Little Stories from this week

Finn Beckons 
“Sleep.” Finn whines. No, he isn’t asking me to put him to sleep, and whining that he’s tired and saying “please mom, put me in my crib I am so tired I need to sleep”.  Wouldn’t that be a miracle.  It’s “sleep,” as in, “lie down next to me so I can go to sleep and play with your hair, my comfort blanket.”  And I do.

***

Sleep
“Do you want to go into the kitchen and eat breakfast with me?” I whisper to Asher. He just climbed into to bed with Eli the elephant, Baby, David the Owl, and Peter Rabbit.  I am on the edge of the bed, then Asher, and then a long pillow separates Asher from Finn, who has been sleeping in our bed all night, and then Dad, who in my opinion has the most space.  I went to bed at 9:00 so I have had a very long and restful sleep and I am ready for the day with the boys.  

***
Early Morning Math 
“I are this age.” Asher states as he scoops up three pieces of Barbara’s Puffins onto a spoon.  He eats one then grins, “I was this age,” he eats another square, and he is left with one square. “Me and Finny were this age when we popped out of the hole in your belly,” he smiles widely.   

***

Hold You
“Hold you?” Finn asks, a sweet little boy who stands at my feet, knee cap height, with his arms up. How can I not? I’ll hold him all day and whisper “I love you.”

***
How was your day with me? 

“So, Momma, how was your day with me?” Asher asks as we eat lunch together. I can’t imagine a day without them, nor my life before having children. It’s foggy.

***
Asher tells a story 
One Day by Asher Carswell
One day a bat flew past my house. He flew fast fast fast. He flew right past.  I said “Go away” please don’t stay.  And they we flew past your house with our capes.  And said “hello, we flew past your house.”
 
***
Tell me a story
“Grampa, tell me a story.” Grampa reaches for a book to read. “No, grampa, a story from your brain.”

 ***
When I’m a Dad
“When I’m a Dad I will have 6 kids.” Asher took a long pause. “And no Mom because I already have a mom and there can’t be two.” We were discussing the fact that he and Finny would like a little baby brother or sister.  No pressure.

***
Birth Order
“I came out first because I ate all my food up first, right?” Asher asks.
  
***
Ponytail Holders
“He looks like a girl,” states Dad.
“I know.” I grin. 

***

 

Save the date!

SAVE THE DATE for The Mama-Monologues

November 23rd
6:30-7:30 pm
@ the Yellow Sofa
Northampton, MA

Readings about motherhood written by
mothers from the Pioneer Valley

http://www.theyellowsofa.com/

This is a first of many series to come, I hope.  These first readings will be a celebratory finish for the Mothers’ Writing Workshop.  Members of the workshop will read their writing for family and friends.  All are welcome.  

 

 

 

Baby Dolls, Boys, Bliss

Everything is alright in the world when I hear Finn sweetly whisper to his baby doll “night, night baby, shhh, night, night baby,” pat the baby’s belly and head gently, kiss his forehead, offer a bottle, cover the baby with a blanket, and then tip-toe out of the room looking back as if to make sure there are no tears.  Oh yes, everything is alright in the world. His big brother Asher joins him in the play and brings his baby doll to the chair, places the doll next to his brother’s doll, brings over another play bottle of milk, and a blanket from his bed. “I’m putting this toy next to him too,” adds Asher as he gently places a rainbow slinky next to its head. I quietly tip-toe out of the room myself and start writing this down. I listen to see how the play goes. Finn pops out with a red ball. “Oh,” I say  (I am not so surprised to have him on my tail) “is that for the baby?” “Yuh,” he nods and he does an about face and marches back into the room. Then out comes Dad from the laundry room, “Where are the boys?” “They are in their room playing with baby dolls and I’m just listening,” I respond. We correct a few grammatical errors on a few pages of a post and then Dad marches off to the shower. About 15 minutes have gone by and I can hear quiet conversation between the two boys in their room. So now I am back to listening.

They have pillows, more toys and blankets on the floor. Asher has climbed into Finn’s crib and emptied out comfy contents. Now he’s golfing the red bouncing ball with a piece of rectangular foam board. Finn has picked up a pink ball, identical to the ball that Asher is hitting, and is walking around the room, most likely looking for another piece of foam board. Asher is definitely non-stop chatting, in a fantasy play, while Finn, babbles in and out of conversation, agreeing, growling, nodding his head and marching around.

We spent a majority of the morning outside raking leaves and Asher helped greatly. He quoted several lines from I Stink by Kate Mcmullan and Jim Mcmullan. “Open wide… Straight into my hopper…squeeze them, smash them, compact them…yummm” he paraphrased as we loaded up the bins with leaves and sticks. He encouraged me as well to keep raking, “Wow, Mom, great job!” Finn pitched in too, but mostly played with the empty flower pots and the rainwater and muck that collected in a plastic orange pumpkin shaped halloween bucket. We took a break, watched Dad use his chain saw. For a brief moment, we stopped. OOOh. Then they were off together. They played and climbed inside a very overgrown shrub, a 10 ft tall vibrant red leafed Burning Bush. Asher pretended to cut the branches inside, just like his Dad, and encouraged Finn to climb safely up the branches.

I stopped. Felt the sun.

Rested amongst the grass.
Noticed the bittersweet,
The yellow ochre and coral berry vines popped
Amongst the browning fallen leaves and skeletal trees,
The air, fresh and crisp, cooled our work.
Helicopters fell from the sky.

A Bear! Pooh or Grizzly?

The dichotomy of boys. Pooh and the Grizzly.

“What do you want to be for Halloween?”
“A bear,” asserts Asher.
“A burr,” agrees Finn.

They are both bears for Halloween. Asher and I went back and forth about what bear he wanted to be–grizzly or pooh? So we bought a costume that was ambiguous.  We decided that Finn could be Ku the panda bear, Stillwater’s nephew in the book Zen Ties written and illustrated by Jon Muth.

After shopping in all stores in town, we decided to order both bear costumes online. When Finn’s panda bear costume arrived Asher and I encouraged Finn to try it on but he shouted, “No!” We decided that he wasn’t wearing it because it was too itchy. Plus, it had slipper feet, which is not conducive to a toddler walking.  Asher’s costume arrived next and he put it on immediately. “Oh, so cute!,” I exclaimed with an adoring grin on my face. “No, I am NOT cute. Don’t call me that. I have claws,” he replied and then began running around the house growling. Finn immediately jumped on my lap.  ”He’s a pretty cute grizzly bear,” I whispered to Finn. I couldn’t be scared or pretend to be. Asher was wearing a costume known as “oatmeal bear” which looked more like a lamb-puppy than a bear, and definitely not even CLOSE to looking like a dark brown grizzly bear.  Asher ran back into the room and his ear flopped and flipped over. Finn and I grinned and then chased him around trying to touch his soft belly.  We laughed and wrestled…of course. 

Our favorite bears in literature 
Grizzly Bear
Since he was a wee cub, Asher loved to hide from bears with his friends. “Shhh! There is a bear coming–quick hide!” And we would all hide in the blanket of our bed just like the characters do in the worn board book we adore,  We’re Going on a Bear Hunt written by Michael Rosen and illustrated by Helen Oxenbury. Now, Finn has adopted this game and we all snuggle under the warm comforter in the morning family bed with coffee, milk, soymilk and sometimes juice.

Pooh Bear
At night before bedtime Dadda has been reading a chapter of the childhood classic Winnie the Pooh by A.A. Milne.  Not scary. No hiding. Just funny characters and words.
“Asher will you answer a few questions to help me write?”
“You don’t know what you like best?”
“No, here is what I want to ask you: Ready?”
“Yes.” he whispers as he sits next to me writing in his leather journal with a fine point pen.
“Tell me about Pooh Bear, what do you like about Pooh Bear?”
“What do I like about Pooh bear..I like the story of it. Of them playing with the Pooh bear.”
“What do they play?”
“Pooh sticks.”
“What else.”
“Throwing rocks on Eeyore. Eeyore sinking.”
“What do you like about Eeyore?”
“He’s soft and gentle. What do you like about piglet?” He turns the interview around.
“He is soft and gentle,” I reply. “How about Grizzly Bears.”
“I don’t like grizzly bears.”
“Why?”
“Because they are NOT nice….The book about the boy that doesnt’ like grizzly bears,” he trails off trying to tell me about a book he read. “The boy was afraid of the grizzly bears.”
“What did he do?”
“He slammed the door. Clump clump. Smashed away at the door.”

If he is so scared of grizzly bears, why does he want to be a fierce bear for halloween? But perhaps this Halloween Asher is dressing up as a bear, confronting his fear, trying it on, maybe seeing what it feels like to be the other and to feel powerful over something that makes him feel powerless.

BOO! Happy Halloween, here’s to another day of facing your fears and receiving a candy reward in return.

Mou-irt

This is 21 month aggle flabble.

Finn: Mou-irt.
Us: More? What do you want more of?
Finn: Mou-irt (strong emphasis on “irt”)
Us: Finn, water?
Finn: Mou-irt. (irritated)
Us: Asher, do you know what he’s asking for?
Asher: No response.
Us: Finn, you want more (mimicking)  ”Mour-irt?”
Finn: Huh, smiling.
Us: I wish we knew what it was, Mour-irt.
Dadda: irt…? What rhymes with irt…
(thinking, thinking, thought bubbles, more thought bubbles)
Dadda: Dirt?
(thinking, thinking, thought bubbles, more thought bubbles)
Dadda: Yogurt?
Finn (now being held by Momma): Uh!
Momma: Glad we figured that out.
Dadda: We?

Weaning. The break up.

I broke up with Finn. My 21 month old is officially weaned but it doesn’t mean we’ve lost our special bond.  He has always been extremely close to me and cuddly. This morning he called from his crib, “Momma, Momma? Momma!” He abhors is crib. So the minute he wakes up he wants out. So I staggered into the boys room with my o-so-cute momma flannel pajamas, brown with pink hearts and picked him up. He immediately swings his little arm around my neck, tucks in, and grabs a lock of hair, as we make our way back to the family bed.  He can’t quite get comfortable, and he would probably love to nurse, but he doesn’t ask, he fusses and starts to get out of bed. It is still too early to be “up” and I am trying to sneak in a few more winks of sleep. But he’s fidgety so we head into the kitchen for a banana.  Still hanging on like a monkey, Finn reaches for the “nana” and eats every bite while nestled in my chest. We climb back into bed, banana and all. I look down once more to see how he’s doing, the banana is nowhere to be seen and he is asleep once more.

“We’re tight.” I tell friends and family.  Later that day, while visiting a local organic apple orchard,  Finn wonders off and hides amongst the fallen apples and leaves.  I can see him peeking at me.  He explores the ground and brings me back an apple and while I am seated he leans his back up to my back.  I thought I would miss our close bond when I weaned, but this little monkey isn’t straying far.

The Mommy Tree

The Mommy Tree

What grows from it? Love and patience.  Two little monkeys swing from it, sunrise to sunset.  This morning, the mommy tree found her littlest monkey feeding her fresh brown socks wet, once chewed, mashed up trail mix and oatmeal. MMM, great compost for the soil. Sometimes when I am in the kitchen on the floor by their table they slowly migrate to my lap. Swing from my branches. My hair is a rope swing. My clothing rock climbing holds.  My leg a ladder or slide. I wish sometimes a mini camcorder was attached to my head all day.  I want to show them when they get older.  Especially, when those days arrive and they will not want to swing on my branches or climb up the trunk of my tree and be held.

Boys will be boys. No doubt. And I’m outnumbered.

Slam. I shut the door to the car and drive home with the two boys in the backseat. I just picked up Asher at his preschool, and he is running around outside with his two best friends who are older by about 18 months. Sigh. He looks up to them. The three musketeers. They are all “boy” through and through and it’s beginning to drive me crazy. I’m upset because first he will not stop running around playing hunter and hunted, “he’s the leopard.” “I’m the bad guy.” “Come on let’s chase!” And yes, like the wild things they tell each other to let the wild rumpus start! “Asher,” I call sweetly, “your brother is waiting for you in the car and I’m waiting for you, it’s time to go home now.” But he’s in this trance. Usually I have to physically get in his space, and talk to him in the eye, to break the “I hear you but I’m not listening” spell.
“Asher, please, let’s go home.”
“Boys,” another mother calls and then.. The inevitable. “Waaaa!” Asher chased his friend with a stick and hit him on the head. Everyone freezes. Boy 1 gets in the car with his mom. Boys 2 stand by his mom and my boy drops the stick and runs and then when the crying stops he picks up another stick. “Asher, no more sticks….” and other commands, like let’s get going etc… but he loves school and he doesn’t want to leave. I dread picking him up from school. It’s the transition. Sigh. I march over, hold his hand and assertively say “Asher, it’s time to go home.” He wails. I empathize as best I can as I put him in his car seat and strap him in. Slam.
“I don’t want to go.”
“I know you love school, Asher, but at the end of the day it’s time to go home with me and Finny and Dad.”
We discuss hitting, stick playing, what is safe and what isn’t and at the end of the lecture I’m exhausted and call my husband.
“Breathe, take three deep breathes.” And I do. And it helps. I drive around the block and wait a bit before unloading the car.
“Mom, why aren’t we going home?”
“We are, I just need a few minutes, let’s start over when we go home.”
Once we leave the car the conversation is over and the boys and I enter the house. It’s mayhem, more acting out with his brother, wild chasing, and then…
“Asher, Finn, let’s cook dinner.” I begin to smile. Open up. And we are engaged in cutting, scooping, Finn is at his play kitchen, I turn on some music and we are banging pots and pans. I keep remembering to smile and to let go. I feel Asher coming back to his old self. When my husband gets home we talk in code as best we can, and he calls Asher’s teacher who reassures his behavior is normal.

We have an amazing dinner together, family dinners are quite pleasant as both boys feed themselves, we say grace, we have lengthy conversations about imaginary friends, horses, camels, adventure and we giggle. It’s all about the boys and we adore them. As the evening winds down I am still “attacked” in fun play, I am jumped on, wrestled and hugged.  I am outnumbered. The truth is I don’t really understand the inner clockwork, but I am writing for reflection and reading all I can to learn more, I am…

“Mom, you’re a princess,” Asher states.

Yes. I am the Queen.

What will we write about…

“Asher, I’m heading out tonight…I’ll be spending a few hours writing with women who are mothers.”

“Will you write about how women don’t have penises?”

No comment. I smiled. His gift of humor couldn’t have come at a more opportune time. All day I paced around the house, revising the workshop agenda, collecting items for a writing prompt basket, and speaking to friends who quelled my anxiety. But is was my son who eased my nerves and made me laugh at myself. And if no one showed up, well I had rented a beautiful space, and I would be able to get my own writing done, guilt free, and away from the distractions. So, I let go and off I went, feeling brave. When the writing studio door opened, women gathered one by one in a writing circle and we began. A total of seven, including me. As soon as our time began together, it wasn’t about me, anymore. These women have gathered, reasons to be unfolded in a secluded and honored space not to be revealed to you, at least not by me.

We are women writing. Lionesses nestled up in the branches of a tree overlooking the Serengeti under the night sky.

No Dress Rehearsal, Write Momma Write

No dress rehearsal, the Mothers’ Writing Workshop starts Monday October 12th. There wasn’t a dress rehearsal for being a mother, the toughest job I’ve ever had, so why am I so nervous? “I’ve got goose bumps” I told one mother.  I guess I’m not nervous, just kind of awe-struck about how this group may or may not reveal itself.  What if no one shows up? “Envision them there in the room with you,” a friend suggested. My wish is that I am going to give mothers, who write or want to write, a creative space, guilt-free time, and community to share the power of their word. I want mothers to give themselves this special gift of writing for one and a half hours a week for 6 weeks. Commit in writing your journey, your words. Your stories are waiting to be told. Your voice is waiting to be heard. Too cheesy? Just trying to be nurturing and entice those mothers who have not fully committed to make the final plunge.

All day I am writing. I may not be sitting down in front of a computer or with a fountain pen and paper, but I am writing in my head all day. At night I jot down several stories that I want to start and stop in the middle so I can come back to it. For example…

Today I could write about…

How my three year old kicked a soccer ball in and out and around the aisles of TJ Max and my 21-month-old ran around after him while I searched for warm clothes and Halloween costumes with my mother. Why weren’t we outside on this beautiful fall day? We were, we just wanted to bop in and out… 

How Finn and I broke up, and he’s officially weaned.

How Asher and I are on an quest to interview farmers and answer our question “Why are barns painted red?” (no we don’t want you to tell us and we are not going to Google it.)

How the boys played in the leaves with two beautiful and newly adopted children from Ethiopia and Sierra Leone.  

How I committed to run in one week 35 miles before my 35th birthday. Run Momma Run.

These stories I want to finish, find new pathways to make them more powerful, and continually exercise my style and voice.  And of course I want to be away from the house and my distractions.  

Will I see you tomorrow night? I hope so. I look forward to writing with you. I’ve envisioned you there with me, so write Momma write.