I wrote this poem when my daughter was dealing with a possible Apraxia diagnosis at age two. A misdiagnosis by someone who measured her before it made sense, before she was even three. Always get a second and third opinion, before you let your thoughts invade your heart. Think with your mind and you’ll find a solution, no matter what.
It left me with worry. It left us lost in a challenge. But, we were lucky. She was misdiagnosed. But, she still had to work hard to catch up.
Maybe she was a late talker. I don’t know what.
Beauty products, especially bath-related products can be hit or miss. They may have a nice scent, but leave you smelling strawberries for hours after, ad nauseam. The fizz may fizzle out within the first two minutes of the bath. The bubbles may offer a few minutes of foam, until I’m looking straight at my privates. My boat sinks to the bottom and I can see it (nothing wrong with making more use of my daughter’s bath toys, right?). And, what’s the Titantic without the icebergs?
I love to be surprised. And, indulging in Cleopatra’s Choice Adovia 100% Dead Sea Bath Salts was like picking a chocolate from an assorted box and finding out it’s a dark chocolate truffle; baths, dark chocolate and wine being three of My Favorite Things, if I were to do a Sound of Music remake.
The person who first said, “scared to death” about anything must have been a mother, because, frankly, my daughter gives me a metaphorical heart attack everyday. She’s a ticking time bomb with each and every step, bite, fall or even breath.
When she’s strapped into her car seat, it’s like I’m a race car driver, except I’m not trying to protect myself. I’m attached to another, like Siamese twins. I’m trying to make sure the car rolls in the right way, if it’s going to flip. I’m circling round and round, trying to catch the lead in front of a sea of rookies.
I’m nurturing a rebel. I’m the anti-reverend from Footloose. I let my four-year-old listen to almost any kind of music (with a few exceptions, of course) and I don’t think it’s going to make her anymore apt to hit up a bong or end up incarcerated ten years from now.
My daughter listens to Pink!, Pink Floyd or any other colored band out there (Okay, maybe we’ll put Black Sabbath on the back burner for now). She listens to opera and loves musicals like Phantom of the Opera. She considers Rachmaninoff a treat after she practices piano.
I don’t stop her from singing lyrics from Lady Gaga’s Bad Romance like “I want your loving.
When I was a kid, my mother put me into kindergarten at four-years-old. She needed to get back to work for her career, so I was a latchkey kid who started school a year ahead of the rest. The kindergarten would keep me all morning, my father would pick me up during his lunch hour and my live-in grandfather would tell me an Indian fairytale about some unique animal friendships (things like The Mongoose and The Crow) everyday before I took a long nap. Times were different then. The competitive beast wasn’t unchained in infancy, so there was no forethought.
I’ve been watching a lot of Anderson Cooper 360, lately. The devastation of Hurricane Sandy is like watching the real version of Deep Impact. Staten Island was one of the boroughs hit the hardest. Families are still left without food, water and warmth. Reports are saying the power could be out for another nine days. Forget about the people walking across the bridge to work. These people are waiting for basic, survival goods.
Through the devastation, there are stories of good and evil acts. Some folks are joining hands and fighting for survival together. Some folks, who were fortunate not to be affected, are lending a hand to those in need.
She shut the door behind me. “Hello, you’re a few minutes early, but can I get you a drink while we wait for the others?” she asked.
“Uh, sure,” I replied.
She wasn’t in a robe and she had nothing to hide. She was wearing a black cocktail dress with three-inch heels. She looked no older than twenty-four and I wondered how she had two teenagers and a preschooler. Her skin was perfect, she had a six-pack of muscles and her hair was smooth as silk.
I felt inadequate. I felt guilty for letting the mommy look take over and letting myself go for the past year.
The recent news headlines have been haunting me like a horrible nightmare I can’t escape even with my eyes wide open. Sandy is on a rampage and my eyes are glued to CNN, but my mind is lost in another horror story. My mind is lost in the story of a mother who trusted Yoselyn Ortega with her most precious cargo, her children.
Yesterday at the park, one of my mommy friends mentioned the story of the Krims in Manhattan, a husband and wife with three children, ages 2, 3 and 6. Kevin Krim is an executive at CNBC and the mother is a pediatrician, who I believe took some time off to care for her three children.
When I was a kid, I took a bite out of an apple and discovered a worm inside. The texture was slimy and I spit it out. I’m pretty sure I ate some worm intestines or tiny organs before the mangled apple and worm mixture splattered on the kitchen table. Since then, I never eat an apple whole. I always cut it up and stare at it carefully before I take a bite.
When I was a teenager, I poured myself a glass of Coke. When the liquid hit my tongue, it was bumpy, but chewier than tiny ice. I looked into my glass and saw several ants floating around.