Raising Sons

 

Raising boys

Is urine on the toilet seats,

And on the tile walls behind it,

And pooling on the floor

(Which you only find late at night

After stumbling with eyes closed

Down the hallway.)

It’s flexing in every mirror,

Toothpaste in the sinks 

and painted on the counters.

Raising boys is a mad house

Of yelling and wrestling and 

Throwing punches instead 

Of saying I love you.

It’s asking what’s for dinner 

at every breakfast,

Second breakfast and lunch.

Raising boys is empty pantries,

Empty Freezers and  empty refrigerators.

It’s an endless grocery list 

that’s consumed as soon as it’s restocked.

It’s having pajama, croc clad boys

Meet you to unload the car of packages 

and bags every time you come home.

It’s texts of “where did you go?” and “when will you be home” after only half an hour away.

Like you left them for a month

and didn’t leave a note.

Having boys is realizing

That one day you may be 

the other family.

The in laws, The other grandparents,

The back up family getting second holidays.

Having boys lets you see your husband,

His brothers, and his mother

In a light no one else can see shine. 

How they loved and fought,

Antagonized but defended,

Pledged a silent allegiance

Over legos and backyard ball,

Mosh pits, and at concerts.

And suddenly, I want to embrace

The brothers he has left. 

Bc they are his Solomon, and Eli. 

His Jonas and his Ben.

His brothers. Born from a faithful love,

Made loyal in the woods at Stoney point. 

Being a boy mom is knowing 

The bits and pieces of growing and birthing

Are a tale only you will revere,

A story only retold 

In your memories

As they spread their wings

And fly away.

Roger

Thoughts of my dad, on his birthday.

I was never cold. 

He fed the wood stove 

like it was a newborn baby and in return 

we were always warm. 

He told me I was beautiful 

the summer I turned twelve. 

During that season, when I was awkward and changing from girl to young woman, 

I ran the Florida shores 

with all the confidence in the world.

When my best four legged friend died, 

he buried him under a tree and sat with me for hours, which turned to days, 

which turned to weeks, 

while I broke into a million pieces.

He regaled me with stories, 

showed me Magic Kingdoms for Sale, 

the Shire, and the glorious prose of Pat Conroy.

He gave me Led Zeppelin, Santana, Jethro Tull and Aqualung, Allison Krause and Union Station.

We shared the same dream at night, 

often waking to find the other 

had also found another room in the ever growing magical house we could only find in our dreams.

My Dad- he breathed for babies, and the elderly, and all the folks in between, 

trading his tool belt for a stethoscope. 

He showed me how to wait

 in the space between breaths 

because that is where we find 

what others need. 

He has always made me feel safe. 

He knows every answer

 to every question I could ask, 

He fixes everything that ever breaks, 

and he set a standard I never thought

 I’d match in a spouse.

I see him in my sons.

Solomon is a pillar of quiet strength, watchful, still waters running deep, prepared and always ready.

Eli would trade earth for the Shire, Ender’s intergalactic travels for a life on earth, and loves knowledge but also has understanding.

Jonas has his work ethic. He wakes to move, to serve, to do and fix things. 

Ben has his humor. He is witty and sharp, funny with the same twinkle in his eyes. 

I am the luckiest daughter. My mom and sister are the luckiest. His grandchildren are the luckiest of all.

Menopause

 

Menopause-

Middle age puberty. 

I don’t fit right in my skin.

Things are out of focus.

My left foot doesn’t sit right

In my Hoka, and there’s electric currents running down my arms, 

like my funny bone took a hit.

My ears itch and ring 

And the sound of breathing around me

Makes me hold my breath.

Im hot, feverish, and sweating

through three changes of clothes a night,

While I shiver from the fan.

My Loves speak too loudly,

And too quietly, and if the captions fail

I hear only gibberish. 

I want to be hugged

And I want to body slam the hugger.

I want to tell you Jesus loves you

And fuck you for driving 5 under the limit 

in the left lane.

I grip the steer wheel,

come out of my seat,

anger rising like bile.

Alanis comes on the radio,

And it’s ironic

How the static just

quiets.

Hormones are monster.

The lack of them is a bitch

A Wedding Invitation

 I stumbled on her name while scrolling insta.

“Grace Elizabeth” 

printed on a stranger’s wedding announcement.

That’s my daughter’s name.

“Nobody else is ever gonna see Gracie girl.”

Every once in awhile I want to open the box

That holds the only thing we have of you.

Not the actual box though. 

That is a weight I still can’t bear. 

I mean, every once in awhile,

 I want to remember you. 

But the idea alone buckles my knees. 

You would be almost 9 years old. 

Nine. 

Close to a decade. 

I dream of you. 

You’d be the most like Jonas I think. 

Lean and brown, 

loving being outside and swimming. 

Asking Papa to take you fishing, 

asking your Dad for any whim that crosses your mind, 

testing me with a look I gave others my whole childhood.

I thought I’d miss you less by now. 

And I can say your name without falling apart. 

I can tell others I carried a little girl once without crying. 

I can let your brothers talk about what they think you would have been like. 

But I can not remember how you left us. 

How I had you ripped away from me. 

How I only had pieces of you to bury

in a box, 

in a field. 

Maybe I need another decade to pass.

Oh Gracie girl, I ache for you to be here. Still. Almost ten years later.

Still Aching

It’s been a lot of years. But that day, those hours, are still as fresh as yesterday. You’d be 8 now. The same as Emma, who I can’t see without aching.

I still can’t visit Richmond. The heating pad we bought to ease my cramps the night before makes me nauseous every time your brothers pull it out for ear aches.

Oh Gracie girl you’d love your brothers. And your dad. And the dogs and the cat and crossing the field between us and papa and nana. You’d be in my class at cc and be friends with sweet girls named Samara and Naomi. You’d be crushing the courts with your skills and perfect form, and swimming fast and far every summer. 

I still see you in my dreams and feel I’m one kid short when we load up after summer days at amusements parks. I ache for Heaven and Jesus and you sweet girl. I wish you were with me as I ride the tide of boy hormones and filth. I wish the hole you left would fill in and let me forget a little of the way you moved to your brothers cacophony, and I wish that you were in you your dad’s arms in pictures, (he’s amazing and you’d both adore each other,) and that your feet filled the muck boots handed down to wade in creeks and snow, and amble through the woods. I wish Henry the hound slept beside your bed and Rosie the magnificent walked by your side like Aslan. 

I wish you were here right now, tucked in your bed after listening to Harry Potter and sleeping under LED lights permanently on because someone lost the remote to turn them off. I wish your feet were part of the thunderous stomps of your brothers dancing and rocking out to 21 pilots and terrible YouTube artists. I wish you were here to play Minecraft and Fortnite -and Upward basketball. 

I wish I didn’t stay awake at night feeling like someone isn’t home yet, that the porch light needs to stay on a little longer as I fight sleep until everyone is home and safe and snugly tucked in. 

I wish you were here Gracie girl. You live in my dreams and post wine slumbers, when I’m not awake and not asleep and not sure why I feel like someone’s missing.

Judah David

There’s no sympathy card for children. Not one says, “I’m sorry you’ll never play with the brother you loved even though he stopped moving inside your mom before you ever got to meet him. I’m sorry you’re measuring  the depths of your mother’s love against the chasm of your brother’s death.”

 There’s no sympathy card for mothers. Not one says, “I’m sorry that the ache in your belly that was filled with kicks and summersaults now feels like a gaping wound. I'm sorry that his missing weight has left you with vertigo and your diaphragm aches to rise and fall to the rhythm of his hiccups. I’m sorry that it will never stop aching. I’m sorry that you will replay these days a thousand times over and your heart will break each and every time.

 There’s no sympathy card for fathers. Not one says, “I’m sorry your little boy will never ride on your shoulders. I'm sorry you feel like you're on the outskirts of your wife's grief because you couldn't feel his weight, because your skin didn't move with his twists, because you couldn't feel him stir to the sounds of your family.

 There’s no sympathy card for Grandparents. Not one that says, “I’m sorry you couldn’t hold this grandson. I’m sorry you're watching your little girl break into a million pieces that all your love cannot put back together.” 

 There’s no sympathy card for sisters. Not one that says, “I’m sorry you can’t swaddle this nephew in hugs and spoil him with gifts. I’’sorry your baby sister is reeling with a loss that is too much for her to bear, but you can not help carry it for her.