Love is a Verb

Love is a verb.*

Ah, love is a noun,
you fell in love.
You sat on it,
wrapped yourself in it.
At first it’s all-enveloping and luscious,
you are lost in it, wading with wanton strokes,
head first, diving and dipping,
barely coming up for air.

Then you wake up one morning,
and the blankets have been stripped away.
You feel the drafty rawness,
the other side of the bed is cold and vacant.
Maybe he got up early.
Maybe he left?

Love is a verb.
You wake up to the cold.
Your head is not awash with passion,
but worn, honed with routine.
You mutter a sweet word,
despite the cranky cloudy weather,
you make him coffee,
you kiss him on the cheek.
Each, a conscious effort.

The effort is constant,
but, then, it’s pleasant.
You remember the passion,
and you are strong with the loving,
with each little act of loving.
The heat has faded but you create your own warmth,
blowing every day on those sparks,
barely coming up for air.

* * * * *

*The inspiration for this comes from rather an odd place...from the book "The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People." At some point in the book he talks about marriage and about how you have to always work on it, you have to always love actively, not just expect love to be there.

Poem for my Dad

This is the poem I wrote 11/18/04, a couple weeks after my father passed away.
* * * * *

Vision pushes outward and widens
from a drop of foam
on a single wave
to the span of solid ocean.

The water pulses,
a wave is created,
creating strength, moving forward,
perhaps to crash on the shore
or fade slowly away
dissolving once more to the ocean
that gave it birth.

Your wave was tall and beautiful
curving over me
even when I didn't see it.
Your wave pushed my little one along,
building from underneath.

You fade, I grow.
Another wave forms and dissolves,
ripples across an expansive ocean.
You dissolve
but the water is whole.

Kids

Kids...can't imagine life without them once you have them, although sometimes you can't imagine living another second with them without going mad. But I can't live without mine.

Evan tried to break the CD player. OK, maybe that was not his end goal. But he knew he shouldn't touch it. That, thrown in with the simultaneous screaming of Elia as I frantically try to dress her after her bath (before which she pee'ed all over me--how is it possible for that little baby bladder to hold so much pee?), drove me quickly in a yelling rant. I put him in his room immediately. After a minute, it was quiet. After five minutes, I thought, it's too quiet. I went in and saw him playing with his stuffed animals on the floor. OK, it's fine, I thought. Then he said, "Look, Maman," and proudly handed over two fabric circles from the wheels of the choo choo train I made from scratch that is on his wall. Calm, Karen, calm, I thought. "Why are you destroying the train I made you?" I asked, controlling my shaky voice.

"Because I'm the little boss," he said proudly, those big sparkly eyes full of the spark of defiance.

"You are staying in your room!" I yelled and shut the door, as he cried out behind me.

Then later...I brush his teeth. He looks at me. "Maman, can I touch your eyes?" I take of my glasses and he gently touches my eye lashes as I close my eyes. "Maman, can I touch your ears?" And his little fingers grapple my ears. "Can I touch your mouth? Your nose? Your chin?" His hands go all over my face. "Why do you want to do that?" I ask. "Because I love," he answers.

And I look in his little soft face, in his large, black-lashed blue eyes, and I want to bury my face in his cuteness. I don't see any manipulation, just purity, curiosity and closeness. I hug him, I hug him so fully.

That's how it is. I can get so angry, I can explode, but in a flash, I am melted by that innocence, that pure innocence and love that dissolves everything else.

I like to move it move it!

Along with instilling values such as responsibility and integrity in my child, I also hope to instill a sense of rhythm. For some reason this comes high on my list of what I want my son to have, up there with patience and happiness. Ever since he was born my husband and I have played a wide variety of music, from opera to hip-hop, and at seven months of age I told people Evan could say the name of his favorite band: "Abba." Now, Evan seems to have a great sense of rhythm, or so I'd like to think.

A song comes on the radio, or we play one from our computer at home, and within seconds Evan starts nodding his head to the beat. This is where the beat begins for him--in the head. If the music really moves him he will stand and bend his knees so that his body is bopping up and down with his head. And if he's really grooving, he might raise his arms in front of his body or above his head, jerking them to a strange, personal beat.

"Oh, yeah, Evan, dance, dance!" I shout, telling anyone and everyone in the room to look at him. "Look, look, he's dancing!" I yell, as if Evan were doing back flips across the room. Usually by the time the people look, Evan has stopped his dance and is staring at me as if to say, "Thanks for ruining my groove, Mom."

Sometimes I lead by example. The music comes on--or worse yet, I provide the music by singing at the top of my lungs--and I dance around crazily, jumping, jerking, shaking, and swaying, attempting to squeeze out a few Evan giggles. More often than not, he calmly stares up at me with an amused and amazed smile, studying my every move as if filing them away in his library of dance moves. Or moves he is remembering to never do. What kid wants to dance like his mother? At least I can make him laugh with certain dances: when I do the twist, he smiles politely, but when I thrash my fists in and out from my chest, he laughs hysterically.

I am proud to say Evan enjoys soulful music, the stuff his Mommy likes: some Aretha or Bob Dylan or the current Amy Winehouse. The lyrics don't matter. After watching "Hustle and Flow" (not with Evan, of course!) I sang for days to Evan: "Ya know it's hard out here for a pimp..." I suppose I'll have to start being careful there, as I don't want my kid's teachers to call me saying he sang Old McDonald had a ho or Ba Ba Black Shit.

Someone asked me if I have children's songs stuck in my head, and if I play that music in the car. "What?!" I exclaimed, "Are you kidding me? No way! I play my music. Evan is going to like all the music I like." Sadly enough, I have given into the kiddy music somewhat, my excuse being that it is okay because it is French. French children's music sounds better because, well, it's in French. The melody for Twinkle, Twinkle has lyrics about three hens going to the field. There aren't any song about boughs breaking and babies falling out of trees. Just good ol' medieval songs, like about a sleeping monk or about plucking a bird.

Alas, we cannot mold our children in our image and make them like what we like. He loves the squeaky, syrupy rendition of "Ba Ba Black Sheep" recorded on a toy (). When he presses that button and hears the tinny, cheesy voice, he starts nodding his head, up and down, his eyes and mouth as serious as if he were grooving to a live jazz performance. I hate to admit it, but I've sung that bit myself several times, even alone in the shower. Perhaps he's the one molding me.

No wonder he's constipated...

"He's so constipated, I just am so tired of it, nothing works," I sighed heavily into the phone, and she started talking before I even finished the last word.

"Ya know, honey, I was always constipated my whole life," she started and went on for about five minutes about the details of her digestive life history.

"Mom, this isn't about you," I reminded her, "this is about Evan."

"Well duh, I know that, I'm just saying, I'm his grandmother so it's not about me personally. It's, ya know, about me and him." Her words were strongly stressed. I understood her point, but I was tired of hearing so much about her anyway.

"I don't want to scare you or anything, but ya know how my mom's first baby died," she went on, "it was because of constipation." I cringed, not out of fear of constipation, but out of her usual lack of tact. Explaining the details of the death, her voice was grim: "Daddy's mother gave her some kind of medicine and they took her to the hospital. Her stomach was getting bigger and bigger...And within four hours, she was dead." Now I shuddered at the horror of the story but didn't say a word. Rather, I tried changing the topic to a lighter, happier subject, explaining how JR and Evan play.

"Evan loves this...JR slowly pulls Evan off the bed and hangs him upside down by his ankles." I smiled to myself, anticipating her reaction.

"For God's sake! He better not do that in front of me!" she hurled out. Then she paused and said, "No wonder Evan's constipated."

I wondered how hanging a kid upside could cause constipation and thought, with that reasoning, perhaps if I jump up and down with Evan or spin him in circles I could cause him to have diarrhea. Maybe laying him on his left side will cure his diaper rash, too.

* * * * *

A couple hours later the phone rang while I was changing Evan's poopless diaper and I heard my mother's voice chattering away on the answering machine. I listened to the five-minute long message when she hung up.

"Ya know, I was thinking about Evan and I bet I know what it is. Your Aunt Hildy had the same problem and had to go to the hospital twice for it. What happens is it gets turned sideways, and you have to get a finger in there to manually turn it back the right way. So I bet that's what's wrong with Evan."

The image played out in my mind, despite my resistance. I thought of how a turd can be turned sideways inside you, like a sausage laying over a buttonhole. I decided that was taking too much energy, so I turned away from the answering machine, not bothering to call back.

Wierd Interview

I arrived at the tiny box of an office early, two minutes after a girl dressed in a trendy but conservative suit. Another girl sitting behind the cutout square in the wall gave us a form to fill out and told us to wait. As we did so, three more young people filtered in, each saying they had an appointment at the same time and with the same person as we did.

I looked at the form with mild disbelief. First question: birthdate. That's illegal!, I thought. Age discrimination! But I put it down anyway, realizing that the younguns around me would do so without hesitation, out of ignorance or out of pride they were born in the 80s. Maybe even the late 80s.

Second question: social security number. Oh, what the heck, I thought. Somehow this request bothered me much less than the birthdate. I finished the form and the trendy girl and I chatted about the odd array of magazines: teeny boppers and luxury cars.

"At my last interview, they had The Office playing in the waiting room," she said, and we laughed about how we all know some Michael Scott's and Dwight Shrewt's.

Finally I get called in by the interviewer, a girl who looked to be about 22. As I stood up, my purse strap got caught on the arm of the chair and after I fumbled it free, she said, "It's okay," as if forgiving me for my awkward dopiness. I stood up and smiled, thinking, Oh no, don't even, I can totally be more sophisticated than you DUDETTE!! I straightened my too-large blouse and pants, an outfit that my French father-in-law would call "classic"--meaning "old."

As she gave me a quick, well-rehearsed blurb on the company, I stared at her acne-sprinkled face and listened to her perky voice, determined to maintain my pasted-on smile. This girl was definitely a cheerleader, I said to myself. She asked me why I was interested in this position. Because I have to pretend like I'm interested in every job, silly girl! Actually, this place is freaking me out and I'm sure you only want recent college grads, not an almost-30- something mommy!

I answered the questions as clearly and concisely as possible, always reading into what her questions really mean. "Are you a people person?" she asks, her smile never fading for a second. That is, can I go up to complete strangers and try to get money from them? I think. "Yes, I think I am. I get along with pretty much everyone." Which is true, by the way--I just didn't mention that it takes me a while to warm up to people, to get over my initial shyness.

Toward the end she asked if I would be available for an all-day trial the next day. This forced me into a corner. I stammered, finally giving in: "Well, I need to arrange for...childcare," I surrendered. I heard the WHAM! of that final nail going into my almost-30-something coffin. A coffin I was happy to have closed, nonetheless.

Or so I thought. The girl called me back for a second interview. I guess I'm not as old as I thought.