on writer's block...

I'm a great writer
speeding down the freeway at 70 miles an hour,
out for a peaceful Saturday morning run,
or elbow-deep in sudsy dishes.

But when I finally sit down,
monitor and keyboard expectant,
waiting to pass judgment

Turns of phrase, ideas, complete paragraphs
simply evaporate,
washed down with the bubbles and dirty water.

It's March 2nd-- do you know what that means?

Mom, let's make a cake and frost it all red

For the man we read at time for bed

(And yes, I know that he is dead).

The one who likes green eggs and ham,

And ties our tongues into a jam.

Really I want to watch you juggle

Eggs, flour, sugar and my baby sister-- what a struggle.

And when the cake baking is finished,

Your ego will be so far diminished

Because I'm guessing that you'll burn it

And your children will blatantly spurn it.

On second thought, let's have some ice cream

It's sweet and tasty in the extreme.

I think old Dr. Seuss would love it

And your rhyming skills he'd surely covet.

Happy Birthday dear old Theo

103 today you'd be-oh!

--originally published 3/2/07

Three things I've learned about vegetables after 31 years of scientific observation...

Onions- make my poo stink.

Asparagus- makes my pee stink.

Beets- just make me pee pink.

--originally published 9/23/06

Chemistry

Whitney was married to Allen,
But sometimes it seemed
That Allen
Was married to the lab.

Late at night,
Long after the fellows, residents,
And lowly med students
Had tucked in their patients

The midnight oil burned
A flourescent glow
From a thousand windows
In the towering lab building next door.

At the time I didn't understand
Why Allen babied his experiments
Leaving Whitney at home
To baby their son.

Were mice better conversationalists
Than Whitney?
Were beakers and test tubes sexier
Than the breast pump on the kitchen counter?

But I've been experimenting long enough
That the beep-beep-beep of the thermometer
Sounds like a waltz.
And my palms get sweaty
When I'm waiting for test results.

Finally I understand the obsession.
The hours may be long,
And the payoffs far between
But when the experiment finally works
It's the best feeling in the world.

--originally published 4/24/06

Night Errands

Unlocking my car

Beneath the streetlight,

I sensed someone looking over my shoulder.

Pumping gas

Under the neon-glow of the Racetrack,

I tried to shrug off the feeling of being watched.

Leaving Old Navy,

With Best Buy, Linens and Things, and Foot Locker

Lighting up the night sky,

I spotted my stalker.

Fat, round, yellow,

Orbiting serenely,

Silently looking out,

Over the brightness beneath.

--originally published 4/13/06

What I Want

Sometimes

I just want to take a crap

Without

Someone sitting on my lap.

--originally published 4/13/06

Free Lunch

Rinsing dishes after dinner,
I hear squeals and giggles through the open window.
“You’re it!”
“Can't catch me!"
The ragtag bunch—
Annie in cockeyed pigtails, church dress, and bare feet,
Isaac ready for bed,
Bryce a blur in jean shorts and sandals.

It’s January.
Oranges, dropped from the back fence neighbors,
Perfect for pelting at little sisters.
Sunny day after sunny day.
Feels like vacation.
And I keep wondering when I’ll have to pay for it.

In Minnesota we earned our summers.
“Ya, the winters are hell, but the summers make up for them.”
Winter and summer.
Yin and yang.
Penance for pleasure.

The last three winters
We shoveled, bundled, deiced.
In May we emerged,
White-faced and paunchy,
Tentatively planting hardy begonias and geraniums.
Trading war stories with the elderly neighbors
Who spent the season avoiding the ice.

They marveled over our kids
Grown heads taller.
So if there’s opposition in all things,
When does the bad weather come?

Will all of the lucky ones
Who have spent their lives in
Texas,
Florida
And California
Be forced to spend a few years
Living in spirit Greenland?

While all of the
Minnesotans,
Alaskans
And Canucks,
Drink virgin pina coladas,
Listen to reggae,
And float on inflatable lounge chairs?

--originally published 1/13/06

Eggs

Scrambled soft, whole milk, sharp cheddar
Everyday eggs.
Fried on high heat, brown on the bottom, look like a hockey puck
Grandpa Joe's eggs.
Simmered for fifteen minutes, peeled, sprinkled with salt
Annie can eat three eggs.
Runny yolks, creamy whites, toast for dipping,
Dangerously delicious,
Soft-boiled eggs-- oh, how I miss them.

--originally published 1/11/06

Risk-taking behaviors

Growing up, we slept with our windows open
To catch the ocean breezes.
Our noses often wrinkled,
With the sharp tang of marsh and sound.

I ran around naked at Lucy Baird’s
Ninth birthday party.
Her whole family was there,
Laughing hysterically, as I weaved in and out of the crowd.

When we were freshmen
Les and I changed our clothes,
Blinds open,
For all of 9th East to see.

I don’t rip up credit card offers,
Do post on internet message boards,
Occasionally leave the car door unlocked,
And participate in other risky behaviors:
Using a metal spatula on a nonstick pan,
Loading the dishwasher with unrinsed dishes,
Cutting meat on the green cutting board,
Not washing my hands after using the bathroom.

Someone might steal my car,
And I might get food poisoning,
But at least I feel like I’m living my life,
Not drowning in fear
Of what might happen.

--originally published 1/11/06

New Year's Eve

Normal people wait until
Auld Lang Syne is sung,
Champagne drunk,
And bowl games watched,
To free the tree
Needles dropping,
Branches brittle,
From its shroud
Of lights and ribbon.

It's hard for me to be resolute,
Amid the chaos of
Santa,the Grinch,
And too many snowmen;
Tripping over
Plastic wise men and shepherds.

I'll be asleep at midnight.
Spent from my day of
Reorganizing,
Vacuuming,
And returning red and green boxes to the attic.
The mantle, covered by garland, stockings, Santa Claus and holly
Just a few hours ago,
Glossy white wood once more.
Reminding me of
Schoolday Septembers--
Notebooks filled with crisp blank pages.

-originally published 1/06

Please Don't Die on Me

I didn't mean to hurt you.
You've been a true friend--
By my side for seven years.

There for me for every child's birthday cake,
Every batch of cookies.
Never shrinking from the little fingers that assaulted you
As we filled your bowl with frosting or whipping cream.

I was just so distracted this morning.
Two kids in the backyard
Taunting the wild chihuahua next door.
The other one wrapped around my legs
Nose running,
Begging to be held.

Besides, you've been so strong in the past.
The time I made the quadruple batch of cinnamon rolls,
The royal icing fiasco,
And the endless batches of sticky pumpkin cookies
Made me think you could handle anything.

I had always babied your predecessors,
Easily done in by stiff frosting
Or pound cake batter.
But you, with your strong stand and gleaming metal bowl,
Seemed invincible.

So I didn't think twice
When I loaded you
With four cups of sugar (two white, two brown),
Four eggs,
A pound of butter,
Six cups of flour,
Two cups of cocoa,
Three cups of semisweet chips,
And assorted extracts and leavenings.

But I've been baking long enough to know,
That a sweet smoky smell,
Is a harbinger of death for your kind.

So I turned you off quickly,
Removed your bowl gently,
And said a silent prayer.

Please don't die on me.
I've imagined a sweet future together.
We can collaborate on sweet batches of ganache,
Gentle puddings,
And fluffy buttercreams
Until you're feeling better.

-originally published 1/06

Star of the Week

The first week Bryce Cooper was Star of the Week.

Then the teacher spotlighted Travis,

And every day Monday, when he got in the car,

My Bryce would say, ”I’m gonna be Star of the Week soon!”

But then it was time for

Nina,

Joshua,

And Alyssa,

And I heard:“After Cameron, it’s my turn.”

As the weeks passed

Andrew L,

Savannah,

Madison,

And Tien

All stapled up papers

With their favorite colors and pets’ names,

And brought something to show-and-tell .

Last week Cameron brought a purple pony

And told the class that her favorite food is chocolate milkshakes.

Tonight Bryce’s backpack sits on the kitchen floor,

Stuffed with a soccer trophy,

A closed-eyed picture of himself at Disney World

And a Ziploc bag

Stuffed with dog-eared slips of paper

That he typed on the computer

And cut out himself.

For the last six weeks

He has been carrying them around

Arranging them on his bedroom floor

And keeping Isaac from eating them.

Had it been up to me

His answers would be neatly typed

In a readable font,

Spell-checked, cut with a paper cutter

And protected in a manila folder.

The picture would show him

With a smile on his face

And his irresistibly blue eyes

Would be looking right into the camera.

But I can’t forget

The poetry contest I entered when I was eight years old.

I was excited to write a poem,

But felt sick when I won

And had to read it to the library board

Since I knew that the prize belonged to my mom.

So tomorrow,

Bryce will be proud of the page

That proclaims his favorite toy is

AKTSHUN FIGERS

And his favorite book is

CHARLY AND THE CHOKLITE FAKTREE.

And I’ll be proud of myself

For letting him

Do it all by himself.

--originally published 1/06

An Explanation

I'm one of those people who always has to have something to obsess about. For the longest time it has been either making babies or carrying babies or getting those babies to sleep through the night. When we got to Texas this summer, I used my characteristic obsessiveness to get the whole house decorated in a matter of a month or so (well, except for the playroom, but I have an idea for that too). When I was done decorating and didn't have anything to pour my overabundant energy into, I decided to write. I tried to write some essays, the genre I knew best (as someone who has been studying or teaching English for most of her adult life), but with the kids I just couldn't focus on an essay. So one day while I was waiting for the cable guy I turned to writing poems. I know that they don't rhyme. Most of them are cheesy. My husband calls them "cute," which he thinks is a compliment, but really seems to be code to me for "not that good." But I'm also a little bit proud of them, so here they are, in all their rough-edged glory. I'd love to go back to school and get some honest (but gentle, since I'm a beginner) feedback, but for now, I'll just share them with the cyberworld.
-originally published 1/06

Waiting

Two years for a missionary.
Nine months for each baby.
The endless stretch of time from four to six each afternoon.
Waiting for Annie to dress herself.
Waiting for Bryce to finish his juice.
Waiting for Isaac to walk confidently across the room.
The laundry load to finish, the baby to fall asleep, the baby to wake up, the earache to subside, the toast to pop up, the two-week wait, the little girl's bangs to grow back in, the kindergartener to come home from school, the house to sell, the car to be fixed, the money to come in-- all in every mother's job.
Fast food is no longer about eating on the run, but allowing kids to savor every fat-filled bite.
I've earned my patience, inching along.
But I still cannot tolerate waiting for the cable guy.
-originally published 1/06

The Sandbox

Last nightWe went out for Mexican.
The kids gobbled their quesadillas
And wanted to play outside.

So Eddie and his parents sat in the restaurant
Lingering over fajitas, enchiladas and beans.
While I, the world’s fastest eater,
I sat outside, toes in the sand
Keeping track of three blond heads.

“Mommmmmmy!”
My ears perked up, Mommy universal.

A little girl needed help up the ladder.
The problem?
Her mommy, wearing Prada and drinking margaritas
Couldn’t sully her Jimmy Choos in the sandbox.

So I pitched in,
Hoisting Sophia.
Helping her through the tunnel,
Over and over.

I stole glances at her mom,
Looking at me
In my bare feet,
Wash and wear hair,
And shirt covered with a day’s accumulated grime.

I felt jealous of her
Looking like she came from the pages of a fashion magazine.
Sitting on the sidelines,
Chatting with a girlfriend,
While I did her heavy lifting.

It wasn’t until I got home
That I realized
In sizing me up she might not have been comparing my shoes to hers--
She might have been jealous of me, too.

-originally published 1/06

The Long Run

I don’t think it’s an accident I became a distance-runner.

Thirteen miles of a half-marathon equivalent to

Thirteen years from the time I said “yes”

Until you have a real job.

At the races

I live for the water stations

Predictably popping up every mile or so.

All I have to do is make it to the next cup of Gatorade.

Then I set my sights on the next goal,

The next mile, the next cup,

Thrust into my hand as I pass by.

Thirteen years is a long time,

To get through it needs to be broken down,

Into miles and water stations.

I’ve always had a goal to match the next mile marker:

Wedding.

St. Louis.

Master’s degree.

Bryce.

Teaching.

Annie.

Living through internship.

Isaac.

Texas.

The last three miles are always the hardest for me.

I curse myself, wish I had stayed in bed

And promise myself I’ll never run again.

But water and electrolytes push me along.

And now I’m looking for the tenth water station

And you’re moving it further down the road.

I need you, cheering me along,

Not making me wonder if I ever should have run.

-originally published 1/06

Errin

Twenty-eight pills.
Lined up neatly in four little rows.
The bright yellow of smiley faces.

Each day I take one,
After I pee, before I brush my teeth.
Lately it seems to get stuck in my throat.

Every morning I reluctantly choose
Not to pull a Carlos.

And try to forget
That in one swallow,
I delay the satisfaction

Of little toes,a fuzzy head,and a scrunchy butt,curled up on my chest.

originally published 1/06

The Final Plunge

I’m standing at the edge of the lake

Steeling myself, preparing to jump in.

Peering into the murky coldness of the water,

And readjusting my eyes until I see myself, reflected.

I’ve been here three times before:

Once as a couple, excited and nervous,

I grabbed Eddie’s hand and plunged in.

The second time we brought our baby,

And I jumped quickly

Surprised by the chest-numbing shock as I hit the water.

The third time Eddie and the kids

Splashed on the shore

And I dangled my legs in the water

Letting them warm up

Until I knew I was ready.

I’ve looked forward to coming back here

For the last year.

Planned, begged, mapped out my route.

But finding my feet on the greening planks

Of the rickety dock

Is a bit of a surprise.

Because I know that this is my last visit to this beach,

My very own, favorite spot.

And I haven’t quite wrapped my head around the idea

That I’ll only come back

In memories,

Pictures,

And glimpses of others packing their bags,

Loading their cars,

And heading for the lake.

I’ll still go on vacations,

To show the kids New England

Or the red rocks of Southern Utah.

To soccer camps

Graduation trips

And family reunions,

But I’ll never be here again.

So even though I’m ready

For the ear-popping, icy darkness,

As I dive to the bottom of the lake,

I wonder if I should go back to the cabin

Grab a book

And put off the deliciousness

Of the last dive

For one more day.

originally published 1/06

Something I found in the carpet

This week

The Emperor lost both hands.

Snow White, who got her fairy tales mixed up,

Now down to one shoe.

And Annie proved me wrong

By misplacing the amethyst ring

I had finally decided she was old enough to have.

So I’ve spent a lot of time on hands and knees

Inspecting the carpet.

A tight off-white pile

That can be found in every home in the neighborhood.

From five and a half feet in the air

It looks pretty clean.

I steam it once a year,

Spot clean after inevitable run-ins with chocolate milk,

Vacuum twice a week,

And dustbust crushed goldfish several times a day.

But up close,

Eyeing each thread for flesh-colored hands

Or a speck of gold,

I realize that it’s a mess:

Cracker crumbs,

Threads,

Plastic price-tag holders,

Bits of lint.

After crawling through 2600 square feet of tile and pile

I’m revolted by my lack of housekeeping skills.

But then I stand up

And stop castigating myself.

From a distance(How most people see me)

I probably look pretty decent:

Neat home, cute kids, devastatingly handsome husband.

But I’ve always got my nose too close to the pile

Looking for lint and crumbs.

originally published 1/06

Running at Night

“Are all the doors locked?”
Eddie asks from his dingy call room.
When darkness falls, our house
Is locked up tight, sealed like a vault.

I always thought everyone was like us,
Closing our shades,
Flipping our deadbolts,
And Switching on our TVs.

Tonight I went for a run.I
gnoring Eddie’s worries that I might be snatched off the street,
And disappear into the night.

Two women sitting in their garage,
cooled by industrial fans
One paints her toenails while the other lounges on a couch
And watches tv.

A dad lifts weights in his garage gym.
Getting up to change a load of laundry
And watch his girls, hopping and chanting as jump ropes fly.

Kids on bikes with water guns,
Soaking each other,
Politely hold them at their sides while I sprint by.

Blonde preteens look embarrassed
When I say hi,
Interrupting salsa dancing to music in their heads.

I pass the regular crew of dog walkers, runners, and bikers,
And run through all of the sprinklers that are never on during the day
When I could really use some cooling off.

Rounding a corner, smoke pours from a trailer.
Worried at first, I my nose recognizes barbecue.
Friends spill into the street
As kids crack into the piñata suspended above the driveway.

During the day the houses all look the same.
Perfect lawns, identical brick.
Eight year-olds dressed in school uniforms.

At night I see posters on walls,
Messy kitchens,
Kitschy Halloween decorations.
And house after house with darkened rooms, lit by the shadowy flicker of tv sets.

originally published 1/06