Category

Mama Says Om

• 08.10.07
  Sticky Situation
  Chas, Daily, Ford, Mama Says Om (76)

  
  

  Ikea has the cheapest breakfast outside of the home. In fifteen minutes we can be at the table, dunking french toast sticks into a bowl of maple syrup (not ideal, but Ford’s ideal, which he serves up himself) and feeling the warm sunlight pour through the floor-to-ceiling windows, penetrating the pores, the caffeine from the Swedish coffee slipping instantly into your bloodstream as if by DMSO. The eggs are synthetic but oddly satisfying, since we are always starving and they are always served steaming hot. There are beads of syrup on the table, collecting on their t-shirts, smeared between fingers. I sit there, across the table, sipping my coffee and wondering how they can stand their filth. Judging from the quiet, they couldn’t be more content with it.

  Mama says Om.

  
  
• 08.09.07
  yeah, yeah, the Dare
  Daily, Mama Says Om (15)

  

  Nobody made me do this. But Christina encouraged us to do this. Normally, I have a hard time taking myself seriously.
  Bring on the crow’s feet, laugh lines, age spots! They’re merit badges for being a Mother of Boys.

  
  
• 06.22.06
  Saunter
  Mama Says Om (4)

  Rain lilies. We’ve had rain lately, but the deer are still eating the zinnias and runner beans.

  The guitar carves our saunter in the woods, with a nod at our footfall by the man picking base. Fiddle follows the sweat sliding down warm arms, smooth slippery sounds of summer. A lively banjo details the levity of the rippling brook we walk along, the darting cardinal family, the scampering squirrels and the sunlit leaves. Johnny Cash fuses the layers of sound in a baritone honeycomb. I smile down at Chas, who always shouts for me to play “Ring of Fire” in the car. And over at Ford, who has recently discovered the geological significance behind that song’s name; engrossed as he is, now, in volcanology.

  Mama Says Om

  
  
• 06.16.06
  Comfort
  Mama Says Om (1)

  It’s been a long week at home alone with the children.

  Each day is a greater test of patience, a chance for me to grow deaf ears and tougher skin to the temper tantrums. But my plan isn’t working, and instead of becoming more proficient, certain buttons have actualy shorted out. Chas, for example, is standing in the sun, with too-long hair and wet clothes, cradling a dried-up, dead earthworm. He is pretending it is his baby. And I could care less about that than the way it makes me feel, which is not disgust but a mixture of wonder and pride. How can he be charmed by a dead, dried-up earthworm? My son will surely have no difficulty accepting any child in his life. The world needs men like this.

  Meanwhile, I am meditating on my second sweaty bottle of beer. It is still chilled, fifteen minutes from the corner store, and it tastes like college and irresponsibillity and forgiveness. Normally I would wait until 5pm for aperitif, but Damon will pull into the driveway within the next two hours and, with the mericful afternoon, dappled in sunshine (it is only 90 degrees outside right now) and the shaded, inflatable pool, I see no other option but to begin the evening right now. This is as far down in the lawn chair I can sit without falling flat off. And now, the boys are digging in the muddy grass, looking for more worms.

  God willing, they will find live ones to care for.

  Mama Says Om

  
  
• 05.05.06
  Liquid
  Mama Says Om (12)

  
  Me & the boys; Surfside, TX

  Go, go, go.
  Scribble it down on a torn napkin.
  Sleep tonight, Weave tomorrow.
  Don’t forget.

  
  
• 04.27.06
  Wild
  Chas, Daily, Mama Says Om, Photos (11)

  In the morning, it’s the last thing I do. I dunk the special black comb with wide and narrow teeth into a tall glass, filled with water. I take a deep breath, forgetting to exhale, and recruit ten seconds and a truckload of patience.

  

  You hear the water running, see me step forward with the glass and comb, and your eyes suddenly spark behind an impish grin. Suddenly, you are tearing through the house, little feet thumping across carpet, patting excitedly atop tile. Unleashed giggles bounce in your wake. I grope for a lock of hair and get nothing but a flurry of laughter and air.

  It’s like wool back there: the comb would stand straight if you would sit still, but away you prance and the poor comb bounces in place atop your head like a clinging tranquilizer dart. You disappear behind a corner and discover a forgotten toy.

  I kneel behind you as you play with the toy car. Sections of hair at a time, I gently unweave tiny dreads from the night before. Your hair is fine flax. As I arrange it, tame it with comb and water, you begin to look more like a normal toddler boy and less like a normal Chas.

  Sloping waves mount each other in back, I swoop longish locks over one another, rounding my way forward to frame your face. The comb easily slides through your fringe in front; it is immune to your rowdy tossing in bed and tantrums in the carseat. I swing the comb down and around your cheek, parting it left. You grin, suddenly noticing me. With both hands, you grab my cheeks and screech! I see your tiny, perfectly round molars in back, and your squinting blue eyes coax me to drop the comb and tickle you.

  After we stop laughing, we both sigh. Then, speechless with a hand over my mouth, I watch you tousle your hair up joyfully as a dog on a dungheap. When you are finished, you check my reaction with a curled lower lip and shadowed eyes, trying to mask your grin. But I see it! And we both acknowledge our dueling gumption.

  
  

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