remembering bOB

Yesterday was your birthday. Today is Father's Day. Missing you terribly. And trying to deal with it the only way I know how: writing.

Father’s Day

for R.E.B. III, 6/18/65 to 8/30/10

The blue pen flows, the gospel radio brays.

This day is different from all other days.

No mass, no kaddish, everything's been said.

We’ll plant a young tree with the kids instead,

right near the playground. Now we say Amen.

It’s bluegrass now. A love we shared. I met

my fiddle hero at that festival,

your gig. He died just two years later: old,

a lifelong smoker. You were forty-five,

ate vegetarian and rode your bike.

Six-two, one hundred sixty pounds of brawn.

I wonder if they’ll miss me when I’m gone—

the dobro twangs, the banjo taunts my ear,

the upright bass is—well, upright. Too clear.

little star

The little angel in this photo is much bigger now than she was on Halloween 2003. But it remains one of my favorite images of Stella, so I can't resist putting it up here.

I'm writing again. It sound simple, but it is a Very Big Deal. Right now I'm at the Antioch Writers' Workshop, getting feedback on excerpts from my memoir in progress, Little Star. It's been an amazing week, and I feel encouraged and scared and excited and all the things you're supposed to feel when you're really in the midst of something.

I'll post more about the workshop, and what I'm working on, soon.

parerez-vous....?

the nose knows

Stella has started doing the cutest thing: when you give her something to eat, or when she's around and you've gotten some food for yourself, she sniffs. Loudly. Sometimes she'll lean over her plate to test the aroma, even scrunching up her face in an exaggerated way.

She is definitely our foodie--her palate is much more adventurous than her brother's, and her appetite knows no time frame--she regularly demands pasta for breakfast, and this morning, I awoke to find her in the living room, chewing on something--"Chicken!" she declared. In the kitchen was an open container with the remains of a roasted chicken I'd gotten for yesterday's dinner, with some suspicious traces of ketchup on the lid.

She's also gone through a bit of a growth spurt and is quite a "solid" kid. Now is the time, I realize, for us to encourage her to eat healthy foods in healthy portions, and to exercise regularly. Fortunately, she's always up for an impromptu dancing session with Mom--or to her favorite Wiggles DVD!

back to school

It's the first day of classes for spring semester at FIT, and I'm starting right at 9 a.m. with Creative Writing. I'm excited to meet my new students and get into the swing, but it's been a real challenge to prepare amid some pretty serious personal tumult. Among other things, Bob has been out of town for over two weeks (he returns Friday), which means that I have truly been a single mom with all that entails. (Jenn M. et al., I don't know how you do it!)

Stella's sleep patterns have been even more erratic than usual (and there have been numerous poopie incidents), and it has taken both kids awhile to adjust to their dad's absence. But so far we're surviving and have even managed to have a little fun, like when we went into the city to get Stella's hair cut at Cozy's (the only place that can actually cut her hair) and afterwards to Patsy's for pizza. The spiritual work I have been doing has really made it possible for me to handle everything, along with the support of my parents and a couple of extraordinary friends. OK, time to finish the syllabus and head to class!

for small (?) favors

Bobby left yesterday for a Florida vacation with his uncle, aunt, cousins, and grandparents. Feeling extreme gratitude right now that I did not find out about the plane that crashed into the Hudson River until after I got the call from Uncle Mike saying that their plane (which left from LaGuardia) had landed safely. Also that at least one member of my family is able to avoid the frigid weather (not to mention going to Disney World)!

I was shopping in the Flatiron District and wondered why the streets were clogged with firetrucks and other emergency vehicles. Went blissfully on my way in search of warm clothing and a much-needed replacement for my shredded, ancient comforter. I was in Bed, Bath, & Beyond, as a matter of fact, when Mike called. And it wasn't until hours later, after lugging my parcels home and getting Stella off the bus, that I turned on the radio and heard the terrifying news. Unbelievable. What a miracle that all those on board survived.

Not even thinking about that flight to Chicago I'm taking in a few weeks...

random catchup

I've been trying to be all literary/philosophical/witty/artsy/heartfelt/introspective/creative lately in my postings. And the result is that I have a bunch of fairly self-absorbed, occasionally cryptic pieces of prose that don't necessarily tell the story of what's going on in my life.

While I can't really talk about EVERYTHING, you know, I do want to give some various thoughts and updates.

How are the kids? They're pretty good. Really. Bobby had a flu this past week he caught in PA (thanks, David!)--it started on his birthday :( and he was home from school three days, which made for some scrabbling around so Mom and Dad could work. We're having a party for him and 6 or 7 of his closest friends tomorrow at the apartment (Lord help us). My baby boy is nine. Unbelievable. Stella is her strong-willed yet adorable self. Well, the strong-willed part is asserting itself quite a bit more than usual lately. Yesterday I got a call from her teacher expressing concerns that Stella has been having tantrums and crying fits, mainly around "transition" times. Everyone keeps asking, "Is something different at home?" but it really isn't--Mom and Dad each spend about the same amount of time with her, and the routine, other than the holiday, is pretty normal. I'm wondering if it connected to a cognitive growth phase--she is able to understand thing in more complex ways, but is still not able to articulate her own thoughts and wants and needs. I can't imagine how frustrating that must be. She can still be a lovey, though, despite her bursts of temper. And she has a fetching new haircut.

How's work? Oh, don't ask. It's the end of the term, and I'm facing the usual pile (physical and digital) of student work to comment on. This semester I'm teaching an extra class for some extra bread, and it's just about killed me. Fortunately, my students are great--they never cease to amaze me with their insights and energy. I really do love teaching at FIT.

How's your writing? While my participation in the actual process of writing has been limited to therapeutic journal pages and comments on student papers (and emails, text messages, and the occasion blog post), things are definitely a-brewing on the literary front. Last week I got the page proofs and cover design for Saint Nobody. Just sent in the corrections yesterday. After all the years and tears and fears, it's really, really going to be published. And thanks to Red Hen Press, it looks marvelous. And it looks as if Denise and I may have a publisher for our chapbook of collaboratively written ABBA poems--stay tuned on that. I'm hoping to get back to the memoir in January. We'll see.

How are you? Hmmm. That's a tough one. OK. Surviving. Praying a lot. Running and doing yoga when I can. Trying not to be too much of a drama queen (and you know how hard that is for me)--sometimes succeeding at that. Grateful for friends--amazing people I have leaned on this past year, listening ears and sage advisors and fun socializers and cool and smart and solid and trustworthy. I'm so lucky. I only hope I can be as good a friend to them as they have to me. And grateful for my mom, whose birthday is tomorrow.

a friend in need

I somehow ended up with a free subscription to Parenting magazine, which seems to be so geared towards new mothers (preferably those under 35) that I often find it annoyingly irrelevant. At this point in my life, for instance, articles about how to "keep the spark alive with the new Daddy" make me more nauseated than a first-trimester subway ride without Sea-Bands.

But needing something to read while I was eating lunch today, I fished the March issue out of the recyling bag and found a fabulous article: "How to Help a Friend in Need," by Margaret Renkel. It gives advice for how to be truly helpful when someone is in a state of loss or other crisis.

The online version doesn't include the rather brilliant sidebar, "What Not to Say to a Mom in Crisis." So I'm taking the liberty of typing it up here.

Sometimes the most well-meaning friends say hurtful things. Try to avoid:
• "Everything's going to be just fine." This minimizes what may be a very serious problem and says that her fears aren't legitimate.
• “I know just how you feel.” You probably don’t. Even if you were once in similar circumstances you didn’t necessarily feel the same way your friend feels now. A gentler opening: “If you ever feel like talking, please give me a call. I suffered a miscarriage once, and it helped to talk with women who’d been through the experience.”
• “It’s all part of God’s plan.” Many religious traditions don’t accept misfortune as divinely ordained. It’s best to avoid imposing your own religious frame of reference on someone else.
• “It could be worse.” It isn’t helpful to point out that some kinds of cancer are worse than others.
• “At least you still have [fill in the blank].” People who’ve lost someone or something important—a parent, a marriage—are usually well aware of the blessings that remain, but still need time to mourn that loss.

One caveat: If you’re reading this list and consumed with guilt, remembering the times you’ve made exactly these statements, don’t kick yourself. Even when people are in crisis mode, they can tell when a remark is innocent and not intended to be hurtful. They’ll try not to take it to heart—and you should do the same.

Just reading this article made me feel a little better somehow. (My life, alas, is not all about dazzling writers' conferences.) And listening to Ron Sexsmith helps, too.

the poopie post

First, a disclaimer: Mom, please do not read this post. I'm serious.
So tonight I was cleaning the bathroom and realized that the main reason I could never, ever offer my place as a crash pad for writer friends coming to NYC for the AWP Conference: not the postage-stamp size of our home, nor the two little imps who live there and rise at 6 a.m., nor the probable appearance of a cranky Estranged Spouse. Simply put, I am embarrassed by the way we live. Take our toilet, for instance (take our toilet, please). If I used the bathroom at someone's house and it was as disgusting as ours was a few hours ago, I would be completely grossed out. As I scrubbed the neglected toilet I remembered that Bobby had two friends over yesterday for a playdate, and hoped for their sakes that the most egregious, er, deposits were very recent.
(Mom, if you're still reading, you really need to stop now.)

I was also reminded of the perils of potty training Stella and the utterly inadequate capacity of pull-ups at her age. During a visit to Grandma's, Stella woke up early and wandered downstairs only to make a poopie mess. My kindly mother went to get Stella first and, horrified, revealed that she had found feces on the kitchen floor. She actually pronounced it "Feece-us," and I was reminded of her grandmother, my Great-Grandma Gladys who used to call that instrument with black and white keys a "pie-anna."
(You can't say I didn't warn you, Mom.)

This is all to say that when you're faced with a crappy situation, the best way to deal with it is with humor. That, and a good pair of rubber gloves, and some strong disinfectant.

And on a more serious note, I hereby put out a second request for any advice about potty training from parents in T21-land! Tara, are you listening?

the "M" word: a query

When I got the call from the midwife telling me that my AFP test results indicated an elevated risk that my baby (Stella) had Down syndrome and recommending amniocentesis, I told her we were declining genetic testing because "we would not terminate anyway." She sputtered and twittered and finally blurted out, "Did you know that a high percentage of marriages end in divorce when there's a child with a disability?!"

I know that statistically this is true--there is a higher rate of divorce among special needs families--even higher than the already high rate for all couples.

And folks, let me tell you, there has been trouble in this particular little "paradise." The tiny two-bedroom in Queens crackles with tension. How much of this, I wonder, has to do with our parenting of Stella? How much is just the two of us, the individuals we are? How much is the tininess of the tiny apartment?

I'm very curious about the experiences of other couples who are parenting a child with special needs. So I'd like to pose the question to those of you reading now who are in that situation: how do you think it has affected your marriage, if at all? If you were married but no longer are, were your child's special needs a factor in that decision?

I would like to hear as many voices as possible, and you may post anonymously. (In fact, that would probably be preferable.)

beyond words

The little girl says few words that are clearly distinguishable, but boy, can she communicate. She babble and prattles but now, at age six, she is no longer just "jargoning," in speech therapy parlance. She is not just imitating the patterns of her mother tongue, she is saying words and sentences she understands--she knows what she is talking about. She approximates, and very often we can understand what she is saying. We also become accustomed to her usual approximations, familiar phrases--"Mom, could I please have some water" sounds like "Mom. Quee-eye-buppa water?"

She does have this habit, when she is denied a request, of simply repeating that request, several times if necessary. Repetition, to Stella, seems to be a mode of argument. It is frustrating sometimes, but I find that if I alter my response to avoid the actual word "No," she will capitulate and often let the issue drop. At bedtime, for example:

"Mom, can I have a book?"
"No, Stella. It's time for sleepies."
"Mom, can I have a a book?" (identical inflection)
"No, Stella. I told you. It's late, you've been put to bed, it's time to sleep."
"Mom--" pause until she has my attention again-- "Can I have a book?"
I come in close, kiss, snuggle her neck. "Nighty night."
At this point, she gives in and settles down.

---

Why do I write? I write because Stella cannot, because she may never be able to get down on paper her own experience. I write because I need to tell what it is like, what it is like to be her (I conjecture this), I write to exorcise guilt, I write to ask questions like, "Does she understand why I slapped her hands for going on the roof or slapped her bottom for pooping in her pull-up?" (Is it just about me making sure that she is properly afraid, that she learns to sense danger or at least builds a store in her memory of what things and places are dangerous? In trying to ward off danger, Mommy becomes the danger.)

I write because no one else can get to know this little girl in the way I can, because no one else is her mother. I write because I need to learn what it truly means to be her mother, I write to instruct myself in how to live this life.