Monthly Archives: August 2015

School Walk

Monday.  People dread Monday.  My son, my husband, both back to their weekly grinds after being free for two wonderful days.

I worked this weekend.  I’m off today.  This is my Saturday.  Tomorrow is my Sunday, but I can still empathize with my son’s hesitance to go back to school today.

The sky is grey.  Blue tries hard to peek through.  Fails.

It rained last night, the world still wet this morning.  I grab umbrellas, just in case.  My son takes his, pretends it is a pogo stick.  He pretends to be Scrooge McDuck from the DuckTales video game he loves to play.  He uses it to poke in a puddle, then hands it to me to carry.

He sings a song about the days of the month.  We are under an old oak tree.  Its branches spread far, far out.  Water falls from it.

“I can see water falling down!  Is it raining?”
“No baby.  It was raining, but the trees are still wet.  Water is falling out of the trees.”

Crosswalk.  Crossing guard.  I say good morning.  He wiggles his but and roars like a monster.  He keeps holding my hand even though we’ve already crossed the street.  He never does that.

“What will you learn at school today?”
“We learn different things, and people’s clips get moved off and everything.”
“You really worry about those clips don’t  you?”

They have a behavior chart, with clips that move up and down. On his very first day of school ever he had his clip moved down.  It traumatized him.  He is fixated on those silly clips.


A flock of birds fly overhead.  They swirl one way.  They swirl another.  They seem to fly off, but they come back.


He stands still, looking up at the sky, mouth wide open.  I’m struck by how thin and delicate he is.  I reach out and touch his unruly hair.

“Are they going to find a nest in a tree or not?” he asks about the birds.
“I don’t know sugar.”

We walk into school, to his class.  He grabs his book bag, hugs me, goes inside.  I hear a classmate say “Hey Parker!”  I hear his teacher ask, “Did you have a good weekend?”

I pause a second to wonder how long it will be before he is too old for me to hug.  He sees me still standing there.  Waves.  I wave back.

And start the walk back home.

A Gentle Nudge, A Push, A Shove

Time is moving too fast this morning, pushing me towards the door, out of the house, towards work.

I’m fighting it of course.

This morning doesn’t hold any of the magic that yesterday morning did.  I’m not peeking out of the windows thinking I might see a fairy dancing with the raindrops in my back yard.

This morning is all business.  Taking my blood pressure, eating a no-salt breakfast.  Feeding the kid half of my no-salt breakfast.  And really he likes it a lot more than I do.

Taking medicine, drinking my one cup of coffee and really wanting a second cup of coffee.

The soundtrack of this morning is Spongebob Squarepants.  My youngest is watching it.  My oldest is playing a game of it.  He took out our Spongebob Monopoly board and is using it to reenact all of the episodes he knows by heart.

He knows them all by heart.

My husband is in his Man-cave, leaving me to get myself ready for work and tend the kids all at the same time.  I love being a mother.  I love my children.  I miss having a moment to myself.

Just one.

Because everyone knows a mom can’t even go to the bathroom without a small shadow, and audience made from the combination of her genes and their fathers.

Watching, curious, growing little questions in their heads.

“Why do you sit down to pee?”
“Because Mommy’s are girls, and girls pee differently than boys do.”

And still time marches forward, nudging me from behind, pushing, pushing, always pushing.

I brush my hair, I brush my teeth.  I  wonder if it is going to rain all day today.  Tomorrow.  Tuesday.

And I worry about grown up things, like bills, like sickness, like high blood pressure and salt content.

“Patrick Star has no smartness in his head.”
“No sweetie.  He doesn’t does he?  Do you?”

Until the nudge, the push, becomes a shove.

Time to go to work.


Saturday Morning: A Snapshot


The Mushrooms in my yard are loving the wet weather.

8:30 AM Saturday morning.  I’m here, standing in the bathroom.  Looking out the window.


The world is raining.  Outside the world is grey and green and white.  Bright white heads peeping up out of the wet green grass.

Mushrooms have marched into my yard, soaking up the water.  They show up so fast you wonder if they do move on their own.  Do they dance when you’re not looking.  Jumping, twirling.  Celebrating the warm dampness in which fungi thrive?

One here.  One there.  Three in a row.  Lined up biggest to smallest.  Smallest to biggest.

A Toadstool family.

But no circles.  The Faeries have not visited this night.

Behind me a little person.  A little voice.

“No.  No no.  No no no no no.”

My son, still in his pajamas, still warm and smelling like sweet baby sleep.

“That’s right,” I tell him, “No no.”

He’s not supposed to play in the bathroom.

There is coffee in the kitchen, and food.  Breakfast.  I want coffee but I don’t want to leave.  The mushrooms are captivating and I still have a dream clinging to my head, my shoulders, my soul.

I think about calling in sick to work.  Staying home.  Watching the rain.  Watching the mushrooms.

Waiting on the faeries to dance in the overly tall grass in my yard.

I remember a poem I read once in which a woman sat in her bathroom as a retreat, spinning her empty toilet paper roll like a spirit drum.

I ponder a bubble bath, I ponder a book.  A nap maybe.  A vacation.

I can’t remember what I dreamed, and my stomach growls.

There is a day out there, waiting for me to join it.

It is louder outside, in the family room.  There are more people.  Big people.  Small people.  A television.  A video game.  A hug, a smile, a kiss.

And coffee.

But not serenity.  No green grass.  No white mushrooms.

No promise of faerie rings.

Just life.