 |
 |
 Dalai Mama Weekly BlogCatherine Newman chronicles life parenting Ben, 8, and Birdy, 5
 Comments
June 2, 2008
The Mostly Giving Tree
 Ever wonder what Catherine sounds like? Listen to her read this blog entry. I want to start a The Giving Tree flickr group, and what it will be is a kind of collective parental revision of the book, offered in a diverse series of newly imagined scenes. Like, maybe I would draw a little picture of the tree lying on the couch with a beer, and the speech bubble over her head will say, "Could you stop picking at my apples for five seconds? Please. Go get a pear or something from the fruit bowl." Maybe in another illustration a child is complaining that he can't find any good wood for his bonfire, and the tree is shrugging sympathetically, hugging her branches to herself and saying, "That's too bad, sweetie." I like the idea of split panel illustration, and on one side a tire swing hangs from a lamppost, on the other side you see the tree lying in shavasana at a yoga class. It's not that I take my maternal duties lightly. I am not one of those parents who birthed a cluster of kids and then was all "What the...?" when they turned out to require my care and attention (okay, occasionally I am like, "What the...?"). They're not trying to irritate us, the children, what with their incessant hunger and colds and fecal emergencies — they are simply incapable of taking care of themselves, and I understand this. I love caring for them, overall. I enjoy waking up with them and lathering their fragrant hair and teaching them how to fill a dumpling wrapper and the bird feeder and putting them to sleep with a kiss. I think, in fact, that I am in love with caring for them. Or maybe I'm just in love with them. Either way, it's hard to explain these very occasional moments where I am suddenly pricked all over with the Scroogey prongs of miserly resentment. Like when Birdy spies me grabbing a quick bite of, say, peanut butter spread on a cracker — I mean, she could be pumping her legs on a swing two counties away and her internal "Mama's eating her own private snack" siren would blare — and she beetles over to ask politely, "Oooh, can I have a taste of that?" And of course she can, but I might hold it out towards her with a small, grudging sigh that means, "I daily prepare and feed you twenty trillion meals and still you need a bite of my one cracker the size of a poker chip?" I mention this today because I had the kind of afternoon where I wore the children's needs as comfortably as a woolen bathing suit. Birdy, for instance, wanted us to sing a song about her stuffed penguins, Roy and Silo. The song seemed simple enough — "Roy and Silo" are the extent of the lyrics — only neither Ben nor I could get the stress quite right: "Roy and Si-lo." As I recall from my Latin VI class (So?), these are called trochees, but Birdy kept reprimanding us as we tried to sing in a kind of chanting round like she wanted us too. Her setting had gotten switched to "autocorrect" and she could not stop herself from stopping us to offer her near-constant yet slightly shifting rhythmic guidance — "No no, Mama — like this: Roy and Si-lo" — until I could not take it anymore and had to leave the room. From the kitchen, I heard Ben say, like the grown-up he is quickly becoming, "Birdy, it's just really frustrating to try to do everything the way you want us to." Which is exactly what I had meant to say myself before I stormed off instead, by accident, to make more coffee in a huff. But then later, while I was trying to pick out the stitches from a minor sewing mishap (you'd think that the simple converting of a t-shirt to a tank top would not actually require quite a long and winding string of curses, but so be it), it was Ben who kept saying, "Mama. Mama, watch this! Mama, watch!" while he attempted to knock down a stack of blocks and wooden Noah's Ark figurines by flinging at it a pretend toasted marshmallow fashioned from a brown-markered cotton ball duct-taped to a skewer. Every time I looked up, and the pretend toasted marshmallow fell lightly to the carpet about one inch from his hand, he said, "Wait. Wait, Mama. Hang on. I'll get it this time. Watch." The kids are so grown now: I'm not tired any longer, not really, and I don't crave sleep or cake or personal space with any profound or constant intensity these days. But every now and then I just don't want to share or look or listen, though usually I do anyways. "Mama, watch!" Birdy has wedged herself now between me and my sewing, cuddling close and looking up into my face with her round brown calf's eyes, and I feel my heart beat more quietly; I feel the shawl of motherly patience drop lightly around my shoulders again. And then her moon face cracks into a broad crescent of mischief. "You think I'm cuddling you," she cackles, "but secretly I'm just smelling your armpit." "How does it smell?" I ask, and she smiles with genuine sweetness and sighs, "Great." Editor's Note:   
Catherine Newman is the author of the memoir,
Waiting for Birdy: A Year of Frantic Tedium, Neurotic Angst, and the Wild Magic of Growing a Family, available online and in bookstores nationwide. Post a comment
From Our Sponsors
|
|||
   
Homepage |
Sitemap |
About |
Subscribe |
Gift Subscription |
RSS Feeds |
Advertise |
Contact Us |
Real-Mom Blog | Child Development | Baby Names | Printables | Games | Recipes | Buying Guide Privacy Policy/Your California Privacy Rights | Terms of Use © Disney. All rights reserved. | Wondertime.com
  |
||||
