Click picture for my latest column.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Monday, May 25, 2009
Welcome summer
Various pictures of the last week of sunshine and fair weather... Hoolahooping in the Commons, picnics with friends, sitting on the back deck and in the hammock, a kids' fair (complete with (sad) farm animals) and outside cafes. What we don't have are pics of Dylan and two other baby boys splish splashing in tubs of water on our back deck and the days in the park.
In the middle of winter I told Dylan about this wonderful thing called summer when you don't have to wear longjohns or snowsuits. I'm not sure he believed me then. I'm not sure I did!
Hope you're all enjoying the changing of the seasons and the start of the growing time.
Miia
Sunday, May 24, 2009
dylan dylan dylan dylan dylan dylan dylan
in his new bike trailer/superstroller, in the hammock with papa, and getting better at being on his tummy:
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Keji Burning.
Click here for my latest column. No picture in the online version this week for some reason.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Motherhood
Here's a poem I wrote for Miia for Mother's Day. It's not romantic. Wanted to let her know I appreciate the work and the sacrifice of her mothering, and mothering in general:
Motherhood
The furniture is all draped in bright plastic toys,
designed to catch new eyes as ours blur
in psycho-sleepless overdose. So many monkeys
in so many colours, can’t tell which one he means,
when he jibber jabbers his many monkey stories.
Gums gumming at my boneless fingers.
Nguhmngaoohawooglglnnnnaaah!
gurgles to babbles to wails
stuffing up our underground bunker.
No one hears but us, from the depths
of seven winter blankets, no one responds
but you.
At 11:00, 1:15, 3:30, 5:45, and 7:30,
when all-night urine wafts tickle our noses.
Somehow with a true smile, his
fluffy white dog howls deep-bayed devotion.
Yet a crane is called in to lift my eyelids,
and reveal, through a greasy waterfall,
the open-mouthed toothless grinning morning.
What adventures the day holds:
One helicopter pooh;
two laundry loads;
three face-shredding cries;
four new mouth-sounds;
five giggly fits;
six milk-drool feedbacks;
seven diaper changes.
And somewhere, maybe food, fast;
quick check your email,
before he wakes up!
In this motherhood, no room for error.
No room for hubby’s flu-ridden stomach
lining in the diaper bucket, baby putting his
direct on you, while you clean the other’s
double-foul stench. That moment wasn’t covered
in pre-natal class, nor in the parenting books
holding court on our shelves, shoving aside
novels, philosophy and politics with their
kindly commands of unconditional love,
raising a “we generation.”
Foucault can’t help you now anyway,
can’t remind you the words to Frere Jacques.
There are no extra arms for you in any
of the 18 parvas of the Mahabharata.
As you squeal and you waltz your
Thirty-inch partner room to room, and
room to room to day to day singing and
smiling a 1950s sitcom tune, and
as you try to remember the name
of that Nobel-winning theory you employed
in winning your community development award,
those names and titles crammed uselessly
in prominent shelves, those prolific names
who traveled with you from the suburbs
to the ivy walls to the inner city,
they ask you, and ask you, “Surely,
we too had children? Where did we ever
find time for something as elusive as an idea?”
But they’re disgusted with your puke-covered blouse
and your unwashed hair. Their question is
an accusation that spews the dust from their jackets
airborne, where it clings unwanted to your
most intimate dance, settles on your shoulders
promising more housework, and as you reach
to brush it off, it occurs to you that the dust
is perhaps made of seeds – seed of ideas –
And he farts, too long and too wet,
and you flick your fingers, brush the dust
into an explosion of aborted thought.
And he giggles, and you giggle back,
press your nose to his and rub.
“Wazza wazza wazza!” you say,
and he giggles and he squeals.
Motherhood
The furniture is all draped in bright plastic toys,
designed to catch new eyes as ours blur
in psycho-sleepless overdose. So many monkeys
in so many colours, can’t tell which one he means,
when he jibber jabbers his many monkey stories.
Gums gumming at my boneless fingers.
Nguhmngaoohawooglglnnnnaaah!
gurgles to babbles to wails
stuffing up our underground bunker.
No one hears but us, from the depths
of seven winter blankets, no one responds
but you.
At 11:00, 1:15, 3:30, 5:45, and 7:30,
when all-night urine wafts tickle our noses.
Somehow with a true smile, his
fluffy white dog howls deep-bayed devotion.
Yet a crane is called in to lift my eyelids,
and reveal, through a greasy waterfall,
the open-mouthed toothless grinning morning.
What adventures the day holds:
One helicopter pooh;
two laundry loads;
three face-shredding cries;
four new mouth-sounds;
five giggly fits;
six milk-drool feedbacks;
seven diaper changes.
And somewhere, maybe food, fast;
quick check your email,
before he wakes up!
In this motherhood, no room for error.
No room for hubby’s flu-ridden stomach
lining in the diaper bucket, baby putting his
direct on you, while you clean the other’s
double-foul stench. That moment wasn’t covered
in pre-natal class, nor in the parenting books
holding court on our shelves, shoving aside
novels, philosophy and politics with their
kindly commands of unconditional love,
raising a “we generation.”
Foucault can’t help you now anyway,
can’t remind you the words to Frere Jacques.
There are no extra arms for you in any
of the 18 parvas of the Mahabharata.
As you squeal and you waltz your
Thirty-inch partner room to room, and
room to room to day to day singing and
smiling a 1950s sitcom tune, and
as you try to remember the name
of that Nobel-winning theory you employed
in winning your community development award,
those names and titles crammed uselessly
in prominent shelves, those prolific names
who traveled with you from the suburbs
to the ivy walls to the inner city,
they ask you, and ask you, “Surely,
we too had children? Where did we ever
find time for something as elusive as an idea?”
But they’re disgusted with your puke-covered blouse
and your unwashed hair. Their question is
an accusation that spews the dust from their jackets
airborne, where it clings unwanted to your
most intimate dance, settles on your shoulders
promising more housework, and as you reach
to brush it off, it occurs to you that the dust
is perhaps made of seeds – seed of ideas –
And he farts, too long and too wet,
and you flick your fingers, brush the dust
into an explosion of aborted thought.
And he giggles, and you giggle back,
press your nose to his and rub.
“Wazza wazza wazza!” you say,
and he giggles and he squeals.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Saturday, May 09, 2009
Mama's Day
This being my first Mama's Day as a mom, I understand much better why we have a Mother's Day. Thanks to my mom and Liz both for so many years of love, kindness, generosity, more love, patience, caring, diaper changing, feeding, tears, more patience and still more love.
Happy Mother's Day Moomo!
Happy Mother's Day Grammy!
From all of us here - Miia, Chris and Dylan
Thursday, May 07, 2009
Dylan has learned to feed himself with the bottle, and even tips it up to get the last drop!
Mother and child at the Steak and Stein for my uncles 50th.
Happy 50th Birthday Uncle Joe!
Dylan with his great aunt and great uncle, and a very badass pair of shades Grammy gave him.
Check out my new used hoodie, yeah...
We had a strange patch of sun once last week and birdie'd it up.
Where'd that birdie go anyway?
Dylan was a very authoritative line judge. You just don't argue with a baby in a shriner's hat.
Monday, May 04, 2009
The Detestable Solution - Prison Reform in Ghana
I have a feature with photos in this month's Briarpatch Magazine. Click the picture to see the story.
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