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If it were my child
I would stand in the middle of a busy street and scream until my voice left my body. If it were my child I would rip out every hair from my head until I covered the grass with my pain. If it were my child I would scale the tallest building and stomp until it fell down. If it were my child I would beat my chest and bare my fangs and throw myself up against glass until it shattered -- Like my spirit. They are… they were all our children. All our grandparents. All our neighbors. Our friends and relatives. Innocent. They don’t deserve to die in vain. I must always act as if it were my child or my parent or my friend. We cannot go on this way. Or we can no longer call ourselves human.
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 Fernanda Martinez - Unsplash She stood at the kitchen sink washing dishes, gazing out the window that overlooked the garden. Ripe red tomatoes ballooned on trellis vines. She knew if she didn’t pick them today they’d fall by dusk, left to rot or attract vermin. She didn’t have time to pick them today, however; she had washing and drying and cooking and baking to do. Her work was endless, and the children would be home from school soon. Sometimes she felt like those red tomatoes—ready to fall and rot and be eaten by pests, having been neglected during her prime. For she was better than all this—the housework and the monotony of caring for herself and others. This was all beneath her. And she never even wanted to be a mother. But she’d had no choice. Before she could change the world, she’d become a mother. And yet, she lamented, she could have done so much with her life.
What she didn’t realize was that nothing was beneath her. She was the flea-infested rat beneath the ripe tomato, greedy mouth open and ready to snap up a juicy prize she hadn’t earned. Blinded by ego, she had no idea that she was lucky to have the safety of a heated house, the great fortune of food to cook and family to love her. She deserved none of it. And she could have been changing the world already, if she had the competence to step away from her reflection and look at the people around her. Instead, she foolishly imagined a world where she didn’t take care of others or herself; it was a world that didn’t exist, for all of life requires monotonous maintenance for survival. And she had many choices: she had the choice to change her perspective. To step outside of herself. To find it an honor and a privilege to pluck the ripe tomato from its vine and taste its simple yet delicious flavor. But instead she let the tomato fall and rot, left to be devoured by greedy mouths only wanting more.  As I watch your tiny body waddle down the street,
Stopping to examine each new rock you see, I try to memorize this simple moment in my mind, Draw it close and embrace it—my attempt to freeze time. Right now I don’t get out much, everyone agrees. Used to drink and sing Shania, wild nights of karaoke. And let’s face it: my hair and nails could use some TLC. Can’t remember the last time I drank my coffee silently. But the bars will always be there, wine waiting for me. Movie theatres will still be standing when you’re seventeen. I’ll get back to it all some day, but for now I’m busy Singing songs, playing dress-up and hugging my baby. It won’t be long now before you’re heading off to school, Exploring, making friends, and maybe breaking rules. One day you’ll be long-legged, too big for me to hold. You’ll be teenage angst in braces, telling me I’m old. So I’ll cherish every hour we spend singing lullabies Rocking you close, your cheek pressed against mine We are attached—child to mother, every minute together, And in my heart I know this intensity will not last forever. ‘Cause I’ll never get this time back with you, you’re only little once, And no matter what I do, I can’t stop you from growing up. So I’ll cherish every moment I feel your chubby hands in mine I’ll hold you close for hours and remember: we only have this time. Right now,
it seems so hard Morning til night, just trying to make it through Right now, the house is so loud, You’re so tired, and there’s still so much to do But one day, they’re gonna grow up, Move on, move out, And you’ll miss these days. Right now “one day” doesn’t seem so far away.  Jonathan Cooper - Unsplash I’ve been trying to change you since the day we met, It’s been fifteen years and I haven’t seen any progress yet. And if you’re honest with yourself you’ve tried to change me too, Tried to make me just a little bit more like you. I’ve tried to get you to take on more responsibility, And you’ve tried forcing me to be a bit more carefree. I’ve tried to get you to focus, to take it slow, You want me to join you – always on the go. They say opposites attract but all we do is fight, Spend our time convincing the other we’re the one who’s right. I’ve been trying to change you since the day we met, It’s been fifteen years and I haven’t seen any progress yet. And if you’re honest with yourself you’ve tried to change me too, Tried to make me just a little bit more like you. But if we look close enough we’ll see the reason we fell in love, Is because we each bring something to the relationship the other has none of. Because I need your impulsivity and you need my drive, You’re better with my stability and with your enthusiasm I thrive. Everything I’m missing, you have – you make me whole, And what you lack, I add to nourish your soul. I’ve been trying to change you since the day we met, It’s been fifteen years and I haven’t seen any progress yet. And if you’re honest with yourself you’ve tried to change me too, Tried to make me just a little bit more like you. But you’ll never change no matter what I do, And thank God – I’m glad you’ll always stay you. There’s something about St. Patrick’s Day in Chicago. After a brutal winter of hawk winds and icy snow, Chicagoans welcome the warmer air that rides along March gusts. It’s a promise of spring. A reminder that the bleak, gray earth will be green again. It’s a call to shed our winter fur and celebrate life in all its joy and misery. And the Irish in Chicago know how to celebrate. Sure, there are Irish Diasporas all over America, but there’s something unique about Chicago Irish. Chicago winters make us tough, but our Midwestern roots keep us grounded. We stay humble when the chilled winds change, knowing another cold burst is just around the corner—a reminder that life is unpredictable and brutal. It’s our Irish blood that tends the fire in our hearts. Traditional music—emotional ballads lamenting war and hardship, grab hold of our souls and wring out our pain. If you’re stuffing down your own feelings, just listen to Luke Kelly and you’ll be sobbing on the floor in no time. The Irish know how to express the deepest agony. And they know how to take that hurt and use it to fiercely rebel. Rebel songs will lift you off the floor and onto the table, bursting with energy. And once you’ve channeled your energy into fighting oppression, you’ll be ready to throw your arm around a friend and sing a celebratory song over a pint. But every song and poem and artwork has a slight undertone of melancholy. Because you can’t feel joy without knowing sorrow. And all joy is tinged in sadness, a nostalgic feeling that this joy won’t last. Soon enough, the hawk winds will be back. But after that, spring returns again. Chicagoans and the Irish are familiar with life’s uncertainties. So when you hear the fiddle, tin whistle, and bodhrán drift along a Chicago March wind, listen for the Irish melody of longing. It’s the song of nostalgia for simpler times. It’s the tune of wistful hope for an auspicious future. It’s St. Patrick’s Day in Chicago.  Photo by Benjamin Rascoe on Unsplash  Credit: Kat J - Unsplash Sure, it’s nice to feel happy and giddy all day
But when life hands you lemons and things don’t go your way I’m here to listen, so go ahead and let it all out Cry til your eyes are puffy, go on and scream and shout ‘Cause I’m gonna love you Even at your worst In fact, I love you so much it hurts Furrow your brows and clench your jaw Break everything, but just don’t break the law You got so many feelings deep down inside All those ugly feelings you don’t have to hide ‘Cause I’m gonna love you Even at your worst In fact, I love you so much it hurts ‘Cause I know you love me Even at my worst I can see you love me so much it hurts Go ahead and break down Be you at your worst ‘Cause I still love you so much it hurts  Credit: M -- Unsplash I don’t want to read Moby Dick, she thought while sitting on her balcony enjoying a cup of hot coffee. It was Saturday morning, and she had a long list of tasks to cross off her to-do list. Sunrays warmed her body, encouraging her to rest. But the to-do list nipped at her like a gadfly.
She had fourteen books left to read from the Western Canon. She had to practice arpeggios to keep up her piano playing. She had to finish watching the last three Academy Award winning movies so she was in the “know.” And that was just the arts. What about that new restaurant downtown? And next month’s looming half-marathon? Not to mention signing up for that work conference to network with other professionals in the industry. There were so many things she had to do on that sunny Saturday morning. Until she realized she didn’t have to do any of them. All she had to do was pay her bills… file taxes… and die. She didn’t have to scratch and claw her way to the top of the corporate ladder. She didn’t have to become the first woman CEO in her field. She didn’t have to do it all before the age of 40, either. She didn’t have to keep up a musical skill she’d never enjoyed. She didn’t have to beat her personal record running twelve-plus miles (she hated running—in fact, she had never felt that runner’s high after finishing a run—it was simply hate, hate, hate, misery, misery, misery, every damn mile). And she certainly didn’t have to read a long, boring book that completely misrepresented an entire species. There was nothing else in this life that she had to do. And as long as she didn’t break the law, she could do whatever she wanted. I’m free, she realized. Besides, it’s not like anyone cared about all she’d accomplished. People would smile and nod, be impressed for a moment, and then move on. What’s it all for? She wondered. What a waste of a life—chasing goals, accomplishing for the sake of accomplishing? And with that, she put her feet up on the balcony, taking another sip of coffee, and closed her eyes. Screw Harold Bloom, she thought with a smile.  Liv Bruce - Unsplash There’s no going back once you become a mother
There’s no unseeing every child as your own You cannot bandage your aching heart As you watch a child cry out alone That second glass of wine don’t taste as good now And you’ll never sleep soundly again Local news will keep you up all night You pray keep my babies safe, please Lord, amen There’s no going back once you become a mother In every way it changes you And you wouldn’t wanna be anyone other Than the mama your babies made you Now your body is different, can’t recognize it Gone are the days when you looked your very best What was once tight and firm is now tender, A soft place, a pillow for rest And you can’t stop smiling when you witness A child learn something new And your eyes won’t stay dry when you hear A mama tell the story of her baby’s first breath And you won’t think twice to open your arms wide To hug a child who needs a little extra love There’s no going back once you’re a mother And for that I thank God up above There’s no going back once you become a mother In every way it changes you And you wouldn’t wanna be anyone other Than the mama your babies made you  “You found me!” I shriek, watching you two speedily crawl toward me. I hadn’t been hiding from you, but after watching you play so nicely together, I thought I had a moment to slip away and pour a cup of coffee.
But you found me, and now you raise your arms to say, “Hold me!” I sit on the floor, hugging you on my lap, and I whisper a prayer of thanksgiving. I thank God you found me—that your two tiny little souls found your way to mine. I remember when I held you in my arms, baby boy, as your skin turned the shade of dusk, and you ceased breathing. In a flash, the NICU nurse whisked you away, flicking your heels until you began to cry, your lungs filling with air again. I looked at your tiny little body, only a few days out of mine, but saw your soul from someplace else—you’d always been part of my heart, before the before, and now you’ll always be a part of me. And you, baby girl, I’ll never forget cradling you at the end of a long day, watching my tear drop onto your pink cheeks. “Do you know who I am?” I said to you. “I’m your mama.” But you kept sleeping. I hated leaving you at the hospital those nine nights. I cried into my pillow, wishing for you to be next to me. I hoped your spirit heard me—hoped you felt I was right there next to you. I’m your mama. And I know our souls are connected. You’re both older now, and never far from reach. I worry less and laugh more. We play until the sun goes down: peek-a-boo and hide-and-seek. Sometimes I wonder how I got so lucky; I don’t deserve to call you mine, to be your mother. Patience and warmth were always traits I had to work on, but now with you two, it’s easy. Maybe before I was merely lost. All I know is I’m so glad your souls chose me to be your mother. I’m so glad you found me. |
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