Upside, A Day Late

Again, fatigue and overwhelm, again. Now I know how the survivors of Hurricane Katrina felt, only moreso. One of the ones that Hurricane Sandy continues to impact. There are moments of quiet reflection where it's a fight to stave off intrusive thoughts, as worrying accomplishes nothing. The sun coming in the window, a pet wanting attention, care and feeding.

Moments observed in solitude that actually were meant to be shared, with a child, with an offspring. The pets are mostly theirs. Not one of those instances where the parent takes over care because the child isn't. The child isn't able to from distance; would if he could. So caring for the animals and being present is caring for him. He will take over when he can. Much groundwork has been done for him he's not aware of yet, though he may appreciate the knowledge once he's independent.

There are insufficient outlets for expression with existing demands: storm recovery, not yet settled, work, and not least of all parenthood: the priority. Thus late again, for one. Postcards every day, sometimes four to six at a time, one for every calendar day; poor compensation for the distance, though may be helpful at some point. He knows there are copies, for a time in the future that can't be determined right now.

Only in a winter climate to do what was recommended "by law". Found out too late it was a 'relative term'. It's cold, and not being so vibrantly young as before has its limitations in response to the weather. Will not be spending final years here, and the thought of moving again even once is exhausting, though it's absolutely necessary. The plan has to change to work in the pets, and health maintenance, for all concerned.

The upside is staying in touch, with profound limitations, helping others when possible, and moments of quiet and peace, regardless of how few, for now.

The Adventures of Snapple S. or SnappleS

Red Bellied Parrot, which is really dark orange with all of the colors of the rainbow where it isn't orange below the breastbone, and expressive amber eyes; handsome. He was named Snapple because when one of the pet store employees would go out for their Snapple iced tea while this one was out on the counter, he would go for it quickly and take a drink.

Snapple had been in the store nine months when a manager who had seen my son and me for supplies and talking about our birds said Snapple 'would be good with us'. Little did I know then Snapple didn't take well with most of the other employees apart from two people, including the sales-adept manager. Another employee was happy to see him go when I finally went in to get him for a reduced price, which still wasn't cheap.

He's a medium parrot, though he can draw blood, I later found out after he became territorial in his new space, though he's compliant when he's in unfamiliar surroundings. He's done more major damage to furnishings than me, and fortunately my son has stayed clear.

Over this holiday weekend, as most mornings, Snapple has been repeating words the pet store manager taught him, mostly when I'm not in the room and can't hear all of them. 'Snapple's a good boy' is one, 'Hey, baby' is another, with chuckles and whistles added in. What I say that I've heard him repeat up to now is "No".

Staying in for a long weekend to get needed housework done, I resorted to using instant tea in a wide rimmed plastic cup (Tervis), to avoid going out for more preferable drinks. Snapple was on my head. I'd seen him on the rim of my coffee cup before when walking back into the kitchen, so I offered up the cup at my head, unable to see.

My son had even purchased tea at Dunkin Donuts in a styrofoam cup. We didn't know the rim surface was a factor. Snapple hadn't gone for it. Yesterday, as the cup was at my forehead, I felt the weight shift from my head onto the cup. I was able to bring the cup down to see what was happening.

Snapple was going for the tea, and doing his bobbing dance he had also learned at the pet store, or that's where it started. After taking a couple of sips, he looked straight at me and said "I love you." for the first time, in the same room. It was only the second thing I'd heard him say that was from me after "No". And it was only a few moments later that he bit me again, leaving welts (not blood, this time) that sent him back to 'his room'.

When my son was born, I exercised the option of giving him his father's last name, who was in the room during the birth (regrettably, I would have rather had a mirror at the other side of my crotch to see what was happening myself, without him). It was my choice, the naming thing, too. It was a courtesy of consideration and acknowledgement, after he'd signed the paternity papers, in the event anything happened to me 'in the short term', for the baby (had I only known...).

Snapple's behavior reminds me of just one reason why we're no longer together. One way in your presence, another with others. Nice one moment, cruel or inconsiderate the next. Breaking or carelessly losing things of value, and using sometimes irreplaceable resources. Since being with my child, omitting my last name from the child's name.

So as of this last 'I love you.' moment to moment episode Snapple has become SnappleS, as in 'Snapple's a good boy'. Well, it depends on whom you ask, and when.

Manicure

He wanted to do my nails. He had picked out an electric blue at the store we were in together and asked for the polish. He knew from our already expansive collection the benefits of nail enamel as paint. I asked if he wanted me to put it on myself. He said yes. When I had arrived he said he liked a similar color I had on; had taken a chance he might not like it.

He had asked before, though we were always so pressed for time it was too difficult to have that moment and get to where we wanted to go in time for the next hour when our time would be over. This time, he asked, and I was happy to be able to oblige. It may or may not be the last time. Not because there won't be an opportunity; he's just at the age where one never knows what he might want to do, especially if he might not think it's up to an image he's decided to emulate for the day, experimenting with many as his identity as an older boy evolves.

He came over to where I was and took his first shot; I helped by coaching a little on technique. He had asked me before during an earlier trip if I would do his: the kind of clearcoat he saw sports celebrities wearing in the news during press conferences. That was fun, too. Now it was his turn; we had time. His accomplishment was almost as pride producing as the model vehicles we had created together to date, with more planned. They were his creation, on me, to remember him by every day for as long as it would last. He asked me to take the rest to our place, for future manicures or other creations that polish did a better job of than other paints.

He said words in combinations he'd not said before, unsolicited, out of the blue; no one could ask or wish for sweeter expressions.

I wonder what he will remember or what will stand out when he thinks back on moments like these when asking to do my nails will no longer be a first choice activity. There are so many photos I can't look at now from earlier times, and lately there aren't enough photos for all of the precious moments actually seen. Like me, he doesn't like to pose for pictures nearly as much as when he was smaller, and I have to put the camera away when he objects.

It may not be the last manicure, though many moments are irreplaceable. The homework that's actually fun that he saves for us to do together; the decks are cleared until it's finished, and all finished projects and accomplishments are a celebration, as is being together. Every day is a special occasion and lately he puts it into words out of nowhere much better than I can. It's one of his gifts. He's managed to know his worth, or be able to express it without coming across as arrogant or overly confident. He just knows or seems to know he's validated, though it's as fragile as a day of bad weather that makes a triumphant day seem far in the distance.

I hope I'm wrong; the effects last a lifetime from what we've been through together that have crept into the subconscious and surface again when shared bliss seems too far away or inaccessible when the world isn't so friendly and there's no one who understands within reach. The peace is missing when in those moments when we're apart it isn't known when those feelings come and if he would know what he could do, especially when there's less time to think, and something must be done. Those precious little moments are the glue that binds the thought process that leads to security and an ability to act. The uncertainty is an unannounced storm with an undetermined date, with an unknown inventory of survival supplies or training. There can be no real peace for a child in such an existence.

Business proposal...

Was due the only time that was 'available'. Had I not completely forgotten, time would have been made. Again, it's an indicator of a major shift and overwhelming moments during the transition. The lesson is learning to manage at all times, within reason...

Everything comes back to it's all about the next generation, and one child in particular in the forefront. Lifechanging events lead to more lifechanging events over time when there are common threads, spun into rope, that can become like steel.

Now

No more time; not getting any younger. Life is too short; the time is now. Age means nothing. Jerry Lewis was right about one thing: underneath it all, everyone is nine years old. No one looks different from anyone else any more, all that shows is how evolved each one is, by what they say or do. My child is an old soul, torn between two worlds. Still working out the complexities of our intertwined relationship and how it melds with our respective purposes. He doesn't know his yet, nor would I. My purpose is to allow others to see they can choose much 'earlier' than I did. When my son is ready, he will either decide for himself or ask for guidance. I must continue either way; part of the reason for going on is my child, the rest are important as well, and will be included as they wish. I'm to simply be out and accessible, doing more than talking, accomplishing more than influencing. The latter will come with the former.

Better at picking battles, wishing there were none to decide between. Though that wouldn't be life on earth as we know it otherwise. The contrast creates the distinction between why there's so much effort and the potential rewards. Every single moment involves a choice. Like the wings of a butterfly against a breeze or flowing with the air currents. Sometimes it's all just timing, or so it would seem. Action, keep going, persist, don't stop. Keep breathing; 'the ability to take a deep breath' is checking into the moment of place, in touch with what is to be done, in the right place at the right time. Live well, choose, go, and be. In honor of one legacy, the one being created is only visible through what comes later, through actions and choices as small as the beating of butterfly wings from one moment to the next, until they all add up, and the mark in time is what remains.

"My Mom"

He wouldn't let me go, on a day when I had a meeting to get to and he was being picked up from school by someone else. I stayed as long as I could; it had been so long since I'd helped him with his homework on a day like this. We sat in the corner together between the classrooms where his schoolmates were being tended to by the after-school staff; the other children were having to do their homework on their own or with just one person in the room. When homework was finished, each child went from one room to the other across the hall. We were in the middle.

It was as pleasant as when we did homework together on weekends, and when he first started school. We'd begun the habit of starting homework as soon as possible after school as a fun thing, with work done earlier in the school day fresh in mind.

He breezed through his math, only needing validation as he solved each problem; I only provided options and questions for answering each until the page was complete. Next was writing: a summary of a story with the assignment of adding setting, personalities, dialogue, and scenery. I asked questions or made potential statements about the scene and tone he already had in mind so that he could make choices himself to complete the picture in his own narrative. I was so proud of his natural talent and told him so as he ended the story perfectly in time (before I had to leave and when the rest of the children were packing in their homework for the next activity) and by himself once the critical moment in his story was done and he concluded it as if tying it up with a colored ribbon.

Of course he took time to get up and sharpen pencils as I kept checking the time, showing me how he was learning to write in longhand or cursive his favorite letter so far, and making another attempt to delay me by hiding my cell phone. In between math and writing, he asked an interesting question: "Mom, what was the most violent thing you've ever done?" A little taken aback, I responded with the first thing that popped into my head: "Defending myself," I answered, hoping he wouldn't ask for any more details. He didn't. Instead he said, " No. That wasn't it; it was in my dream."

"Oh?", I replied, wondering with some concern exactly what was next, if he would even tell me. "So what was the dream?" I held my breath a little, waiting until he chose to finish without hesitating.

"I was in an alley next to the school, and a guy followed me and pulled out a gun to shoot me. You came in behind him in an SUV, got on the top of the hood, then jumped on top of him. The gun went off in another direction and I didn't get hit. I called the police on the [cell] phone while you held the guy until the cops came. You saved my life." I didn't ask when or where, though I'm fairly sure this dream occurred on a night he had not slept at our home.

I smiled, so touched and filled with peace if only for a moment. To my child I'm a superhero, even now. Every day is Mother's Day, whenever I'm with him, as written before in a poem, and this is why. The spontaneous things that cannot be planned or predicted, the unexpected charging hugs from across the room when I don't see him coming that now nearly knock me down, holding onto my hand against his face and not letting go, trying to keep me from going anywhere else. Hearing his voice call "Mom!" from a distance, and more hugs that come out of nowhere unexpectedly when I don't know he's so nearby.

A lady who stays in the playground during recess told me of a moment she caught him in quiet contemplation in a corner of the playground soon after he'd gotten his glasses and how precious he looked. "These are the moments I get to see that you miss", she said, meaning me and other parents in general. She smiled, and continued toward the other children for the next round of classes, not meaning any harm. It was simply matter-of-fact. She had no idea the impact of her words. Fortunately, on that day, I didn't cry. I was simply happy to be in the same place, with him knowing I was there.

Lovefest

Priceless and precious: lingering after waking, knowing a pint-sized person will soon awake as well and prefer to nestle toes and all under ever-warmer covers quick as a flash. Little nose in the space of your neck; little arm over you: irreplaceable.

Saying 'I love you' out of nowhere, during the day and across the room after being tucked in for the night. Sharing dreams, good and bad, hearing laughter and whimpers at different times once slumber has taken over, staying awake purposely though not consciously just to be together longer.

Finding little treats collected over time: little moments strung together more precious than a beaded necklace, more fragile: passing memories as soon as they happen.

Always singing, always smiling, always sharing funny stories and new jokes: the gift of a happy child. Though always is not really 'always'; a child like this will seek every possible time to renew their own hope and yours. Always trying to capture a smile or a laugh, not forgetting what fear feels like, and not looking for it.

They are here to remind us of 'now', of all there is that matters. Tomorrow is another day; today is what we have. Yesterday is over, always, to a child.

The blanket was sewn again, as many times before, held together by threads on top of each other. It feels soft and solid once more though no less fragile: full of priceless irreplaceable memories, from when its entire size fit completely over a little person that now still holds it fast during the night close to his face. He's now shy to have his forehead kissed with others around though the blanket is always accounted for and never far away: the first to wipe sudden tears and keep close.

The shape of the face is the same, as is the softness of his hair and skin, as when he was so small, still in a stroller, falling asleep, 'checking out' from the noise when it became too much. Peace was looking at his face and touching his hair and skin; comfort was doing the same when bad dreams had him calling out to make sure I was there. I answered by the touch that was unmistakeable, stroking his face and pulling the covers over his shoulders until the whimpering stopped and the pained expression returned to one of rest again; sometimes it seemed like every night, though it wasn't. I never tired of comforting him; my rest was and is his.

He tells me what I cannot help and cannot change, as if he knows; sometimes he's right. I tell him what is not his to worry about, what isn't about him, what cannot hurt him. The last time I said I thought he was 'the greatest' he said 'Think?'. "I know you're the greatest", I said, corrected. Something must be working. He will have what I didn't have; he will know who he is and claim him, because someone was there to tell him he could.