when spring breaks open

I am wild with relief. Too many days of illness and rain and tantrums had made my house felt like a dirty matchbox, and my mind, a rabid monkey. Then the illness loosens its grip, the weather breaks and I'm breathless and giddy, bumbling through the park with two girlfriends and six of our kids, the new March sun like a benediction all around us.

Popcorn, strawberries, grapes, chips, guacamole, raspberry soda, and sandwiches on a blanket. There is plenty.

The toddlers run into all the open spaces. We watch to see just how far they will go, and then gather them when the distance makes our motherhearts lurch. My boy brings me a tiny blue flower, my baby flexes every muscle in brain and body to come up on all fours and fling himself forward. Soon he will crawl...how can this be? Just a moment ago he was blooming from my body, red and wet and wailing.

Just a moment ago I was this young. I have a picture--it must be late summer, my hair is babyblond, and I am perched on a bed of pineneedles in the Rockies, tiny fingers curled around a wildflower. I am still this baby.

My boy cries when its time to leave. Later, I am putting him to bed and I ask, "Did you have a nice time at the park today?" He nods.

"Worm?" he says. "Yes, we saw a worm, didn't we?"

"Yates? Soo-wee? Baby Yiy-wa? Baby Ginna? Gia? Pachey?" he says. "Yep, that's everybody. What else?"

Pause. And then wistfully, slowly--there is almost a sound of relief and reverence in his breathy voice--he says, "TREES..."

old fat naked women for peace

Well, my husband will be mortified, but I just had to post this lovely ditty that made me laugh out loud in solidarity today. This is so brilliant, it will be worth the weeks of (lighthearted) ridicule I will most assuredly get from him.

bedtime sweetness...

These days bedtime is extra sweet. Caleb has just gotten into reading a book at bedtime. These days we're reading "The Quiet Evening" by Thatcher Hurd, who is the son of the woman who wrote "Goodnight Moon." It was published in the seventies and is just so lovely in its simple watercolors and poetic text. We snuggle up with the book, his head resting in the crook of my arm. I rub my cheek on the top of his head and smell his little boy hair, soft as corn silk.

Me: At our house, Father and Mother are sitting by the fire.

Him: Patience, baby Lyra, Mommy, cabin, fireplace?

Me: That's right, Buddy. You and Mommy and Patience and baby Lyra went to the cabin and Mommy made a fire in the fireplace.

We have this conversation every night, among other comforting repetitions. Each page has its own corresponding conversation. Sometimes I find myself stretching out story time because I love the feel of him so still and singularly focused in my arms, because I love trying to climb into his mind and see what he sees, because I love listening to his lisp and watching his pudgy fingers point at the pictures. And because I know that soon enough he will be grown and I will long for these days.

After our book, I nurse him down. Some nights I am so tired, so spent, so weary of nursing. But then I think to myself, "Don't rush this. A few months from now he won't be nursing at all." Most nights I sing him a song while we nurse. His favorite is the "Barney" theme song that goes, "I love you, you love me, we're a happy family. With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you, won't you say you love me, too?" He laces his fingers with mine and hums along. When I get to the "kiss" part of the song, he puts his hand, still clasped with mine, up to my mouth for a kiss.

Then I kiss his forehead, his plump cheeks, his nose. I tell him I love him, Daddy loves him, Tavish loves him. I ask him if he loves us, and he shakes his head, "No." Though it's too dark to see, I know he is grinning his tricky trickster grin. Then I say, "Yes you DO!" and I tickle him under his chin, and he laughs.

I tell him I'm so happy he was born. I tell him I'm so happy he's in our family.

Then I say, "Night night, Buddy." And he says, "Feet dreams, Mommy."

I lie in the dark with him, listening to his rhythmic breathing, feeling his warm body melt, little by little, into sleep.

it makes no difference

Love, tonight I'm remembering those days on Grace Street. Those days before the babies came. Those days when we made this song ours...

my hero...

Watch. This. Goal. It had me on my feet, jumping around the living room and yelling. I grabbed my two year-old, sat him on my lap, insisting he watch the replay, all the while bouncing him wildly on my knee and cheering.

My husband? At. The. Game. The bastard. I was so happy for him, though. Can you imagine the noise and celebration in the stands, a sold out crowd rising in one, fluid flash, cheering? Unforgettable.

everything is everything

I've been listening to this oldie but goodie a lot lately. It started with a little trouble in paradise, which required some Lauryn Hill therapy. Then came the inauguration, which breathed even more new life and meaning into the song. And before I knew it, I was playing it every time I got in the car. For a spell it became my soundtrack, my anthem. A way to get through a hard time. A way to welcome hope. A way to feel like a ghetto superstar. For four minutes. In the SUV with the kids on the way to the grocery store.

I am so white. Sigh...

Barbie Boobie Love

So the other day we're at a friend's house. They have a daughter Caleb's age. The kids are playing nicely, quietly. Then a little too quietly. I look to see what Caleb is doing. He's in a corner on his stomach with a toy, and I can tell by the way he is slightly hunching his shoulders that he's trying to keep what he is doing private. I spy on him. With pursed fingers, he is gently, deliberately pulling Barbie's shirt down to expose her "girls." He takes a moment to admire them with a cocked head. And then he tries to nurse.