Monday

The
day
start
s
like
ketch
up
fall
ing
out
of
a
glass
bot
tle
and
it
woul
d
stay
that
way
but
i’
m
not alone
reading want ads
i’m wearing a wig and an eye patch
as I sword fight with a fifteen month old
and stand all day,
at the other end of the stream of consciousness that comes
uninterrupted out of the mouth of an almost four year old
and by the end of the day
i feel like a leftover fry
red, soggy, and left behind
waiting to see whether
my fate is
the trash can
the garbage
disposal
or the
com
po
st
bi
n

Five After Four p.m.

If I didn’t have children I would be
Indisposed
But I have children
And only one is asleep
The other is moving slowly away from me
Crying and
Crawling backwards
He wanted me to hold him and
When I didn’t
He began to do his best crab impression
Turning red and backing away
The further he gets away
The more I began to think I am witnessing
An exorcism or a scene out of poltergeist
As he is pulled into the kitchen and out of sight
The whole thing is really beginning to freak me out
Then I hear laughter and see the cat’s water dish splash into view
I give one last hopeful wipe and
Follow the trail and
The peals of laughter
Steeling myself not to join in
Knowing it’s too late
I do have children

Forty After Two p.m.

Only the crackle of the monitors fills the air
Finally
After almost nine hours
All is still
More or less
The occasional grunt, moan, or shriek is the noise that proves the silence
Occasionally it is so quiet
That I forget and
I relax
Allowing everything else to melt into the static

Twelve Fifteen p.m.

A hot day in May
Small hand on tray scatters lunch
Blueberry under foot

Eleven Thirty a.m.

It is eleven thirty
In fifteen minutes my assistant and I have to be at
Preschool
To pick up my assistant’s sister
If we were at home
We would have to leave
We aren’t at home though
We are at the thrift shop
My assistant and I go to the thrift shop once a week
Things have gotten so bad financially
That it is the only place I can afford to
Window shop
But I can’t afford to spend too much time there
Because my assistant, old coffee mugs, thirty year old Christmas decorations, and
Senior citizens
Can only co-exist so long before
Something gets broken
Or someone invades my personal space
So I never budget much time for the thrift shop
Which is why I frequently find myself in the situation in which I find myself now
Standing in the thrift shop parking lot
At eleven thirty
Wondering if it is worth it
To risk being late
For a ten percent chance of buying a ceramic elephant
Or a grab bag of toddler clothes

Ten Thirty a.m.

Just two steps
Two small steps
If you’re six feet tall
Two big steps if you’re two feet tall, but
He is completely unfazed
The smile comes out when he reaches the top
Even though his knees are slightly bent and
Both hands are firmly pressed against the wall and
His body language would indicate that
He is poised on the edge of a cliff as
He painstakingly turns himself to face out into open carpet
It makes me think of the guy who walked from one
World Trade Center tower to the other
That guy was French
My son isn’t French, and although
He doesn’t speak English, and
He betrays more than a hint of attitude as
He seeks eye contact with me
Right before he walks off the edge,
He’s not seeking to avoid a collision with the ground, but
Falls face first onto the carpet
Convulsing with laughter

Eight Fifty Six a.m.

Shit
We’ve got to go
Now
And his diaper is full of shit
Shit number two of the morning

He always has two
Or at least as of today
He always has two

There is no such thing as always
Without qualifiers
At least
Not any more

Nothing is without qualifiers anymore
Starting with the phrase
We are ready to go

We were ready to go
As long as no one had a poop in his diaper

Two pairs of shoes were on
Two jackets were on
Beverages were in hand or in the car or both
The book bag was in the car
Dolly was in hand
No one was screaming and
We were all on our way down the stairs to the car

We were going to make it to pre-school for the daily drop off on time for once
As long as someone had no shit in their diaper

Shit 

Seven Thirty a.m.

Most mornings
It feels as if we are a football team
Platooning quarterbacks
And anybody who knows football
Knows that platooning quarterbacks is a bad idea
You use two quarterbacks only if you don’t really have one
And even then it is a mistake

It certainly isn’t always like that
Sometimes we work together
Like a good doubles team
Maybe the Bryan brothers

Other times we’re the Detroit Red Wings under Scotty Bowman
Executing stunning shift changes

I’m not a baseball fan
But someone who could stomach watching a whole game
Could even watch us during certain moments
And find himself remembering the handoff between
A setup man and a closer
Maybe Jeff Nelson and Mariano Rivera
And if baseball is your thing
Please picture me as Mariano

My image of choice
If I was me focused
Would be a White Chocolate pass off of his elbow
To whomever
But I’m a team man
So I aspire for the two of us to be Isaiah and Joe D.
And despite the whole Knicks mess
I still want to be Zeke

At 7:30 on most weekday mornings
I fall pretty far short of Zeke
Even the one that is now coaching at Florida International
I think it is safe to say
We often fall short of all of our aspirations

She is almost always yet to leave for work
Filling up coffee mugs
And locating car keys
Amidst a deluge of cheerios
And tears
Which unlike the cheerios
Could be coming from anyone and anywhere

Sometimes everyone wants to say goodbye
At once
In loud voices
At the open door
Or even in the driveway

And sometimes no one wants to say goodbye
Which could mean lots of screaming and pleading
Or could mean that I am fighting to keep everyone within sight and off of the stairs
And off of the table
And off of the cat
And off of each other

And when it is like that
It isn’t clear who is calling the plays
And doesn’t really matter most of the time
Since we are stuck in another winning strategy
The prevent defense

Six a.m.

“Why are there
So many
Songs about rainbows …

It’s five three five …

My babies are all here
Sarah
If you want to go to Bubble-top’s house
You have to ask your daddy
He’s with baggy right now …

It’s five three nine …

Que Tiempo
Que Tiempo
What’s the weather like today
Is it snowing
Is it raining
Is it baining
Staining
Laining
Maining
Goofy oofy spoofy …

It’s five four three …

Hi Grandma
It’s good to talk to you too
I’m asleep right now
Are you asleep
I went to the beach with Daddy and Wyeth
There were no bathrooms
So we drove to a dirty one
And ate at Burger King
Wyeth spit out a nugget when he fell out of his chair
He had sand everywhere …

It’s five four eight …

La la la
La la la la la la la
La la la
La la la la la la la
La la la la la
I am a poor boy
I have a story told
I made some excuses
And some mumbles
La la la …

It’s five five one …

Mary had a little lamb
Her fleece was pink as pinky pink pink …

It’s five five four …

I see your true colors
Shining through
I see your true colors
And that’s why I love you …

Daddy it’s six
Daddy it’s six
Time to get up
It’s six Daddy
Daddy it’s six!
It’s six!!
It’s six!!!
Six!!!!
Daddy it’s six!!!!!
Daddy!!!!!!” 

Shhhhhhh

Now that he says “poopoo”
We’re clearly in double digits for words
And
Since he says it while exhibiting a textbook stinky face,
Perhaps even a board book stinky face,
We’ve also witnessed our first completely summed up event
And
While it is true that a scrunched up face and the word “poopoo” don’t do it justice
I’m willing to cut him some slack
Since
I’ll have plenty of time to tell him all about how much stinkier his poops were than his sisters
Or
Than any other poop I’ve ever run across
And
If I wait long enough
I will be able to use words that more accurately describe the experience
And
So will he

Routine

She rarely says more than
“dad, read”
The volume varies
As does the tone
And the frequency
But every time I fall asleep
As I am reading her stories before nap
She wakes me up
With some variation of
“dad, read”
And I do
Whether I’m falling asleep in the midst of reading a short book
Or a long one
Whether I am forcing my eyes to stay open in the rocking chair
Where we always read the first two stories
Or in the bed where we read the other three
And regardless of what mess
Wyeth is making
Although when he melts down I am allowed to put him to sleep
But I always resume exactly where I left off
And I never leave when I melt down
At least not for more than a minute
And never sleep more than a few seconds
And never start reading before I know which stuffed animals and dollies are in the bed
And which aren’t
If there is no Blue Baa Baa
Or no Baggy
There will be no nap
And if there are no stories
Neither one of us will be good company at dinner
So when she says “dad read”
I read

Easter Poem

This Easter I’m ready to move beyond Jesus

This year at 10:00
We had
Several dozen plastic Easter eggs
Two sets of bunny ears
Two hand woven pastel baskets
Raisins
Chocolate Cheerios
Fruity Cheerios
Gerber Graduates banana puffs
A few strips of grass untouched by the backhoe that dug up our backyard last fall
A sunny Sunday morning
Temperatures in the mid to high 60s
One video camera
One old digital camera
Two children
Lots of squealing and screaming
And only a few scrapes

It was pretty profound, involved little dressing up on my part, was easily captured for posterity, and no one mentioned sin or evil

And did I mention the bunny ears?

Words and Lyrics

From day one, my father read poetry to me. He read some standard, or at least fairly standard, selections, like some of the Eliot's Cat Poems (specifically: Growltiger's Last Stand, Mr. Mistoffelees, Macavity: The Mystery Cat, and
Skimbleshanks: The Railway Cat). He also read The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, William Blake's Tyger, Randall Jarell's Death of the Ball Turret Gunner, and Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night. These were not really standard selections. Not many four year olds go around saying "In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo."

Initially I followed in my father's footsteps. I read Prufrock, among others, to Seren. But after the first year, I got away from poetry and, despite an uninspiring singing voice, turned to music to share some of my favorite lines and rhymes with my children. I am still staying true to my father's example, however. As of a month ago, my repertoire included: The Star Spangled Banner (it is admittedly a little hard to listen to me sing this if you are old enough to know better), This Land is Your Land (it should be the National Anthem), Amazing Grace, We Shall Overcome, Henry VIII (you just have to love Herman's Hermits), Janice's Mercedes Benz (my parents never sang this to me, but they played it all the time), This Land is Your Land, Yesterday, New York-New York, The Boxer, and Running To Stand Still (Challenging, but I do manage to pull it off from time to time).

Recently I have added two songs to the repertoire: Poison - Every Rose has its Thorns and Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah (I try to come as close to Jeff Buckley's version as I can). Last week Seren told me that she had been singing both songs for her teachers at her pre-school. I winced a little when she told me, because I'm not sure I want her pegged as the progeny of hair band aficionados, especially when we are already occupying the bottom income rung amongst the parent's at this school. When I began to relate this story to my mother in law, she winced and immediately asked about the lyrics. She winced again when she heard a few seconds of Hallelujah. I think she thought he was saying "she tied you to her kitchen chair, she broke your throat (rather than throne) and she cut your hair," but I'm not sure her opinion would be much different if she understood the lyrics. And if she knew Seren could sing a song about Heroin abuse almost by herself?

This has led me, again, to question my decisions and my motives here. I love the songs and I love singing them for her. Some of them deal with complex issues, but so what? There is still room for Row Row Row Your Boat. And when we read Prufrock in High School, I was a leg up and happy as hell. It was so awesome to not only recognize a poem read in class that most others did not, but to have the lines just appearing from the back of my brain. And Running to Stand Still is my favorite song of all time. Plus, these songs are something I have shared with Seren (a memory that is just ours). So, I'm not really questioning myself. I don't now exactly what I'm doing ... but this time, I think I am OK with that.

I'm in the poetry mood

Daughter

She is like the winter wind
Always poking and probing
For a weakness
A way in

And she is now afraid of the wind
Ever since it blew her plastic fire helmet off her head and
The stack of books off the roof of the car
In one day

It is still fall
But despite the occasional seventy degree day
Winter is on its way

With branches delicately painted white
A blanket covering the ground
And the threat of black fingers and toes hanging heavily in the air

I don't want to go to jail

"I don't want to go to jail."

I suppose whether those are good words to hear out of your child's mouth depends heavily on the circumstances. Spoken by your twenty year old over the phone at one in the morning ... not so good. Spoken by your three year old daughter during a break in 'doll house' play ... pretty good. Spoken flatly by a fourteen year old at dinner whilst eating Brussel sprouts ... now we are firmly mid-continuum.

This morning the middle scenario happened to me. Occasionally we speak about jail. For some reason I mentioned to her that people who don't wear their seat belts end up in jail (I don't always have the best judgement when it comes to the sharing of information ... I showed Seren clips of the World Trade Center attacks on YouTube, and was fielding questions about planes attacking our car for several days, not to mention my wife's quite justified anger and bewilderment).

Since jail entered our world, a whole series of imaginary characters, include strawberry and snoozy the invisible elephants, have had to be bailed out of jail. Strawberry has a convertible of some sort, and is a repeat offender. Our doll house people often end up in jail, usually at the hands of some sinister stuffed animal, like Curious George or Swiss Dog.

Today, completely out of the blue, came the jail comment, followed, as such comments almost always are, by an explanation. It turns out there aren't many toys in jail, and it's not like home. I liked her reasoning. It works for everybody at any point in there lives. We all have toys and we all have a 'home', whether or not we are always or ever there. I am sure if scenarios one or three ever arise she will have equally astute wisdom to share ... whether or not it will be as easy to appreciate is another question altogether.

A Thought

As befits the exciting, swashbuckling, and fancy free pretty boy that I am, I was up after Midnight ... researching car seats. Wyeth has come to his last days in the infant car seat. Seren has a little longer in her seat, but not too much longer. I'm Scottish. So, in order to spend as little money as possible I am trying to ascertain the cheapest possible way to meet the car seat needs that the next seven or so years will bring. I was intrigued that some booster seats claimed to seat and protect kids who were 30lbs and up. This seemed to be a cost saving measure.

First I determined that it was legal. I was in the middle of trying to determine whether it was advisable, when I happened across http://carseatnanny.blogspot.com/. The car seat nanny says that kids should ride rear facing until their 25 (slight exaggeration) and says no to the booster seat until the child leaves for college (another exaggeration). She backs up her booster seat claims with links to frightening you tube videos posted by parents whose children died in automobile accidents because they were in inappropriate car seats. I don't what she was trying to do with these cheap scare tactics, but I think it worked. Now I wouldn't buy a booster seat for Seren even if they included stock options.

And I almost came close to crying. Just the thought of anything happening to Seren or Wyeth sends me into panic. Just imagining the size of that void was enough to, eventually, make me see that I have a lot of reasons to feel happy. Not thankful ... or not just thankful ... happy. It seems logical ... at least to me. If losing someone or something would devastate you, then that person or thing must make you at least a little happy. It's far from rocket science, but it's a great thought.

Tonight I am up late filling every tub and sink in the house up to the top with water, in order to be able to drain them all, more or less, simultaneously, with the hopes of adding a few more months (years?!?!) to the life of the pipes that connect our house to the main sewer line. Who knows what great thoughts I will stumble across tonight.

Substitution

Seren's Dad needs a break from blogging ... already. Kind of lame, if you ask me, but what do I know, I'm just wood, string, and wire. I have a family of my own, though, so he thought I was qualified enough to write in his blog. I am sure he is right, but who wouldn't be?

I would introduce myself, but I don't know what my name is today. Usually I'm just "Your Dad." But, if you stop by and visit, you might have to call me Joe, Apple Face, Paperclip in Your Head, or Smunchy. Sometimes I am on my own. Sometimes I live with my wife and/or one or both of our kids. There are days when I am napping with my in-laws (Grammy and Poppy). Sometimes I hang out with another family of four and their grandparents (grandma and grandad). And then there are the 'chosen four.' They are Seren's family, and they let you know it. So what if they arrived first, and we came last. Maybe the best was saved for last. The best is definitely saved for last when all of us have to sleep in the doll house living room. Chosen one or not, that man's breath is kickin! I almost prefer it when they get put up on the third floor with the big bed.

I'm actually glad that Seren's Dad asked me to do this. The last few days have been pretty dull. My family and I have been left to our own devices in the house. Seren has played upstairs in her room with the third family. I am happy for them, they often get the short end of the stick. At least we are Seren's Dad's family. Unfortunately the 'special' people are in here with us. It was nice to see them get passed over, but to have to be down here with them for days ...

I'm being petty. They aren't that bad. We all watched television together today, and that was kind of fun. And the kids have enjoyed having friends around, and have especially enjoyed the down time. Last week our daughter broke her other leg. They both just flop around now. So it is hard on her when she has to get in and out of the Blazer, dance, stick her head in a giant candle holder, be run over by a tiny school bus, squeeze into the General Lee, and get attacked by the monster. And it's hard on her mother and I because we have to carry her everywhere. So, it's been great to have the time to rest. A little cleaning, a little television, and a lot of laying around in a pile. If we get pulled back into the fray tomorrow, maybe I'll have something new to share. If not, well, even then it can't be worse than having to read what Sam has to write.

Turning on the Charm

Today the kids and why watched Curious George. Curious George is a favorite. Seren and I used to watch Curious George during snack, when I was home with just her. She has lots of Curious George books, a stuffed George, and had a Curious George cake for her 3rd birthday (or at least she had a cake that was supposed to look like Curious George).

In general, our family doesn't watch very much television. We didn't watch much television even before Comcast began charging us more money for a selection of channels that, over the course of a few weeks, gradually shrunk to next to nothing. The kids watch less than half an hour in the morning during Wyeth's snack and/or during hair brushing. Throw in half an hour for mom and dad at night and a couple of You Tube videos and the rare sporting event, and you just about have all of it.

Until recently, Seren didn't even want to watch it. You could turn it on, and she would play and ignore it. Even now she would rather play 'doll house.' We play a ot of 'doll house,' but that is a subject for another blog. She does like watching it, though, and gets involved in it. She alternates between glassy eyed stares and conversation with the characters.

This morning, Mommy turned it on to facilitate hair brushing. She turned it on at 8:00, right at the beginning of Curious George. When the hair was brushed, and it was time to say goodbye to Mommy, I indicated that there would only be a few more minutes of television. She protested, and we went back and forth, which gave Seren an opportunity to show off the stubbornness that I have passed on to her. Then I sat down on the couch next to her and told her that she only had a few minutes and it wasn't a debate, in hopes of settling things down so we could focus on goodbyes and then getting ready for school. She sat next to me, and held my arm, resting up against my shoulder. She was so cute, that I just sat there until Curious George ended. Later we went upstairs, and Mommy called to check in. I told her that Seren had held my hand for the whole show, and Seren looked up at me and said, with a huge smile on her face, "I didn't want you to turn the TV off."

What else is there to say?

Looking Back

I wrote this poem just before Megan became pregnant with Wyeth. Maybe I should change the title to "Inkling" or "Precursor" or "Soon Enough"


Nothing

It isn’t
No blood, no drama, no death
It just isn’t
And no one will ever know it could have been
No one but the two of us
Maybe Seren knew too
Whenever I asked her whether she wanted a brother,
She said simply “noooohhwa”
And when I asked her whether she wanted a sister
Another “noooohhwa”

If it was planned, we’d only be off till next month
But it wasn’t
At least not yet

It didn’t even make it to blue, or two lines, or whatever
For ten days, though, it was on the agenda
And it was a lot of things besides

It was a boy with a name,
And a girl with at least a dozen different names
It was no wine, no brie, and no allergy meds
It was the birthday gift I couldn’t buy my wife
And in nine months it would have been the birthday gift she couldn’t buy me
It would have been our birthday gifts for some time to come
It was what we wanted
And what we didn’t

When I asked Seren whether she wanted to be an only child
Without pause or indecision
She answered “nooooohhwa”
So it may just be delayed

Jello and Older Friends

I wanted to call this post Jello and Old People, but I am trying very hard to retrain and restrain myself. I call them old people way too much, and one day Seren is going to call them old people in front of their faces. For the record, Mom ... I'm not talking about you and dad. :)

Every Tuesday Seren, Wyeth, and I visit a "small assisted living center." I say every Tuesday as if it is a regular and established occurrence, but nothing in our lives is regular and established. Our second visit was today. And, for the record, it's a nursing home. Actually I try not to call it a nursing home, because, as I mentioned, Seren is coming with me. I don't think there is anything wrong with calling it a nursing home, but I digress.

The three of us visit with about ten of the residents. We sit on the floor in the middle of a circle of chairs and couches. The first time I felt as if I was heading up some sort of family of traveling performers. Kind of a white Jackson Five minus three, or the Carter Family without melody, harmony, or talent. We sang, danced, and crawled around. I don't think the Carter Family crawled around.

This week was more interactive. There were still performances (Wyeth took quite a few steps in a row, Seren sang a song about fire, and I demonstrated my hair brushing prowess, which, although mostly a mirage, was quite impressive to our older female friends), but Seren also 'helped' our older friends put together her puzzles. The cutest moment came when she walked over to the only man in the group, and started taking the puzzle apart on his lap. Then she sang You Are My Sunshine to him as they worked together to put the puzzle together.

In all seriousness, I think this is a great thing for all of us. Seren asked me when we were going back, and had a whole list of things she wanted to share with her "older friends." Wyeth took more steps than he ever had, and was soaking up the attention. The residents remembered us, even the woman that usually repeats the same question over and over again. Today, not a single question was asked more than twice.

I am excited about the good start this little venture is off to, so we celebrated with Jello Jigglers. Jello with fruit floating in it, or even Aspic, might have been more appropriate. This is an intergenerational experience, however, so maybe Jigglers were the perfect celebratory dish.