630am Wake up. Pull out treadmill. Grind coffee. Check on sleeping child.
6:45am Open treadmill. Pour coffee. Check on sleeping child.
6:50am Get on treadmill. Hearing sleeping child waking. Get off treadmill. Check on sleeping child- who is in fact just dreaming loudly.
6:55am Drink coffee. Watch the weather. Get on treadmill.
6:59am Hear sleeping child waking. Check on sleeping child who is in fact dreaming loudly. Again. Get on treadmill.
7:06am Repeat.
7:15am Repeat.
7:30am Say, "forget it." Drink more coffee. Watch weather on another channel. Close treadmill. Put treadmill away.
7:40am Check on loudly dreaming child. Get in shower.
8:00am Check on child who seems to be neither waking or sleeping. Get dressed. Drink more coffee. Contemplate how to get that child out of bed and leave the house in 30 minutes.
8:10am Try to wake child. Fail. Make child oatmeal. Try to wake him again. Fail.
8:30am Eat some of childs oatmeal. Try to wake him again. Fail. Eat more of childs oatmeal.
8:37am Try to wake child again. Succeed despite his yelling at me about wanting to sleep.
8:40am Dress grouchy child. Put him at the table and feed him. Read devotions. He cheers up.
8:50am Start car. Come in the house to find oatmeal in childs hair, on his clothes, in the ible... Yes, the ible. *sigh.*
8:52am Clean up oatmeal. Redress child. Put childs shoes and coat on. Start walking out the door as the child insists on using the potty.
8:54am Take off childs hat and coat. Put him on the potty. Read the potty book.
8:56am Read the potty book again.
8:58am Repeat.
9:00am Clean up the potty and cheer wildly despite frustrations over the time. Give him potty chart sticker.
9:09am Put childs hat and coat on. Walk out the door.
9:15am Drive towards childs school. Take him inside.
9:22am Suppress guilt over child begging me to stay and play. Convince him he will have much fun with his friends today.
9:45am Get back in car and drive towards work. Text boss, "Late."
9:47am Receive text from boss, " The potty again?"
10:15am Vogue to send child to bed earlier tonight. Tomorrow...repeat.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Blog FAIL
So the last few months I will, to be honest, say that I have been fairly lazy in my blog updates. Looking back over 2009, where the year went amazes me. Popeye has grown leaps and bounds since that last post and the fact that we daily have full conversations as he is speaking FULL sentences exhausts and prides me.
Considering the timing of this post I suppose it would be fitting to consider all that Popeye and I have to be thankful for. My sons ever growing vocabulary, surely. My new ability to be patient- one that I never knew I had (I don't have to weigh in my driving skills under that, do I? I may lose some points there). Our apartment that we adore and landlords that live downstairs who are full of conversation, hearty eats and laughter- that I am more than grateful for.
One thing that I am exuberantly thankful for this Thanksgiving is how good God is. When I was full belly with Popeye two years ago as of this date I would never imagine he and I would have accomplished so much by now. I made promises to God daily; twice daily; thrice daily; that if He would take the lead then I would follow and trust Him. In return I would do everything I could to raise a child who sought out Gods plan for his own life. I promised that over and over, and the day that I met Harrison I promised it again.
What exactly my end of the promise entailed, I dont think I quite wrapped my mind around. Then again, when you tell yourself what kind of parent you will be I dont think anyone really wraps their mind around what the blueprint looks like. The weight of that promise has been with me more often these days. I don't think I had or even have an idea now the amount of responsbility that goes into approaching such a sensitive topic as Gods Being in our lives. I think often that if I approach the topic with an insensitivity the idea of God can be scary to a child. If I take the idea of a relationship with God lightly then Harrison may follow suit and take his own relationship with God lightly. Recognizing God in each of our individual lives is just that- it is individual, and what I want so much for Popeye to recognize is that while I can provide him with the tools for his relationship with God he must start a process of seeking God in his own heart.
As Harrisons vocabulary expands and he begins asking more questions about his world it has been an exciting opportunity for me to make fuller gains on keeping my end of that covenant with God. Reading the books about Noahs Ark and Baby Jesus, being sure Harrison understands that some books we read our tales and other are true lessons that God has given us.
God continues to be good to us, with different kinds of blessings, and our own lessons and stories of life to grow from. I have learned so much in the last two years that asking God to take the lead doesnt mean that things will come easily or without harboring a struggle. It is an ongoing conversation with God of why, how, where and when. I feel the dynamics of that struggle while difficult for every parent is different too for the single parent. While a single parent home trying to keep a covenant with God isn't always ideal, God has blessed Popeye and I with this wonderful relationship. We are able to meet eye and eye and use our powerful two man team dynamics to explore some amazing worldview together. I would say that Popeye and I have a lot to be grateful for.
Considering the timing of this post I suppose it would be fitting to consider all that Popeye and I have to be thankful for. My sons ever growing vocabulary, surely. My new ability to be patient- one that I never knew I had (I don't have to weigh in my driving skills under that, do I? I may lose some points there). Our apartment that we adore and landlords that live downstairs who are full of conversation, hearty eats and laughter- that I am more than grateful for.
One thing that I am exuberantly thankful for this Thanksgiving is how good God is. When I was full belly with Popeye two years ago as of this date I would never imagine he and I would have accomplished so much by now. I made promises to God daily; twice daily; thrice daily; that if He would take the lead then I would follow and trust Him. In return I would do everything I could to raise a child who sought out Gods plan for his own life. I promised that over and over, and the day that I met Harrison I promised it again.
What exactly my end of the promise entailed, I dont think I quite wrapped my mind around. Then again, when you tell yourself what kind of parent you will be I dont think anyone really wraps their mind around what the blueprint looks like. The weight of that promise has been with me more often these days. I don't think I had or even have an idea now the amount of responsbility that goes into approaching such a sensitive topic as Gods Being in our lives. I think often that if I approach the topic with an insensitivity the idea of God can be scary to a child. If I take the idea of a relationship with God lightly then Harrison may follow suit and take his own relationship with God lightly. Recognizing God in each of our individual lives is just that- it is individual, and what I want so much for Popeye to recognize is that while I can provide him with the tools for his relationship with God he must start a process of seeking God in his own heart.
As Harrisons vocabulary expands and he begins asking more questions about his world it has been an exciting opportunity for me to make fuller gains on keeping my end of that covenant with God. Reading the books about Noahs Ark and Baby Jesus, being sure Harrison understands that some books we read our tales and other are true lessons that God has given us.
God continues to be good to us, with different kinds of blessings, and our own lessons and stories of life to grow from. I have learned so much in the last two years that asking God to take the lead doesnt mean that things will come easily or without harboring a struggle. It is an ongoing conversation with God of why, how, where and when. I feel the dynamics of that struggle while difficult for every parent is different too for the single parent. While a single parent home trying to keep a covenant with God isn't always ideal, God has blessed Popeye and I with this wonderful relationship. We are able to meet eye and eye and use our powerful two man team dynamics to explore some amazing worldview together. I would say that Popeye and I have a lot to be grateful for.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
The Power of Words
Communication. It's incredible how much we take for granted in our ability to organize thoughts and explain to each other exactly what it is that we want. To be able to do it well is an even greater gift. But to learn how to do it... well, many challenges lie in that exploration.
In the last few months as Popeye has began to show me with actions more and more of what he wants it has been an interesting exploration for us both. His frustration, for example, when I give him milk instead of water, is more then enough to make us both scream- particularly some days at 7am as I wait for my caffeine to perkilate.
But in the last few weeks he has suddenly grasped the beauty of articulation in two forms- the first via short signs that I have taught him based from ASL sign language. For example, he will use one finger to point to the inside of his palm on the opposite hand for cookie. Ironically enough, now that he has figured out exactly what cookie is that sign that sign reveals itself on a daily basis so much more then others.
The second way he is finding that he can express himself is through the joy of verbal exchange. The joy I felt when I first heard, "momma" roll off those pink lips- and even more so when he realized who exactly momma is. Okay, so I won't lie, he still signs cookie more then he says momma, but at least he says it. And as we continue to connect short signs with verbal sounds his frustrating ear ringing screams and slamming fists is ever so slightly diminishing as his demands (mostly for cookies) is expanding.
Last week as the lights in the apartment came on, and the light of the weak February sun faded, we went about our typical bedtime routine. Cuddled into fuzzy pajamas with slick white feet, Popeye romped about the living room, crawling through tunnels of well-designed couch cushion architecture. Stopping suddenly with great seriousness he pointed to his mouth. "Eat." Then with a smirk he signed, of all things, "cookie." I smiled back and suggested, "banana?" exhibiting with the ASL sign for banana. Popeye nodded his head in agreement as I retrieved his bright yellow treat from the kitchen.
We secured ourselves in a corner of the couch as I repeated, "banana." With great confidence and intrigue he responded, "Nana!" This having been the first time he identified the object verbally I clapped and cheered his success. For the next 20 minutes we continued with "nana!" as he gobbled his bedtime snack, played for a bit longer and then I began the bedtime story portion of our evening routine. It was a quiet night as he followed along and finally I laid him in his crib, wished him a goodnight, and turned out the light.
Typically he can put himself to sleep with no trouble; however, on a night when he feels he has had great success in learning and exhibiting a new skill there is often a fight. Fight may be too gentle of a word here... it is with the gnashing of teeth and blood curdling howls he will demand your recoil. Struggling, I usually fight my urge to rebound. It is my instinct to want to cuddle him to sleep- which has been typically a mistake unless I wish to spend 3 hours or more in that nursery chair- his hypersensitivity to my departure then heightened.
This evening I listen to the silence in his room for a few moments... one minute passes, two, three... Deciding that perhaps his playtime adventures may have exhausted him tonight, I retire to the kitchen to clean up the remnants of dinner spattered on the walls, the floor and considering his good aim that night- the fridge door. Scrubbing spinach off the wall I suddenly hear his small voice calling out. Except it isn't an angry cry or a cross bedtime appeal. I stand invisibly next to his door trying to make out what it is he is saying. Peeking in I can see him standing up, head cocked back as far as his neck will allow, one hand out stretched to the sky, he is groaning with frustration, "nanaaaa.... nana!!! Nanaaaaaa"
Is he crying out to banana's? As if making a decree to the god of the banana's to rescue him from this horrible crib fate for the night? Peeking around the shadow of his door I can see he is doing the ASL sign for banana as he continues to proclaim assistance from banana heavens. It didn't seem right to laugh considering he was quite displeased, but- to the bananas?
It's one of those stories you hope your mother doesn't tell your future soulmate over pasta in 27 years.
In the last few months as Popeye has began to show me with actions more and more of what he wants it has been an interesting exploration for us both. His frustration, for example, when I give him milk instead of water, is more then enough to make us both scream- particularly some days at 7am as I wait for my caffeine to perkilate.
But in the last few weeks he has suddenly grasped the beauty of articulation in two forms- the first via short signs that I have taught him based from ASL sign language. For example, he will use one finger to point to the inside of his palm on the opposite hand for cookie. Ironically enough, now that he has figured out exactly what cookie is that sign that sign reveals itself on a daily basis so much more then others.
The second way he is finding that he can express himself is through the joy of verbal exchange. The joy I felt when I first heard, "momma" roll off those pink lips- and even more so when he realized who exactly momma is. Okay, so I won't lie, he still signs cookie more then he says momma, but at least he says it. And as we continue to connect short signs with verbal sounds his frustrating ear ringing screams and slamming fists is ever so slightly diminishing as his demands (mostly for cookies) is expanding.
Last week as the lights in the apartment came on, and the light of the weak February sun faded, we went about our typical bedtime routine. Cuddled into fuzzy pajamas with slick white feet, Popeye romped about the living room, crawling through tunnels of well-designed couch cushion architecture. Stopping suddenly with great seriousness he pointed to his mouth. "Eat." Then with a smirk he signed, of all things, "cookie." I smiled back and suggested, "banana?" exhibiting with the ASL sign for banana. Popeye nodded his head in agreement as I retrieved his bright yellow treat from the kitchen.
We secured ourselves in a corner of the couch as I repeated, "banana." With great confidence and intrigue he responded, "Nana!" This having been the first time he identified the object verbally I clapped and cheered his success. For the next 20 minutes we continued with "nana!" as he gobbled his bedtime snack, played for a bit longer and then I began the bedtime story portion of our evening routine. It was a quiet night as he followed along and finally I laid him in his crib, wished him a goodnight, and turned out the light.
Typically he can put himself to sleep with no trouble; however, on a night when he feels he has had great success in learning and exhibiting a new skill there is often a fight. Fight may be too gentle of a word here... it is with the gnashing of teeth and blood curdling howls he will demand your recoil. Struggling, I usually fight my urge to rebound. It is my instinct to want to cuddle him to sleep- which has been typically a mistake unless I wish to spend 3 hours or more in that nursery chair- his hypersensitivity to my departure then heightened.
This evening I listen to the silence in his room for a few moments... one minute passes, two, three... Deciding that perhaps his playtime adventures may have exhausted him tonight, I retire to the kitchen to clean up the remnants of dinner spattered on the walls, the floor and considering his good aim that night- the fridge door. Scrubbing spinach off the wall I suddenly hear his small voice calling out. Except it isn't an angry cry or a cross bedtime appeal. I stand invisibly next to his door trying to make out what it is he is saying. Peeking in I can see him standing up, head cocked back as far as his neck will allow, one hand out stretched to the sky, he is groaning with frustration, "nanaaaa.... nana!!! Nanaaaaaa"
Is he crying out to banana's? As if making a decree to the god of the banana's to rescue him from this horrible crib fate for the night? Peeking around the shadow of his door I can see he is doing the ASL sign for banana as he continues to proclaim assistance from banana heavens. It didn't seem right to laugh considering he was quite displeased, but- to the bananas?
It's one of those stories you hope your mother doesn't tell your future soulmate over pasta in 27 years.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Living in Faith
With postulation we begin each day, assuming that night we will return to the bed of where we started our trek that morning. It is a rare occasion we are struck through our entire body by the frailty of life. As if it is our right to move into tomorrow, our arrival not yet spoke, but the belief that we will be there.
February 13th did not begin as so for me- perhaps for the first time in my life. I had likely been shaken by the feeble state in which our lives truly are based via the surprising event of flight 3407; in some form it had momentarily re-set my mind.
No- I knew no one in that flight; nor, do I believe at this time that I know someone directly involved by that happenstance. Despite that, I somehow feel so directly affected. Trying to understand or even wrap my mind around what those people were thinking in those final moments; and the mere idea that not more then 15 minutes away- likely less, from my apartment, that tragic event unfolded seems to shake my understanding of "today."
Since the day I knew I would have a child I began a mission of empowerment. I would be a single parent and I found it my responsibility to build this concrete foundation for my son and I. I would not be controlled by the circumstances but I would create a life of certainty for him. Since that decision I have done everything I can to create a stable environment for Popeye- all things within my control from healthy foods to grow his mind and body to the type of childcare he receives when I am not with him. The first few times Popeye spent weekends away from home I would make a checklist of all his needs, accounting for every hour he was not in my presence. Yes, I am sure there would whispered agreements about my sanity or lack thereof, where it concerned that child.
However, I watched the television with great intent last Thursday evening. At first excusing Buffalo's weak "Breaking News" attempts at a plane crash into a home nearby as most likely a lost amateur pilot in the harrowing February winds of Western NY. Yet, within five minutes the event covered every small station in the area. The possibility of something much more serious became real. Around 12:30 in the morning the revelation of 50 lives lost become a reality. My stomach sank. In a cut throat format as competing media can only do I watched the interview of a man whose sister was on that flight. She was coming home to have a "Valentines Date" with her five year old nephew. His voice cracked as reporter after reporter asked him how "he felt."
My mouth dry and my eyes wet I quietly sneak to Harrison's cribside. Wrapping him snug in his quilt, I spent a few moments pulling him close. With paced breathing he dreamed on, likely of sweet foods and peek-a-boo festivities. His skin against mine, breath steady on my ear, the only two words I could find I began to repeat gently into his sleeping conscious. "I'm Sorry."
Not sorry for bringing him into this world. Or even sorry to him for the horrific event I had just had disclosed to me. But sorry for all the things in his life that I could not control. For the heartbreak of events he will no doubtedly experience in his life; for the broken promises he will endure; the uncertainity of others; and in fullness- for the breach of the promise of tomorrow.
If we allowed it, fear could rule our lives. How easy it was to promise that Thursday night that I will never fly again. Though, a decision of fear is not always a decision of reality, is it? Anyone who knows me knows that I could not keep that promise. Nor can I live a life in the shadow of fear because of the possibility that tomorrow is just a chance.
I cannot keep a promise to Harrison that I will not allow anything to ever happen to him. Anything small; anything big. What an out of control feeling it is to be a parent. The fact that I would trade each of my limbs to protect him is truth; the fact that it would actually protect him from anything by approaching life in that manner is not true.
What I do have to offer him is a home surrounded by love; continual acceptance for all that he is and the support for who is becoming- one day at a time. Each day we will continue this celebration of our lives together. The promise that I know cannot be broken is that what I offer him is real- for every day in Gods grace on this earth we will celebrate. It is with great faith we live and cherish life- the circumstances beyond our control.
My heart goes out to anyone directly affected by the unbelievable events of Flight 3407. I cannot imagine nor even conceive the depth of your feelings of betrayl in the promise of tomorrow for loved ones. It is with a somber heart I offer my prayers and my condolescences.
February 13th did not begin as so for me- perhaps for the first time in my life. I had likely been shaken by the feeble state in which our lives truly are based via the surprising event of flight 3407; in some form it had momentarily re-set my mind.
No- I knew no one in that flight; nor, do I believe at this time that I know someone directly involved by that happenstance. Despite that, I somehow feel so directly affected. Trying to understand or even wrap my mind around what those people were thinking in those final moments; and the mere idea that not more then 15 minutes away- likely less, from my apartment, that tragic event unfolded seems to shake my understanding of "today."
Since the day I knew I would have a child I began a mission of empowerment. I would be a single parent and I found it my responsibility to build this concrete foundation for my son and I. I would not be controlled by the circumstances but I would create a life of certainty for him. Since that decision I have done everything I can to create a stable environment for Popeye- all things within my control from healthy foods to grow his mind and body to the type of childcare he receives when I am not with him. The first few times Popeye spent weekends away from home I would make a checklist of all his needs, accounting for every hour he was not in my presence. Yes, I am sure there would whispered agreements about my sanity or lack thereof, where it concerned that child.
However, I watched the television with great intent last Thursday evening. At first excusing Buffalo's weak "Breaking News" attempts at a plane crash into a home nearby as most likely a lost amateur pilot in the harrowing February winds of Western NY. Yet, within five minutes the event covered every small station in the area. The possibility of something much more serious became real. Around 12:30 in the morning the revelation of 50 lives lost become a reality. My stomach sank. In a cut throat format as competing media can only do I watched the interview of a man whose sister was on that flight. She was coming home to have a "Valentines Date" with her five year old nephew. His voice cracked as reporter after reporter asked him how "he felt."
My mouth dry and my eyes wet I quietly sneak to Harrison's cribside. Wrapping him snug in his quilt, I spent a few moments pulling him close. With paced breathing he dreamed on, likely of sweet foods and peek-a-boo festivities. His skin against mine, breath steady on my ear, the only two words I could find I began to repeat gently into his sleeping conscious. "I'm Sorry."
Not sorry for bringing him into this world. Or even sorry to him for the horrific event I had just had disclosed to me. But sorry for all the things in his life that I could not control. For the heartbreak of events he will no doubtedly experience in his life; for the broken promises he will endure; the uncertainity of others; and in fullness- for the breach of the promise of tomorrow.
If we allowed it, fear could rule our lives. How easy it was to promise that Thursday night that I will never fly again. Though, a decision of fear is not always a decision of reality, is it? Anyone who knows me knows that I could not keep that promise. Nor can I live a life in the shadow of fear because of the possibility that tomorrow is just a chance.
I cannot keep a promise to Harrison that I will not allow anything to ever happen to him. Anything small; anything big. What an out of control feeling it is to be a parent. The fact that I would trade each of my limbs to protect him is truth; the fact that it would actually protect him from anything by approaching life in that manner is not true.
What I do have to offer him is a home surrounded by love; continual acceptance for all that he is and the support for who is becoming- one day at a time. Each day we will continue this celebration of our lives together. The promise that I know cannot be broken is that what I offer him is real- for every day in Gods grace on this earth we will celebrate. It is with great faith we live and cherish life- the circumstances beyond our control.
My heart goes out to anyone directly affected by the unbelievable events of Flight 3407. I cannot imagine nor even conceive the depth of your feelings of betrayl in the promise of tomorrow for loved ones. It is with a somber heart I offer my prayers and my condolescences.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Growing pains...
Often when we engage in the world we pass that woman in the dollar store with the small child in her cart. No ring on her finger, baby with remnants of sweet potatoes on secondhand Disney character tee shirt.
Single mother and child. Of course this is a social premise.
Out of all the mothers in the world this is always the one I respected- yet never the one that I thought I wanted to be.
How does she do it?
Does she spend evenings on her porch chain-smoking, wondering how she'll keep her heat on next month? (Thank GOD it's still on today). Does she scrap together quarters to buy diapers for this week after she stands in line at the food pantry, hoping that they have the name brand Cheerios left when she gets her months hand-out?
I never thought I would be that one- but damn it, I respected her. The one woman show: working days, rocking child nights, pancake dinners three nights in a row. I respected that woman the most because she counts on her. After all, who else is there to count on when WIC only buys that cheap, bitter orange juice that you gag all the way down? But drink it up, darling. It's free.
At the end of the day, that woman counts on her. What pride she must have- I would surmise. But no, I will never be her.
Some mornings I wake up to the squeak of crib springs a room away. Lyrics from a Death Cab for Cutie song begin to play out in my sleepy consciousness, "I want to live where the soul meets body. And let the sun wrap its arms around me. Water cool and cleansing... and feel... feel waht it's like to believe. Because in my head there's a greyhound station where I send my thoughts to far out destinations. So they might have a chance..." Sing it, baby...
I use to sing this song to Harrison's father in the car after a night on the town. Now I sing it to our son as I arise to his smiling blue eyes. Two man team.
I push the cart through the dollar store- making a point to keep his striped Target sweater free of any meal remnants. I praise God when I can convince the Gas company to give me another week to write the check. I just spent the last twenty minutes digging for change in the couch cushions and pants pockets to wash clothes for the week.
This is a beautiful life, damn it.
And then there are the very difficult moments of single motherhood that I thought I was prepared for. Perhaps in some scenarios you never can be. Moments like the beginning of non-custodial parent visitation.
I knew when I decided to move forward with this "two-parent parenthood" synopsis that this moment would come. I thought by acknowledging the possibility I was prepared. I thought, I thought, I thought... But when you think and surmise about your reaction to a hypothetical horizon things aren't always as crisp and clear as how you actually feel when you read the unexpected court summons.
A court summons. After months of pleading with the man to pick the days and time that he wants to spend with his son, and being told that he's, "too tired" or "too busy" he finds the time to have his girlfriend organize a petition for visitation rights. The judicial use of the word "rights" here still heats me a little knowing that I have continually offered him any day and time he would like. In my mind he has been offered any rights he cares to initiate.
I have come to the conclusion that you can never prepare yourself for the day you hand your child over to his own flesh and blood: the same person that denied his son's existence for an entire pregnancy and the first 6 months of the boys life; that lied to his girlfriend insisting that he didn't have a son.
Your trust for this person would naturally wane; yet, in some form you have to learn to trust that every other Sunday and every other holiday this person is ready to put his life on the line for the only thing that matters in your life.
Sting.
To say that that I didn't hold some grudge would ultimately be a lie. Be gentle with me, I'm still growing in this process- it is true.
Yet the reminder: it isn't about me. From the day I chose this child- it hasn't been about me. I'm secondary within my own life and I choose this. I love this child more then myself. I continue to ask, in ten years, when I look back on this moment- how do I want to say that I reacted? (Do I sound sickly pious?)
Maybe by setting our ideals of what we expect of ourselves so high we really do begin to live above reproach by just missing our ultimate goal of becoming who we really wish we were.
I'm still growing in this process. That's the truth.
Single mother and child. Of course this is a social premise.
Out of all the mothers in the world this is always the one I respected- yet never the one that I thought I wanted to be.
How does she do it?
Does she spend evenings on her porch chain-smoking, wondering how she'll keep her heat on next month? (Thank GOD it's still on today). Does she scrap together quarters to buy diapers for this week after she stands in line at the food pantry, hoping that they have the name brand Cheerios left when she gets her months hand-out?
I never thought I would be that one- but damn it, I respected her. The one woman show: working days, rocking child nights, pancake dinners three nights in a row. I respected that woman the most because she counts on her. After all, who else is there to count on when WIC only buys that cheap, bitter orange juice that you gag all the way down? But drink it up, darling. It's free.
At the end of the day, that woman counts on her. What pride she must have- I would surmise. But no, I will never be her.
Some mornings I wake up to the squeak of crib springs a room away. Lyrics from a Death Cab for Cutie song begin to play out in my sleepy consciousness, "I want to live where the soul meets body. And let the sun wrap its arms around me. Water cool and cleansing... and feel... feel waht it's like to believe. Because in my head there's a greyhound station where I send my thoughts to far out destinations. So they might have a chance..." Sing it, baby...
I use to sing this song to Harrison's father in the car after a night on the town. Now I sing it to our son as I arise to his smiling blue eyes. Two man team.
I push the cart through the dollar store- making a point to keep his striped Target sweater free of any meal remnants. I praise God when I can convince the Gas company to give me another week to write the check. I just spent the last twenty minutes digging for change in the couch cushions and pants pockets to wash clothes for the week.
This is a beautiful life, damn it.
And then there are the very difficult moments of single motherhood that I thought I was prepared for. Perhaps in some scenarios you never can be. Moments like the beginning of non-custodial parent visitation.
I knew when I decided to move forward with this "two-parent parenthood" synopsis that this moment would come. I thought by acknowledging the possibility I was prepared. I thought, I thought, I thought... But when you think and surmise about your reaction to a hypothetical horizon things aren't always as crisp and clear as how you actually feel when you read the unexpected court summons.
A court summons. After months of pleading with the man to pick the days and time that he wants to spend with his son, and being told that he's, "too tired" or "too busy" he finds the time to have his girlfriend organize a petition for visitation rights. The judicial use of the word "rights" here still heats me a little knowing that I have continually offered him any day and time he would like. In my mind he has been offered any rights he cares to initiate.
I have come to the conclusion that you can never prepare yourself for the day you hand your child over to his own flesh and blood: the same person that denied his son's existence for an entire pregnancy and the first 6 months of the boys life; that lied to his girlfriend insisting that he didn't have a son.
Your trust for this person would naturally wane; yet, in some form you have to learn to trust that every other Sunday and every other holiday this person is ready to put his life on the line for the only thing that matters in your life.
Sting.
To say that that I didn't hold some grudge would ultimately be a lie. Be gentle with me, I'm still growing in this process- it is true.
Yet the reminder: it isn't about me. From the day I chose this child- it hasn't been about me. I'm secondary within my own life and I choose this. I love this child more then myself. I continue to ask, in ten years, when I look back on this moment- how do I want to say that I reacted? (Do I sound sickly pious?)
Maybe by setting our ideals of what we expect of ourselves so high we really do begin to live above reproach by just missing our ultimate goal of becoming who we really wish we were.
I'm still growing in this process. That's the truth.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
"Are YOU my Papa?"
Ever since Popeye has met his paternal grandfather, Papa Brown, there seems to exist this binding love connection between them. His eyes light up when he spots him- or any man with a slight resemblance to him. The poor soul's disappointment when the face is not that of the strong, balding man with the hardy laugh but a stranger.
Sometime around six months Harrison proudly began to utter the words "pa pa pa pa." Papa Brown has since been in heaven. As soon as Popeye lays his eyes on him the letters emerge. "pa pa! pa pa!" and curls onto the mans chest with a satisfied smirk.
Slowly though... the words "papa" have come to be an identification not just for that man but for ANY man. Constantly in public Popeye points to strange men and then forms his hand into his sign for question, a fresh palm up beside his face and asks, "Papa?"
Sometimes I swear that kid is daddy hunting. Pointing to strangers he calls out, "papa!" and when the man doesn't respond the confused child looks at me and questions, "papa?"
It doesn't stop there. He must investigate: are you a papa? At the Children's Museum this past Autumn he went up to every man, hands out for them to hold him and constantly uttering, "Papa? Papa? Papa?" Their wives send me screw-faced looks. Apologizing in my mind to the women I make attempts to retrieve my son. (Don't worry honey, I like'm with teeth. You can keep him.)
Back at a "Fun Foods" station I distract Popeye with plastic bananas.
"Banana?" I offer.
"Papa." He insists, pointing at a short, slightly rounding father of a blond toddler.
"Thats not Papa."
"Papa!" he growls.
The rounding mans wife sends me a steeley look as the man smiles.
(You can keep THAT one and his belly too...)
Yesterday at Target Popeye and I are making our way through aisles. A greasy haired, wrinkly clothed man who smells of one part body order, one part vodka and one part well worn tennis shoes walks beside us. "Papa?" Casually, I try to pass off my sons advance. "No, silly. That's not papa." I don't make eye contact with the man. My child's small hand waves and smiles. "Papa!" Flattered the man waves back. "He's so friendly!" (Please, Harrison... I'm pleading in my mind at this point. Can't you at least pick a clean one??) A woman walks past and waves to the greasy man, "Hi, Bill! How've ya been?"
So the greasy man has a name. Bill. Greasy Bill.
Greasy Bill waves back, "oh, just making new friends."
GREAT. Now we're all friends.
My son yells, "papa!"
The man repeats, "So friendly! Just like his momma."
Perhaps I was exhausted of these papa scenarios; or maybe I'm apprehensive that Greasy Bill is making a Greasy pass at me. Likely with far too much enthusiasm I quip, "I'm not friendly."
Greasy Bill's expression droops. Apparently, I've disheartened Greasy Bill.
My goal now being two fold, 1. Repair any hurt feelings and 2. ESCAPE, I say, "Have a nice day! Stay warm!" Popeye and I make a hard right into the home repairs aisle. We have no intention of doing any home repairs in the near future.
Speaking of the near future, I think it may be in my best interest to make the one hour drive on Sunday to remind Popeye who the real Papa is...
Sometime around six months Harrison proudly began to utter the words "pa pa pa pa." Papa Brown has since been in heaven. As soon as Popeye lays his eyes on him the letters emerge. "pa pa! pa pa!" and curls onto the mans chest with a satisfied smirk.
Slowly though... the words "papa" have come to be an identification not just for that man but for ANY man. Constantly in public Popeye points to strange men and then forms his hand into his sign for question, a fresh palm up beside his face and asks, "Papa?"
Sometimes I swear that kid is daddy hunting. Pointing to strangers he calls out, "papa!" and when the man doesn't respond the confused child looks at me and questions, "papa?"
It doesn't stop there. He must investigate: are you a papa? At the Children's Museum this past Autumn he went up to every man, hands out for them to hold him and constantly uttering, "Papa? Papa? Papa?" Their wives send me screw-faced looks. Apologizing in my mind to the women I make attempts to retrieve my son. (Don't worry honey, I like'm with teeth. You can keep him.)
Back at a "Fun Foods" station I distract Popeye with plastic bananas.
"Banana?" I offer.
"Papa." He insists, pointing at a short, slightly rounding father of a blond toddler.
"Thats not Papa."
"Papa!" he growls.
The rounding mans wife sends me a steeley look as the man smiles.
(You can keep THAT one and his belly too...)
Yesterday at Target Popeye and I are making our way through aisles. A greasy haired, wrinkly clothed man who smells of one part body order, one part vodka and one part well worn tennis shoes walks beside us. "Papa?" Casually, I try to pass off my sons advance. "No, silly. That's not papa." I don't make eye contact with the man. My child's small hand waves and smiles. "Papa!" Flattered the man waves back. "He's so friendly!" (Please, Harrison... I'm pleading in my mind at this point. Can't you at least pick a clean one??) A woman walks past and waves to the greasy man, "Hi, Bill! How've ya been?"
So the greasy man has a name. Bill. Greasy Bill.
Greasy Bill waves back, "oh, just making new friends."
GREAT. Now we're all friends.
My son yells, "papa!"
The man repeats, "So friendly! Just like his momma."
Perhaps I was exhausted of these papa scenarios; or maybe I'm apprehensive that Greasy Bill is making a Greasy pass at me. Likely with far too much enthusiasm I quip, "I'm not friendly."
Greasy Bill's expression droops. Apparently, I've disheartened Greasy Bill.
My goal now being two fold, 1. Repair any hurt feelings and 2. ESCAPE, I say, "Have a nice day! Stay warm!" Popeye and I make a hard right into the home repairs aisle. We have no intention of doing any home repairs in the near future.
Speaking of the near future, I think it may be in my best interest to make the one hour drive on Sunday to remind Popeye who the real Papa is...
Friday, January 23, 2009
Reflections
Life can't always be so black and white, can it? Had you told me five years ago that this is where my life would be today- would I have believed? More thoroughly- would I have swelled with the pride that I swell today? Exhausting nights, plans hinged on minut details of organization, barely time to eat, 6am mornings so that I can get my beautiful son to the daycare that I can barely afford, early enough that I can depart work in advance to pick him up by 4:15- the goal being to be home by 5, in my own bed by 9. 26 and going strong as the lead of a two man team: him and I against the world.
I'll never forget the first silent moment I spent with him. All family gone following a long day of physical dispatch. The nurse, Mary, had placed this smooth skinned wonder in my arms. Looking into his blue eyes, he stared back as he struggled to focus on my exhausted semblence; I spoke directly to him. "It's you and me, son. You and me against the world. Are you ready for a battle?" I like to believe that little wriggle was his accession to the task at hand. 12 months in and he hasn't let me down.
Daily, I reflect on all the unexpected blessings he offers me. His presence has allowed me to slow down and appreciate what I never imagined I would find in a single mother scenario: freedom. Freedom not defined as it was 2 years prior where I would sleep in til the last minute arriving to work wrinkled and still half asleep. I'd linger about in after hours sometimes in a dark scene, sometimes in my own dark spirit trying to figure out exactly what my mission was on this earth. Freedom no longer defined as my ability to act foolishly with my life; instead, to explore the opportunity I have at hand through my mind and capabilities. Perhaps God saw my wandering spirit and sent this boy as a guide to me, not the opposite. Suddenly I waken each day with more then a mission- but a calling. I never imagined a calling could be so... loud. That kid has some vocals!; his singing gibberish a room away.
If only he knew how he brought me out of the desert through a journey of fear and unknowing to the a place I never knew could exist. Satisfaction within myself. Maybe then he would know why I sing.
I'll never forget the first silent moment I spent with him. All family gone following a long day of physical dispatch. The nurse, Mary, had placed this smooth skinned wonder in my arms. Looking into his blue eyes, he stared back as he struggled to focus on my exhausted semblence; I spoke directly to him. "It's you and me, son. You and me against the world. Are you ready for a battle?" I like to believe that little wriggle was his accession to the task at hand. 12 months in and he hasn't let me down.
Daily, I reflect on all the unexpected blessings he offers me. His presence has allowed me to slow down and appreciate what I never imagined I would find in a single mother scenario: freedom. Freedom not defined as it was 2 years prior where I would sleep in til the last minute arriving to work wrinkled and still half asleep. I'd linger about in after hours sometimes in a dark scene, sometimes in my own dark spirit trying to figure out exactly what my mission was on this earth. Freedom no longer defined as my ability to act foolishly with my life; instead, to explore the opportunity I have at hand through my mind and capabilities. Perhaps God saw my wandering spirit and sent this boy as a guide to me, not the opposite. Suddenly I waken each day with more then a mission- but a calling. I never imagined a calling could be so... loud. That kid has some vocals!; his singing gibberish a room away.
If only he knew how he brought me out of the desert through a journey of fear and unknowing to the a place I never knew could exist. Satisfaction within myself. Maybe then he would know why I sing.
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