Tag Archives: parenting

Releasing You into the World

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Bringing you into the world
was a half-cocked plan,
born of accident and bravado.
Of one thing I was certain:
I would do better than my parents.
My smart resolve soon fell away
into the ruts of their well-worn path.

From the Box Store of Beliefs,
I bought a large suitcase.
Around scratchy clothes and 
tight shoes, I arranged for you 
all the useless nothings 
Of Propriety and how.it.is.supposed.to.be.

I watched that unwieldy valise 
bounce against your new knees.
I knew this was best for you   
because Important Things are Heavy 
and keeping a grip on Big Truths 
takes tenacity and brute strength.

As the years went by,
The pillars of what I thought 
I knew, what I thought was true,
Toppled.  
 
I remembered
The dream of another way,
Of the path that says:
It is never too late to let go 
of the Warping Weight.

It is not too late 
For us
to slide that clunker 
out the rear car door 
into a backwash ditch. 

Now, I’m buying you a big bandana
and a stick.

I’m packing you a bundle
Of deodorant and daring 
and creativity and chapstick
and sriracha and compassion
and fuzzy socks and
the salve of let.it.go and 
the balm of how.it.could.be. 

I will watch you set off, 
A bright bandana ball bobbing behind you.

Yes, that will be a happy way to release you into the world.

I Tried: A Father’s Lament

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I’m trying to set up this tent in
the dark.
Not city dark,
Not country dark,
Wilderness Dark.

I’m trying
to line these wiggling
poles up with the tent seams.
I’m trying
to hold this flashlight between
my cheek and shoulder.
I’m trying
to get this impossible
rain tarp in place.

I’m trying to be happy and patient.

I’ve tied my children to trees.
They’re calling me
to untie them
so they can help.

I’m trying to do this myself, and I will.

It’s a good thing I tied them
Up Tight
so if they fall asleep they
Won’t
Fall
Over.

I’m trying to
drive these anchors into rocks,
or some close stony relatives
and ignore the name Rex just called Syd.

I’m trying to fling our food
over this branch, fifteen feet
above our heads so the bears
don’t eat Kate for breakfast.

I’m trying to set up this camp
so I can untie my children
and lead them straight
to the tent and zip them in.

I’m trying to
put the sleeping bags on places without roots or rocks
and I’ve done so for everyone but me.

We sleep. They sleep. I try.

I awake.
My children are outside, unroped, in the light.
Something big is going on.
I try to listen. I cannot hear words.
Hushed tones of astonishment,
admiration. A large splash.
Whoops and hollers.

I try to figure out
why the ranger didn’t tell me
there was a drop


off, 60 feet,
into the lake
on the border
of my campsite.

I try to figure out
how I set up the tent
five feet from the edge
and didn’t fall in.

I try not to think of how
I tied my three children to trees
On
the
edge


of a cliff.

Releasing You Into The World

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Bringing you into the world
was a half-cocked plan,
born of accident and bravado.
Of one thing I was certain:
I would do better than my parents.
My smart resolve soon fell away
into the ruts of their well-worn path.

From the Box Store of Beliefs,
I bought a large suitcase.
Around scratchy clothes and
tight shoes, I arranged for you
all the useless nothings
Of Propriety and how.it.is.supposed.to.be.

I watched that unwieldy valise
bounce against your new knees.
I knew this was best for you
because Important Things are Heavy
and keeping a grip on Big Truths
takes tenacity and brute strength.

As the years went by,
The pillars of what I thought
I knew, what I thought was true,
Toppled.

I remembered
The dream of another way,
Of the path that says:
It is never too late to let go
of the Warping Weight.

It is not too late
For us
to slide that clunker
out the rear car door
into a backwash ditch.

Now I’m buying you a big bandana
and a stick.

I’m packing you a bundle
Of deodorant and daring
and creativity and chapstick
and sriracha and compassion
and fuzzy socks and
the salve of let.it.go and
the balm of how.it.could.be.

I will watch you set off,
A bright bandana ball bobbing behind you.

Yes, that will be a happy way to release you into the world.

9-11 Christmas

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My 3 year-old daughter sat perched in her car seat as I drove my truck along the quiet country highway.  She chattered to herself and my thoughts slipped to a place far away, a place that had become like a dim, lurking monster.  I wondered how long it would be a threat, and how many more of our own would fall prey to its insane terror. 

It didn’t feel like December 1st, and I thought of how dim this holiday would be.  I mused that perhaps people wouldn’t put up their lights as always.  In fact, there didn’t seem to beany up at all.  I hadn’t given much thought to holiday celebrations, everything seemed quiet, low key – and the spiraling economy only added to my dampened spirit.

 My broodings were abruptly brought to a squealing halt as we turned off the highway and onto the main street of a quaint New Hampshire town. 

“Looook Mama, Looook! The lights! OHHH! Can we get some of those?!”

Her enthusiasm should have broken my windshield; her shrieks reached to upper registers only heard by dogs. Her reveries would silence as she peered ahead, waiting for the next glimpse of glittering sparkles and then, once spotted, her cheers would resound through the cab.  

It continued on – each window, tree, bedecked reindeer eliciting pure happiness, joyful exclamations, and sounding claps.  I joined in, laughing and filled with incredible joy.   I realized then and there that it is impossible to be glum when you are in the company of a three-year old who is experiencing Christmas lights. 

This is the season that came with a promise and a hope, I thought, and in the quiet moments between the lights, I decided to hold my friends and family a little tighter this season and greet Christmas morning with great hope.  And I promised myself that if my thoughts ever started a downward spiral, I’d bundle her into the truck and we’d go look for lights.