So it's not the most exciting video update....
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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