One summer night Gina and her husband, while their kids were sleeping, drove to the Taylor Airport. It was a single landing strip in a pasture next to a gray steel building and a few scattered hangars for the ranchers' planes. Hank cut the lights and parked behind one of the hangars, and Gina looked back to see if there were any car lights on the county road, anyone who could have seen them go in. All she saw were the blank outlines of the mountains against the night sky.
The landing strip was butter smooth, out of place compared to the dirt roads they took to get there. They lay down in the exact middle of the strip, head to head. Gina's feet pointed towards the west, Hank's to the east. Their shoulders were each other's pillows. The stars were brutally bright, almost blinding. On her back, her cheek nuzzling Hank's, the only thing in Gina's field of vision was the sky and the blinking tower light that functioned to signal planes. She had the sudden urge to take all of her clothes off.
It felt as if the earth were pulling her down and the stars were pulling her up. Floating. She touched the asphalt with her palms to anchor herself. Hank began murmuring about the days before the kids were born and reached back to cup her face in his hand.
They left the landing strip to have sex in the grass next to the car. Gina got earth and grass in her fingernails.
Gina was reminded of the time she posted an ad to Craig's list that her dog and her children were for sale and that all reasonable offers would be considered. She had stopped to post it in the middle of cleaning the downstairs bathroom, while they still lived in the city.
They saw headlights and heard a car passing in the distance. Hank helped her put her shirt back on and she leaned into his hug as they pressed themselves against the building and giggled. The car passed and they returned to their position on the landing strip, feeling the pull of the stars until they were ready to return home.
Showing posts with label kids. Show all posts
Showing posts with label kids. Show all posts
Thursday, November 28, 2013
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
My little pole cat, the octopus
I was going to write about the mornings in our house as we get ready for school and work, but I can't write these days. The creativity is gone and the words feel leaden even in my head and they certainly cannot be expressed in any meaningful way. They are awkward, clunky.
I was going to tell you about how rushed I feel in the morning, the last twenty minutes before we walk out the door are spent in chaos, with our two year old running from us and the only way we can get her dressed is to hold her down with our feet while we struggle to pull her clothes on. Like dressing an octopus, but those words are too old to use, because I've used them too many times before.
The reason I feel rushed is that my daughter is still, and quiet, and sits on my lap for the first half hour that we are awake. And I feel peace, and I don't give a shit that I'm going to be late for work because I can smell her hair as she pats my hand. When I finally break away to take a shower I pour her Cocoa Pebbles and threaten her with big trouble if she decides to put her hands in the fish bowl while I'm in the bathroom.
She glares at me and laughs at me like a little pole cat and I realize my words are too clunky and awkward to threaten my daughter properly. Life is a battle in our house and I'm going soft, and I'm pretty sure it's her fault.
I was going to tell you about how rushed I feel in the morning, the last twenty minutes before we walk out the door are spent in chaos, with our two year old running from us and the only way we can get her dressed is to hold her down with our feet while we struggle to pull her clothes on. Like dressing an octopus, but those words are too old to use, because I've used them too many times before.
The reason I feel rushed is that my daughter is still, and quiet, and sits on my lap for the first half hour that we are awake. And I feel peace, and I don't give a shit that I'm going to be late for work because I can smell her hair as she pats my hand. When I finally break away to take a shower I pour her Cocoa Pebbles and threaten her with big trouble if she decides to put her hands in the fish bowl while I'm in the bathroom.
She glares at me and laughs at me like a little pole cat and I realize my words are too clunky and awkward to threaten my daughter properly. Life is a battle in our house and I'm going soft, and I'm pretty sure it's her fault.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Munnay
I will write today. I will find time between the Toys R Us trip to buy Tinker Bell shoes and coloring books (which I am truly, totally excited for, no shit) and the library and naps and lunches and dinners and cleaning the food off the walls. I'll write something poetic, probably, deep enough for readers to crawl into and make themselves comfortable, relax in repose until they have to crawl back out into their own busy lives. I
sorry, got interrupted there. Was doing a "Mr. Krabs" impression for my 22-month-old. "Moneymoneymoneymoneymoney."
will clearly articulate some inner truth of my life today. I
"Moneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoney." Now my kid is rubbing her hands together. "Munnay. Munnay." Sweet.
Her laughter is a pleasing counterpoint to Spongebob in the background.
I forgot what I was doing.
sorry, got interrupted there. Was doing a "Mr. Krabs" impression for my 22-month-old. "Moneymoneymoneymoneymoney."
will clearly articulate some inner truth of my life today. I
"Moneymoneymoneymoneymoneymoney." Now my kid is rubbing her hands together. "Munnay. Munnay." Sweet.
Her laughter is a pleasing counterpoint to Spongebob in the background.
I forgot what I was doing.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Friday, April 1, 2011
Grumpy Monsters Bubbling Snot
If I were single, I'd be at my sister's house right now, a five hour drive away. But the reality is I have two sick kids and chose not to endure the long car ride with grump monsters bubbling snot in the backseat.
Kids are kids. They inspire love, panic, boredom, anger, amusement, resentment. The panic comes in two forms. When I've been away from them for too long - as I was on my business trip this week - I need to hold them, feel their physical presence, their breath, their heartbeats, touch a flesh-and-bone reminder that they are healthy and alive and I haven't through some long absence neglected my offspring.
The second sort of panic comes from constant care for them from sunrise to sunset and then again from midnight to three in the morning. And then again, from sunrise, with forty eight hours more stretched in front of me. My husband works long hours on the weekends, so Saturdays and Sundays my hands are full and my brain cannot disengage. Every waking moment I am responsible for two human lives. Taking a shower and exercising and plucking my eyebrows and spending more than four minutes on the toilet and reading a magazine and cooking a hot healthy meal and having the freedom to drive to the fucking liquor store and back are far off dreams of a time long before and a time that surely will not come again for at least five years.
I've experienced both kinds of panic this week. I've rushed home to crawl into the cage and hold my children and I've mentally bruised and bloodied my fingertips clawing at the iron bars.
Kids are kids. They inspire love, panic, boredom, anger, amusement, resentment. The panic comes in two forms. When I've been away from them for too long - as I was on my business trip this week - I need to hold them, feel their physical presence, their breath, their heartbeats, touch a flesh-and-bone reminder that they are healthy and alive and I haven't through some long absence neglected my offspring.
The second sort of panic comes from constant care for them from sunrise to sunset and then again from midnight to three in the morning. And then again, from sunrise, with forty eight hours more stretched in front of me. My husband works long hours on the weekends, so Saturdays and Sundays my hands are full and my brain cannot disengage. Every waking moment I am responsible for two human lives. Taking a shower and exercising and plucking my eyebrows and spending more than four minutes on the toilet and reading a magazine and cooking a hot healthy meal and having the freedom to drive to the fucking liquor store and back are far off dreams of a time long before and a time that surely will not come again for at least five years.
I've experienced both kinds of panic this week. I've rushed home to crawl into the cage and hold my children and I've mentally bruised and bloodied my fingertips clawing at the iron bars.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Time
When I wasn't on a horse, I spent my teenage years on my twin daybed, gazing through white lace curtains, clutching my flowered blanket and reading books. Time was a long painful thing; I craved events to punctuate the days.
I spend my days now ensuring that my children have uninterrupted time to play and dream and sleep. There are so many small events - so much to do - and I miss those stretches of time I had when I was young.
If only I had five hours. I could finish that short story. If only I had a day to myself. Creativity would pour in, and I'd have something real to write about. I'd tear myself away from HGTV episodes and get down to important work. Really I would.
And I think at 4:00 AM, if only Baby Girl would sleep, then I could sleep. I promise myself the next time she naps, I'll nap. But then The Kid wakes up, and I'd rather be with him than catch up on sleep. In the evening, when Baby Girl conks out at 6:00 PM, I'd rather tuck in The Kid, tell him the exact same three stories we both know by heart, than go to bed.
There's this strange sense of two different times. I look at my three year old, and time has gone by so quickly, and before I know it, he'll be fifteen and sleeping in until noon and would rather take a rusty fork to his eye than give his mom a hug. I look at my two week old, and time passes so slowly, feeding, burping, changing, walking, rocking her. Like her brother, she is happiest when she is being held, so we only put her down to sleep and shower.
And yeah, duh, we all know raising kids goes by in the blink of an eye, and it's the most important work we can do. But I also know that a mother's emotions during the raising of said kids aren't as simple. I know, I KNOW, that I better pay attention now, while they're young, because soon I will crave the affection I'm allowed to give them. At the same exact time, there is a part of me who is detached from motherhood, who wants to work and write and exist independently of the people who need me the most.
I spend my days now ensuring that my children have uninterrupted time to play and dream and sleep. There are so many small events - so much to do - and I miss those stretches of time I had when I was young.
If only I had five hours. I could finish that short story. If only I had a day to myself. Creativity would pour in, and I'd have something real to write about. I'd tear myself away from HGTV episodes and get down to important work. Really I would.
And I think at 4:00 AM, if only Baby Girl would sleep, then I could sleep. I promise myself the next time she naps, I'll nap. But then The Kid wakes up, and I'd rather be with him than catch up on sleep. In the evening, when Baby Girl conks out at 6:00 PM, I'd rather tuck in The Kid, tell him the exact same three stories we both know by heart, than go to bed.
There's this strange sense of two different times. I look at my three year old, and time has gone by so quickly, and before I know it, he'll be fifteen and sleeping in until noon and would rather take a rusty fork to his eye than give his mom a hug. I look at my two week old, and time passes so slowly, feeding, burping, changing, walking, rocking her. Like her brother, she is happiest when she is being held, so we only put her down to sleep and shower.
And yeah, duh, we all know raising kids goes by in the blink of an eye, and it's the most important work we can do. But I also know that a mother's emotions during the raising of said kids aren't as simple. I know, I KNOW, that I better pay attention now, while they're young, because soon I will crave the affection I'm allowed to give them. At the same exact time, there is a part of me who is detached from motherhood, who wants to work and write and exist independently of the people who need me the most.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Heather
After college I volunteered for Big Brothers, Big Sisters in New Jersey. My Little Sister was Heather, 10 years old, and I was chosen to be her Big Sister because I was in shape and could run pretty fast. The case worker said Heather was very active, and had a tendency to run away.
I was living with Mr. Full-of-Himself, aka College Boyfriend (one of these days I'm going to have to make up some good fake names for all my exes). Heather and I played at the park, hung out at the apartment, went to horse shows in the area. Shortly after, College Boyfriend broke up with me, and I moved an hour east. I drove further every weekend to pick Heather up and be with her. I wasn't about to cut off my relationship with her just because my life was in upheaval.
Heather was tiny, very skinny, with light brown hair. I made her ride in the backseat of my car because I was afraid the front seat airbags would hurt her if I ever got into an accident. She would make me tune to the hip hop stations and we'd sing along to Ride Wit' Me by Nelly, hands pumping up in the air: "Hey, must be da money!". Then she'd ask questions:
"Is there a heaven? Is there a hell? What do people have to do to get into heaven?" Heather asked. "What happens when somebody dies? What happens to their bodies?"
Heather's mother had passed away when she was six. Her father told her that her mother was sick in the hospital and was not coming home. "My mom is sick. We can't see her," Heather would say. She did not attend her mother's funeral. I suppose her father thought he was protecting her and her little brother by spinning this story: that her mother was still alive, but unable to see them. I wanted to tell her the truth, that her mother was dead, and that the best thing Heather could do was to discover the kind of woman her mother was when she was alive. But it wasn't my place to tell her. It was her father's.
I would bring Heather to her house after a Saturday of running in the park or drawing with markers or cooking or watching Spongebob Squarepants. Her father would immediately talk to her in a loud, harsh voice: "Heather, did you get into the iodine and make a mess? What are thinking when you do those stupid things? Have you done your homework yet or am I going to have to take away your movies?"
I wanted to back that fucker in a corner, punch him in the face, and when his butt hit the floor, explain to him that when he talks to his daughter like that she feels like she's been punched in the face. But I didn't.
The whole year I spent with Heather, I never once heard her father give her a positive or encouraging word.
Heather's bedroom was small, the walls painted bubble gum pink and her bedspread a lighter princess pink. She had a pink television in her room where she watched videos. Her little brother, about six years old, also had his own television. I got a glimpse of the family evenings one day when I hung out with Heather in her room. She watched her videos alone, her brother watched his alone, and their father sat in the living room, watching T.V.
Heather's father worked on Saturdays, and so I picked her up from her babysitter's house often. There were six children there in a Jersey tract house. It always smelled of cooking, but not of delicious things like weekend French toast or fresh bread, but of onions and cloying boiled meat.
Heather had a wicked sense of humor, and yes, she did run away. But I was fast enough to catch her and creative enough to plan activities so that eventually she stopped trying to run away. I taught her about bugs and how they are not all icky, but actually pretty cool. She soaked up positive encouragement.
I wasn't a perfect Big Sister. I lost my temper with Heather several times, when she would run from me at the park, or when she would refuse to talk to me because she thought I was making up an unfair rule.
After a year I decided to move to California, to be with my new Post-Doc Boyfriend (which didn't work out either). I felt guilty for abandoning Heather. She was used to it though, and treated my departure in a much more casual manner than I could muster. Before I left, she and I created a poster: WHAT I LOVE ABOUT HEATHER. We listed ten wonderful things about her, like how smart she was, how great her sense of humor was and how creative she was.
I hope she found another Big Sister who hung around longer, who recognized that Heather needed praise and love. I hope she still has the poster. She would be 19 years old now. I hope she holds the men in her life to a higher standard, and doesn't find someone who treated her like her father treats her. I hope she believes in herself, and maybe she's in college studying something that really interests her.
I compare my time with her to raising The Kid now. I see how The Kid flourishes under praise, and how discipline is so much easier when you tell a kid what to do, rather than what not to do. I wish all parents would recognize this, especially Heather's father. Last night while I rested my exploding elephant pregnant feet, my husband played with The Kid outside in the sunshine, making up one of his games where a Viking protected the cheese from fire-breathing dragons. The Kid is confident, loved.
Heather, I hope you have found confidence and love, wherever you are.
I was living with Mr. Full-of-Himself, aka College Boyfriend (one of these days I'm going to have to make up some good fake names for all my exes). Heather and I played at the park, hung out at the apartment, went to horse shows in the area. Shortly after, College Boyfriend broke up with me, and I moved an hour east. I drove further every weekend to pick Heather up and be with her. I wasn't about to cut off my relationship with her just because my life was in upheaval.
Heather was tiny, very skinny, with light brown hair. I made her ride in the backseat of my car because I was afraid the front seat airbags would hurt her if I ever got into an accident. She would make me tune to the hip hop stations and we'd sing along to Ride Wit' Me by Nelly, hands pumping up in the air: "Hey, must be da money!". Then she'd ask questions:
"Is there a heaven? Is there a hell? What do people have to do to get into heaven?" Heather asked. "What happens when somebody dies? What happens to their bodies?"
Heather's mother had passed away when she was six. Her father told her that her mother was sick in the hospital and was not coming home. "My mom is sick. We can't see her," Heather would say. She did not attend her mother's funeral. I suppose her father thought he was protecting her and her little brother by spinning this story: that her mother was still alive, but unable to see them. I wanted to tell her the truth, that her mother was dead, and that the best thing Heather could do was to discover the kind of woman her mother was when she was alive. But it wasn't my place to tell her. It was her father's.
I would bring Heather to her house after a Saturday of running in the park or drawing with markers or cooking or watching Spongebob Squarepants. Her father would immediately talk to her in a loud, harsh voice: "Heather, did you get into the iodine and make a mess? What are thinking when you do those stupid things? Have you done your homework yet or am I going to have to take away your movies?"
I wanted to back that fucker in a corner, punch him in the face, and when his butt hit the floor, explain to him that when he talks to his daughter like that she feels like she's been punched in the face. But I didn't.
The whole year I spent with Heather, I never once heard her father give her a positive or encouraging word.
Heather's bedroom was small, the walls painted bubble gum pink and her bedspread a lighter princess pink. She had a pink television in her room where she watched videos. Her little brother, about six years old, also had his own television. I got a glimpse of the family evenings one day when I hung out with Heather in her room. She watched her videos alone, her brother watched his alone, and their father sat in the living room, watching T.V.
Heather's father worked on Saturdays, and so I picked her up from her babysitter's house often. There were six children there in a Jersey tract house. It always smelled of cooking, but not of delicious things like weekend French toast or fresh bread, but of onions and cloying boiled meat.
Heather had a wicked sense of humor, and yes, she did run away. But I was fast enough to catch her and creative enough to plan activities so that eventually she stopped trying to run away. I taught her about bugs and how they are not all icky, but actually pretty cool. She soaked up positive encouragement.
I wasn't a perfect Big Sister. I lost my temper with Heather several times, when she would run from me at the park, or when she would refuse to talk to me because she thought I was making up an unfair rule.
After a year I decided to move to California, to be with my new Post-Doc Boyfriend (which didn't work out either). I felt guilty for abandoning Heather. She was used to it though, and treated my departure in a much more casual manner than I could muster. Before I left, she and I created a poster: WHAT I LOVE ABOUT HEATHER. We listed ten wonderful things about her, like how smart she was, how great her sense of humor was and how creative she was.
I hope she found another Big Sister who hung around longer, who recognized that Heather needed praise and love. I hope she still has the poster. She would be 19 years old now. I hope she holds the men in her life to a higher standard, and doesn't find someone who treated her like her father treats her. I hope she believes in herself, and maybe she's in college studying something that really interests her.
I compare my time with her to raising The Kid now. I see how The Kid flourishes under praise, and how discipline is so much easier when you tell a kid what to do, rather than what not to do. I wish all parents would recognize this, especially Heather's father. Last night while I rested my exploding elephant pregnant feet, my husband played with The Kid outside in the sunshine, making up one of his games where a Viking protected the cheese from fire-breathing dragons. The Kid is confident, loved.
Heather, I hope you have found confidence and love, wherever you are.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Little Spirit
Ultrasound machines put out a whooosh whoosh sound, fill the whole room with underwater noises.
I closed my eyes to hear the heartbeat. I heard whoosh and felt movement and heard tiny crashes amidst the din of the whoosh.
No heartbeat. All the motion and pressure amplified on my belly and in my ears.
The doctor said the baby was moving fast, moving away from the ultrasound monitor. My eyes closed, wet noises surrounded me, I laughed and heard the belly laughter amplified in the room. Tried not to laugh. Tried to let the doc pin the kid down.
Finally, a fast poundpoundpoundpoundthumpthumpthumpthump. A regular heartbeat coming from a cave.
Baby, I thought, You are gonna be one strong kid. Your ma hasn't even thought very much about you for the past four months, and yet here you are, playing with the doctor, doing somersaults. Letting me know you're there, enjoying your time in the spotlight.
I closed my eyes to hear the heartbeat. I heard whoosh and felt movement and heard tiny crashes amidst the din of the whoosh.
No heartbeat. All the motion and pressure amplified on my belly and in my ears.
The doctor said the baby was moving fast, moving away from the ultrasound monitor. My eyes closed, wet noises surrounded me, I laughed and heard the belly laughter amplified in the room. Tried not to laugh. Tried to let the doc pin the kid down.
Finally, a fast poundpoundpoundpoundthumpthumpthumpthump. A regular heartbeat coming from a cave.
Baby, I thought, You are gonna be one strong kid. Your ma hasn't even thought very much about you for the past four months, and yet here you are, playing with the doctor, doing somersaults. Letting me know you're there, enjoying your time in the spotlight.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Fights at School
On a side note: Your Pickle Paks are poorly made, Mt. Olive. It took me 42 seconds to open one. Way too long for a pregnant lady to wait.
So my three year old son got bitten today at daycare. This is a common occurrence. He gets into fights and the kids bite him. Note, he does not bite any other kids. But I can just picture him pushing and shoving and grabbing a toy. This fight was over who would be first in line.
I have mixed feelings. I'm proud of his assertiveness. I'm like "You go, boy, get some!" Then on the other hand, I would like for him to share, play nice, let other kids have the first spot in line every once in a while, even though he is way better than they are.
And I can't really ask him, "Now, son, did you get in a fight at school today?" Because he would say, "Don't put water in my juice, mom." And I would say, "I always water down your juice." And he would say, "No water in my juice."
And we'd be on to another conversation, proving that the males of our species learn at a very young age to change the subject.
So my three year old son got bitten today at daycare. This is a common occurrence. He gets into fights and the kids bite him. Note, he does not bite any other kids. But I can just picture him pushing and shoving and grabbing a toy. This fight was over who would be first in line.
I have mixed feelings. I'm proud of his assertiveness. I'm like "You go, boy, get some!" Then on the other hand, I would like for him to share, play nice, let other kids have the first spot in line every once in a while, even though he is way better than they are.
And I can't really ask him, "Now, son, did you get in a fight at school today?" Because he would say, "Don't put water in my juice, mom." And I would say, "I always water down your juice." And he would say, "No water in my juice."
And we'd be on to another conversation, proving that the males of our species learn at a very young age to change the subject.
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