returning to his briefly frowning face.

Later, I waltz with my father to music our neighbor composed. Ben plays air guitar.

A perfect day.

Perspective

2008-03-19T10:38:00.002-04:00

Another day dawning with rain:
mud floating on still frozen
March lawn of dead grass,
cold to the bone,
shivering, sinus congestion,
cat seeking radiator.

To my four year old:
another good puddle splashing day.

An Open Letter to My Mom

2008-02-21T22:03:00.002-05:00

This is tough election for Dems. My Mom has flat out said "A black man should not be President before a woman is." My son is black, and I was offended. I am a woman, and I have struggled all my life for professional recognition in spite of my gender. It's a real ambivalence I feel, although I would never, ever, say that "blacks" shouldn't get what somehow white women of privilege should. (After all, she loaned $5million to her campaign, she ain't exactly a washer-woman.)

I can't help but hear the echoes of history, the struggles over abolition and suffrage for women. The fact is that neither women nor blacks have anything close to a real slice of the pie of American wealth.

What saddens me though, is the carping now among Dems. Truly, we can't lose with either Hilary or Obama, though I support Obama. I am tired of hearing that the media has been unfair to Hilary--she rode her husband's coattails to a Senate term and, yes, I'll say it, sold out on Iraq. I read two articles in the Nation and knew better than she did. But forget it, either way--with Obama or Hilary--we'd be better off than we are today.

And every missile we send to our own is a victory for The Man. Keep us fighting amongst ourelves and we will never be a real challenge real power: the oldest strategy.

So this is the letter I sent to my mom, in response to her sending a link to a kvetch about how unfair the media is. It is offered, as Rod Serling might say, for your consideration. I mean, really! A black man and a woman are the top contenders, and we are fighting about it. Is this really nothing short of the Twilight Zone? Wake up, America!

Mom--

I love you, you know that. I support Obama, you know that. I love Hillary too, you know that. I know that you support Hillary and that you love me.

I am an unapologetic feminist who has worked her entire life in male-dominated trades and professions: laborer through college and lawyer now. I have been called a "lawyerette," scoffed at, bullied and discriminated against. I have also been rewarded for intelligence, vision and integrity without family connection, experience or external genitalia. I happen to believe that intelligence and vision are important in leaders, and that "experience" is something that neither women nor black people have much chance at because we have both been shut out of the inner circle since this nation was founded. I have walked the talk of feminism in my life always, every day. I am a lawyer and single mom, by choice, and I owe a great debt to feminists who came before me. They gave me the duty to choose a candidate based on policy and vision, not on gender, not on race.

I have read all the position papers, which, contrary to the assertions in this column you sent, are not difficult to find--they are but a click away.

I liked John Edwards best, but he's out of the race. One thing feminism did for us was teach us all that we needn't ride our husband's coattails to a dynastic success, and that if we did, we'd be judged on our own merits eventually. Remember what your father said to you? That connections might get you the job, but what you did after you were in the door was on you.

The media is to blame? Who, in this age of internet democratization, really can blame the media unless you rely on the media to spoon feed you your opinions? I know you do not.

Like Michelle Obama, I am proud to be an American, for the first time since we elected Gore and got stuck with Bush. And for the first time since I was born, both I and my son can really really say "I could be President." We, the People, can't possibly lose this time around, no matter who is the Democratic candidate. So could we save our ammo and energy for the general election and quit trying to shoot our collective self in the goddamn foot?

love,
Cindy

Ben is four today

2008-01-28T23:27:00.000-05:00

Today my son is four. His day was crowded with celebration. Last night we baked forty-eight cupcakes to take to his school. He had one before bed and one this morning with breakfast.

I sang to him this morning when he woke up, smiling as he usually does. At school, they sang to him and he got to wear the birthday hat. Tonight, after home made pizza and cheers all around, we sang to him and more cupcakes followed.

Yesterday was Mozart's 250th birthday. We went to the symphony. The Ann Arbor Symphony presented a children's concert: Poulenc's Babar and a world premiere piece--a jazz composition setting the book Sweet Music of Harlem to music. I wasn't sure how Ben would do, and he loved it. Before the concert, the A2S presented a "petting zoo" of cello and violin for kids to try.

Although his form is better on the violin, it was the cello that made him smile. Yo Yo Ben.

When I was sitting all night in a chair in Huetzel Hospital with him in my arms four years ago, I never imagined that we'd be here, in Ann Arbor, able to experience all these wonderful advantages on the bus line. On any bus line. The twists and turns of life are simply amazing.

Happy Birthday my lovely son. The music you bring to life is celestial.

How do birds keep their feet warm?

2008-01-27T23:56:00.000-05:00

Yesterday, after a long morning walk in the snow, my dad joined us for hot chocolate and pancakes. We were watching the birds at the feeder--we get a remarkable variety here. Two flashy pairs of cardinals, purple finches incognito, a red-bellied woodpecker, juncos (juncoes?), red-breasted nuthatches and white-breasted ones too, and our real joy, a carolina wren.

My dad asked Ben, hoping to stump him, "How do birds keep their feet warm?"

Ben opened with a joke, "Well, they don't wear boots," he said, with a smile. "They are very, very cold, getting seeds in the snow. Their feet have talons," he said, holding his hands up jaw-height and curling his fingers down like eagle talons.

My dad said, "Yes, but how do they keep their feet warm?"

Ben pondered the birds, darting down from the big spruce tree onto our patio feeder and back again to the deep green cover.

"They have boots in their nests, that's how."

Crunching snow

2008-01-24T23:28:00.000-05:00

It's cold. Four degrees this morning, full moon shining at 6 a.m. When you go outside you can feel the cold seep through even your best, high tech winter jacket from LLBean. Ben doesn't seem to mind, in his two layer parka, hat, mittens, snow pants and penguin boots. He was talking about Arctic winds today: they are learning about Antarctica at school ("You take a boat from Chile, Momma.") His teacher learned that there are some penguins now in Northern Japan who were carried there by the wind. Sounds like a weird theory because penguins don't fly, but who am I to question Montessori wisdom.

Anyway, it's cold. The snow is very crunchy, and everyone in Michigan knows that snow only crunches when it's very cold. The lower the temp, the louder the crunch. It's loud tonight. Which just adds to the fun for Ben as I haul him along on Lily's nightly walk, sitting like a penguin prince on his little sled.

Four years ago I had already met his birth mother and his half brothers, and we all knew he was full term and would be joining us at any moment. I had sat on an orange plastic chair which had its own unique crunchy sound, and heard his feathery little thumping heart inside Vickie's womb. I had come to understand what it might be like to be poor and in need of prenatal care in Detroit by visiting the women's clinic at Huetzel Hospital during those last few weeks before his birth. I'm sure it hasn't gotten any better there in four years with billions being poured into death and private interests in Iraq, Michigan's unemployment rate the highest in the nation (you know it's bad when Republicans campaign here proposing federal bailouts for us) and hundreds losing their homes to foreclosures each month.

Tonight, after reading a book and before the last drink of water, Ben wanted me to sing. His favorite book lately is I Love You Like Crazy Cakes, a sweet book about a single mom adopting a baby from China. I think he's starting to understand what adoption might be. In the book, the mom "plays" a lullaby for her new baby, but I always say "sings" when I read it, because I have always sung to Ben.

The song he wanted tonight was the Welsh lullaby my mother sang to all four of her babies:

Sleep my child, and peace attend thee,
All through the night.
Guardian angels god will send thee,
All through the night.
While the ancient hours are creeping,
Hill and vale in shadow steeping,
I, my loving vigil keeping,
All through the night.

So we sang that first, Ben joining in on "all through the night". Then we moved on to "Me and My Shadow," and finally ended with that good old standard, "Fly Me to the Moon."

Baby it's cold outside, but it's really wonderful in here. May your crunching snow be lit by moonlight all the days of your life.

Sledding in Moon Sparkles

2008-01-22T21:56:00.001-05:00

There's no mystery I haven't felt like writing. It seems like getting through the days takes all my energy--the job continues to be a huge challenge as I face some pretty serious issues on both sides of the counter. Everyday I am using my brain constantly. Then I come home and focus on Ben with all my energy, and by the time he goes to bed I am usually exhausted. There's a real sadness in me lately too: losses and aging and feeling like I just can't quite get it all done alone.

Tonight, we took Lily out for her after dinner walk about 7:15. There's just enough new snow to pull Ben on the sled while we walk. We walked along the creek for a while when it occured to me that a moonlight sled might be just the ticket for us both. We put Lily in the apartment (you can't do serious sledding in the dark with a dog, what if she ran off?) and trudged over to the Leslie Science Center, a great sledding hill that's usually overpopulated on days when normal parents take their kids. By the time we got there, it was nearly 8:00 pm.

The full moon was high in the sky, shining through the January air with a palpable crispness that only a Michigan winter provides. Stars were everywhere, and from up there you can see the Ann Arbor city lights twinkling at your feet. We were both smiling broadly as we reached the summit.

I thought Ben might hesitate, in the dark, but he said "My turn first, Momma," hopped on the plastic sled and zoomed down the dark hill. The moon was so bright I had no trouble seeing him reach the end of his run. He jumped off to pull the sled back up.

When he got up to the top, I said, "Was it fun?" His enthusiastic yes was followed by instructions.

"I want to do it over here," he said, pointing to a bit steeper incline. Off again he went, even faster. A three year old, at night, on a deserted hill, having a great ride. When he came up next, he said, "You slide with me this time, Momma?"

I was unable to resist, and we streaked down the hill with my added poundage. He tightened his grip around my legs. We fell off at the bottom laughing. As we got up, I pointed out the moon, the stars, the city. "And the moon sparkles!" added Ben, pointing his snow-packed-wool -mittened- hand at the diamond flaked snow.

Moon sparkles.

The kid's a poet. One of his first five words was "moon," and he's always had a passion for her.

He begged for one more slide, "Please, please, please," his magnificent white smile looking up into my face. One more, then he was ready to head home for hot chocolate. As we trudged down to the corner, he looked up at the moon.

"Thank you, Moon, for watching us sledding."

All the damage of the day, all the difficult transitions, all the losses of age, all the aches of my feet, all the trying moments of truly single parenting, melt away again. How could I have lived without this experience? Thank you, Moon, indeed, for your sparkles, your watching, your light and for my son who will be four in less than a week.

Thank you, Ben, for Moon Sparkles.

Street pas de deux

2008-01-05T09:18:00.001-05:00

The man standing on the corner
fixes me in his one eyed glare.
"Look ma'am," he begins,
ungloved palm up,
"I mean, Mom," he corrects himself,
"I am not a bum."

Who he sees makes
me look at him,
his one eye taped shut
with two wide strips
of clear packing tape,
the skin of his face
red from the cold.
"I need to get home," he says,
with pleading plie,
"and no one will help
because I am not a resident."

New to this town myself,
I hand him my only dollar.

Happy Perfect New Year

2008-01-01T21:21:00.000-05:00

I realize I haven't posted in over two months. A lot has been happeninng, including adding Lily, a rescued 7 year old Labradoodle to our household. She's perfect. I don't know where the time has gone. Thank you to all of you who sent me words of encouragement during my silence. I bet you can guess what one of my resolutions is--I'm baaaacck!

We awakened to a thick blanket of snow at 7:30 this morning. By 9, Ben and I were outside, building a snow rabbit (Ben’s suggestion, as opposed to a snow man.) Lily the dog was loving every moment, digging her face in the deep snow, and coming up with a white beard making us laugh.

Our neighbors Tanya and Tasha came out, and Tanya said “Happy New Year, isn’t it perfect?” in her perfect Polish accent. Tanya and her husband Benjamin are post-doctoral students in math with teaching positions at the U. Tasha is their two year old, blond, blue-eyed joy. Tanya had her camera and kept taking pictures.

Tanya’s husband Benjamin came out and joined us, looking a little sleepy. The kids were getting restless, so we decided on a sledding adventure. We three adults took turns pulling the kids on the sled to the hill. Less than a half mile from our door is a golf course surrounded by the most wonderful steep hills—perfect topology for sledding and running dogs.

After much exertion and adding two resolutions to my short list (eat less, exercise more), we got to the base of the hill. The first run down was Ben and me on the sled, and it was slow, as the deep fluffy snow packed down beneath us. Then Benjamin and Tasha, then Ben and me, then Tanya and Tasha. After about six or seven runs we had a very respectable chute, and the speeds were increasing with each pass.

Ben decided he wanted to do it himself, and do it he did, with gusto and laughter, wiping out halfway down his first solo run. He simply climbed back on and finished. I was so proud of his courage and the fun he was having.

Our sledding party trudged back at a little after noon—having spent nearly three hours in outdoor fun. Lunch of noodles and oranges, and our homemade oatmeal cookies, then a long luxurious nap for both of us. Tonight we cleaned the apartment, played trains for about an hour, took a bath with all the new plastic animals we found under Ben’s bed, then read several books with hot cocoa and cookies.

Ben is sleeping now, and Lily is sleeping in the other bed in his room. As I write this, it is still snowing and lovely. I am filled with the renewed feeling that, in Tanya’s words, it is indeed a perfect New Year.

Finding room for Murdoch

2007-10-30T02:04:00.000-04:00

It must be the change in seasons, but I am going to bed earlier and earlier. Ben is loving it, because basically we both get into our jammies about the same time, and by the time we start reading books before bed, we are both comfy.

Last night, after a leisurely dinner of sushi rice and potstickers and fresh corn on the cob, we wandered toward bedtime by “playing trains.” The twin goals of this game are to engage Mom in races around the track and to create the longest possible train without it falling off the track at every turn. When Ben invited me to come in and play, I was still cleaning up the kitchen, so I put him off. When I did walk into his room, he said, in his most inviting voice, “You want to play trains, Momma?” clasping his hands in front of him, bending down at the waist, raising his eyebrows and smiling toward me. How could I resist?

I paused a moment to enjoy his invitation. He jumped into the smiling pause with, “Look, your train is all ready for you!” He pointed to a train headed by Thomas the Tank engine, followed by the Chinese dragon car (my favorite, actually) a Troublesome Truck, Big City Engine and his tender. How could I resist.

Ben’s train was pulled by Murdoch, and had about ten cars hooked on, followed by Douglas and Donald, the Scottish twins. When I suggested hooking battery-powered Percy to the front of my train, so that I could just watch him and soak in the moments around the train table, he demurred. This session of trains was to be strictly manual power, no cheating here.

Round and round we went, creating crashes (where “luckily no one was hurt!”), rearranging the track to make a bridge here, a tunnel there. We occupied the better part of an hour. I suggested it might be jammie time, an idea resisted to the bone by Engineer Ben. I parked my train on a siding, and Ben continued playing while I got ready for bed. When I came back into his room, he was naked from the waist down, still running the train around, but at least working toward jammie time.

I bargained with him: if he got ready for bed we could play some more and then read. Washed up, brushed of tooth and combed of hair, his flannel Thomas jammies properly in place, we had a few more rounds, then adjourned (not without tearful resistance) to bed where we began reading Polar Express, then moved to The Little Engine That Could, then to the latest Toys R Us circular from Sunday’s paper to look at the train layouts on pages 12 and 13. Finally, he made the request to get under the covers.

I turned out the lights and turned on his moon, and settled in for a short time of back rubbing (his) and fighting to stay awake (mine.) “Where’s my Gordon?” the question roused me, and I mumbled that I thought it was in his backpack. From his bed he sprang and like a courser he flew to the doorknob, where his back pack hung. Back to bed with Gordon.

“I want Donald and Douglas,” came the next request, and up again to fetch them from the end of his very long train. Just when I thought I was set and he might be drifting off he said,
“Gracious, where’s my Murdoch!”

Gracious? Where did he learn that one?

“Honey, you don’t have room for anymore trains, do you?” I asked, apparently rhetorically, because he was already up and after Murdoch and, of course, his tender. Now there was certainly no more room for Mommy, so I got up from my reverie, tucked him in, and did our last ritual.

From the doorway I called, “Sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

He called, “See you in the morning bright.”

Parenting isn’t for everyone, but as for me I can say I am glad and grateful.

My sister's letter to Rottweiler Rescue, Stanley's first rescuers, and Arlene's response

2007-10-27T09:53:00.000-04:00

I tried to write what I felt about Stanley, but nobody does him justice like my sister did in this letter. You can find the rescue at Rottweiler Rescue of Michigan

Hi Arlene -

It's been a few years since we've contacted you, so I'm sorry that this contact bears such sorrowful news. Seven years ago, you gifted us with a wonderful little spirit named Stanley. Stanley died on Monday, we think of dilated cardiomyopathy. He had developed a little cough, wasn't eating well and had lost weight. When he finally showed the symptoms he really went down hill, and it probably was too late. We are heartbroken at our loss of Stanley that has come too soon.

He was such a lovable goof, a total marshmallow inside. Whenever new neighbors or friends would see Stanley, they were afraid, because he looked so tough with that terrible scar and his dobie markings. But after getting to meet him, they loved him. He totally blew the Doberman image. Six years ago (a little over a year after we adopted Stanley), our son was born. Stanley adored our son, Cameron, and was his brother and protector.

Three years ago, we adopted a rat terrier (we named her Tinkerbell) from Petfinder. We were careful to reinforce Stanley's "top dog" position in the household, but to no avail. Stanley fell hopelessly in love with Tink and she with him. They were best friends and playmates, but she wore the pants. But Stanley didn't care. He was a somewhat nervous guy before Tink came, but after she came along, he felt better. Our local kennel was kind enough to kennel them side-by-side whenever we had to leave them there, because, they said, "Stan just does better with Tink."

Arlene, we can't thank you enough for letting us love and care for Stanley. He was our child and our companion. He was even Eric's co-worker (he used to go to work with Eric). Eric is at the head office in Philly this week and he told his boss that they have lost a dear employee.
I am particularly having a difficult time, because I wish that I had recognized how serious things were before he got so bad. I miss him so much. He deserved a longer life and I feel angry that he didn't get it.

We want to make a donation to your rescue in honor of Stanley. We will also be asking our friends and family to make donations as well. Is there a way we can establish a lasting monetary memorial in his honor? Please email your thoughts on this, because we want to make sure that people who didn't get to meet Stanley know what a wonderful, strong, forgiving, loving spirit he was.

He loved life Arlene. And we will love him, always.

Arlene's response

Emily and Eric,

I am so, so very sorry to hear about Stanley's passing. You put it perfectly, he was a wonderful little spirit. And no puppy ever had such a rags to riches story of coming from one of the worst hoarder/backyardbreeder situations Ingham County has ever had and then finding a family of his very own where he was treasured and cherished and received the deepest love. A dream few puppies ever have come true.

I'm not sure knowing sooner would have been of any merit for anyone. Dilated cardiomyopathy is a relentless foe of Dobermans and had you known earlier there's no guarantees you could have extended his time here or not. But what knowing earlier would have done is made you sick with grief, and in turn Stanley, as sensitive and intuitive as he was, would have been sick with grief over your's and Eric's sadness. No matter how hard you tried to conceal it from him, he would have felt it deep in his heart and soul. This way everyone got to live cheerfully and to the fullest right up until the end. And Stanley never had to have a moment of anguish wondering what was wrong with his beloved family.

I would be honored to set up a Stanley Memorial Fund. I still have his baby pictures and I can put them up as well as the super photos you just sent me. If you have other's you'd like showcased, please send them.

Stanley will never be forgotten by anyone whose path he crossed, even for the briefest of moments. His tender heart touched everyone and brought out the best in them.

with deepest sympathy,
Arlene

Stanley Smallwood (1999 - 2007)

2007-10-27T09:23:00.000-04:00

You touch
the right one and a whole half of the universe
wakes up, a new half

--William Stafford “Choosing a Dog”

While the saga of Ellen Degeneres and her dog broke into headlines, with people alternately condemning dog rescues and the people who break their contracts with them, my sister’s dog Stanley was getting sicker than anyone knew. He died Monday in my brother-in-law’s arms.

Stanley woke up the new half of my sister’s universe.

Stanley was born to a notorious puppy mill in Ingham County, Michigan. Because he barked too much as a puppy, the breeder put a large rubber band around his muzzle and left it there for many days. It was there when the place was finally raided. The authorities asked recues to help step up and find homes for the broken and sad survivors.

The rubber band caused a permanent scar on Stanley’s elegant, long face, making him look even more sinister than a Doberman usually looks. His tail, improperly docked by the breeder, was non-exstent. Wagging his tail, which was frankly his waking state, his whole hind half wagged.

My sister Emily and her husband Eric had been through the horror of terminal illness and suffering with their first dog, Jordan, who was a dog I had rescued, twice. I had given him to my sister, and insisted she take him and keep him. He opened up the first half of the universe for her, as she moved with him to a more independent life, started college, and fell in love with Eric. Jordan was the best dog in their wedding, and sat beside them in his bow tie while I read them their vows in my back yard. After Jordan died, Emily and Eric would pull the car into the garage after work and weep because they couldn’t bear to face the house without Jordan.

It wasn’t long before Emily started scanning Petfinder, and found Stanley. When she chose him, the new half of the universe opened. Stanley was there when they brought my precious nephew, Cameron, home from the NICU. He was with them as they moved to Port Huron. After I moved, he was always glad to see me, bounding up to me wiggling all the way: a giant break dancer in brown and black, and usually with a colorful bandanna my sister liked him to wear. The bandanas always coordinated with the season—this week he would have been wearing something halloweeny.

Adoption is the way we make families. I know there are some people who believe that we shouldn’t use the word “adopt” when we take non-human animals into our family. As the adoptive mother of my human son, I am sensitive to language. But it never struck me as demeaning the adoption of humans to use the word with non-human animals. We should be just as careful about the adoptions of four-leggeds as we are about the adoption of humans. Non-human animals have always been a part of my family. Fur-covered four-leggeds are just as much a part of my universe as my son Benjamin.

And so it was always for my sister and her family. Stanley the Effervescent was a member of her family. I truly believe that touching Stanley made other choices possible for her: parenting, finishing school, growing whole. It helped her heal the terrible wound left when Jordan died. In an odd way, it helped her be able to survive the loss of Stanley.

So you can carp all you want about rescues and their rigid belief that non-human animals are important. It is only when we allow ourselves to be touched and adopted by our four-legged family members that we understand how much of ourselves can be possible. It’s part of being fully human. Stanley has a soul just as surely as my son Benjamin does, just as surely as my dog Sam does, just as surely as you and I do.

Stanley’s bounding, leaping, wagging soul will always be a part of my family.

Rest in peace, you good dog, you.

Picture Day

2007-10-09T23:10:00.000-04:00

Tomorrow is picture day at Peachtree School. Ben’s hair just wouldn’t make the grade, even with combing and olive oil dressing, so after school today we stopped by Rush’s Barber Shop.

We used to go to Royal Cuts way over on Ellsworth, where Benjamin got very stylish cuts but the barbers were young and not too patient. So there were lots of tears, sobs, and gnashing of teeth. One barber even took off his belt and handed it to me so that I would beat my son. I declined.

Mr. Rush, on the other hand, talks to Ben in a grandfatherly voice, keeps encouraging him, and slips him a Brach’s caramel now and then. He’s truly the first no tears barber we have known. Ben’s pediatrician, a magician in his own right, recommended Mr. Rush.

So when we got there today and found the door locked, my heart sank. Mr. Rush came out of his back office with a big old smile, and let us in. I told him we could come in early tomorrow instead, because tomorrow was picture day. He said he knew I work during the day, and it was fine. He said, “I was going to meet someone, but it can wait. Picture Day is very important.” He said it with capital letters.

With that he stooped down to Ben’s level and invited him into the chair.

I think he knew I felt just the right amount of guilt and gratitude that he was breaking an appointment in order to make my son look sharp.Picture day brings out all kinds of feelings I thought my old hippie self would never feel. Like guilt and gratitude for a gentleman barber who spent just the right amount of time cutting my son’s hair. Like this pride that swells up over my son’s manners as he thanks Mr. Rush without being prompted. And, yes I admit it, I like him to look sharp.

I even wanted to iron tonight. Not just the shirt, but the jeans just in case a sitting pose shows a wrinkled hem of jean. Iron. The last time I ironed was ironing the front of a blouse to wear under my court suits. Then I discovered synthetic shells. So it’s been maybe fifteen years or more. Tonight, the shirt, the jeans, and even the cotton vest got ironed.

Last year, Ben’s first picture day, I went into debt buying all the pictures and all the gimmicks they could offer. This year, I am a little wiser, but I know I will spend freely.

After all the Little Man looks so damn sharp, and with that million dollar smile, who could ever resist? Tomorrow we’ll show you the outfit—tonight it’s just too late. Ben’s been sound asleep since before I started ironing, and after I got his stuff done it felt so good I got out three old linen shirts of my own and ironed them.

Next thing you know, I’ll be cutting my hair.

Smooth sailing ?

2007-10-05T22:35:00.000-04:00

Ben has turned the corner on toddler bi-polar amazing rages. They have nearly ceased. Two nights ago he had a small one, then right away said to me, "I'm sorry I got mad, Mamma."

"It's OK," I said "sometimes we get so angry we can't talk about it. So we cry it out and it's OK." I had been ignoring the rage, not because I necessarily practice enlightened parenting: it's a survival tactic. For us both.

"I love you, Mom," he said.

The Pout after the Storm July 2007

Never have I been "Mom." It's such a grown-up kind of word. Not the universal baby word of MaMa--two repeated syllables which all infants in just about all cultures use for mother. Mom, and enough insight to talk about his anger.

Anyone who says two was terrible never had a three year old. But I can see the light at the end of his tunnel now. It's not Thomas or Gordon, it's Himself Emerging.

Mom.

I kind of like the ring of that.

Fall

2007-10-02T22:46:00.000-04:00

Today was mild and raining, and the colors haven't really started yet. Still, tonight, it's crisp, chilly and damp: the fall is upon us. It put me in mind of three years ago, when Ben was a baby still, and we saw the end of his first fall from our back door in Port Huron. The lilacs were long gone, and we watched the last of the leaves get blown off by an early snow.

The fall

The last of the leaves
came down this morning
in a blinding swirl
of snow and brown.
My son, dark
as baker’s chocolate
and I, white as oatmeal,
stand at the back door
and wonder
about the fall.

I scoop him up
and run out into
the whoosh of wet
and spin him around.
An orange maple leaf
sticks to his dark head,
a brown one slithers
across my gray hair.

His small white teeth
shine in the purple light.
We laugh together;
fat flakes darken
our shirts, wet our faces
like sweet tears.
Our dark snowy
day begins.
He looks at me
and I hold him
at the end of the fall.

Flowers in hard places

2007-09-30T22:53:00.000-04:00

Some things just don't know how not to bloom. I'd forgotten about these pictures from Drummond, where flowers bloom in rock, until I wandered over to Bloomingwriter's blog tonight.

As Jodi says, bloom where you are planted. Sweet dreams. Rock on.

A Walk in the Woods

2007-09-30T16:35:00.000-04:00

It was a gorgeous morning today. Ben and I lolled around reading the papers, watching Thomas the Train and eating the world’s best vegan pancakes until nearly noon. We had to get outside.

Last week I bought a trail-a-bike for Ben, and he loves it, though he is not yet a willing pedaling partner. We went for a short ride, then swung into the Leslie Science Center and parked the bike. The trails in the park loop back to a place called Black Pond, which is just a wet spot now, since it’s been rather dry. But it’s nice and hilly, and the sun filtering through the trees was perfect. And, it’s literally in our backyard, just a stone’s throw from our apartment door. My Dad, who is recovering from some surgery, drove the short distance to the park and met us there.

The sight of my 82 year old father and my 3 year old son hand in hand in the woods was strangely mystical. I never thought I would see this: partly because I put off parenting for so long and partly because I never thought my dad and I would be living so close to each other.

But there they were. The woods, the sun, the autumn air: a fine walk in the park. As I watched Ben run far ahead of me on the trail today, sunlight speckling him, I thought there really is nothing in the world that fills me with a sense of calm like I feel watching him. I know there will be times of heartbreak ahead, as we encounter a society that does not for the most part welcome black men. I will need to keep this image in my head, and preserve it for him, to show that there are places on earth where all are welcome.

Maybe someday, 79 years from now, he’ll take the hand of his grandson and walk into the sun dappled woods, his own daughter trailing behind and feeling both wistful and fortunate.

Birds and boys

2007-09-23T23:23:00.000-04:00

Ben, Ben’s friend Alexander and I attended a program on birds of prey at the Waterloo wildlife area today. It was a splendid day for an adventure, and while Ben kept saying he didn’t "want to see the hawks,” he ended up being thrilled. (What he really wanted to see were frogs and lions, and Alexander hoped there would be a crocodile.)

We saw a screech owl (who was molting), a great horned owl, a turkey vulture and a hawk. The audience was small and the speaker put each bird on her gloved hand and walked around the room with it: because we’d arrived late we had a bird’s eye view of each bird, sitting on the floor at the back of the room: she even turned toward us with each bird as she made her way across the back of the room.

The boys were thrilled. Afterward, we ran and walked the trails a while with Kai, his older brother Al, and their mom Carla—another Peachtree School family. I was grateful to Carla for telling me about the presentation. Alexander came along because he’s spending more time with us—his baby brother Oliver is still in NICU, his mom is worn out from pumping and trying to hold a wired, tiny baby, and his Dad is exhausted juggling the demands of job, home, and family involved with medical technology. Neil said tonight when he picked Alex up that Oliver may get to come home this week.

All of the birds we saw today were in rehab for one reason or another: the hawk for example was blind in one eye and had congenitally missing talons on one foot, so couldn’t survive in the wild. The saddest was the vulture.

Turkey Vulture at Waterloo

Stolen chick, someone’s coolest pet for a while:
perfectly healthy but too close to humans.
The times he has broken free
he’ll ride the thermals for a while
but he looks for people walking
instead of carrion.
Coming down from his death watch,
he finds some hiker,
or maybe a farmer plowing,
and he follows them, hoping
for a gift of death to sustain him.

The humans get spooked
thinking he might know something.
So they call the DNR
and he comes back
to Waterloo.

The wildlife guide tells his story.
He stands on her forearm: huge,
odd with his naked head, alert,
this bird who can eat anthrax and thrive.
He tries to fly with silver edged strokes
so powerful the speaker’s
notes are swept into orbit.
Up, off the podium
and around, then down
to the floor the cards fly,
as he realizes the tether
holds him to her hand after all.

When he fixes each of us
with his dark polished eye,
it’s easy to think he knows
which of us may be already dead.

Two Wolves

2007-09-14T22:53:00.000-04:00

My dear friend Joe lives in LA. He’s married to a Jewish woman, has been for more than three decades. He’s Catholic, but feels Jewish and goes to temple. They raised their two beautiful kids in Jewish tradition. He feels Jewish in the same way that I feel non-white. His experience has led him to understand another way of being in the world.

At Rosh Hashanah services this year, one rabbi preached about the Native American story about the two wolves. I’d forgotten about this story until he told it. I can see the well-heeled LA congregation listening to this story, and that comfortable New Year’s temple setting fades to black and there’s a fire circle glowing deep in the woods. It’s a good story to hear before the days of fasting and atonement, a good story which reaches across cultural boundaries, across faiths and races.

One evening, an old Cherokee chief told his grandson about the two wolves. One wolf is vicious and kills everything it sees, picks fights and runs off the weaker or different looking wolves who try to enter the pack for safety and comfort. The other wolf is the wolf that welcomes the stranger, shares the kill to sustain the pack, takes on the pups orphaned by cold or hunger. One night, the two wolves fight. It is a bloody fight, each wolf striving to be the winner. The cold full moon lights the clearing where the wolves fight.

The grandson asked, “Grandfather, which wolf wins?”

The old Cherokee chief simply replied, “The one you feed.” Because you see the wolves represent what is present in each of us: one part of us is all about territorialism, idolatry and pride, selfishness and greed, the other part of us is compassion, empathy and nurturing, welcoming the stranger. The wolf we feed is the one that wins. Which wolf do you feed ?

Years ago, during my radical Christian days, I attended the Knudsen Conference. There are many people in mainline faiths working for social change, there are people feeding the wolves of social justice and healing in the Church. I like to think that during those years of teaching Sunday school and singing in the choir, I fed the wolf of peace, justice, compassion, empathy and courage. Ultimately I left the church though, because I couldn’t find shalom before communion with people who thought that gay people were an abomination, and the God only meant to bless a certain rather pale and conservative America, and the rest of the word, unbaptised babies included, was going down in flames. I couldn’t welcome them with their different beliefs in my heart, so I felt I couldn’t sit there in the pew and wait for the meal with them either.

Anyway, the Knudsen Conference was a conference celebrating and advocating the full communion of gay and lesbian people in the church. It was founded after Rev. Knudsen, a beloved Lutheran minister who served for decades, committed suicide because he could no longer live in a church that condemned him, a closeted homosexual man. The conference came to Ann Arbor, and my sister and brother-in-law (who wasn’t really my BIL at the time but who was living and loving in what some might call sin with my sister) lived in Ann Arbor. It was an opportunity to experience church like I always thought it should be, so I came on down for the conference and camped on their couch.

A brilliant theologian at the conference spoke of weaving, and how each of us, all people, were a part of the tapestry of god’s creation. She said she really likes this analogy as it applied to gays and lesbians, christians, jews, muslims and atheists, people of all colors, the differently-abled, the poor, the rich. Then one day it occurred to her that Strom Thurmond was a part of the tapestry. It had a profound effect on her thinking: she had to make room on her piece of cloth for someone she loathed, whose beliefs she could not support. In order for her tapestry metaphor to apply she had to admit that he, too, was a part of the rich fabric of life. The next day, a brilliant sermon was preached by a Scandinavian theologian on the topic of light, as in “I am the light of the world.” He extended and made real the idea that light is composed of all colors, and that the full spectrum of light isn’t even visible or distinguishable to the human eye but is necessary for life to continue. My sister and future BIL came with me to the service, and my sister spotted her Latin professor.

Next Wednesday there’s a rally for the Jena 6 in Detroit. I’m taking Ben. Chan Tae from my office is taking her little baby Olivia, and Steven from our office is taking his sons Jordan and Brandon. And our co-worker Ingrid is coming too, because her Buddhist soul requires her to give voice to unity and compassion. We are going because the wolf we feed means something.

On September 20, if you can’t be in Jena with the freedom wolves going down there, you can wear black and white, signifying unity. Feed the wolf of peace and justice. Please, if not for yourself, then for Ben and Olivia and Jordan and Brandon and Ingrid, and for our hurting world.

I honestly don’t yet know how to make room for loving my enemies. I think the wolf probably knows, and I’m hoping that by feeding the right one, she can lead me to the right path.

This day

2007-09-11T23:24:00.001-04:00

I was working in Sanilac County, the director of the juvy court there, meeting with staffers about budget cuts. In walks our assistant prosecutor, the one we always worked with, who said, "It's terrible!"

I said, "Damn straight it is. We have to lay someone off."

Then all of a sudden our little problem seemed small, so much smaller. The next day, still shocked by the news, there was a community prayer service. I went of course, but when that gathered group rose to sing God Bless America, I felt the hair rise on the back of my neck. Oh god, I prayed, don't forget the rest of the world.

In the days that followed, I felt like the only one who was thinking that bombing Afghanistan wasn't the right idea. That somehow reaching out to the county that spawned this horror might be a better idea than squashing them with our thumb.

I take no pleasure in the ragged "No Iraq War" sign I had in my window long before there was an Iraq war. I was right, and I know that all you had to do if you cared to find the right answer was read a little to know this war was the biggest blunder this country has ever made. I am sorry for every soul who died on September 11. Even the misdirected sad angry men who drove the planes. But I am sorrier for all the hundreds of thousands of people, children too, we don't even count now because they are collateral damage. Hell, we don't even count half our own casualties, cause if you're just driving a truck with supplies, it isn't a military casualty.

And how many future terrorists, and fathers of future terrorists, sit in Gitmo, tortured because some inept lawyer hungry for Bush's approval said it was OK?

Do you know that by some estimates there are 4 million internal refugees, all Shiite, inside Iraq, driven from their homes by the civil war there, living in cinder block houses without running water and without electricity? Did you know that the allies of the US forces in Iraq are former, and one might argue current, war criminals? But the surge is working, baby. Because we are asking 17 year old American kids to be our policemen, diplomats and civil engineers over there. Because my friends, you and I were so worried about our own "security" that we allowed the neo-cons to hijack our constitution and our country.

Paying any less for gas? Still got your job?

How come Jenna Bush ain't getting a hitch?

How ironic that Hunt Oil closed the deal yesterday for oil in Northern Iraq.

When will they ever learn? Awake yet? The roar of the buildings coming down signaled more than just the results of some born-agains crashing into our way of life.

It's the most serious wake up call we've ever had to take our country back. Woodie Guthrie wrote a response to the jingoistic "God Bless America." He reminded us that our country was founded on the principle that we, the people, possessed the power.

This land is my land. This land is your land. Take it back, and god bless the whole world, no exceptions.

Summer's End

2007-09-03T21:37:00.000-04:00

Ben waves from the rocks on Drummond Island. Summer officially ends today, but we'll have some more summer weather. I've been writing up a storm, but not blogging--thanks for checking here anyway.

The last two trips up north to the wilds of Drummond have yielded great stuff and I am working on some prose pieces. Right now they are short stories, character studies and those small scenes that swim up into my consciousness and flow out of the fingertips or pen.

I've always been intrigued by strong women, especially those who were strong and different in earlier settings: the eighteenth century woman in colonial America who succeed independently at business; the women who defied convention and wrote; women who did what they pleased and had a sense of self beyond the conventional role ascribed to them. I've done original document research twice in my life and I can assure you that there were many, many more of these women than we are led to believe. Not that is wasn't always like salmon swimming upstream, and not all of them were treated well, but many won the respect and support of their communities. Of course, some of them, in an earlier time, were burned at the stake, but that's not my story.

So these characters who have come to visit me are in a woman's life in the early nineteenth century. She goes to live on Drummond after marrying rather late. She's drawn to wilderness, perhaps because of the wilderness she feels in her own head. So far, it's working as a rough draft, and the ideas are really popping.

I may post some of it here. In the meantime, I thank all of you for the encouragement you offer just by showing up on my sitemeter. Wishing you a glorious summer's end and long colorful fall before winter arrives, no matter where you live.

Peace, shalom, salaam--

Cindy

Water Sprite

2007-08-09T23:14:00.000-04:00

My son jumps
into the deep end,
goes straight down:
I resist my need
to reach for him,
let him bring himself
to the top.
Water glazes
his brown face,
his smile is broader
than before he leapt.
Through watery myopia,
he grabs
my hungry hands,
and breathes at last:
a hearty sigh.
“I want to do it again, Momma,”
he says,
once again buoyant,
out of my reach.
My eyes brim,
nothing pleases
and terrifies
me more than
the fresh bravery
of his new love:
water.

Seven around the table

2007-08-03T22:34:00.000-04:00

Tonight, I had to pull the table out from the wall.
Simple fare: fresh green beans and
chicken from the house down the road,
lettuce, cukes and mushrooms from (I confess)
the grocer, and sale wine from Trader Joes;
laughter, love and three mothers
alternating verbal lassoes over three boys
so different, yet all loving Looney Toons,
bulldozers, trains and the baby doll.

My sisters, their sons, me and mine,
and our mother: so rare,
us all in the same city at the same time.
We feast at my square table,
our differences blend like a good sauce:
enhancing flavors, surprising us,
smoothing the edges of the old grievances.
We are together here,
at the table pulled out from the wall.

Words' Worth

2007-08-02T22:23:00.000-04:00

I have had a terrible case of writer's block. Funny, I feel self-conscious even calling it that, it seems self-aggrandizing to call myself a writer.

Anyway, I am trying to merge onto the Recovery Highway. So, at the urging of my life coach, Brady Mikusko, I bought The Artist's Way, and have begun her suggested method of three Morning Pages each day. I started yesterday. My blinker's on, and I am accelerating.

Yesterday, in the pool where we live--that is the pool in the apartment complex, not that we live in the pool, though Ben wishes we did--I met Van Baldwin, a poet and organizer of the Crossroads Poets and Writers conference in Ann Arbor, longtime local literati. We had a nice chat, and he offered to hook me up with some groups and reading spaces.

Almost makes you believe in this recovery stuff. Pretty strong evidence when the traffic moves over and lets you slide back on so effortlessly.

And, I've been catching up on some of my favorite blogs: Ben and Bennie (hilarious lately), Cloudscome (always resonates and great stuff about kid's books) and Bloomingwriter (whose gardens bloom along with her words.) The Curmudgeon scooped NPR by three whole days on the story about stolen hours of work. Good to know you all have kept holding up the sky in my long absence. (Their links are all at the right, I still haven't figured out how to put a link in the text of an entry. Hopeless, I know. Not a writer, not a Blogger, either.)

Writing: odd stuff,
elemental stuff.
I say I can't breathe
without writing.
It's true--
my fingers and toes
are completely blue.
Still, hard to sit down
and do it,
to write it down.

Garden Muse Post

2007-08-01T10:13:00.000-04:00

Check out Bloomingwriter's Blog and her links to other garden bloggers. It's Garden Muse day apparently. In her honor, I post this about eating from the garden, which is what I do now rather than garden. But oh I love those who grow the food and flowers.

Blueberry nights

Fireflies glow
along the branches
of the apple tree
and between the big oaks,
deep in the woods.

The porch door closes behind us
with a snap as loud as our laughter
after the race that got us here
through the woods from the lake.

Inside, ice rattles in glasses,
cigar smoke encircles
our parents and grandparents
as cards slap against the table.

But here, on the porch,
there is a blueberry cobbler.
Fresh from the oven,
cooling on the checkered oilcloth.
Next to the warm pan,
a mason jar holds a dozen spoons,
business ends down.

We dip right into the crusty pan
with our spoons and
devour the cobbler,
sticking out our stained tongues
to see each other’s blues.

On our porch the only sounds
Are smacking lips,
scraping spoons,
and soft laughter
around mouths full
of blue heaven.

This blueberry night
of sunburned limbs
and hair smelling of seaweed;
this blueberry night
we catch fireflies
and name them.
This blueberry night
a mason jar holds
the keys to our happiness,
and sweetened stains
on teeth and tongues
are the only blues we know.

We know it in our bones

2007-07-30T22:04:00.000-04:00

There’s an wonderful children’s book by William Steig called The Amazing Bone. Steig’s heroine is Pearl, a school age pig, who is particularly in love with the world one fine spring day. She feels as if she is turning into a flower and finds, in the verdant woods, a talking bone.

Wise enough to listen to the bone, Pearl takes it with her. The bone scares away some particularly difficult robbers of unknown origin, but isn’t too effective against a wily fox, who is determined to eat Pearl for dinner. “Don’t take it personally, “ the fox says to Pearl. The bone, unable to scare this predator, offers solace, honesty and comfort to Pearl in her perilous position.

Just as the fox is about to put Pearl in the oven, the bone utters magical words. The bone does not know he knows them, they come from an ancient memory, nor does the bone know really what the magic words can do. What the words do is reduce the fox to the size of a mouse, who scurries into a hole in the wall.

Pearl and the bone walk away from certain death. Arriving home, Pearl is welcomed into the arms of her parents. The last line the bone says is “You have an exceptional daughter,” to convince Pearl’s parents that the bone can indeed talk.

Listening to the bone saves Pearl’s life.

Our lives create the voices we hear from our bones. We have only to listen to our true voices, down to our bones.

Illuminating Luminescence

2007-07-29T23:15:00.000-04:00

A few weeks ago, Ben walked into the sliding screen door in our new place. He hadn’t adjusted to the idea of a window wall between our dining room and his sand and water table, or, more accurately, his ride-on excavator. The maintenance guy was very kind and popped the darn thing back into its unyielding aluminum track.

The very next day, my Dad walked through it while talking to me over his shoulder. I guess at 3 and at 81, in the immortal words of Tow Mater, you don’t need to see where you’re going, but you do need to know where we have been. I sheepishly called and asked to have the door fixed, again, but they haven’t gotten to it yet.

It hasn’t been a buggy summer, being very dry and cool so far. And Ben hasn’t been too bad about keeping the door shut as he goes out to the deck to play, and in to eat, and out to play, and in to get another car, train or wheeled thing.

Tonight, just after he drifted off to sleep without protest, I sat in the darkened living room, enjoying the silence that slowly blooms after a weekend of mostly play with Ben. The dishes sat in the sink, waiting for my last ounce of energy before going to bed. The computer was off, radio silent, the television dark (I’ve cut back on cable since the Sopranos ended.)

Then there was a flash of light at a small spot near the ceiling above me. The moon is full tonight, and for a moment I thought some sliver of it was illuminating the sweet solitude. Then another flash, and another.

My annoyance with the still-broken door vanished as I realized the identity of my visitors: three fireflies in search of love had joined us sometime during the endless openings and closings of the day.

The Chinese Screen

2007-06-15T22:23:00.000-04:00

Pieces of stone take shape:
become birds in flight,
roses, with thorny stems,
and lower down,
lily pads, the surface of water
a simple curve of a gold
in an artful hand.

I wonder how it might be
if tonight, you sat across from me
in the big chair, laughing
about the dinner party just ended,
making a wry comment about
Larry’s wife.

We might then retire, tired,
a little drunk, and so sweetly,
our dreams water lilies blooming
above simple golden strokes.

Robin nesting

2007-05-09T10:33:00.000-04:00

Mother’s Day is coming up, and Ben and I have a robin nesting on our deck.

She built her nest of brown daylily leaves from last year’s blooms, and she left some of them streaming down like party decorations. She sits on top of the porch light, just under the eaves. I took the bulbs out of that lamp last year because I like to see the moon and stars, not fluorescent light, when we sit outside.

We can see her white rimmed eyes and yellow beak from the window just to the side of the light. We check on her each morning, as she sits patiently keeping her eggs warm.

I say to Ben, "Look, our robin is still there."

He says, in a whisper, "Wonderful, Mamma."

The deck needs cleaning, and I’d like to be eating dinner out there these last few warm nights, but I want her to have a peaceful time before her life gets filled with crazy worm hunting to feed her brood. So we watch her from inside, or we go out the other door and quietly walk around to look at her from across the deck.

Elliot and Goose seem entranced as well, and sometimes curl up on the windowsill, their fat cat bodies barely balanced on the narrow ledge, eyes raised in prayerful anticipation. Sometimes Elliot will chatter like a wild cat hunting his prey. Silly house cats. They were both strays and haven’t even wanted to go outside since they moved into my house.

The robin sits, wide-eyed, and waits on her bed of dried lily leaves.

Listen for Life's Whispers

2007-03-29T01:19:00.000-04:00

A week ago, the whispers of grievances cascaded around me, heaping both pain and joy. Walking through the week felt like the slush on a cold rainy March day: pleasurable only because my warm boots kept me dry. My co-workers were caught up in the drama, my boss pleased and reassuring. All in all, I'd rather it were June.

A man I have never met sits across from me at coffee, his eyes welling-up as he describes his back yard. He tore out buckthorn by the bushel, and replaced it with yellow ladies' slippers, native sedges of red and green, queen anne's lace and spring beauties. He and his ex-wife have struggled to keep that yard for their boys through the pain and economic strain of their divorce. In my head I see my parents' house of my childhood. A carpet of trillium spread between our garage and my grandparents' cottage: may apples, jacks in the pulpit, skunk cabbage, violets, false solomon's seal, anemones and mosses. We ran through this fiesta each day, our yard five acres of hardwood forest.

My father, overjoyed at his first walk from his new apartment to town, describes his sudden desire to learn to throw a pot, and wants to make a mug for each of his children in time for Christmas. "Ceramics are forever," he says, and his laughter turns to soft sobs. "This is a good place to spend my last . . . the end of my life," he says as he lays his head on the table.

I am trying to let go enough to let him hear his own whispers, trying not to drown out his voice with my own advice and reassurances

Big Kid Underwear

2007-03-28T07:04:00.000-04:00

Well, we are in day three of big kid underwear. While we were getting dressed Monday, Ben took a good hard look at me, and pointing to my crotch said, "Momma, you pee?"

I explained that, yes, I pee there. "You got a penis?" he asked, hands on his hips.

"No, I don't. Boys have penises and scrotum, girls have clitorises and labia," instantly nearly regretting dishing out these terms to a three year old, but I am determined to raise a child unafraid of anatomy. And it didn't seem right to just say that a girl lacks a penis, without taking credit for what girls have--we're different, not deficient.

"Oh," says Ben, the subtlety of my political stuggle completely lost on him. Then: "Wear underwear, Momma?" as I was taking mine from the drawer.

"Yes," say I, thinking he means mine.

"Ben's big kid underwear?" he asks, and runs to his room where they have been just waiting for this moment of conscious mind. So off we went to Peachtree in our Lightning McQueen underwear. It's been a mixed success, but the good women of Peachtree and I are determined to continue down this path. We now have Incredibles, Thomas the Train and Cars underwear (well, sad to say, not me, just Ben.)

It makes me wistful, and proud, and reflective. Where did my baby go? When did we start talking in words? When did he stop being small enough to easily hold all of a piece, instead of gangly legs hanging down to my knees?

It was two years ago I wrote this about my diaper-wearin' toddler:

War Cry

Wooden spoon held aloft,
Ben shouts “Yala bada !”
A sly grin plays across his sweet face.
The toddler’s wooden scimitar
lands squarely on the dog's haunch.
The canon shot of my “No!”
makes both Ben and the dog jump.

Ben begins his studied reaction.
Eyes fastened on mine,
the corners of his rosebud lips turn down,
he opens his mouth just enough so
those darling new white teeth shine.
He tilts his plump-cheeked head back.
His chin quivers. Brow knitted,
he half closes his eyes.
A low moan, meant to be crying,
escapes his artful mouth.

No tears come.
“Don’t hit the dog,” I say
and take the spoon.
He throws himself
across Sam’s back,
wailing increases
to perfect pitch.

I put my hand under his chin
raising his face for my inspection.
He pretends to look away,
rolling his eyes to the very
edge of my face.
Still no tears.

“You know you shouldn’t
hurt poor old Sam.” I say,
and take away my hand.
Ben reaches for the spoon:
I hold it aloft.
The wail continues,
still no tears.
“No,” I say,
more softly than before.
“You can’t have the spoon
if you’re going to hit the dog.”

He hits my leg.
“And don’t hit your momma,”
I say sharply.
The wail increases.

The dry-eyed cry of a toddler
is perfectly designed.
Soon, I scoop him up.
His wailing ceases instantly.
His head rests so sweetly,
so warmly on my shoulder,
I can’t help but smile,
enjoying the weight of him,
resting after our skirmish,
his trusting body limp beneath my hands.

Peace returns to the house.
Sam goes back to sleep.
Ben squirms to be let down
and heads for the kitchen
and a rubber spatula
he left near the door.

Love, war, and a kid with sunglasses

2007-03-19T22:01:00.000-04:00

The New York Times this Sunday seemed to burst with pieces that spoke to me. The article on the young woman who had herself tested for the Huntington’s gene was astounding and moving. The magazine piece on today’s women vets from Iraq was devastating and sad. Then, there was the Modern Love piece on the couple so much joined even though they had been divorced 40 years they died within days of each other.

This piece described how two people, not able to be together because of basic differences, were so in love they remained convivial friends long after the divorce. Their children stood as witnesses to the long years during which they continued to converse and communicate, all the while denying real attachment which was so evident. I often said during my years of practice as a divorce lawyer that some couples are never able to really divorce because they are so attached to the relationship they continue the fight which used to be their marriage. Now in my work, I see the evidence of such relationships everyday.

In my own life, there was one relationship I experienced that changed me forever. I often think it should have been enough that I offered my heart and he loved me for a while. It isn’t. I wonder sometimes if that loss will define me the rest of days.

And then my son puts on his bright blue sunglasses in the dusk and reaches for my hand because he can’t really see; looking up he says, “Mommy, cool glasses.” I realize there is no loss that could ever really define me, so long as Ben’s hand touches mine.

The Good War?

2007-03-06T22:28:00.000-05:00

In writing class tonight, our instructor brought objects for us to look at and write about. His mother was a Red Cross volunteer in England during WWII. The objects: A pass for the victory parade in New York 151 days after the end of WWII, led by the 82nd Airborne; a silver pocket watch, and a champagne cork. Are there ever any good wars?

19 January 1946

Winter’s wind blasts
between brick canyons,
my feet numb in my pumps,
a reviewing stand pass in my pocket,
I wrap my arms round me
and watch the 82nd march,
their smiles gaping wounds,
white bone where flesh peels back.
Ticker tape, like bomb’s detritus,
falls around me.

The lieutenant gave me your watch,
the hands frozen at 6:02.
Last January, near the Roer River,
he found your broken smile
and brought home what he could.

Tonight, I take our bottle
from the icebox
where it waited
since you rose at dawn
and I feigned sleep,
your bomber jacket groaned
as you bent to promise
our toast on your return.

I fill my glass
and raise it
in my still silent goodbye.

What are your muses?

2007-02-22T00:04:00.000-05:00

What inspires you to write, to paint, to sing, to see beautiful things? What are your muses?

A brief list of mine:

The crescent moon this time of year that sets just after sunset, hung in the sky like a half-eaten slice of melon: below it the evening star swinging like an electric lavelier

The way Ben touches my hand in a quiet moment just before he looks into my face

The voice of a long forgotten lover over the phone and the way I can hear him smile when I say his name right after his hello

The lap of a wave on any beach, anywhere

The song of a warbler on an August Sunday on Huron Bay

The spoken word of someone else talking to her child without convention or care

The love letter of a long-dead poet to her eldest daughter

That hour of the day just before night when the palette narrows into grays against a purple sky

The way each of my parents has gotten sort of weepy over the strangest simple things

Smooth sailing?

2007-02-20T23:13:00.000-05:00

It was a night crossing,
stars bright from horizon to horizon.
We sailed into the clear water as the sun rose:
a large shark swam lazily beneath us
and the rocks appeared.

Orchids and magnolias

2007-02-20T22:20:00.000-05:00

I am taking a writing class. It’s been a very interesting experience: a very small class and lots of free writing and talking about things that might get in the way of the creative process.

Tonight, an extraordinary thing happened.

Our leader, David Storer, asked us to try an exercise in releasing the creative brain. It’s just Jeannette and me, and we dutifully close our eyes and listen as David asks us to relax. He says “Just bear with me, sort of new agey….” And we do. "Be here now, what do you see? What does your creative brain reveal?"

I begin to write. I see only a white orchid, with very narrow, delicate, pink stripes leading to its center. The orchid is perched, as orchids are, atop an ungainly wooden stem, above two clown shoe green leaves. The rest is just green, not in focus. As I write the orchid, the rest comes into view. I feel the grass waving against my bare leg, feel the cool, moist dirt against my bare foot, feet. I am walking beyond the orchid, but reach down to feel it as I pass—the petals resilient and cool. The orchid nods at my touch. Beyond the orchid, a clear stream, rolling over pebbles the size of oranges, but flat and colored like lentils, shiny. The water washes over my feet, cold and clear. The orchid, behind me now, is still there.

The exercise ends.

David asks if we want to share and looks directly at me. I am embarrassed to say what has happened. It’s all too Georgia O’Keefe. But I do say this: ‘I am amazed. When I write it’s because I see something, or hear something, and try to describe it. Haven’t ever felt this before, where I saw something internally, and the images were amazing.” I can’t say a thing about the white orchid.

David is so gentle. He nods and says thank you and turns his teddy bear gaze to Jeannette.

“I see white magnolias, everywhere, it’s amazing. A big house and green lawn. Peeling paint on the house. But the magnolias…” her voice trails off as she closes her eyes.

“OK, sister,” I say, “I wasn’t going to say it, but you have given me courage, because I saw a white orchid.”

We all laugh, and talk about how amazing it is to just let your head see what it sees.

A frank talk about race and adoption

2007-02-10T16:18:00.000-05:00

I am not feeling charitable. For the first time since we moved to Ann Arbor, a retail clerk asked me if Ben was my foster son. This happened fairly routinely in Port Huron, but not here. It's taken eight months. You may think I deserve this, or it is an innocent question, or he meant well. All of that may be true on some level. My answer is, and will always be, "He is my son." No other answers will be given unless we know each other.

It made me think about how often people have reached out and touched Ben's hair, an overtly racial gesture which offends me. So I am passing this along. Maybe it will shock you, or offend you. I hope it makes you think, and spares some other little kid the sort of violation I am growing increasingly tired of.

My son should not have to be your teacher. You have lived to be 40, 50 maybe even 70. You are white. You say discrimination is bad, illegal, unthinkable, some of your best friends are black. You may even mean well. You have never touched a black person.

You have never reached out your hand and felt black skin under a rolling tear. You have never touched the dense hair that tops a black head. You have never seen the naked genitals of a black man or woman. If you are male, you might have, because your curiosity got the better of you and it seemed exotic. If you did so I bet you did so by being a patron of what we now call the sex trade, because you wouldn't have dreamed of being intimate with someone who wasn't your color.

Now, my son and I are seated next to you, on a plane, at a supper, at a lunch counter, in the bus. You do not know us, we have never seen you. My son is small, on my lap, defenseless. You reach across that barrier between us and you touch my son.

You feel his hair.

The tight curls touch your extended palm but it is not enough. You tip the heel of you hand up, and you pass through his hair again with your fingertips, applying pressure because you must feel it. It doesn’t feel like the "carpet" you taunted another child with in fourth grade. It doesn’t feel “nappy.” It is human hair, attached to a living breathing human, my son.

I want to slap you. Or better yet, I want to reach up to feel your chrome dome, or your hair spray laden coif. Run my fingers through it. The most intimate sort of touching one human does to another, and you feel free to do it to my small son. I want to inflict it on you. But I know what you would do. If I raise my hand to touch your hair you will move your head away. Because you don’t want a strange adult to touch you, but you will touch my son’s head of hair.

You would not touch a white baby, because you have touched white babies. You know how they feel. Maybe you touched your own, or your sister’s or your neighbor's. But because you have never welcomed a black person into your life, you have never touched black, African hair.

You feel free to do this because I am white and my son is black. You assume several things about me, and about Ben, and all of them are deeply offensive.

First, you assume that you may do this intimate thing because you and I are the same color. Brother or sister, you and I are a world apart. Because of Ben and what I have learned being his mother for three years, I think of myself as something other than white.

Next, you will assume I rescued him. Rescued him from the ghetto, or crack, or foster care. You don’t even begin to know what our reality is. I consider him simply and completely my son. No one rescued anyone, we love each other and we are a family. That is all.

You assume you can ask how I got him. My response to you is “ Do you know whose birth canal (or vagina, depending on how prickly I am feeling) YOU passed through? Would you care to tell me the circumstances of your conception and birth, please, here in this public place? Would you enlighten all of us on your kinship circle? Are you sure you are your Daddy’s baby?”

You think my son is lucky. He is not lucky. The family he was born to could not support him because of an economic system so squarely resting on the unpaid labor of generations of black people. That same system that handed you a privilege simply because you were born white took away my child's birthright to live in his family of origin. He is not lucky that he could not be raised with his half brothers and his birth mother, and his father and his half sister. Luck has nothing to do with it.

So, when you see us in public, my son and me, would you simply greet us politely, chat about the weather, and know in your heart that we are a happy family? And then welcome someone from a different culture into your life. Get to know them. Ask another adult what it feels like to live in his or her skin. Embrace someone who doesn’t look like you. Step outside your tight-assed little circle and live.

Don’t make my small son your social laboratory. Grow up. Get a richer life. Keep your hands and your questions to yourself. We are not your teachers, you are responsible for learning your own lessons. Get started.

Lessons

2007-02-06T10:40:00.000-05:00

I was practically raised on horseback, if family legend has it right I rode our horse before I walked. (The same family said that I swam before I walked: at home in water and on horseback before on land--the metaphor for my life.) Anyway, when I started at Smith I still hoped that maybe I was a good enough equestrian to bring my horse. This was an outrageously expensive proposition, but if I could make the equestrian team, I could get some sort of a package that would make it cheaper to bring Keni San, my beloved.

The day of the try out arrived, and I rode my best. A Midwesterner in a strange land--The East--on a strange horse. The verdict? I had "too natural a seat" to succeed in the rarefied air of Eastern equestrian competition and I didn't make the cut. It took me at least a decade to understand that all those years of riding bare back and swimming from horseback doomed my career as a jock, but added a dimension to my life I would be enriched by. No one else in my family carried the passion for horses, so, while I was at school, one was sold, and my beloved Keni, a gentle, tall, gray quarter horse, was given to a riding school for disabled kids where he, no doubt, patiently enriched the lives of many challenged kids.

I bring my too natural seat to all I live. I cannot be but who I am: the love, the grief, the ragged around the edges self. And that is a whole picture. Being someone I'm not is like trying to do the perfect hunt seat, but having a natural rythmn for something a bit different. I don't think I'd make the cut. So I continue to say what I think, admit my faults, make mistakes and learn from them. I also continue to love with my whole heart this damaged world we have the great good fortune to live in each day.

This morning Ben flew into one of those stormy rages typical of toddlerdom. We had a trying pre-verbal bi-polar it's the end of the world if I can't watch TV sort of morning. After two time outs and trying to talk him down, I just sat there at the top of the stairs wondering what I was supposed to do next. I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Ben.

"Here, Mommy," he said with a smile and handed me my glasses. "I love you," he added.

Just like that the rage passed. We managed to eat breakfast and get out the door into the 6 degrees below zero day with a minor fracass about whether mittens were required. They were.

Reaching this age has made me understand there are some things I simply am, others I am not. I am not the world's most perfect mother. I will never argue a case before the Supremes--something I thought in my younger days I'd be doing with regularity. (Change the world complex writ large.) I will never figure out why Ben's world falls apart, then is put back together without me helping. I will never understand what an unnatural seat would be on a horse, or why you would want to have such a thing.

Which is not to say I won't really like the scenery flashing by.

Molly Ivins is dead, damn it.

2007-01-31T23:07:00.000-05:00

I happen to believe she would approve of the salty language as my way of saying her death from breast cancer is a damnable waste. And while some of my best friends are men, I think if we had pumped half as much money into curing breast cancer as we do into finding cures for male impotence, she'd be alive and writing today.

Ms. Ivins, the Times would call her. They kicked her to the curb because she walked around the office barefoot and swore too much. Ms. Ivins was a graduate of my alma mater, Smith College, intellectual training ground for Gloria Steinem and Betty Friedan, sure, but Ms. Ivins was my hero. She must have been quite a figure there too, tall and outspoken and not there to get her Mrs. degree, as the saying went. She was a independent woman with a strong, clear, funny voice that poked the fatcats and let no one off the hook.

I had the pleasure of seeing her speak in person once, at the Humane Society Expo in Dallas. My mother and I went there because I was conducting a workshop on drafting legal documents for animal shelters and rescues. I got a free plane ticket and a room, and my mom wanted to see Molly Ivins, who was the keynote speaker. As my mom and I sat practically in the first row, beaming at her as she towered behind the podium, she took an actual clipping from her jacket pocket, identified it as from the front page of that morning's Times, and quoted some ridiculous Bushism. She then made several very good jokes about it, before a huge national audience, just like she might be joking with us around her kitchen table.

Then she said, "Oh, he sounds stupid, alright, but do not under estimate him. He is not a moderate. He is dangerous. He is not an honest man." After the speech Ms. Ivins talked with my mom briefly, and made the whole trip worthwhile for her.

This was before Al Gore won the election and we got George W. Bush as our president. This was before September 11. Before the unending war in Afghanistan. (Remember? We're still there, looking for Osama Been Forgotten.) Before the war in Iraq, this quaqmire which is sending home over 30,000 wounded young men and women so far, a very large portion of them with missing limbs and devastating closed head injuries.

And we are still in both places because George W. Bush is not an honest man. He is dangerous.

Molly Ivins, it gives me no pleasure to say you were right, prescient even. But your words never failed to give me pleasure in a world where so much harm is done. You were a beacon, a voice in the wilderness, and you made me laugh. You were nice to my momma.

Thank you, Ms. Ivins, for your barefooted, swear-word peppered truths. You were an original. I love you. Rest in peace.

And fer chrissake, don't let St. Peter off the hook, either.

Acrostic Lunch

2007-01-30T22:13:00.000-05:00

Late lunch

Last I saw you, you stood so still,
Under a dripping umbrella. “I will always,” you began
“Never,” I interrupted and turned away into the dark.
College, grad school, marriages, divorces, children since.
How many years and you never, never left?
I’m back, a lifetime later, unfettered
Now, eating alone, across that street.
After one, I linger over pinot
Noir and watch for you who were
Never far away. Muted memories swim
And then, there you are, in winter light,
Rooted at curbside, fishing change,
Burberry trenched, cashmere noosed. A lump
Of middle-aged sentimentality rises in my throat.
Reaching to pay the bill, I realize the price.

How life changed three years ago

2007-01-27T15:48:00.000-05:00

So, today has been wonderful so far. Ben and I awakened at the reasonable hour of 7 (truthfully I'd been awake since 4, but dozing off and on in my middle-aged insomnia sort of way.) We had a leisurely breakfast of oatmeal and leftover cupcakes from yesterday. Ben had taken the cupcakes to school to celebrate his upcoming 3rd birthday with his pals. I did some writing and he did some TV watching; I did some laundry and he played in the water. Then we dressed to head downtown to the Hands On Museum, where we were slated to meet Blake and her mommy Deborah.

And like magic, we met just outside the museum, Ben running fake slow motion to Blake, saying "Blakey!" Blake is 17 months old and the queen bee of Peachtree School. There she was in her lavender pants, red shoes and bright pink velour top, jacket unzipped (very casual) and beaming smile.

We had just gotten settled in the toddler play area when we were joined by angelic Alexander and his heavenly daddy, Neil. Now, I like Alex's mom, Christie, but swear if she were to die, I would be all over Neil. He's British, with a wonderful accent, slight over bite and glasses: handsome in that sort of geeky way I adore. He's a chemistry prof at the U. So we three parents watched and played with our kids, as they played with each other. Alex is two and a half. The threesome had a great time running us all over for an hour. We three got to know each other a bit more, then adjourned to Argierro's for pizza. There we were joined by Emanique and her two sons, Edrick and Jordan. Emanique informed me that Ben's cupcakes are now famous, having been discussed at their house for most of last night's dinner. She knew all about the colors--yellow and pink-- and the sprinkles--stars and green sugar. I thanked her and said that Duncan Hines would so love to hear that. Neil said "Oh that's what the cupcakes were all about, Alexander (and he said it like this: al-ex-ahhhhnder") was talking about them too." Sigh.

Ben was in heaven, especially when Emanique suggested singing happy birthday to Ben. It was a great morning. As Ben and I made our way home about 1:30, we stopped at Whole Foods and picked up party supplies. There, the baker advised us on how to make a light raspberry drizzle to add to our flourless chocolate birthday cake for tomorrow. Organic cheeses, wines and turkey, along with bread and sandwich delights. All for our little party tomorrow.

Ben's napping now, and I am recounting my blessings: how life has changed in just three short years. Ben came, and then a new job, new friends. Along with all those changes, the deep gratitude for old friends who have stayed in touch through this blog and email. We love you all. So many of you were there for me three years ago when I hadn't a clue how to put a baby in a car seat. Now, I am the grande dame of the parents at Peachtree (when I said I was 50, Deborah, who must be all of 26, said, "that is AWESOME") and truly amazed at the wonder of life and how much things can change when you open yourself to it. Or when you are pried open by a toddler with a spoon.

Ben and I send birthday greetings to all of you. Our birthday gathering this year will be smaller, but we will have you all in our hearts. Hippo Birdie to Ewe.

Peace! Shalom! Salaam!

What keeps you from crossing the threshold from not writing to writing

2007-01-23T23:48:00.000-05:00

A doorway, no door.
On the other side, light
and green, even flowers.

If I step through
what do I leave behind?
Where do I go
if I step through?
What if it is so pleasant
on the other side
I can't walk back through?

Why would I go back
to Not Writing?
Because I know it.
Dark, its corners,
small warmth.
A roof, walls, no windows.
The warm comfort
of a small space.
Shelter.

The threshold calls:
the sun, the green,
the other side invites.

I hold my breath.
My own fear keeps me here.
I look around
the edge of the threshold.
Sun bathes my calf.
My arm now into the light.
Inertia is heavy.
The light moves up
to my shoulder.

A dappled gray mare
grazes. Turning to look at me,
green grass hangs from her lips.
She shakes her head at me.

I move toward her to ride.

The general comes from the specifics

2007-01-23T23:21:00.000-05:00

Red! Red! Stickers
orange and yellow.
Speed with wheels,
numbers and Lightening flashing.
"Let's race."
Eyes wide and whitewalls.
Small enough to fit in his small hand:
when he finally lets it fall
from his grasp, the metal
is warm to the touch.

Hard and bruising
in the dark
on my arch,
beloved of my beloved.

One more Ben story

2007-01-20T00:03:00.000-05:00

I used to hate parents who told cute stories about things their kids said. Now I know that I hated that because their kids were stupid and those silly parents thought they were smart. Ben IS smart, so it's OK that I continually tell Ben stories.

I guess that should be the self-delusion disclaimer required by international blogger code and should be in 14 pt. type.

Anyway, a couple of nights ago we were driving home from work and school. Ben's current musical passion is a Billy Jonas song Coup D'etat. It's smart white boy rap with great drums and lots of French words. Ben calls it "Coup D'etat-ta" because the refrain is something like "coup d'etat, coup d'etat, coup d'etat-ta-ta." It's about life's little and not so little victories, like when you think you lost your wallet then you find it in your pocket. Or you think they're hanging you for treason and you realize you are dreaming. Coup d'etat!

So, we were driving along listening to Coup D'etat, and Ben says,

"Momma! Benjamin's car is singing!"

Coup d'etat!