Back to school we go...

First day of school tomorrow - and I'm not sure I should even bother going to bed tonight. The night before the first day has always been sleepless for me. I end up laying there, wide-eyed, tossing, turning, making lists in my head, giddy and nervous.

I also tear up a bit on this night every year - about the end of summer, the end of free time, over the beginning of what is always a stressful season, and the realization that I might not have spent enough quality time with my son. It's always my regret on this night. He's growing and changing so quickly. Jeans and sneakers up a size. Mind and personality... amazing, curious, beautiful, quirky. There's heartache in watching him.

Before this treasure went to bed tonight, with his own mixed thoughts of what tomorrow will bring, he came to kiss me goodnight. "Thanks for a great summer Mom. I had the best time with you. Thanks for everything."

This kid. He ties my heart up in knots.

En el medio

The middle sister – a small fairy-like woman
her body is wrapped in the arms and legs of her youngest
who twirls his fingers in her short, black hair
finds comfort in her soft neck
whimpers in pain, wanting

the sister in the middle – a strong, athletic woman
her heart is weakened by the growth spurts of her daughter
who rolls her preteen eyes, pulling at her, and pulling away
tests her mother with words and attitude
shrugs off a reprimand from

the middle sister – a determined, concerned woman
her thoughts are consumed by her own middle child
who flips pages in fishing magazines
squints at big words, trying to please
asks for help at homework time from

the middle child,
who used to make her mother cry and her father’s blood boil
sought attention,
rebelled, then returned as

the middle one – discovered by a man
for the treasure she is

a centered woman now –
pulled in many directions
but her hands reach, touch, fix, and heal
effortlessly
love completely.
She is a warming-core,
the center of family.

That thing that moms do

Can I make you French toast this morning?
My son’s eager eyes convey pleasure at the thought of
a real mom-made breakfast,
not frozen, not shaken out from a box,
nor spread between two pieces of wheat bread.
Do I have the ingredients? Let’s see…
here’s eggs, white bread,
in the cupboard the cinnamon, and near the coffee-maker
a container holding hundreds of pink packets, and lucky for us
several white Domino packets of the real stuff.
But there’s no milk in the fridge.
No problem – I’ll use half & half!
It’s the same thing, pretty much.
In fact, it’ll probably taste better.
I gather everything and get to work.
Crack open three eggs, pour in the “milk”,
shake in a bunch of cinnamon, and pour in a few sugar packets.
I do that thing that the chefs do with a fork, really fast
making sure he sees me.
He’ll have a memory of me making him French toast.
I drop a glob of butter in the pan,
and while it melts, I place the bread in to the stuff I’ve mixed,
letting it soak.
With my fork, I stab the bread and transport it across
several inches of countertop
dripping cinnamon-egg slop along the way,
and lay it in the sizzling pan.
He walks by, and I’m humming, poking at the bread with the fork,
peaking underneath to see if it’s time to turn it over.
Is that what it’s supposed to look like? we both wonder.
After a while, both sides look ready, I place the toast on a plate and
take it to the table where my son waits, smiling.
This is awesome! he says, while I watch him eat.
I’ll have a memory of him eating French toast,
that I made for him.

This time is on loan

(This is a translation of yesterday's post.)

Mi único hijo cumplirá 12 años en noviembre, y me encuentro pensando en el tiempo que ha pasado tan rapidamente. Tal como lo hacen muchas madres, quisiera poder regresar y hacer tantas cosas de nuevo; esta madre ha cometido muchos errores en el camino. Al querer ser esposa, madre, y profesional, quizás no he podido balancear las cosas lo suficiente.

Mientras completé mi tésis, enseñé a mis alumnos de cuarto grado, organizé un programa de asistencia para padres, dirigí un programa escolar los sábados por la mañana, presenté talleres y dí presentaciones, defendí la educación bilingüe, y hasta trabajé en Washington como cabildera – mi pequeño hijo ha estado creciendo rapidamente. Aunque hayan las personas que dirán “pobre niño” y “qué madre más mala” cuando piensen en mí, espero que de alguna manera, algún día, mi hijo verá que su madre andaba hacienda cosas valiosas durante su tiempo aquí.

Claro, siempre lamentaré algunos de esos momentos que me los perdí…

“I’m busy right now” said the mother to her small child.
“I have a lot to do.
Don’t you see I have to clean, wash, and organize?
Don’t you understand I have to
write and complete this report,
sign and send these forms,
revise and edit these papers,
and fulfill all of these responsibilities?”

The boy replied,
“I just want to play with you,
draw and paint for a while,
walk to the park,
kick the ball in the yard
or ride bikes.”

Just the same, the woman found a way to avoid it
as she got involved in her busy-ness, not realizing
there was something more important to do.

That boy, so clever,
made up his own stories, read books,
played with his imagination,
created costumes and constructed scenes,
and even invented friends to keep him company.

She always praised him.
“Son, you are so beautiful,
so quiet and calm.
You know how to behave.
You don’t bother anybody.
You entertain yourself wonderfully.

Come here, let me give you a kiss.”

“No mother. I’m too old for that stuff.
Besides, I have a lot to do.”

El tiempo es prestado

My only child will be 12 in November and I often find myself thinking back to this time that has passed so quickly. As many mothers do, I wish I could take back and do over so many things; this mom made a lot of mistakes along the way. In wanting to be a wife, mother, and professional, I may have not done the best job of balancing it all.

While I worked on a thesis, taught my 4th grade students, organized a Parent Outreach program, ran a Saturday Morning School, traveled out of state, presented workshops and gave presentations, advocated for bilingual education, and even made it to Capitol Hill as a lobbyist - my little boy was growing fast. Though there are some that may say "poor kid" and "bad mom" when they think of me, I have to believe that in some way, some day, my son will see that his mother did good things during her time here.

Of course, I will always lament some of those little moments I missed out on...

“Es que no tengo tiempo” dijo la mujer a su pequeño hijo.
“Tengo demasiado que hacer.
¿No ves que tengo que limpiar, lavar, ordenar?
¿No entiendes que tengo que
escribir y completar este reporte,
firmar y enviar estos formularios,
revisar y redactar estos papeles,
y cumplir con tantas responsabilidades?”

El niño respondió,
“Solo quiero jugar contigo,
dibujar y pintar un rato,
caminar al parque,
patear la bola en el patio
o correr en bicicleta.”

Por lo mismo, la mujer encontró la manera de evadirlo
y se metió en sus cosas sin darse cuenta que
había algo más importante que hacer.

Ese niño, tan astuto,
se inventó cuentos, leyó libros,
jugó con la imaginación,
creó disfraces y construyó escenarios,
hasta se inventó unos amigos para que lo acompañen.

Ella, siempre lo alababa.
“Hijo, qué bello que eres,
tan quieto y tranquilo.
Sabes comportarte.
No molestas a nadie.
Te distraes divinamente.

Ven aquí, te daré un beso.”

“No madre. Estoy muy grande para esas cosas.
Además, tengo demasiado que hacer.”

A mother grows up

Lately it seems I'm not doing anything right.
My mouth tries loud words to make you hear,
my face betrays feelings that tear me up,
my eyes are too easy to overflow.
One moment we're laughing
and you're playfully nudging me, wanting a hug.
You've even reached for my hand in the parking lot.
And then, the cloud comes,
you scowl and roll your eyes.
You don't say it but you can't stand me.

So I hold on to a time when I was just right.
You were small and my lap was the place you looked for.
Your curly head fit under my chin
and I imagined what it would be like when you got taller.

Now, we can look straight into each other's faces
but not see eye-to-eye.
This is to be expected, they say.
I'll get through this phase -
just as long as you come back to me.

(Artwork by Bolivian painter Roberto Mamani Mamani)

Fireworks and Families

Driving in to Milltown to see the fireworks was almost a mistake tonight. We both had our Starbucks coffees and the boy had his Frappuccino. We were ready for the show. However, every parking lot, every side street, every curb was filled with people who had already staked out their area and set up their chairs. We circled a few times, hoping to find a spot. No luck. Then it started to rain. Lightly at first, and then enough to have us doubt the fireworks would go on at all.

An idea! Let’s go to the Home Depot parking lot and watch from there. We drove almost a mile away, arriving to the parking lot where several others had the same idea. The rain continued, the windshield became blurry, and the boy became restless as we waited another 15 minutes. The sparkling explosions finally began, and we got out of the car, the boy and I.

As we stood there, I heard people around me admiring the lights, the colors, and the brightness. A small child’s sweet voice could be heard, laughing in amazement. Parents and children sat in their cars, or stood in the rain, cheerful and wet. My son and I shared an umbrella, and looked up together, past the stores and the trees, at the fireworks of this 4th of July. My child, who is now as tall as me, leaned against me as I put my arm around him. For just a moment, it felt like it was just the two of us.

And then, the show was over, and the cars began their battle to get out of the parking lot as fast as possible. All kinds of families, different ethnic groups, rap, rock, and reggaetón blasting from car radios, everyone was cutting each other off. Nothing says America to me like the wonderful differences between all of us, and the incredible and amusing urge to be the first one in line to go home!

On the way home, my boy said "Thanks guys", and I remembered that it is indeed easy to make my child happy.

I want to be like her

I want to be like Eli – she knows how to entertain guests,
cooks, serves, makes them laugh
all at once.
I want to be like Ana – she’s had a mansion built
and she’ll spend these days decorating it
her way.
I want to be like Cintia – the perfect homemaker, the best mother
her home is always clean and neat
everything in its place.
I want to be like Celia – slender, wearing the latest fashions
new shoes, expensive handbag
calm and collected.

Someday, I’ll do things better
I’ll have what I want,
and someone will want to be like me.
In the meantime,
I'll pull on my ratty jeans and t-shirt,
make a peanut butter sandwich for the boy,
throw the comforter on the bed,
kick my laundry into the closet,
grab my keys and wallet,
and rush us to the movies.


Quiero ser como Eli – ella sabe cómo entretener a las visitas,
cocinar, servir, y hacer reir,
todo a la vez.
Quiero ser como Ana – le construyeron una mansión
y pasará estos días decorándola
a su gusto.
Quiero ser como Cintia – la perfecta ama de casa, la mejor madre
su casa está limpia y ordenada
todo en su lugar.
Quiero ser como Celia – delgada, estrenando las últimas modas
los zapatos nuevos, la cartera nueva y lujosa,
tranquila y calmada.

Algún día haré las cosas mejor,
tendré las cosas que quiera,
y álguien querrá ser como yó.
Mientras tanto
me pondré los vaqueros viejos y una camiseta
le haré un sandwich de mantequilla de maní al niño
tiraré el edredón sobre la cama
esconderé la ropa sucia en el armario
agarraré las llaves y la billetera
y nos irémos volando al cine.

Lo que te quisiera decir...

Quiero estar rodeada de buena gente
de personas que existen para descubrir más,
de individuales que mueven para mover al mundo,
de almas que luchan para descubrir la luz en otras.

No es suficiente aparecerse.
No vale fingir.
Hay que hacer, pensar, y soñar,
explorar, y hacer campo,
extender la mano y la mente,
demostrar lo mejor de uno,
no defraudar a los demás
ni a uno mismo.

¿Por qué no hacemos lo siguiente?
Busquemos la manera de empujar una a la otra
y no aceptemos la mediocridad.
Arreglemos nuestras cosas para luego no usarlas
como excusas.
Hagamos las cosas correctamente, o por lo menos,
de buena gana.

Las niñas nos estan observando, hermanas.
Estan aprendiendo para luego imitar.
Demostremos lo que hay dentro
el deseo, el esfuerzo, y la belleza.
No traicionemos a nuestras hijas dejando que piensen
que en esta vida solo hay unas cuantas opciones
cuando de verdad hay un sinfín
de posibilidades
para mí, para tí, para todas.

Mami's Lessons: Bath Time

Mami taught her three little girls
that a good bath and some cremita
on legs, knees, elbows and face
were most important
no matter where you were going
or what you were going to wear.

The three en la tina,
the oldest, self-conscious, trying to hide behind a washcloth
the middle one, talkative and entertaining
the youngest, quiet, fearful of the water in her eyes
tired mami
washed their long black hair
the water often way too hot for young skin
buckets of soapy water poured over their heads to rinse out the shampoo
Hold your breath! Too late,
coughing and sputtering
and getting yelled at for exagerando

Three in line, wrapped in thin towels
dripping on the floor, shivering
exhausted mami
squeezed creamy yellow Vaselina into their outstretched hands
reminding them about all the parts they should not overlook

Waiting for her quick hands to detangle, comb, and braid
three sweet-smelling little girls in softly faded pajamas
got ready their camitas
put the day’s clothes in the ropa sucia
and located fuzzy sleeping partners.
Neat parts down the middle of their scalps,
wet pony-tails or trenzas
scrubbed pink cheeks tilted toward their
loving mami
who kissed them sweetly and
pulled the covers up around them.
“Goodnight, mis hijitas.”

Mother's Day...

Felíz día a todas las que pertenecen a este club especial...
de verdad es una bendición.
Sepamosla guardar siempre así .

Happy day to all who belong to this special club...
it is truly a blessing.
May we always regard it as such.

Wantings

“When you were a kid what were your wantings?”
asks my little boy
while I cuddle him close in the bottom bunk.
I smile.
His word is unconventional, accurate, and simple.
My wantings were
to be important,
to be loved, and needed,
to mean something to someone,
to change the world in some way,
I say.
“Well, here I am!”
he proclaims, as he props up his curly head
and looks squarely at me.
Yes, there you are.
I have what I was wanting.

Mi hija

Somewhere out there is a little girl
with hair and eyes like mine.
She belongs to someone else now
and that’s OK, but
I dream about her.
A sibling to my real son,
she loves notebooks, pens, and paper,
her room is filled with books,
and her belly with bread
that we’ve learned to bake together.
She begs me to brush her hair at night.
I know what she looks like and
I can smell her
Barbie, vanilla frosting, and lip gloss.
I wonder if she would have made me a real mother.
My son has a real dad,
a parent I can’t compete with.
My boys leave me out.
I feel like my little girl would have held my hand tightly
and would have thought I was the most amazing mom ever.
Kelly, Marisa, Sophie
she’s had many names
but always the same soul
that has found her way to this earth and ended up in the arms of another
lucky, more deserving mother.

Stay

My son is moving away from me
far enough so that
he no longer tells me
everything that goes on in his head.
Today, he wakes up in tears
refusing to say why.
I know it’s a dream
where his heart’s been broken.
As mine does
again and again,
as this man-child moves away from me
inch by inch
year by year.