Robin nesting

Mother’s Day is coming up, and Ben and I have a robin nesting on our deck.

She built her nest of brown daylily leaves from last year’s blooms, and she left some of them streaming down like party decorations. She sits on top of the porch light, just under the eaves. I took the bulbs out of that lamp last year because I like to see the moon and stars, not fluorescent light, when we sit outside.

We can see her white rimmed eyes and yellow beak from the window just to the side of the light. We check on her each morning, as she sits patiently keeping her eggs warm.

I say to Ben, "Look, our robin is still there."

He says, in a whisper, "Wonderful, Mamma."

The deck needs cleaning, and I’d like to be eating dinner out there these last few warm nights, but I want her to have a peaceful time before her life gets filled with crazy worm hunting to feed her brood. So we watch her from inside, or we go out the other door and quietly walk around to look at her from across the deck.

Elliot and Goose seem entranced as well, and sometimes curl up on the windowsill, their fat cat bodies barely balanced on the narrow ledge, eyes raised in prayerful anticipation. Sometimes Elliot will chatter like a wild cat hunting his prey. Silly house cats. They were both strays and haven’t even wanted to go outside since they moved into my house.

The robin sits, wide-eyed, and waits on her bed of dried lily leaves.

Listen for Life's Whispers

A week ago, the whispers of grievances cascaded around me, heaping both pain and joy. Walking through the week felt like the slush on a cold rainy March day: pleasurable only because my warm boots kept me dry. My co-workers were caught up in the drama, my boss pleased and reassuring. All in all, I'd rather it were June.

A man I have never met sits across from me at coffee, his eyes welling-up as he describes his back yard. He tore out buckthorn by the bushel, and replaced it with yellow ladies' slippers, native sedges of red and green, queen anne's lace and spring beauties. He and his ex-wife have struggled to keep that yard for their boys through the pain and economic strain of their divorce. In my head I see my parents' house of my childhood. A carpet of trillium spread between our garage and my grandparents' cottage: may apples, jacks in the pulpit, skunk cabbage, violets, false solomon's seal, anemones and mosses. We ran through this fiesta each day, our yard five acres of hardwood forest.

My father, overjoyed at his first walk from his new apartment to town, describes his sudden desire to learn to throw a pot, and wants to make a mug for each of his children in time for Christmas. "Ceramics are forever," he says, and his laughter turns to soft sobs. "This is a good place to spend my last . . . the end of my life," he says as he lays his head on the table.

I am trying to let go enough to let him hear his own whispers, trying not to drown out his voice with my own advice and reassurances

Big Kid Underwear

Well, we are in day three of big kid underwear. While we were getting dressed Monday, Ben took a good hard look at me, and pointing to my crotch said, "Momma, you pee?"

I explained that, yes, I pee there. "You got a penis?" he asked, hands on his hips.

"No, I don't. Boys have penises and scrotum, girls have clitorises and labia," instantly nearly regretting dishing out these terms to a three year old, but I am determined to raise a child unafraid of anatomy. And it didn't seem right to just say that a girl lacks a penis, without taking credit for what girls have--we're different, not deficient.

"Oh," says Ben, the subtlety of my political stuggle completely lost on him. Then: "Wear underwear, Momma?" as I was taking mine from the drawer.

"Yes," say I, thinking he means mine.

"Ben's big kid underwear?" he asks, and runs to his room where they have been just waiting for this moment of conscious mind. So off we went to Peachtree in our Lightning McQueen underwear. It's been a mixed success, but the good women of Peachtree and I are determined to continue down this path. We now have Incredibles, Thomas the Train and Cars underwear (well, sad to say, not me, just Ben.)

It makes me wistful, and proud, and reflective. Where did my baby go? When did we start talking in words? When did he stop being small enough to easily hold all of a piece, instead of gangly legs hanging down to my knees?

It was two years ago I wrote this about my diaper-wearin' toddler:


War Cry

Wooden spoon held aloft,
Ben shouts “Yala bada !”
A sly grin plays across his sweet face.
The toddler’s wooden scimitar
lands squarely on the dog's haunch.
The canon shot of my “No!”
makes both Ben and the dog jump.

Ben begins his studied reaction.
Eyes fastened on mine,
the corners of his rosebud lips turn down,
he opens his mouth just enough so
those darling new white teeth shine.
He tilts his plump-cheeked head back.
His chin quivers. Brow knitted,
he half closes his eyes.
A low moan, meant to be crying,
escapes his artful mouth.

No tears come.
“Don’t hit the dog,” I say
and take the spoon.
He throws himself
across Sam’s back,
wailing increases
to perfect pitch.

I put my hand under his chin
raising his face for my inspection.
He pretends to look away,
rolling his eyes to the very
edge of my face.
Still no tears.

“You know you shouldn’t
hurt poor old Sam.” I say,
and take away my hand.
Ben reaches for the spoon:
I hold it aloft.
The wail continues,
still no tears.
“No,” I say,
more softly than before.
“You can’t have the spoon
if you’re going to hit the dog.”

He hits my leg.
“And don’t hit your momma,”
I say sharply.
The wail increases.

The dry-eyed cry of a toddler
is perfectly designed.
Soon, I scoop him up.
His wailing ceases instantly.
His head rests so sweetly,
so warmly on my shoulder,
I can’t help but smile,
enjoying the weight of him,
resting after our skirmish,
his trusting body limp beneath my hands.

Peace returns to the house.
Sam goes back to sleep.
Ben squirms to be let down
and heads for the kitchen
and a rubber spatula
he left near the door.