Tag Archives: motherhood

I made time.

Words are funny things, wiley creatures, slippery and shimmery. One makes time. Surely not. And yet…

Commonly on business trips, I do not make time. My usual work doesn’t stop its demands when the work on site adds its needs to the clamor of the day. And so I retire to my hotel in the evenings with my takeout and my laptop until past my bedtime. 

Not this time.






My children, I realized, do not know that a darkened forest tunnel will feel cooler, the air lighter, than the meadow they just exited. They haven’t learned the precise angle that is safe to traverse down a rooted path to a creek bed without tumbling. They don’t know that the quiet one walks, the more one sees. 

I have my work cut out for me making more time for the important lessons of childhood.

Popcorn rain

“On Tuesday, when there was popcorn rain, we moved away from the windows and we moved into the libing room to be away from the windows.”


I hope I never call hail “hail” again.

Speaking of popcorn, the colors of seeds and silk are inverse from our sweet corn.


Kumquat 

Sometimes, it is the seeds sown 

yet not grown 

that burn the memories deepest. 

Sometimes, it is the stories 

unfinished 

that repeat, 

their beating in my skull. 

Sometimes, it is the same pain, 

this season, 

each year, 

that calls,

repeating. 

Sometimes, 

I find it hard to breathe. 

A whole mess ‘a

There’s a whole mess ‘a beans here.

“You made a mess, mama?”

No, honey. A mess is a silly word. It can mean a lot of something. 

“You should clean up your bean mess, mama.”

Don’t you worry, little lady. I plan to do just that.


“What’s he doing, mama?”

He’s picking flowers, love.

“He’s eating them?”

Yes, he’s eating them. 

“Don’t eat flowers, buddee!”

It’s ok to eat those flowers, honey. Would you like one? 

“Yes. I’d like one. Ima pick it. Mama, I need to put my flower inside so it doesn’t get cold.”

Inside is colder than outside today. Your flower may like it inside because it’s cooler.

“No, mama. My flower doesn’t like it colder.”

…

“Mama, my flower needs water! It’s sad! It’s so thirsty!”

It is sad, but it might be too late. We can try anyway. Go ask papa for a cup and get some water. 

“Drink, flower. You’re so thirsty, you need to drink.” 

So flowers don’t drink from their mouths like we do. Flowers drink from their stems. The stem is the long green part that looks like a noodle. 

“My flower drinks like this, with its mouth.” 

I don’t know how much your flower likes that, honey. It wants the water to come up the stem, from the bottom. 

“Look, mama. It wants the water from its stem. Like this. Ima show you.”

Yes, honey, it does, just like that.

Star light.

I hadn’t seen the stars in untold time.


My screen painted in peanut butter. I can’t tell. Is that in focus?


“That’s pokey, mama. Don’t touch it. You’ll get hurt.” 

Ah, no, bug. It only looks pokey. Touch it. It’s ok. 


“That’s a weed, mama?” 

No, honey. That’s corn.

“That’s not corn, mama. That’s grass.”


“I planted beads, mama! Patios and I planted lots of beads for you for them to grow.”


“Those aren’t my ‘matoes, mama. My ‘ ‘matoes are at school.”

…

“I want to take pictures, mama.”

Feel the feels, y’all. 

“Sometimes I think the urgency to continue on to the next mundanity is a calculated distraction designed to prevent one from feeling all of the depth, breath, and heft of each moment. Each moment is wrapped in layer after layer and rare is the painless peeling.”

– me, soaking up every iota of input from the moments spent swaying, holding my son, who will be even older tomorrow, until enough tomorrows have passed that he no longer fits in the cradle of my arms, his head too large someday for the crook of my neck. Me, soaking up so much that I overflow and tears slip between my lashes and I breathe into the cramp growing in my back to stand and sway a little longer. 

Sparks fly.

I had two half days to myself. Daycare started unexpectedly early, work a few days off yet. I thought to build. 

I gathered my list, loaded in the car, and drove the quick five minutes to the lumber yard.

The cables corraling the lengthy planks made extraction nearly a circus act. I attempted a quiet extrication and – success. Twelve foot board after twelve foot board. Up up up, balance…swipe the cable restraint away, lower lower lower, hand over hand and…on the cart. Repeat. 

It was slow going and I was on a milk timer. Assessing my speed I realized it would be a lot faster if I wasn’t trying to be quiet. Why was I trying to be quiet? I was in a hardware store, in the lumber section, no one else was being quiet. No one else was female either. 
BANG.

I let the plank drop. Onto the cart. 

BANG.

Still concerned about the time I thought again: I need to move faster. 

I had set my cart up on the side of the aisle so as to not take up too much space. I moved my cart so that…

BANG. Swing. BANG. Swing. 

That was the pace I needed. My cart was loaded in no time. 

I pushed my way to the front of the store and got in line. A man came over from the tool rental area to do a remote checkout of my items. I asked him if he would check if there were any trucks left in the lot to rent. I mentioned he’d miscounted my boards and was about to under charge me. 

There was a truck. I left my lumber and set up the truck rental at the service desk. The lumber checkout had gotten more popular in the meantime. The looks I got pulling the truck into the loading bay. The looks I got retrieving so much lumber. 

“I’ll call someone up to help you load up,” the man who had rung me up declared kindly. 

“Oh. Ok, thanks.”

Wait. I don’t need help. Why am I getting help? Why did I say ok? 

“Hey. I’m going to start loading up. If they get here before I’m done, great.”

I went outside. The drop gate wouldn’t drop. Oh, well. Up. Swing. Slide. Up. Swing. Slide. A man approached with headphones on. He saw me and deflated. Picking up the end of one board he waited for me to pick up the other end. Up. Drop. I picked up the ends of three boards. He didn’t notice. He slipped. He noticed. He picked up three ends of three boards. Up. Drop. Up. Drop. The lumber loaded, he walked off. Never a word or a smile. 

I drove home. I enjoyed driving a truck again. I felt how I’d felt in the summers in the country growing up. Farmers and fields everywhere. I unloaded the lumber into my garage, pumped, and headed back to return the truck. 

Truck returned. Walking back to my car, I got whistled at. Doing nothing other than walking empty handed through the parking lot on a Wednesday afternoon. 

I’m not a terribly quiet person. Shy in new social situations. Outspoken and opinionated at work and with friends. I actively work against the institutionalization of gender expectations within myself. And yet I tried to be quiet in a lumber yard. I tried to not take up too much space. I accepted help I didn’t need because someone thought I did. 

Having become the mother of a daughter, I’ve become ever more mindful of gendered life. She regularly wears shirts with lizards on them, a pink tutu, plays with dump trucks, and wants her nails painted. Having recently had a son, new pieces of indoctrination come to light. He smiles. Baby boys that do so are called flirts. Baby girls aren’t. Because from infancy boys’ sexuality is acceptable, girls mustn’t be promiscuous. Older boy children get to be charmers, girls are boy crazy. 

It took me this long to realize I was even trying to be small and quiet in a situation as mundane as the lumber yard. What else am I missing? What am I unconsciously indoctrinating? 

When crayons sweat.

When the crayons start to sweat before 9:30, it might finally be summer. Not that anyone here was likely eager for the switch to finally flip.

image

I learned this morning that it’s the first solstice in 49 years to also be the full moon.

I also got outside time thanks to an actual morning nap by the littlest. Just enough to finish mulching. The beans and winter squash have a fighting chance now.

Happy solstice, y’all.