Waiting (I)

The baby of the family
has fallen asleep
on the living room floor
in the middle of playing.

I set the table
with beef stew,
toasted onion bread,
cheese.

The kids and I gather ’round the table
and wait for Dad to sit before we dig in.

Pieces of cheese and bites of bread
make their way from the plate
close to hungry little mouths
then back to the plate.

It is hard to wait.

The two year old gobbles up
her tiny cubes of cheese, smiling,
while we talk about waiting for Dad.

It is hard to wait.

Finally he sits;
we pray;
we eat;
the kiddos finish first
and now they wait for me –
dessert comes
when I am done.

It is hard to wait.

AnyWay

Any way he can
he gets his head on the floor.
Again, the littlest one has plopped
onto his bottom and thrown his head
forward, his face between his bare feet
on the hard ground.

He looks up, sideways, still scream-crying
to see where I am. I still stand
holding the open applesauce pouch
ready to help him, but he wants
to do it on his own – squeeze full to empty
in seconds, maybe in his mouth, maybe not.

After a good two minutes
I give in and give up
and offer him the open, squeezable container.
He won’t take it now.

He is beyond tired,
beyond angry
wanting love and not wanting it.
I scoop him up and love him anyway.

Remembering

From the back of the van
through the wild giggles,
squabbling and screeching
I hear:

“Know what’s most important, Mom?
You guys. You and Dad.
I mean, I love my stuffed animals
and all, but you guys are the most important.”

The house is quiet now,
and this memory floats to the top of my mind
having simmered all day
in a cool June summertime way
with outside haircuts and outside play.

It’s ready to bite into.
It’s ready to be remembered,
to make a difference tomorrow
when the sauce isn’t so sweet.