Finding myself in the Middle East

Tuesday, October 15, 2013

Slam Poetry: One Take On Tuesday

She wants cereal in the purple bowl and I can only find the green

And I'm tired, can't they see that? He looks perfect, is perfect,

And screams all night long, putting all thoughts of bowls, purple or otherwise, into

The part of my mind that's in free-fall.

When they leave, bump in her hair, shoes smudged, I say, "I love you! Have a great day!"

But kisses don't replace "Hurry UP!" as the song-worm in their brain, and I think,

I will make it up to them, but

Lunch is late,

The baby and the writing and the laundry, because those are important,

And I'm cutting up vegetables in a frenzy instead of hugging when they come home.

(vegetables are important, you know)

And in the park sure, there I am,

And homework, sure,

But I am pulled into four and say "hang on, just hang on," so many times

I might as well record it and press play.

And dinner, and book, and bath, and bed

And all I want to do is finish the load of laundry that I started in the morning,

Move it from clean to dry

(it's important that the clothes smell fresh, you see)

And so many kisses, kiss them to sleep.

"Okay. We'll talk more in the morning," I say. "I love you."


The laundry,


Spins round and starts again.

Tuesday, October 1, 2013

The Theory of Relativity

The locust storm has passed, leaving blackened stalks in its wake.

Did I say locusts? Silly me! Mommy brain and all that. I meant family! My family has gone. All but one, and the last holdout leaves tomorrow.

And by blackened stalks I meant my refrigerator. And cabinets. And by flying house I meant flying house.

Did I not say flying house? I meant to say it.Repeatedly. And then cry a little and then write a blog post instead of cleaning up and/or making lunch for the kids who will be home in an hour and/or finishing the chapter I started yesterday because how does one write when the house looks like it was hit by something very large and slightly listing to port? Port being the kids' room that housed 6 kids under the age of eight for three weeks, and actually I have no idea if its port, but when things list, they always do so to port, amiright? Also, if you say "port" enough times, it loses all sense of meaning.

So the baby is named for my father, and I think I need the space and time to get very emotional about that, and about him, his silky and small perfection, his little nose and beautiful eyes and his long and slender fingers and toes that are startlingly and starkly like my father's. You have big shoes to fill, tiny little boy who has already stolen my heart. No pressure.  

Anyway, they're all gone! It will be so quiet here with just us! Who said that transitioning to a fourth child had to be hard? If I was a hashtag kind of person--which I am most definitely not--I would write something hashtagy about that. Like #easiesttransitionever or something.

It's a good thing that I would never do that. Being not hashtaggy and all.



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