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.
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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. 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 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 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. 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. She’d only been in Yellowstone two nights when she locked eyes with the wild cat. It was three a.m. and she had hoped to walk the short path from her family’s tent to the outhouse, there and back, without any trouble. Having birthed two babies meant every night she woke up with the urge to empty her bladder. Now, she ignored that physical urge as she watched the mountain lion watch her—the lion’s eyes like opalescent marbles reflecting moonlight. The woman was frozen, afraid even the slightest breath would cause the cat to pounce.
But the cat stood as still as she did. A rustling from nearby bushes sent the mountain lion’s ears up; one ear turned toward the sound while the lion’s gaze remained on her. Within seconds, the sounds amplified until two clumsy cubs emerged from the forest, playfully slinking toward their mother. The woman’s body shifted as she watched the oblivious twin cubs lick and paw at their mother. The mountain lion didn’t flinch, and the woman dared not blink. They stared at each other—connecting in some metaphysical way from one species to another. She could almost see the exhaustion on the mountain lion mother’s face. Even though the nocturnal creature slept during the day, she was never truly at rest. Predators much larger than she dominated the park: grizzlies, wolves, moose, and bison. It was a full time job to keep her cubs safe in Yellowstone. If other animals didn’t kill them, the weather or starvation would. And when she wasn’t protecting her young, she was hunting and killing other animals to feed her babies. Grueling work. The woman almost smiled. Sorry to bother you, she thought, hoping her thoughts would telepathically communicate to the lion. I know how you feel. Of course she didn’t. And she didn’t have to work that hard to feed and shelter and clothe her own children. Not as hard as the mountain lion mother. But there was that same primal urge—she often felt like an animal when it came to her babies. Everything she did, she did for them. Even at times, when she was too tired to eat, she’d force herself to make some vegetable-laden concoction, knowing she had to stay healthy to take care of her children. And when the nine o’clock news rattled off long lists of terrible things, she couldn’t zone out anymore because that was the world her children were inheriting, and she had to make it better. And when anything posed a danger to the wellbeing of her children, the woman bared her fangs and protruded her claws, ready to tear the predator limb from limb, just like the mountain lion mother. The mountain lion mother’s shoulders eased. Her ears perked upright again. She didn’t glare at the woman as a threat anymore. She knows I’m a mother, too. It was a cruel world, they both knew this. At every turn, there were hungry beasts ready to attack, to drag them into the depths and devour them. But it was a beautiful world, too. Filled with mothers and children, friends and neighbors, animals and plants living in harmony—working in synergy. If only we all realized how connected we truly are, the woman thought, letting a quiet smile tug at her lips. The mountain lion licked and nuzzled her cubs, and the woman watched as the lion sent one last powerful look her way—a look that said “I see you”—right before she slowly turned around, sauntering up the path with her cubs at her side, the moonlight guiding their way. On that sunny day in the park, he appeared like he had it all figured out—this parenting thing. Behind him, a Mima Xari Stroller to hold his precious cargo; on his back, a leather diaper bag to carry a cashmere blankie. In his arms, the perfect baby. At his side, the perfect wife. He did something with hedge funds, she knew this for certain. She would see him every morning on the same 6:00am train as she was coming home from her hospital night shift. She was just a nurse whose scrubs were covered in vomit and viruses, but she was a good listener. And she listened to his morning phone calls, knowing he made a lot of money. It came up in his client conversations. So did his baby. And he had the perfect baby.
But as she neared them, on that sunny day in the park, she realized appearances aren’t always as they seem. She watched him, with his perfect wife at his side and his perfect baby in his arms, and she saw him for who he was. His baby, old enough to reach for his glasses, swiped them right off of his face, whipping the spectacles in all directions, jabbing and poking his father in the eyes, the nose, the ears. Frazzled, the hedge fund father tilted his head back as his petite wife failed at her attempt to control their infant. He looked so naked. So vulnerable. Without his sleek, black glasses, his eyes looked so small. She noticed him squinting, as if his vision was blurred. Without his glasses, he was feeble. And in that moment, as she watched that tiny, chubby baby terrorize his parents, giggling all the while, she felt sorry for that man. She saw his dignity erode. She saw his weakness exposed. She saw him for who he was: a parent completely leveled by his child—knocked to the ground by the truth that he had absolutely no control. He was just like her. He was just like every parent. Covered in newborn spit-up. Hurt by teenage insults. Vulnerable to the whims of their children—and yet, there, nonetheless, ready to take it. Ready to let their infant smash their glasses to bits—ready to be blind for the day. Because children have a way of demolishing egos. Of forcing humility. Of stirring doubt into even the most confident man’s mind. She knew this. She saw that he knew it too. And in that moment, on that sunny day in the park, she realized he didn’t have it all figured out. And that made her only like him more. |
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