Tag Archives: parenting

Autumn comes cleanly into my day.

Autumn comes cleanly into my day.
It has us wearing jackets
and opening windows, stacking books
and rearranging toys; it has us moving furniture
and wiping baseboards, walking to school
and praying in church.

The three little ones and I stop in at the sanctuary.
We are there with two women, mopping and dusting,
and we have our first practice sitting with God.
Jesus in the tabernacle; Jesus in our heart.
It lasts twenty seconds.
(Success!).

After nap we pop outside for swinging and soccer,
but the two youngest stoop beside our out-of-service flower-pot,
spying rain around the bottom, and dip their hands
in the dirt-flecked water.  Over and again:  “Amen.  A-men!” he says,
fingers touching forehead.  “Amen,” she smiles, crossing herself.
Christ comes cleanly into my day.

Kingdom-Seeker

I stand in the kitchen;
oil sizzles in the pan, dishes clink on the counter.

He wraps his baby arms around my leg,
chest and cheek pressing against knee and thigh.

“I la loo, I la loo, Mommy.”
I am his tree, rooted in his new soil.

I lie on the floor;
legs hover above the carpet, back lifts away from the ground.

He climbs his baby body on top of me,
hands and knees on ribcage and belly.

“I la loo, I la loo, Mommy.”
I am his path, worn in his new ground.

I kneel, hips over heels, near the piano;
clothes stack up neatly, towels wait in a heap.

He plops his baby bottom on my lap,
Legs on legs, hands on hands.

“I la loo, I la loo, Mommy.”
I am his rock, passing ancient time on his new land.

He doesn’t know it yet, but he is kingdom-seeking;
his is a loamy garden, sandy, full of loose clay and black dirt.

He learns love,
and he loves.

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.