Child Gratitude

If the only prayer you said in your whole life was,
'thank you,' that would suffice.
- Meister Eckhart

Well, my son is back in school. You may think the above quote is in reference to that. However, as much as I am thankful for school and free time and time to work on art and writing and housework and time to sit and think and to learn and to drink passion fruit ice tea in total silence in a big chair, that quote is actually in reference to how thankful I am to have been given such a beautiful boy. I'm not one of those moms that cries on the first day of school, in fact I'm more likely to open a bottle of champagne, but I have to say that he has been a bringer of wonder and sunshine and love into my life that makes me feel blessed and content.


He did this little "friends" book two years ago and I keep it where I can look at it often.
I am so proud of him and his compassion and care. He is an awesome basketball guy and fisherman and idea man.



I get so frustrated and irritable sometimes, unsure and confused on how to do it all. Homework, drum lessons, Boy Scouts, breakfast, lunch, dinner, baths, clean clothes and a game of Yahtzee here and there. And I only have ONE! He's a good guy and I'm lucky. Here is a poem I wrote about him a couple years ago....

Child

Here’s the real deal about having one. He smells
like a pickle after his nap. I don’t know where it comes from,
not the diaper or the bed sheets, but from somewhere
around the face. Sweat behind the ears or in the neck crease,
I sniff around but it’s mysterious. And he hits me.
Smack in the face because he doesn’t have the words
to say I don’t want chicken or these shoes hurt my feet.
So the right hand reels back like a pitcher winding up,
the elbow cocks out at some exotic angle from the body
and he connects with my left temple. And then I hold his hand
solid and hard in mine until he cries.

The real deal is that I introduce him to the stick bugs
in the backyard like he’s Johnny Carson, complete
with a drum roll on the wooden chair slats
and a round of applause. Inside the house, I scrunch him up
in my arms and we smoosh our foreheads together,
eye to eye until we laugh out loud. And he is
the only one permitted to call me a horse.

The real deal is that now I am terrified of death. In fact,
I’d rather be a body and a head sitting in a chair, my arms
and legs shriveled up by tumors or a new brand
of flesh eating disease. But goddamit it, keep me alive,
because no one will ever love this boy like I do. And that’s
the day I understand the woman jumping
off the sixth floor of the parking garage, holding her child
in her arms. I understand the woman feeding Percocet
to her daughters before she feeds a handful to herself. She’s
just a woman whose despair grew like a field of weeds.
A mother who knew she had to go, and in her own leaving,
had to take that thing with her, that thing in the world
she loved the best.