Magentic Poetry for Mothers

July 2nd, 2010 by Diana
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C in duct tape dress

Baby as Muse? NOT

I’m vacuuming the kitchen floor when I see the word “WOMB” staring up at me amidst the cereal scum.  It’s a piece of the “MOTHERHOOD MAGNETIC POETRY KIT” that I got for Christmas.

The kit should have been a great fit, since I’m a mother and a (former) poet.  But somehow I haven’t been inspired to compose any brief lyrics on the refrigerator.  I’m always opening and closing that white door, on a mission for something– anything– to feed my children. I’m  often distressed at the meagre contents and moldy leftovers, vowing that soon I will take everything out and wipe down the whole appliance– but I’m NOT pondering how best to rearrange these “motherly” words in a poem:

“Home, Van, Nap, Laugh, She, Crib,” etc.

I did manage to put together the phrase “Worry Instruction.”

Also:  ”Take Her Super Diaper.”

But that’s not poetry.  I don’t write poems anymore, although mother-writers before me have done so brilliantly.  Take Sylvia Plath, “Nick and the Candlestick”:

You are the one

Solid the spaces lean on, envious.

You are the baby in the barn.

Or Lucille Clifton and her small transcendent poems that she said she could fit into her distracted train of thought.  Some mother wrote poems on sheets of toilet paper, but I can't remember who.

Me, I vacuumed up the word “WOMB” and it felt good to suck that little magnetic piece up the hose into the bag.

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Preschool Graduation

June 24th, 2010 by Diana
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Graduation Feet

Graduation Feet

Fancy dresses?  CHECK

Fancy tights? CHECK

Party shoes?  CHECK

Potluck dish, plus picnic blanket, plates and utensils? CHECK

Two hyper & overtired girls and one frazzled mom?  CHECK

Then it’s time for the annual preschool Graduation Ceremony in the school garden, complete with adorable kid singing, ribbons bestowed on each child and a MayPole dance!

“I love the mountains, I love the rolling hills, I love the flowers, I love the daffodils, I love the fireside, when all the lights are low, BOOM dee ah da, BOOM dee ah da, BOOM dee ah da!” sang our beautiful cherubic children.

All this celebration preceded a huge potluck… A bounty of fantastic dishes.

But for some reason the DESSERTS were placed on the same huge groaning table as the main dishes, interspersed with the pasta salads and crudites.  Like a guided missile, A honed in on the double chocolate brownies and the layered strawberry sponge cake.  Helplessly I tried to set limits about HEALTHY FOODS FIRST, but my efforts were sabotaged by other kids taking brownies.

Finally I gave up and gave in:  for dinner, A ate 2 brownies, one bowl of strawberries with whipped cream, and one piece of layer cake.  My Sugar Kitty ran wild around the playground until she melted down completely, grabbing my skirt and tugging my dress rudely until I snapped.  It was a relief to get home and take a bath.

Look, my ribbon!

Look, my ribbon!

Beware the wrath of Sugar Kitty

Beware the wrath of Sugar Kitty

It's hard to watch a sister graduate

It's hard to watch a sister graduate

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“Playing Tough” in the Boston Globe!

June 24th, 2010 by Diana
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I’ll try to restrain my glee and amazement, but I have to tell you all that I WAS PUBLISHED IN THE BOSTON GLOBE!

Yes, after a year and a half of Spilt Milk appearing locally, I’ve reached beyond the Green Mountain State with a short piece in the Globe Sunday Magazine.  Click here to read “Playing Tough“, then cross your fingers that this is the start of something good and fruitful.

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Fathers Day With No Father

June 24th, 2010 by Diana
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Here’s the link to my latest commentary on Vermont Public Radio, which aired Friday June 18.  Click on LISTEN if you have 3 minutes, or you can simply read the script.

This time, I wasn’t thrilled with how the recording came out, since I was doing it without my brilliant director and editor, Betty Smith.  Without her guidance, my voice sounded so… soft, flat, boring, emptied of all energy.  Ah well.

dad in BVIStill, it was a tribute to my Dad on Father’s Day.  I love you and miss you, Dad.

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Eat Your Vegetables Day

June 17th, 2010 by Diana
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girls in beec woods

We go hiking, but we don't eat green stuff

Did you know that today, June 17,  is National Eat Your Vegetables Day?

Neither did I.  I wish I’d found out earlier, and I could have prepared a cucumber snake with an olive eye, red pepper tongue, and a snake pit of hummus (snack suggestion from Disney Family Fun magazine).

Except A would run screaming from the table at the sight of such a monster.  C might eat some of it, since she loves dipping, but most of the poor serpent would end up on the floor… My girls do not love vegetables.

“Mommy, I grew out of broccoli,” said C, who used to assuage my mothering guilt by eating brassicas.  A, on the other hand, has grown out of every veggie but the occasional baby carrot.

But it’s summer and I need to lighten up!  My girls devour their Yummy Bears candy-style multivitamins daily.  And we’re eating quarts of fresh strawberries, at least, bursting with antioxidants and Vitamin C.  It’s my intention to make healthy homemade strawberry yogurt popsicles, if I can only figure out where to buy popsicle forms.

When it comes to parenting, my philosophy is to know your strengths, not lament your weaknesses.  Our family strength is FRUIT, and by golly I’m proud of that.  Let the cucumber snakes go eat some ants-on-a-log.

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What “Motherhood” Means To Me

June 14th, 2010 by Diana
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Motherhood movieLast night we started watching the movie “Motherhood” with Uma Thurman.  We made it about 10 minutes before switching to Buffy The Vampire Slayer.

“Motherhood” had the potential to be really good, really funny, and poignant to boot– had the writers and directors themselves been funnier and capitalized on the sheer absurdity of modern parenting.  Instead, it was a tedious play-by-play of daily life with small children.  Who wants to relax at night by watching other parents stress out about getting their kids ready for school?

I’d rather relive the 90’s and watch Buffy decapitate some vampires.

I thought I might enjoy “Motherhood” because Uma plays a harried mom of two young children who is also a writer.  She struggles to find space for her writing ambitions amidst the all-consuming role of Mother.  In the opening scene, she has 9 minutes to write a blog post, which is about what I have right now.

But I found I didn’t want to watch Uma in her nightgown typing away at her laptop, blogging about “what Motherhood means to me.”  The movie people tried to make her look frumpy and tired by giving her mussed brown hair and glasses, but they failed.  She was still Uma– a tall, leggy, gorgeous Glamazon.  Nothing about her is average.

Maybe I should have given this movie more of a chance.  But time is precious.  Let me watch “Who Does She Think She Is” yet again, in which five real women artists try to balance mothering and art.  The costs are enormous, but so, they say, are the pay-offs.

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Make Your Own Dress

June 3rd, 2010 by Diana
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A in red dress

One afternoon, A wanted to make a dress for C.  Her cynical mother told her it couldn’t be done.

“I don’t have a sewing machine, honey. Also, I don’t really know how to sew.”

But A would not be deterred.  With fierce determination, she launched herself into this latest project.  I joined in for the finishing touches, and I can now say that all you need to make a dress is:

1.  a scrap of Fabric (a big scarf will do)

2. Ribbons

3. Gorilla Tape

4. a Stapler

Voila!  One red satin spaghetti-strap party dress.  ”I can’t believe I made a dress!” A said, looking at the frock. Maybe next time, we’ll make a Mommy-sized one.

A in red dress with tree peony gorilla tape dress

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Strawberry Season!

June 2nd, 2010 by Diana
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A baby strawberries

June, 2006

After a record-breaking spring of heat and sun, the summer season is starting early this year.  We already have poppies, peonies and fireflies, and now we have SWEET, RIPE, LOCAL STRAWBERRIES too.

Nothing tastes as heavenly as sweet-tart-sweet, sun-warmed red berries you’ve picked yourself.

One of my all-time favorite kid-friendly activities is PICK-YOUR-OWN organic strawberries at Lilac Ridge Farm on Ames Hill Rd in West Brattleboro.  When A. was 10 months old, I biked her over to Lilac Ridge and she sat happily amidst the rows, gorging on fresh strawberries while I picked a few quarts for shortcake.

Never mind that the Naturopath had warned me that strawberries were highly allergenic and should not be fed to babies before 12 months… A survived, even if her outfit did not.  Now I bring both my girls berry-picking and don’t need to worry about dinner.A baby strawberries2

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Never-Never-land

May 25th, 2010 by Diana
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My preschooler is on a quest for a Nanny.

img_1530She writes up an advertisement for someone to take care of her when her mother is busy, distracted, or grumpy.  The two job requirements are:

-Must Speak English

-Must Be Friendly

Ava is hoping for Mary Poppins or Maria from The Sound of Music (I’ve had no luck explaining that they are, in fact, the same woman).  She folds her letter into a tiny square, seals it in an envelope, puts it in a jar, and plans to throw the whole thing into Spofford Lake.

“I wonder who will answer.  It might even be a fairy!”  she says in delight.

Nothing warms a mother’s heart like knowing her child has posted a Nanny want ad.   But I, too, would welcome Mary Poppins and her stunning competence into our lives.  All that crisp finger-snapping to clean up the playroom!  The saucy singing and dancing!  With Mary Poppins to watch the children and two full-time servants to run the household, Mrs. Banks (the mother in the movie) was free to ride the first wave of feminism.  If Mary Poppins came to our house, I could steal away to a Room of My Own and write a bestseller.

I also prefer Ava’s new Nanny project to the more frequent post-it notes that appear on her bedroom door:

“BAD MOMMY” and “DIANA I WILL NEVER PLAY WITH YOU AGAIN.”

Ava often feels neglected because her high-spirited little sister demands much of my attention.  She feels wounded when I am tired and irritable, snappish from stress or PMS.

“Mommy, stop using that mean voice,” she tells me

And so children realize the flaws and limitations of their parents, a painful process which continues on into adulthood.  If only I were full of boundless energy, patience, and efficiency, striking a balance between serene calm and magical enthusiasm, but I am not Mary Poppins.  I am only human.  At least I meet the quota recommended by parenting expert Bonnie Harris:  my girls and I have a minimum of two positive, “in-the-moment” connections every day.  And I try to pack healthy snacks in reusable containers. [Read more →]

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The Cult of Birth

May 19th, 2010 by Diana
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Mary Cassatt, visipix.com

Mary Cassatt, visipix.com

Whenever I hear through the mother’s grapevine that some woman has gone ahead and had a 4-hour labor and a blissful, natural childbirth, I get a pang of envy and regret.

What I would have given for a Butter Birth— a short, smooth labor where everything slides!  It’s not that I consciously want anyone else to suffer through an unplanned cesarean, but hearing other people’s imperfect birth stories seems to validate my own.

There’s an element of Schadenfreude here, and I’m not proud of it: finding satisfaction in the misfortune of others. Someday I may be enlightened enough to hear the details of a hundred Butter Births in Zen calm, but I’m not there yet.

Five months after my first baby was born, I was at yoga class on a much-needed Mommy break. There I ran into another mother, an acquaintance I hadn’t seen since we were both hugely pregnant. We exchanged our babies’ genders, names, and birthdays as we unrolled our mats.

“How was your birth!?” she said brightly, in the middle of the yoga studio.

“Oh, fine,” I lied.

My throat seized up as the memories rushed in. I would never ask another woman this question in public, whether she was a casual pal or a close friend. In fact, I’d endured five days and six nights of stop-start labor, my baby stuck in the posterior position, her head wedged into the diamond of my pelvis. Exhausted and confused, my husband and I grew desperate. After a morphine shot, a Cervidil induction, and a little Nubain to help the excruciating back labor, we’d veered off our planned course of natural birth onto a frightening, medical highway. I was weak from barely sleeping or eating in five days. This wasn’t what I’d read in my books, what we’d rehearsed in Hypnobirthing class. [Read more →]

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