The text came from my oldest child, away
At camp, seven weeks as a counselor,
I have the night off and a ride both ways,
Will be leaving for home at 5:00, he said
Oh Good, we will order pizza, I reply
Me, his mother who is surprised
At his seeking, embracing so much
Responsibility, this young man whose
Bedroom floor is no longer discernible
From Sanford and Son’s scrap yard
In charge of the comings and goings of
So many other boys enjoying the same
Accommodations and lackluster food
The camaraderie of shared experience
My husband leaves to be somewhere
With our middle child, after I had hoped he would
Stay so we could all be home together, but he leaves
And his large silver SUV pulls away from the curb
The youngest, bored and lonely for his brothers,
Waits in the driveway shooting basketballs
His new hoop, anticipation mixed anxiously
In the secret missing he feels in his older
brother’s absence, I wait less steadily
For my first born’s delivery by the 17 year old driver
Who had to see his girlfriend, and maybe
Speeding on those curves of the northeast
Iowa bluffs to get a few more minutes
With what could be the love of his life
My son simply along for a ride home
These thoughts make me abruptly stop
Before removing make-up, just in case
I would get the call, not vanity, strictly
Preparation for what could happen
I do this to ready myself for the worst
It is such sweet relief when I am wrong
In these times of assumption, my husband
Insisting this makes me crazy, or at least
Morbidly negative, but I point out my necessity
For doing this is insurance against being brutally
Shocked by instantaneous personal disasters
On the driveway, oldest and youngest dribble,
Dribble, shoot, miss, dribble, shoot, joy with the swish
These two lovely in their simple comfortable play
Watch how fast I can dribble mom, he happily chirps as
He propels himself down the drive, towards the street,
Feet scurry to keep up, the ball moving out of his control,
And there, in the absolute corner of my eye that is not
Intent on his motion, a mini-van, teal blue approaching
In perfect unison with the legs and arms that are trying
To prove their worth, my vocal chords strangled in guttural
Terror scream his name without my conscious direction
Teal blue van gorgeously bouncing to a screeching halt
Silver SUV not blocking the view of a child bolting down a driveway
My sons safe, and all the vehicles driven by hands
That cannot cherish them, will keep driving down our street,
And giving them rides here and there, and my heart knows
My husband is correct, leaving my make-up on won’t
Protect them from all the things that can happen…just like that
Category Archives: Parenting
Tackle and Tool Boxes Don’t Come with Instructions
Fathers are quieter in their love, committed
No less so than mothers, more so some days
Responsible often for lawns, and repairs
Sometimes better in the kitchen and laundry
Having loved or still loving the mothers
Who more than likely get and take special
Credit for doing more, caring more deeply
It is not truth that anatomy and physiology
Is a bequeather of parenthood, nor is it less male
Than female. Accepting daily responsibilities
For unglamorous, unnoticed, unappreciated
Chores and love’s daily laborious considerations
The being there, anchoring, when things fall apart as often
As when life hands a child tiny as well as large successes
The dads who take care of me and now my children
Value not being late and watch time’s precautions
The dads I know and love always seem to know
The details of a toolbox, a tackle box and take
Seriously the instructions for putting countless
Gadgets together, the nuts and bolts that
Keep it all solidly together and never act concerned
When there are one or two screws remaining
Silently putting them away for safe keeping
Smelly Belly
Clean your ears, and clean your nose
Scrub your elbows, then between your toes
Your dad will shout to use that soap
And mom will yell she just can’t cope
That smell is more than I can take
Clean that belly button for goodness sake
The Paper Route
An almost forgotten employment
For my almost teenage boy
Delivering the news to doorsteps
While others slumber, sip coffee
Get ready for their day of labor
He saw the notice in a well placed
Ad stuffed into our mailbox
Available; three routes,
Twenty-five bonus just to sign-up
His round Dr. Seuss eyes,
Absorbing the countless
Possibilities of purchases
To be made with all that money
The new computer; mine
Only for me, he imagines specifically
Not wanting to squelch excitement
Conjured from a hope that he
Will make his wish into possibility
Fulfilled by his own volition
I secretly ponder the realities
In thoughts that swirl around details
He only contemplates the cash
Like a loony toon character with
Dollar signs that ring up in his eyes
The neighborhood is two miles away
I offer to drive him there
Every day, at five am, except Sunday
When the former paper boy, his dad
Performs this troublesome honor
The day thick with all those ads
After a week or so, his route memorized
Which gradually worked into a month, this child
Who cried the third day in frustration over wind
That sent him skittering to jumble
Those black inky folds neatly back together
While watching from a distance
I reminded myself this was not a something for me
To scurry towards making it all better, but
The invisible pull to save made my viewing
Heart fold in a cringe feeling his fear that
He would fail in this personal quest
To be slightly independent
These spaces of quiet morning time precious
Where every bunny rabbit still gives pause
And every paper delivered a tiny success
Donuts
Powdered sugar, cinnamon, and iced
Filled, sprinkled, all dunked with delight
Tired of cereal, eggs, toast and oatmeal
On Saturday morning it’s the standard appeal
Let’s get donuts, oh please, pretty please
Eaten when young and savoring each bite
The old knowing well the result of this vice
But lips to your hips, matters not at this age
Enjoyment in the now is sometimes okay
Let’s get donuts, oh please, pretty please
The power of choice all in my hands
Say yes and provide this simplest of joys
The agony of defeat if they hear, not today
Let’s get donuts, oh pretty please, Please
No regrets for this time when I give them their way
Breakfast with Buse 