When I was preggo with Primo, I picked up this collection of poetry for kids called Poetry Speaks to Children, and then I more or less forgot about it for 3 ½ years. But for the past year or so, the tots and I have been making up for lost time, reading and re-reading the lyrical gems in there. The great part about the collection is that its not “children’s poetry” but grown-up poetry that works for children. There’s Edgar Allan Poe in there, Langston Hughes, Shakespeare, Gwendolyn Brooks . . . and the selections are all well-chosen, dynamic, funny, interesting for little readers. But the best part is that the book comes with a CD which includes readings of the poems by their authors. It is a MUST for a long car ride. Not only does it engage your mind as well as your kids’, you will feel like an uber-parent when your 2 year-old spontaneously recites William Blake.(best party trick ever when Seconda shouts "Tyger Tyger burning BRIGHT in the FOREST of the NIGHT!")
Enough free advertising. Here’s my current favorite by poet laureate of my heart Galway Kinnell. The way he delivers “ha ha!” is worth the price of the book, I think.
Crying
By Galway Kinnell
Crying only a little bit
is no use. You must cry
until your pillow is soaked!
Then you can get up and laugh.
Then you can jump in the shower
and splash-splash-splash!
Then you can throw open your window
and, “Ha ha! ha ha!”
And if the people say, “Hey,
what’s going on up there?”
“Ha ha!” sing back, “Happiness
was hiding in the last tear!
I wept it! Ha ha!”
This morning I awoke to the sound of my son yelling with delight: “Look mommy!” I opened my eyes and found five little fingers smeared in a brown substance waving wildly in front of my face. Primo was happy to explain:
“I found something on the floor and I thought it was poop so I rolled it in between my fingers and tasted it and it was chocolate!”
Nothing says summer like a day at Coney Island. Eating franks and shooting freaks. Handing over your ticket for the ride. Sipping ice-cold lemonade. I heart Coney. We all heart Coney. How could you not?
Of course with the new development that’s underway, it may not stay so easy to love. But when we went yesterday, we were relived to find that though there were some absences – the go-kart places an batting ranges which used to be on Stillwell Avenue have been pushed out to make way for Thor Equities’ Festival by the Sea – most of the Coney faves were still standing, for now.
Since Primo is suddenly anti-sand, David and he stuck to the boardwalk while Sec and I got gritty. She played in the sprinkler on the sand for a while and then on the playground, where she removed her hat and dumped an entire pail of sand on her head.
“Let’s run to the ocean!” I said, fun-loving, footloose mama that I am.
And we ran, me and the girl holding hands, and splashing in the freezing water and laughing. I was literally in the process of thinking, “Why does everybody complain about this beach? It’s clean! It’s totally clean!” when a Park department guy wearing an orange shit blew his whistle at me.
“Get out of the water!” he yelled.
“Me?” I asked, incredulously.
“Yeah, you,” he replied, with an unspoken, but crystal-clear “knucklehead” implied.
“We can’t go in the water?” I pressed the point.
“It’s contaminated,” he replied, no beating around the bush.
Oh,” I said, surprised, “With what?” It didn’t make a difference what the answer was really -- contaminated is contaminated and I wouldn’t have let Sec stay in if the risk factor was sewage rather than a deadly parasite. Still, I was curious.
But the man was already blowing his whistle at someone else.
So I dragged Seconda out, literally kicking and screaming and we headed over to meet Primo and Pops at the kiddie ride area, where Prim was riding Dizzy Dragons.
My son is the most serious-looking amusement rider you will ever encounter. He loves to ride, he thrills to ride, he can’t get enough of rides, but if you saw him on a merry-go-round, or sitting in the belly of a spinning clown, you’d think he was trying to figure out the theory of relativity, he is concentrating so hard. I mean, his brow is actually furrowed.
When he’d used up his three allotted tickets, we left the rides and treated ourselves to “freshly-squeezed lemonade” on the boardwalk, in the spot where the fabulous Lola Staar boutique used to stand (you can find her now at the Brooklyn Flea).
“We’ll take a small.” I told the kid behind the counter.
“For two dollars more you can get a large and get free refills,” was the counter offer.
But I’ve been to a movie theater or two in my lifetime and I know how to decline the up-sell.
“The small is fine,” I said, handing over $3.
The kid placed a small cup under a metallic hand-cranked juicer, where a half-lemon was pre-placed. He pulled the lever and a few drops of juice accumulated in the cup. Then he poured these driplets into my cup, placed it on a shelf beneath my sightline, and then, five seconds later, handed me a full cup of “fresh squeezed lemonade” which tasted suspiciously like Crystal Light.
“Everyone is a shyster on the island of Coney,” concluded David.
Shysters or not, nobody nowhere nohow makes a frank like Nathan’s. So we chowed down, David with his Coors and chili cheese dogs, the kids with their corn on the cob and me with fries on a pitchfork. The Beatles were right. Happiness is a hot dog. Yum yum chomp chomp.
My 22 year-old sister, who considers it her responsibility to keep me informed about web happenings (“What? You never heard of “Dick in a Box?” OMG, Nicole, you are SO OLD!!!”), just sent me a link to this very funny blog called Tiny Art Director, in which an artist parent opens himself up to some pretty harsh criticism from his little girl. Reminds me of my own unforgiving child, who likes to tell me that the drawings I produce under duress of tantrum, according to his detailed specifications, are “not good at all.” But at least he doesn’t give thumbs down to my writing. Yet. I’m sure as soon as he can figure out how to navigate the web, he’ll visit this blog and send in scathing comments that I will have to heavily moderate. Ah, parenthood.
You must know by now, readers, that I’m not a Hallmark-moments, chicken-soup-for-the-mother’s-soul kind of person. Its not that I’m against living in the moment and being grateful for the little things – on the contrary, I think it’s commendable. I just don’t usually have it in me.
But the great thing about life on earth is that every so often we end up surprising ourselves. Which happened to me just yesterday.
Primo’s been having a tough time going to school lately, and I’ve been taking extra measures to help him feel more comfortable saying goodbye at drop-off. One of these measures is bald-faced bribery. When he flatly told me yesterday that he was NOT going to school, “end of discussion,” I told him that if he did, I’d get him this Ed Emberely Halloween drawing book he’s been wanting. I promised I’d have it for him at pick-up. I’m very serious about keeping my promises to the kids, so there I was at pick-up, perky as can be, with the book in hand.
As it turned out, the book backfired. He was so excited about it that he ended up crying and miserable because his drawings didn’t look exactly like Ed Emberely’s. Then I tried to draw the pictures for him and he ended up crying because MY drawings didn’t look right. The entire meltdown happened on a bench in front of his school, with Seconda pressing buttons on a nearby ATM machine, petting ferocious-looking dogs without my permission and playing dangerously close to traffic.
It was clear that I was in for a long, awful afternoon with unhappy son and untamable daughter and I was pretty pissed about the prospect. In an effort to turn things around, I tried to take the kids to the playground but sad sack Primo refused to walk because “stuff” kept getting in his Crocs and this was very disquieting to him.
Furthermore, he informed me, I was being “selfish.”
He hastened to explain himself when he saw the look of disbelief flicker across my face.
“First you brought me this book I wanted after school," he started.
“Yes, I did.”
“That was nice.”
“Yes it was.”
“Then you drew pictures for me.”
“Yes, yes, that was nice, too.”
“And now you want to take me to the playground,” he concluded, having done a lousy job, in my opinion, of defending his position.
“Yes, I do want to take you to the playground,” I said, trying to manage my frustration and failing, “Because it is a BEAUTIFUL day and I want you to run around and have fun and leave me alone and be happy, LIKE A KID IS SUPPOSED TO DO!”
He grumpily conceded, and we, very slowly, walked to the playground. By the time we got there, the beautiful day was not so beautiful. In fact, it didn’t even look like day anymore. In fact, it was dark as Hades.
“It’s NIGHT,” Seconda noted.
“It looks like nighttime but it’s not night yet,” Primo corrected.
Raindrops had begun to fall. We could feel them. It didn’t just look like rain was coming. The rain had started. But it had taken us a flipping hour to get the playground, and we had done it, by God, we’d made it there, and nothing was going to make me turn around.
The kids played for about two minutes while the last, foolhardy caregivers fled with their charges in tow. We were the only people in the playground and it had become so dark, as Primo put it, it looked like we were “in a forest of darkness.”
And then it started to pour. A biblical rainfall that leaves you wondering if there’s an ark somewhere you could hitch a ride on.
A quick assessment of the stroller confirmed that there was no rain cover, no rain jackets, no umbrella, nothing in the way of deluge protection. And that’s when my Hallmark moment happened.
“Fuck it,” I thought.
“IT’S RAINING!!!!!”” I threw my head back and shouted.
“IT’S POURING!!!!” Primo sang
“DA OLD MAN IS ---- SNORING!!!!!!” Seconda brought it home.
Incredible sheets of water fell out of the sky so that within a minute we were sopping. The more it rained, the louder we sang.
“Let’s run to the awning!” Primo shouted.
“AWNING-HOPPING!” I yelled.
“HOPPING HOPPING HOPPING!” Sec shrieked.
“I AM WEEEEEEEEET!”yelled my son, laughing so hard he could hardly speak.
And we went on like this all the way home, yelling and whopping and laughing and loving the rain and life and each other. Especially each other.
When we got home, we peeled off our dripping clothes, wrapped ourselves in towels, and curled up on the couch to read a long book.
Turns out it wasn’t such an awful afternoon after all.
When you have a baby and you read the Baby Whisperer and Dr. Sears and Weissbluth, you find that all these experts spend a great deal of time talking about the importance of creating a soothing bedtime ritual. This ritual is supposed to help your child transition from the stimulation of daytime to the tranquil peace of sleep. I am neurotic and overachieving and always try to do what experts say, so by four months of age, Primo was being bathed at the same time every night, massaged after bath to promote body-mind wellness, read to in the rocking chair, and placed in his crib awake, while the cool chords of Coltrane’s Ballads played on a little CD player in the corner. Same sequence, same time, same place, every night.
Fat lot of good it did us. The Sandman himself couldn’t get this kid to sleep without a struggle. Since he was a baby, he’s had a tough time settling down, and we have tried everything. Everything.
Including, most recently, allowing him to take David’s old Ipod shuffle to bed with him.. Since nightlights and stuffed animals, and good-dream-stories and bribes and threats didn’t work, we figured we’d try letting him relax to his favorite music.
We found however that it is somewhat difficult for a child to unwind whilst his two year-old sister hurls plastic babydolls at his prone form.
I knew something was up when, instead of the usual defiant but jovial yelling, I heard Primo wail. I ran in to find him hysterical and his sister jumping and down in her crib, beside herself with delight at what a terrible ruckus she’s caused.
“She hiiiiiiit me,” he sobbed, “In the heeeeeeead! With her BABYDOOOOOOOOLLS!”
And there you have it, the distillation of my kids’ relationship. Seconda beats Primo down, despite being half his age and less than half his size.
She’s tough as nails, that baby, and ruthless, too. At the playground yesterday, when these 6 year-old boys were chasing Primo around, he ran up to her and pleaded, “Go get those bad kids.” And she did, kicking them hard with her pink Converse high-tops and squawking, “GO AWAY! PRIMO IS MY BOY!” Whenever there’s a kiddie throw-down, I put my money on my daughter and man, does she deliver. But when she turns on her brother, well, action must be taken.
So I had to confiscate her babydolls and move her into the Pack N Play in our bedroom. I mean, Primo was afraid to fall asleep with her there.
Two minutes later, I heard him sobbing again. Back to the bedroom I went.
“What is it now?” I asked.
“I just keep crying,” he sobbed, “and the tears are going into my ears and making my ipod headphones sliiiip oooout.”
Seriously.
“Then just stop crying,” I offered. I mean, its not rocket science.
So, the next time you’re heading into a major pity-fest, and about to stew in your sorry state, just console yourself with the thought that at least your baby sister didn’t beat you up and give you tears in the ears. It should help.
. . . to me at night. And the weirdest part is I suspect that I am the culprit. I went to bed last night with my watch on and woke up this morning with a bare wrist. The watch was under my pillow.
(You can’t see me but as I write this, I am raising my eyebrows, communicating suspicion and consternation). In other words: WTF?
Is someone slipping me AmbienCR without my knowing it? And, in addition to making me remove my wrist jewelry and hide it from myself, are the meds also making me eat while not awake, while you will recall from my prior post is a potential side-effect? If so, that could explain why I never lose weight despite the fact that I honestly don’t seem to eat that much and do the kind of hard, manual labor that would keep Rosanne Barr svelte.
Nicole is a parenting writer who contributes essays and articles for magazines like Parenting, Parents, American Baby and Babble. She lives in Brooklyn with three children, one husband and a morbidly obese goldfish.
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