My Son's First Stories

A couple of days ago my son sat next to me on the couch and wrote his first two stories. We have, since he was four (He's six), sat in the local park, on little blue metal benches at one of the workout stations, and told stories, chance a piece. So when he sat down with his index card notebook and a pen, I was not too surprised, and, though I don't wish the life of a writer on anyone, more than a little thrilled.

The writing was basically illegible, as he was trying for words he doesn't really know how to spell yet, but both stories involved "kids being naughty"; and one involved a kid leaving his "fake parents." As I said, I couldn't make much sense of his spelling, which may be just as well, since, when I went to look for these precious index cards just now, I learned they were accidentally thrown away.

The themes of his writing and the loss will almost certainly make him a writer.

We Bought My Son a Drum Kit

As a writer, as someone who craves peace, as someone who can be, frankly, anti-social at times, I have to question our decision to buy Bradley a drum kit for his sixth birthday. Yes, it is an appropriately and mercifully small drum kit (bass drum, tom, snare, hi-hat), but since we lack a finished basement, it now resides in the middle of our living room. That is not an exaggeration. We have a lovely white divan, the ottoman portion of which is now Bradley's drum stool. I have to admit that I was hoping he wouldn't love it. But he is a high-energy, determined, loud music-loving kid. Once we downloaded a couple of songs for him to drum along with ("Yellow Submarine," "Back in Black"--We haven't yet downloaded "Seven Nation Army," as a drummer friend suggested), the game was over for us. Whereas he usually has an attention span of five minutes, Bradley is able to sit at the kit for an hour sometimes, pounding away, very often actually on the beat. The saving grace thus far is that he does not favor the cymbal. We may have to conspire never to let him know there was a band called Led Zeppelin.

Sam and Dave in a Jetta

It's 7:30 on a cool, August evening. The sun is setting through the pine trees on our little piece of land. We are sitting in our ten year-old VW Jetta, playing spaceship. I am wearing a pair of 3D glasses taken from a movie theater and deposited in the door compartment for moments like these, I suppose. Bradley, now four and a half, asks if we can listen to his Kidz Bop cd. I agree, on the condition that we go one song apiece, back and forth, his cds, my cds. Amazingly, he agrees. He rocks out to his synthesized dance tunes. I go all Sam and Dave: "Wrap It Up." The tepid response I expect never comes. Instead, as soon as the horns kick in, Bradley screws up his face like a rock star and starts shaking and jumping all over the interior. I get cocky and try "Soul Man." He hits eject. I do my duty, whooping with him through "Who Let the Dogs Out." And, limited as I am by distance from home and little living space, I pull out the only other possible cd, Boston. He can't deal with the acoustic opening of "More Than a Feeling," so hits the skip track button, and practically rockets through the roof when he hears the opening chords to "Peace of Mind." By the time the electric guitar joins, he's slamming against the dashboard, his safety seat, the back doors. He's rolling down a back window and pushing open the door, swaying in the grass outside the car like a possessed see-saw. I look over my shoulder to see if my wife, working inside the trailer, is catching any of this. When we come back to tell her, she says, "Of course I heard you. The whole town heard you." 

Tribute to My Son's Summers

Here's an ode to the accent my son will hear on his summer vacations, and to the 15th anniversary of the classic movie "Fargo."

Great Lakes

 

Barn yard on my father’s farm:

The car alarm! I’m seein’ stars.

Bob’s at the bar with Carl and Marge.

It’s not far, but parking’s hard.

And, Oh, God, what’s that large mark

on your forearm. Fooling with the dog,

now that wasn’t too smart.

Your head was always hard.

 Too many movin’ parts. We’re dodgin’ rocks,

but you got a big heart, big as Scot’s.

His snow-thrower’s big as an ox.

Now relax, and let me charge the box.

A Pre-Parent Vision

Friends, here is something I wrote just before the advent of our son Bradley. Is this a metaphorically prescient grasp of parenthood?

Their Little Ears are Sensitive

Consider this when you plan your trip.

Stuff your little ones with cotton balls,

to keep their ears from popping.

Their little bums are sensitive.

Lay in loads of aloe for the bumpy trip

over the Ambibian mountains,

because their little feet are expensive.

If they shatter, the sound is startling.

Their little hands are starting to reach

for the controls. Slap them down

and scream louder than they can.

Their little grips are like vices

you have when they aren’t looking,

and your little face is a pliable board.

They hold you in some kind of place.

Their little minds are like sponges.

Remember to wring them out.

Their little heads wobble,

so secure them, with tape if need be,

or teach them to focus

their little eyes on a single finger

you flash like a knife

you should never leave out,

because their little wills

are stronger than yours.

Yelling and Screaming

I used to save much of my yelling and screaming for the page. Over the last year or two (Bradley's third and fourth years on Earth), I've been doing more of it aloud and more often seeking peace (understanding of screaming and yelling's root causes?) on the page. Or is that a misconception? Does anger with a child's irrational stubbornness or with one's own inability to cope with it translate into rage on the page? Or does it really turn the process of writing into a meditative walk by the holy pond with its silent, scheming koi?

I've always thought that distance from raging emotions was a necessity for writing anything other than spoken word-style poetry. But what if the writer/parent lives in a state of constant emotional rage, which roils either above, below, or well below the surface of that pond? What if this rage subsides only when the child's raging hormones lead him/her away from the shadow of the host fish? Or what if at that point it just explodes?

A Fourth Parentish Poem (Mother's Day Edition)

Hi, Mom!

            For Denise, on Mother’s Day

Someday you will be on the receiving end

of the athlete’s face-flash, thumbs-up wave

to the force responsible for all he is today.

Now you are the hands that wipe face and tear

chicken into tiny strips on plastic plates

you wash and stack three times each day.

Five years hence you will buy spiral-bounds

and comic book lunch boxes soon lost

or left for dead on schoolyard steps.

Sometime next year you will exhale,

even when you’re not alone or free

to finish a report or nap on a cloud.

At a certain age, you will wonder again

if you really are a mom when the proof

lives elsewhere with another pretty blond.

This is the game you’ve joined late,

looking for yourself laughing in the stands,

seeing you’ve always been on the field yourself.