Sometimes the universe spits out exactly what you’re looking for. You just — as Rick Rubin suggests — need to be tuned in to receive the transmissions.
mentioned recently about how much of his writing of late has been private notes to his newborn son, a la Dad’s Maybe Book by Tim O’Brien. Talking to him on the phone the other day, I told him how I tried that with Kiddo — both before and just after she was born — but I found myself trying to get too grandiose in my writing. I felt like my writing wasn’t for her — or for me, for that matter — but instead some for anonymous reader, with me trying to impress “them1.”It didn’t feel natural. Instead, I told Sam that I probably should have just sketched down some poems of moments I wanted to remember and that maybe I’d do just that eventually.
A few days later I stumbled upon
’s terrific newsletter , which, beyond the outdoor-oriented prose I so enjoy, also features a lot of poetry. As there’s nothing quite like admiring someone else’s work to inspire you to write, I figured I’d use that as a sign from on high to get going on my own poetry project.So here’s a few sketches, for Kiddo and the Warthog. No recipe this week — we ate some variation of the 9-lbs of pulled pork I smoked on Monday and I didn’t take any photos — but one of these poems might get you close.
See ya next week.
We're looking at photos from our wedding album and you turn to me and say when I get married one day I'll give you a wedding book & I nearly start to cry.
Through the monitor I hear Mommy scream NO! DON'T TOUCH THAT! & then you are giggling and so is she. Hearing that, how can I help but laugh, too?
We're at the Waffle Table (as we always are) — bellybuttons full — going through our Happiness and Sadness. but today, you don't share yours — it's your own secret & you're keeping it locked in your forehead. I wish I knew what was locked in your forehead. I won't forever be able to keep you happy & I won't always be able to take away the sadness. But at least for now let me try.
Throwing yourself on the ground with the vigor of your sister — you wail. Who knew that not yet two you could throw a temper tantrum? (all this over a marker cap — a choking hazard!) It took L. another six months to do that — but you've always been advanced for your age.
I have this memory (not my own, in fact, but Grandfather's) of you on the bow of the pontoon boat eyes closed feeling the wind in your hair & against your face. In this memory — often recalled — you are trying to find your balance. & even though I wasn't there (or maybe I was, just sitting at the stern) I can see your face eyes closed and concentrating. This is one of my favorite images of you.
When your crying wakes me up and I go into your room to comfort you — When I pick you up & hold you close to my chest your head resting on my shoulder and you stop crying & I can feel you breathing — I wonder if you realize — if I realize — there will be a time that my chest & my shoulder won't be all you need. Until then I'll keep doing it — even groggy & awoken from a dead sleep — because that time isn't now.
WE'RE MAKING CUPCAKES! you say as you rummage through the pantry we need sugar & sprinkles & vanilla & chocolate — right, Mommy? — and we need a bowl to mix them in. You slide over H.'s tower — you like his more — and turn on the mixer. look at me, Daddy! I can do it all by my own! It's amazing the things you can do all by your own — even make cupcakes with Mommy's help. Face and hair covered with chocolate, I can only hope when you finish that there's batter left to bake with.
1
Yes, that anonymous reader may be you!
I absolutely melted with each word. How amazingly beautifully you convey life, thoughts, impressions, hopes, dreams, wishes....LOVE. The love of parent and child. I "saw" every word, and I will never forget L's face on that boat, and you described it perfectly without even being there--that's how intimately we know our children.
Such a wonderful way to memorialize life's every day events. Just a few words, a few memories. Your prose is exquisite.
When Uncle in Florida was about 3, we were reading a book and the picture was of a man and a woman getting married, and Uncle said to me with wonder "Look Mama. It's a man and a lady. They are getting married. Just like you and me Mama."
And then there was the time, when you were about 3, and said to me "You stupid, stupid woman."
Both of these are 2 of my cherished memories, and I am certain I WAS being stupid and you called me on it.
I love you always, always, always, and forever and a day, and a day, and a day.
Such a joy to share your life in this way.
These are beautiful, Lou. When I first started writing my old blog (fishingpoet) in 2009, my single goal was to capture moments like these for my kids to discover when they grew old enough to care (I’ll post the three poems for my kids from my book soon). You’re in the pocket, so to speak. Thank you for the kind words and for sharing.