A New Parentish Poem

Bathing a Samoyed

My son is bouncing on his bed, because

it is new bought, because

he does not want to bathe, because

he wants to show me he is not the dog

that passed away St. Patty’s night five years ago.

His voices for penitence, anger, revolt

surrender to ghosts that never expunge

the wars and disasters from cable news.

I remember Samoyeds squirm constantly

but most dogs accept the bath as part

of the normal cycle of canine life.

I’ve coerced him into the tub.

The instructions also advise to drag.

Dog living. My boy slips under the suds,

his hair like the bygone sailor’s,

guileless siren to himself.

When eyes sting he’ll let me know

while I remember walking him, the lift

of the leg and daydreams through magnolias

to the insight that it was that moment

we’d spend our late years aping. I was

doomed to early death the night he dropped

to the pavement, licked his cancerous paw

and sighed, remembering then to ask myself

Am I watching him die?, my son

rolling on the carpet now. Playing with blocks

and trucks is so much harder than you think

once the rest is long behind you, once

compared to tasks with clear-cut steps.

When the fur feels free of soap, remove

your samoyed. He will probably jump out gladly.

My son is bouncing in front of clouds

of deadly steam from containment walls

and revolutionists leaking blood.

Samoyeds readily show disdain.

I am silent. It is 3 p. m. and I want to sleep

through his first dog and the rest of his youth.

He lays his head on my chest and asks,

kicking me in a stretch for the remote,

Daddy, now can we watch my show?

Snow Days of Glory

So we go back to praying for snow days. These are the best days for striking the right balance between time with the kid and time with the computer screen. An hour ago I was a horse carting my son around the bedroom; then I was a wrestler, squaring off against him on the mattress; now, I am a candidate for carpal tunnel syndrome. What in the past would have been toss-off work, stuff to get done between grinding on the novel chapter for days on end, is now a pleasure. I write 500-word reviews, I write rejection letters, I stuff envelopes, ergo sum, pure as the snow that makes this time to savor even mundane work possible, making somehow the work seem like it will always be there, and so far less important than my son grows out of his needing me as quickly as I can pull an old muscle strain or as the snow melts or as the crocus pokes out its lovely head then disappears for another spring when I hope to stay young enough to keep up the play.

Child-Rearing, Writing and Weight Loss

Obviously the first and second do not promote the third, but sometimes, especially in these post-holiday times, we all need it. So here I go again, on the drastic diet and back to running + other exercise every day, thinking perhaps I will not meet all of those January writing deadlines, and resorting to a "Biggest Loser" challenge with my sister. The target date is April Fool's. The joke, as always, is on the middle-aged writer.

On the Beam

It is easy to fall off the beam when you have a young child. All beams: physical, mental, spiritual, artistic, logical. Getting back on requires a new kind of balance, a new center of gravity that helps you dangle one foot over the edge, with one eye on the beam your child occupies, far less conscious of your own position.

A Blog about Writing, Art and Raising Kids

Anything with a "hood" attached scares me, including my old Lincoln Town Car, so here and following will be thoughts on the mental high-wire act of writing semi-seriously while semi-seriously raising a child (young or old). Welcome are everyone's ruminations and advice.

Sounds Like "Chan Choo"

“What do we say?” I ask
the two year-old whose
raising is my task.

He answers me in the cold
playroom, “Sit!” still
needing to be told

the magic word when
you want someone to follow
an order set as question.

His “pease” rings hollow
among the toys whose parts
I hope he doesn’t swallow.

I jump when he starts
for my naked desk
to practice his dark arts

on mousepad and blotter.
In my weary arms
he is slick as an otter,

barking, “Mine, mine”
at my hand and all he sees,
as all that was once the line

between me and them
disappears in sippy cups
and apothegm

about ways to change
a soggy diaper,
while not to estrange

myself from the tongue
I spoke before I was
devoured by my young.

Where's the Machine?

How is it that computer placement can mean so much?

In our duplex bedroom apartment, we have two computers on the upper level (our offices), a desktop on our kitchen table, and two laptops that make the rounds. It's hard to spend time on the second floor, because that either takes us our of Bradley earshot or brings him upstairs where he demands we play with him instead of working on our computer. Downstairs we at least have a shot at keeping him amused for stretches of time (20-30 minutes) while we work. Of course if only one of us is home, the situation becomes even less manageable.

I used to try and sit on the floor with him, "playing," while sneaking minutes to type or read. Aside from the detrimental (to him and me) distraction, the challenge to get mental focus from zero to sixty in three seconds was enormous. Even with half-hour stretches of work, this is a huge problem.

A couple of months ago, I gave up trying to divide attention, and now save writing for the downstairs desktop, at times my wife takes Bradley out; for an hour or two at the upstairs desktop after Bradley goes down and before the customary midnight bedtime (which leaves barely enough hours to sleep before he wakes up between 7:30 and 8); and for the laptop when I am out of town or away at our summer property by myself, or, if I'm there with Denise and Bradley, for nighttime, when he's asleep and Denise also has work to do. (On the property we stay in a camper that has one small table, on which we set our two laptops back to back. Sometimes, one or both of us can sit on the deck and write, but with Bradley loose on two acres, this isn't a great option.)

So, where and how do you work and watch you kids at the same time? Do you? How have you arranged your living space to combine or separate work and child-rearing?