Cotton-Pickin’ Days

Stephen making an angry mama face.
A face he’s seeing far too often these days.

Stephen has acquired two new phobias.

The first is a phobia of me going out. It started when I went out with my friends for three hours on the morning of Thursday, May 19th. After playing and watching some TV with our helper/babysitter, Tram, for the first two hours, he went downstairs to look for me. When he couldn’t find me, he got really upset, came home, and barricaded himself in the bedroom telling Tram to get out. And that’s how I found him when I arrived home. Ever since then, he refuses to play with Tram because he thinks that means I’m going out and leaving him with her. Occasionally, he’ll also say for seemingly no reason, “Mama come home.”

The second new phobia is a fear of closed doors. When Stephen loses control, we usually bring him to the bedroom to calm down on his own. But we always leave the door open so he can come out when he’s ready to be nice. A couple of days ago when he refused to let me watch the American Idol finale show in peace, I stormed into the master bedroom and slammed the door. And I’ve done it a few more times when I’ve needed some time to cool off. He now won’t allow us to close any of the doors in the apartment.

I didn’t know what my angry face looked like until Stephen recounted one of the moments to Marv and made the face for him to see. At the rate we’re going, my face may be permanently frozen in this grimace.

Two poems that helped me when I most needed it this week.

CHILDHOOD
By Debra Bruce

Exiled once, allowed back in
to guide you through,
I didn’t know my time was up.
But by the river, in snapping grass,
still in the habit of noticing,
crouching with you at a leaf or wing,
I spotted caterpillar frass
speckling milkweed as he feasted,
getting ready to split, released
from a too tight self. In just a week
he’d grow a better, brasher skin.
Exiled once, allowed back in,
I leaned down in the snapping grass,
but stopped at the thud of your new voice:
Come on. Big deal. So what.

~~~~~~
SEESAWS
by Samuel Hazo

The bigger the tomb, the smaller the man.
The weaker the case, the thicker the brief.
The deeper the pain, the older the wound.
The graver the loss, the drier the tears.

The truer the shot, the slower the aim.
The quicker the kiss, the sweeter the taste.
The broader the crime, the vaguer the guilt.
The louder the price, the cheaper the ring.

The steeper the climb, the sheerer the slide.
The higher the odds, the shrewder the bet.
The rarer the chance, the blinder the risk.
The colder the snow, the greener the spring.

The braver the bull, the wiser the cape.
The shorter the joke, the surer the laugh.
The sadder the tale, the dearer the joy.
The longer you live, the fewer your years.

From The Atlantic, April 2004