Why?

Thirsty?

How to Begin

How to begin parenting

when your child returns home

How to begin writing

when your mind returns

after weeks of

… wandering off

How to begin

after stepping away

even for a day

How to begin

telling your story

when yours

is intertwined

with the stories of

those you love

and theirs

are purposely

not visible

to anyone but you

How to begin knowing

where your writing

will take you

is taking you

now

How to begin responding

to that tug of passion

when you have so

carefully submerged

your

shall we say

pre-mom self

for so long

How to begin

and when you begin

How to reach back

for what you need

or trust

it will appear

beside you

along the way.

Photos from our Family Reunion in Cabo San Lucas

❤

the babysitter

My baby sits

on the kitchen floor,

waving backwards

while I put on my coat,

tears welling in her eyes,

rolling down her cheeks

silently. We have a new

sitter and my baby girl

needs weeks with a person,

sometimes years

to feel close, to feel

cared for, cuddled, safe.

*  *  *  *  *

This is only the beginning.

She’s not even one

but she knows

this is not

what she wants.

My heart breaks

in two,

in five,

in twelve

I need

to be strong,

offer love and

smiles and

reassurance and

I am and

I do, but

my heart breaks, too.

*  *  *  *  *

So when I pull out my

phone ten years later

and text our favorite sitter

to see if she’s home

for the summer,

it is light in the sky

and birds in my heart

I hear

when she says:

YES.

*  *  *  *  *
National Poetry Writing Month
30 poems in 30 days

An Historic Day

I had the great privilege of working remotely this week . . .

 

. . . while my daughter and her cousin attended day camp in the woods.

The actual woods. Very unlike any urban camps they might have attended close to home, their activities here were things like archery, kayaking, fishing (okay, so they both opted out of this one), crafting, swimming, rock climbing, and – well – chalk drawing. They were also told that “totem” meant “pole” so we had to clear that up. But all in all? Amazing.

As we drove to camp Wednesday morning, we scanned the radio for music we all might like. Have you tried that? With two tweens in your backseat? We found one with a good beat, clean language, very little DJ interruption… and surprisingly quick headline news (my hand poised on the dial to turn it): “The U.S. Supreme Court is expected to rule on the Constitutionality of the Defense of Marriage Act today, at 9 o’clock Eastern.” That may not be exactly what they said, but it’s pretty close.

And suddenly, we were talking about marriage and fairness and how many times people could get married (twice if you married in both the U.S. and India; twice or more if you got divorced), who people can marry (whoever they like, of course! right?), who cares (not just gay people), and which branch of government has the final say (um: all?).  We talked about state responsibility and how laws change, and they agreed to exit my car in the pouring rain only after I promised to tell them the decision just as soon as camp was done.

I wondered silently if any other campers had this on their minds.

When I came back that afternoon and shared the good news, they jumped up and down and waved their swimming towels, climbed into my car, peppering me with questions, and then we swam off our raft in the middle of the lake.

By the end of the day, the historic decision had been distilled simply to, “The Supreme Court says YES!”

Then it rained. And then it stopped.

And then we swam again. And fed the swans, Gertrude and Alice . . .

. . . with Aunties who stopped by to finish the week with us.

We treated ourselves to rootbeer floats at a drive-in.

And roasted marshmallows. Because we were away from home and it was summer and life was good.

Hardly Gay Today

Blogging for LGBT Families at a time when I’m more curious about the secret language of Nine . . . when I’m squeezing every loving moment, every hug, every insight, every quip and observation about life, itself, from the next two days before Miss E scampers off to spend ten whole days at Camp Grandma . . . proves challenging. Now, I love that I can always run over to Mombian for that dose of same-gender-loving perspective I crave and I am Thrilled with a capital-T that she hosts this themed day every year.

I’m just not . . . feeling it today.

It isn’t that I don’t believe in LGBT families – and I don’t mean “believe” like you might believe in fairy dust or God or the roundness of this earth or anything else you can’t see, smell, or hold in two hands – on the contrary, I very much believe in this family I’ve made with my partner and our two girls, and the families around me on every side. But this is my life, my every day. Not much of it is gay.

I’m lucky that way. Where I live. Very, very lucky.

Don’t get me wrong. There are moments now and again when being gay is more than a blip on the screen.

I was angry when the Illinois legislature failed to call for a vote on marriage equality last week. When my partner and our eldest daughter arrived home, I was sitting at the dining room table scouring my Facebook feed and grumbling quietly. “They didn’t call the vote,” I said as they walked in – after a quick hello and the tiniest flash of a smile to greet them.

“I know,” they replied in tandem, one of them holding out the “knoooooww” a bit longer than the other, neither of them especially disturbed.

“That’s ridiculous,” I continued, prodding them into a conversation to match my mood.

My partner walked into the kitchen for a glass of ice water. “Well, what did you expect?” she called back to me.

That’s the thing. Despite all the busses and rallies and calls and tweets and posts and general hoopla, I never really expected to be married under the law. But I am a bit of a dreamer. I am. So I hoped they would call the vote and we would win and that . . . deflation . . . left me feeling glum.

I wanted to send my Honey roses and propose.

I wanted to celebrate our 11^th anniversary next week with wedding bells chiming in our future.

Because I am just that old fashioned . . . A fact about myself I’m learning slowly as I age.

Yet, the absence of marriage hardly impacts my everyday life. Yes, it is annoying that I can’t claim my partner’s new prescription eyeglasses against my tax-protected medical spending account, and yes, it’s bothersome that I need a legally notarized document to say that my worldly assets should be passed along to ALL my girls in the event of my demise. But this isn’t something I puzzle over daily.

It isn’t something I puzzle over as much as I should.

I know the culture is shifting. I’ve witnessed the parents of Miss E’s classmates turning their Facebook profile images into symbols of support, one after another. It’s shocking to me how widespread this “show of support” has become. And it isn’t just show. Not by far. It’s real. I feel it in the way I’m seen on the playground before and after school – as a person first, and then as gay. This sequence has shifted over time. Because we know each other now.

I have great hope.

But I am not naïve.

None of us knows what the Supreme Court will decide, or how – if at all – the shape of our lives will change in the wake of their decision. What conversations will happen among my daughters’ friends? What new work will need to be done?

I am clear about one thing only: It will always be important to tell the stories of our lives – our struggles, our dreams, our hopes, our giggles, our every day — LGBT or otherwise. I know this to my bones.

Even though today, I don’t feel gay.

And I have nothing new or life-changing to say.

I’m just a mom whose daughter is scampering away for ten days and I will miss her.

Fiercely.

Summer Countdown

“How many days of school do I have, Mami?”

You mean this year? Before the end of second grade?  Are you finishing second grade already?!?  “Four days, Sweetheart.  Just four.”  I’m eager for summer, but this year’s teacher will be hard to lose.

“What’s after that?”

“Camp Grandma.”  I smile.  “Grandpa got the pool ready for you.”  They have a pool right in their backyard.

“Yay!”  She sits up in bed, clapping her hands together giddily.  I want to tickle her, jump up and dance around the room with her.  Summer fever is contagious.  I can feel the sun on my face at the public pool, hear each squeal as she chases friends around the park, kicks a ball, straddles her bicycle.  “Do you think I’ll be able to touch the bottom?”  Her cousin was six when she touched the bottom. “… and now I’m eight!  I think I’ll touch.  Last year, I almost could.  Almost.  I think I’ll touch this year.  I know I’ll touch.  What else will I do there?”

“You’re going on a field trip with your cousin.”

“Oh, right!”  She is beyond thrilled. She is elated.  She’s going to the zoo with her cousin, her cousin’s class, and Grandma.

She shifts gears.  “I know I probably can’t have a whole pack anymore, but… will you make me a card, Mami?  Maybe a couple of cards?”  It has become a tradition.

“You’ll have your cards, Cutie Pie.  One card for each day.  Don’t worry.”

“Oh, good!”  She sounds relieved, and I realize her shoulders were up tight by her ears and they’ve dropped now.  “I like Pokèmon cards, too.  Remember when you put those in?  Will you…?  I liked that.”

“You’d like me to get you Pokèmon cards?”

“Yes!  And I’ll make you cards, too, Mami.  We can have a writing day.  We can write each other cards… in separate rooms,” she decides.  She has always enjoyed an element of surprise.

Cards.  Treasures.  Summer.  Growing older.  Going away on a trip.  Leaving each other and coming together again.

The pure glee of each discovery, each reunion, each… new… thing.

“I would like that, Sweetheart, very much.”

* * *

What I know about Camp Grandma is this:

There are outings and puzzles and playtime and parks and ice cream every day, sometimes twice.  Ice cream is a rule.  At Grandma’s, there’s also a pool.

Mama and I are not there to wake her or nag her, hug her or guide her.  Grandma and Grandpa handle what needs handling in that regard.  Sometimes, their style is just like ours.  More often, it’s not.  And all of this is good.

Every weekday morning, Grandpa heads to “the office” – their nickname for the local McDonald’s, where he gets one cup of coffee and chats for an hour or so with friends about local news, the state of the economy, nearby real estate, the grandkids and recent golf games. My daughter goes with him at least once, so he can show her off.  She gets a treat, some coloring pages, a book, and intermittent but rapt attention from all the grown-ups.  Plus, she gets to eavesdrop on all the grown-up conversation.  This may be the pinnacle of her annual summer trip – or close to it.

* * *

Later this week, in the early morning, she asks, “Remember when you came to my concert in first grade?  I was sad because I had to go back to my class and I couldn’t come home with you?”

“Yes.”

“I won’t be sad today.”

“No?”  Our day begins with her second grade awards ceremony.  Then her Mama and I go to work.

“No.  When you came on the field trip and left and then came back to pick me up, I wasn’t sad.”

I see we’re also preparing for next week, and while I’ve usually led this conversation, she’s handling it beautifully today on her own.

“Good!”  I push a lock of hair behind her ears.  “I’m glad.”

“I hope I get an award for reading.”

She gets an award as “Most Improved Student in Math.”  My partner and I beam with pride.

Here is the true beginning of summer.  And we are all ready for the first time.

Letting Go

Today was the last day of First Grade.

“Feel the wind,” I said to my daughter

while I held her new beach ball,

signed by all her classmates.

“If I let go right now,

where do you think it will go?”