Friday, March 27, 2015

Our True Nature(s)

I pinned the image below months ago (when Cyrus was 8 weeks old!). These days, I think about it all the time. 

I don't know much about Carol Tuttle or the theories and philosophies behind The Child Whisperer book and website*, but I know this little chart has helped me so much. I, currently and as a child, land somewhere between the Sensitive and Serious columns. Perhaps you could have guessed that by reading my recent introspective, loquacious blog posts. My vibrant and engaging son is absolutely a Determined Child with a dash of the Fun-Loving for good measure. I have known this for months - isn't that wild?!

When I start to get frustrated with his much-ness, I have been trying to remind myself to set up the environment so that he can be free to roam around without being told "no" at every turn, crawl/climb/throw without danger, and interact with a variety of faces. Usually this means getting out of the house and sometimes even doing something other than sitting at the coffee shop! Gasp! It can be hard for me to get motivated to make it happen, especially since those things are so contrary to my true nature, but it is always always worth it.

What tools have you come across that have helped you learn more about yourself and those close to you (children or otherwise) in a practical way?

*I totally want to go read everything first so I can give you an informed review. Battling my inner More Serious Child here, folks. 

Monday, March 9, 2015

A Day in Our Life // Or, What I Expected When I Was Expecting

Deep snuggles and hard, luminous, giggly eye contact. Maddening monotony, a sneaking suspicion that you will be bored of me long before I cease to be fascinated with you. When I imagined putting my career on hold to spend my days with you, I knew and I so did not know.

photo by Natalie Roth

Your papa owns two coffee shops. His creative, entrepreneurial spirit (and that beard, hello) has had him in with and at the forefront of a crowd of creatives and makers that I, with my regular job -- treatment planning and data entry, etc -- was always a bit outside. Before you arrived, I looked forward to having fewer appointments and getting to soak it all in. We do that; we do it almost every day. I drink my coffee, you eat toast, jam all over your face, the table, our hands. We watch and listen and I try to feel inspired, not intimidated. You encourage me to engage and spend less time in my own head, so I'm making some progress there. My tendency is always to curl inward, but you seek out strangers' and friends' eyes and charm them into smiling back at you. 

photo by Ross Evertson

What are you two up to today? Someone will ask. This, mostly. A nap, maybe a trip to the store. 

We say bye to papa and get back into the car. The smell of roasting coffee, like burned popcorn and heaven, follows us out the door. You scream part of the way home, then fall asleep 3 blocks from our house. 30 minutes in the driveway. I only check that you're still breathing twice. Paranoid mama? Didn't expect to be her.

I pull your sweaty body out of the car seat and we settle into the afternoon. I used to have a clear vision of pushing the dining table to one side of the room and playing in the floor in its place, the one spot in our 90 year old house that gets a big, warm patch of sunlight. I don't, in fact, move any furniture, but we do play on the floor. We sit on the rug and stack and shake things while bits of dog hair catch in our clothes. I certainly expected to vacuum more. 

These are short play intervals interrupted by you climbing up my body and stretching out the collar of my shirt, occasionally blowing a raspberry on my chest, which you know is funny. I honestly have no idea how many times a day we breastfeed. You scratch my chest and pinch the backs of my arms throughout; It hurts and often the curse words and that tone that escapes my mouth seem out of my control. Our breastfeeding journey hasn't been the easiest, especially in the beginning, but we are in a good place physically -- everything works the way it's supposed to. Despite that, it often feels more sacrificial than googly-eyed bonding. It's an unexpected tension that feels like a little microcosm of life, so sitting with it and getting comfortable feels like good life practice.

Soon enough, it's nap time again, then maybe a snack and last night's The Tonight Show. You love when The Roots play.

At this point though, our eyes are on the prize. Papa will be home soon. You bounce and giggle and mouth-breathe your excitement when he comes in the door. I always knew -- really, everyone knew -- he'd be the best dad. Most evenings, he wears you and walks the dogs, roughly 250 pounds of creature in his care, without a second thought. 

You join us for dinner, happily exploring tastes and textures. More happily dropping food for the dogs, though, who strategically place themselves one on each side of your high chair. We're modeling sign language for you, you're teaching us the ones you've created on your own.

We've just started putting you in the big tub for a bath. "Big" being a relative term, since maybe there was a special on petite green bathtubs sometime in the 70s. You love the water and have started to explore how it moves, making waves and splashing around, drinking straight from the faucet. My old worries about putting a baby in this tub, with its the scratched enamel and ancient history, disappear when you're in there looking so huge

We chant "Get this baby warm and dry," we do oils and lotion, and we read books, all three of us. We have a bedtime routine. As expected, I love this part. Once you're asleep, I place you in the middle of our bed and settle in next to you. 

And here I am now, listening to you sigh and trying to reflect on our days. You'll be awake again soon enough -- maybe twice, maybe 6 times before morning -- and I will try to sit with the tension. The dread and tinge of resentment that comes in those sweet, quiet moments in the dark, the braiding together of what I expected and what I never could have imagined. 

Thursday, November 20, 2014

Cyrus Henri // Birth Story

This is a long post, but with good reason. 

I decided to stop seeing clients at work when I was 39 weeks pregnant, one week before my due date, as driving to see my clients, then interacting meaningfully with them - keeping up with them at home and school, getting up and down from the floor, and not getting too distracted by the squirmy starfish baby sitting on my bladder - was getting tougher. 

Then I waited.

My 39 and and 40 week appointments at the midwifery center were uneventful (no signs of action on baby's part), but I was hoping not to still be pregnant at 41 weeks, though I was told to expect to be. I bounced and swayed on a yoga ball, refused to put my feet up, ate spicy food, and went on as many walks as I could manage. I was still pregnant at 41 weeks. I had been home, uncomfortable and bored, for 2 weeks. The morning of May 30th, we stopped for a cappuccino and a pastry before heading down for the 41 week appointment. 

We sat in recliners, drank Izze, and listened to beeps for the non-stress test, which showed no signs for concern. We discussed options with the midwives before a quick fluid and head check on the ultrasound. Again, no cause for concern, so we decided to have the midwife try to sweep my membranes, if possible. I was just barely dilated, so she was able to do a stretch and sweep while I laughed uncomfortably. 

We did all we could to take advantage of this window -- we were ready to meet our baby and I was ready to not be so very pregnant anymore. I was extra uncomfortable after the membrane sweep, but I waddled through a walk and we followed all the best natural induction advice, ahem, that afternoon. We went to Hops & Pie for dinner, where there was an hour-plus wait. We passed the time chatting with owner Leah about her recent birth and she gave us a H&P onesie for the little dude. Leah told us that our pals had eaten there the night before going into labor with their first babe, but I didn’t have my hopes up. I added jalape├▒os to my usual pizza order and filled up. It was close to 10PM when we left. That late dinner would turn out to be my last real meal for quite a while! 

The next morning I woke early with back pain. Being a million weeks pregnant, I assumed I’d slept in a bad position and tried to find a better one, with no success. I got up and putzed on the computer, but my back pain would come and go. I started paying attention and making some notes, soon realizing that my “back pain” was happening every 7-8 minutes. Koan got up and we took the dogs for a walk, where I experienced a few waves of sensation in my back, but was able to walk without issue. We were pretty sure this was early labor! We had planned to head to the ‘burbs for coffee that day, but I sent Koan without me. He took a book and enjoyed a relaxed morning coffee. In hindsight, it seems strange that I sent my husband away when I was quite certain I was in labor. I assumed we had plenty of time and Koan had been holed up in the house with me often since I really hated sitting in the car by that point. Regardless, he got some down time that morning and I'm not sure he's had any since! 

From Koan's Instagram 5/31/2014

After a couple of hours, my contractions (still in my back) had intensified enough that I had to stop what I was doing to breathe through them. I also began doing Ina May’s “horse lips” to keep from tensing during contractions. The dogs were barking and making me crazy and I really wanted my coffee, so I messaged Koan to hurry the eff up. He was home quickly and assumed duties of rubbing my back, giving me snacks and water, putting on Netflix shows, and timing contractions. And so it went. 

Around 9:30PM that night, my contractions were hovering around 3-5 minutes, so we called Mountain Midwifery Center. Gina was there and told us to come in. She checked my cervix and found that I was 3 centimeters dilated, 80% effaced, and that baby was at 0 station. Progress! But! She thought it was best that we went back home and gave us instructions to call again if/when my water were to break or when contractions were to take a big bump in intensity, like going from 40mph to 60mph on the highway. I was disappointed for plenty of reasons - I wanted things to be moving faster, I did not want to get back in the car, and I liked the idea of Gina delivering our babe, since she is wonderful and she had delivered our friends’ sweet little one. She mentioned she hoped she was still on call when we came back. She would not be, but she would get to see us again before we met our little one!

Middle of the night contractions with my best girl.

I don’t remember much about Saturday night. Koan continued to prompt me to eat and drink and rubbed my back, as I was still having back labor. Sometime around 2AM, he tried to get some sleep. I lay on the couch and tried to sleep between contractions, but without success. He slept for about an hour, then also fell asleep during his “wake up” shower. 

The next morning (Sunday) we called MMC again and talked to Tiffany, who had begun her call shift. Koan described the variable pattern of intervals between contractions, noted that some contractions were much longer than others, and that I was still having back labor. Tiffany deduced that baby was likely in a non-ideal position and instructed me to walk up and down the stairs, spend time on hands and knees, and to do all of my sitting facing backwards on the toilet to help things along. Ugh. I continued my horse lips/motorboat exercises throughout, but being on the stairs and/or on my hands and knees during contractions was painful. Surprisingly, the only sleep I got throughout my labor was when I was sitting backwards on the toilet. Who knew it would be so restful?!

Sometime that morning I lost my mucous plug and, soon after, expelled enough fluid that I thought my water had broken. The time between my contractions continued to vary in length, but often stayed between 3 and 5 minutes, so we called and talked to Tiffany again and she told us to come in. 

We arrived around 2:30PM on Sunday and were happy to find a bigger room available this time! Tiffany checked my cervix and found that I was 5 centimeters dilated and 90% effaced, but that my bag of waters was still in tact, as far as she could tell. More progress, but still slow - I had now been in labor for over 30 hours. My contractions had also begun to space out again since we had talked on the phone. Tiffany asked us how we felt about a walk around the block and we agreed. During our walk, I began to say in my head, “My breath is bigger than this contraction.” I told Koan about it and he would remind me aloud while I horse-lipped my way through. We were able to get contractions closer together, then spent more time walking the stairs at the birth center (just like we’d practiced in childbirth prep class), resting in rotating positions, and sitting backwards on the toilet at the birth center. I snacked on greek yogurt and trail mix and tried to keep drinking water. I was grateful to have my “Very Mellow” Spotify playlist I’d made and the blessed iPhone to let us bring the music wherever we went. 

Curiously, my contractions never really stayed in or under a 3-1-1 pattern, but I continued to progress. Sometime after dark, Tiffany suggested we consider taking some herbs to supplement the natural oxytocin surge we’d get during the night. We decided to think about it. I asked to have my cervix checked to help make the decision. Tiffany was gloved up and about to check, when Colleen, the nurse joining her on her shift, popped in and indicated that the baby of the woman in the next room (who we had heard faithfully pushing since soon after we’d arrived) was crowning. They both had to duck out to deliver that babe and we were left to continue laboring. After having one of them checking in and taking vitals regularly since we arrived, we were now alone - and transitioning! 

I’m not sure how long we went without an attendant, but it felt like a long time (likely about 20-30 minutes?). Soon, Gina appeared! MMC always has a back-up midwife on-call for situations such as this. She came in, saw it was us, and sympathetically exclaimed, “Oh mama, you’ve been working so hard!” She took my vitals and baby’s, determined all was well, then left us to keep working. I think at this point, she likely took over with the other family to do their discharge duties because Tiffany and Colleen came back. 

Around midnight, Tiffany checked my cervix and found that I was 8-9cm dilated, but during a contraction, my cervix completely dilated! She readied the birthing tub for me and I changed into my swim top. Sometime around this time I half-whimpered to Koan, “This is hard work...” After having been sitting, standing, and walking for close to 40 hours, floating in the tub was such a relief! I remember laughing and telling Koan how good it felt. Then another contraction hit. I was happy to be in the tub, but it did not make things that much easier. Koan got some cool rags to put on my head and neck and I settled into a half squat and, with some coaching, began pushing. And so it went. 

I was not prepared for how difficult pushing in the tub would be - the bottom of it is slippery! I was pushing and I knew I was progressing, but it didn’t really feel like a baby was making his way down. I was so tired, feeling quite out of it (maybe falling asleep?) between contractions, and beginning to get discouraged. At least a couple of times, I emphatically shook my head in disagreement when the team would tell me I was doing a good job. 

Just after 2AM on Monday morning, Tiffany prompted me to change positions and put me on a birthing stool. Baby’s heart rate had been dropping throughout the last few vitals checks and Koan remembers feeling like the attendants were starting to get nervous. I remember exasperatedly trying to answer when they asked, “How tall are you?” as they chose the best stool. 

Once I was on the stool, baby crowned within the first push or two. They checked his vitals again and Tiffany said, “This baby is ready to be born,” in what I imagine is her sternest midwife voice. The lights were switched on and Colleen, Tiffany, and on-call doula Carrie switched into action mode, gathering extra towels and supplies. Tiffany coached me on how to use the handles on the sides of the stool and curl in to push baby out. Koan had wanted to catch the baby, but at this point that wasn’t really an option as the pressure was really on. He stood behind me and was able to see the action via a mirror on the floor. 

At 2:30AM on Monday, June 2, I pushed our baby out into the bright light! His cord was wrapped around his body two times and he brought a lot of meconium out with him. Tiffany caught him and placed him onto towels on the floor after she got him unwrapped. She had to do some suctioning and used a hand-operated oxygen bag to get him perked up, but I remembered from our prep class that that is not uncommon and I wasn’t afraid. It felt like hours though that I sat on that stool staring at my baby’s face as a flurry of hands moved all around. I was so in awe that he was really finally here. 

He remained quiet for a few minutes, but was breathing and pinking up. He was handed to me wrapped in a towel to get warmed up and began scream-crying as we moved to the bed. 

And that’s where it ends, right?!? I of course had to still deliver the placenta, then endure some lidocain and stitching, both phases approaching the limit of what could be done at the birth center. I strained to hear over the baby's cries as Tiffany explained that I might have to transfer to the hospital at that point. In the end, it wasn't necessary. I was so grateful not to have to transfer, since that would have meant leaving Koan and the baby there at the birth center.

We placed the baby on my abdomen to allow him to make the breast crawl and self attach for breast feeding. We were amazed as he scooched and squirmed, doing tiny newborn pushups to make his way. Before he was able to finish his journey though, the three of us all fell asleep! I think we napped for about half an hour.  

Some of the timing is fuzzy, but I know Koan and I passed the babe between us a bit, reconsidered our name front-runners, snacked, and drank water before I got to take my herbal bath. As Tiffany and Colleen had just finished a long and busy call shift (4 babies!), Susan, who was just beginning hers, took over. Her sweet energy was really a gift after what had been, at that point, 48 hours of hard hard work. When she took me to the tub for my bath, she encouraged me to rest and lay low for as long as I wanted. I tried to breathe a bit, get comfortable with the reality of what we had accomplished over the last two days, and even started to feel a little proud of our story. After 2 days of natural labor, we got to welcome our Cyrus Henri in the peaceful environment we’d imagined and hoped for. 

After getting dressed and giving breastfeeding another go, we loaded up the car and Koan valiantly drove us home (holy heck, were we tired). We let the dogs sniff Cyrus’s hat, then sniff Cyrus himself. We ate some leftover pizza and went to bed, entering our 48 hour skin-to-skin cocoon. 


I am so happy that we entrusted our prenatal care and delivery to Mountain Midwifery Center. I am thankful that we had choices and were able to educate ourselves and feel empowered about those choices. Knowing now how our path unfolded, I’m certain that, had we been in a more conventional medical environment, I would have felt pressure to choose other interventions that we did not, in fact, need in order to have a healthy birth. I am grateful to have modern medical interventions available when they are necessary; I am proud that I made the choice to give my body a chance to show me what it can do. 

Monday, August 11, 2014

Cyrus Henri // 2 Months

Holy two months, batman! I can’t believe you’ve been here with us for two months already. It’s been a blur. I had planned to write or commemorate every month, but, again, blur. 

For history’s sake, let’s recap. There was your 45 hour birth, which I’ll save for another post, then 6 hours later, we zombied ourselves home and went to bed. We cuddled and stared and skin-to-skinned and nuzzled your sweet face. We visited the midwives on Day 2 and things seemed to be going swimmingly, except they had to collect blood twice from your tiny, still peel-y, heels. On Day 3, your dad dropped us and your Grammy off at breastfeeding support group at The Mamahood as I had a suspicion that all was not right after all. Guru Amanda strongly suspected you had a tongue and lip tie. She instructed me to stop breastfeeding and switch to pumping and bottle feeding until your oral anatomy could be corrected, since your restricted tongue and lip would not allow you to have a proper latch. We were miraculously able to get an appointment to see Dr. Jesse for the laser release the next day, but I spent that afternoon crying over how you must have been feeling hungry and thirsty, then springing into action securing donor milk from our wonderful friends (thanks for sharing, Marion, Harriet, and Emerson!) and setting up an appointment with the pediatrician’s office to get a prescription for milk from the milk bank too. Day 4 was pediatrician’s office, dentist’s office for your laser procedure, then a follow-up blood draw at the lab. We both cried a bunch. It was all way too much for your hormonal mama 4 days after pushing you into this world. 

After that whirlwind, life got more mundane, but not exactly calm. Pop came to join Grammy, plus Oma and Opa for a few weeks. Friends brought us delicious meals and I tried to summon the energy to shower. As your tongue and lip were healing, I pumped and we fed you bottles. The rolls of washi tape and sharpies we used to label the bottles are still scattered around the house. We went back to breastfeeding support group a few times and you got to meet Dr. Julie, the chiropractor too. Through it all, you screamed and cried and screamed and cried. We became proficient at the 5 S system, suddenly finding ourselves with opinions on different swaddling techniques, and I gave up my notion that we’d be waiting a month to give you a pacifier. We haven’t left the house without gripe water in 6 weeks.

The list of things we’ve attempted in hopes of easing your tummy pain is extraordinary. Dietary changes on my part, every variety of drops - conventional and homeopathic, warm compresses, lots of babywearing, block feeding, pricey essential oils, and then some. Every new idea offers a glimmer of hope and some have given you some relief, but we’re finally resigned to just waiting it out. You still writhe and squirm in my arms, clawing my chest, several times a day. I hate to think how many times in your sweet life I'll have to see that pained look in your eyes and be able to do nothing except hold you close. 


Oh, but you’re also smiling now. Talk about a game changer. We love the love we see in your face. We love that you think poop jokes are funny, that the Looney Toons theme song cracks you up, and that dog kisses evoke a shy smile. Get used to those, buddy. 

And we’re getting out of the house. Nursing you in public still presents some mental and logistical challenges for me, but practice makes practice. And so we practice, sometimes in quiet corners, sometimes in the middle of the action. We practice often at Huckleberry, the perks being that we get to see your dad and other people who love you and that no one can give us dirty looks. Ha! You’re spending more time awake and smiling at friends (and less time screaming in pain), so getting out of the house seems less futile. It’s good for both of our brains, I’m convinced.

I love you Cyrus Henri. I didn’t expect to have a high need baby and sometimes my love feels heavy, but your dad and I, we’re smitten. You’re my olive-skinned, long-limbed, brown-eyed heart outside my body.


first and last photo by natalie roth.

Sunday, August 11, 2013

We both wore glasses. I guess we still do.

Have you seen this Missed Connection? It's been open in my browser for days. It's intriguing and haunting and magnetic. I can't bring myself to close the tab.

(CL took the post down! Text below)

I saw you on the Manhattan-bound Brooklyn Q train.

I was wearing a blue-striped t-shirt and a pair of maroon pants. You were wearing a vintage red skirt and a smart white blouse. We both wore glasses. I guess we still do.

You got on at DeKalb and sat across from me and we made eye contact, briefly. I fell in love with you a little bit, in that stupid way where you completely make up a fictional version of the person you're looking at and fall in love with that person. But still I think there was something there.

Several times we looked at each other and then looked away. I tried to think of something to say to you -- maybe pretend I didn't know where I was going and ask you for directions or say something nice about your boot-shaped earrings, or just say, "Hot day." It all seemed so stupid.

At one point, I caught you staring at me and you immediately averted your eyes. You pulled a book out of your bag and started reading it -- a biography of Lyndon Johnson -- but I noticed you never once turned a page.

My stop was Union Square, but at Union Square I decided to stay on, rationalizing that I could just as easily transfer to the 7 at 42nd Street, but then I didn't get off at 42nd Street either. You must have missed your stop as well, because when we got all the way to the end of the line at Ditmars, we both just sat there in the car, waiting.

I cocked my head at you inquisitively. You shrugged and held up your book as if that was the reason.

Still I said nothing.

We took the train all the way back down -- down through Astoria, across the East River, weaving through midtown, from Times Square to Herald Square to Union Square, under SoHo and Chinatown, up across the bridge back into Brooklyn, past Barclays and Prospect Park, past Flatbush and Midwood and Sheepshead Bay, all the way to Coney Island. And when we got to Coney Island, I knew I had to say something.

Still I said nothing.

And so we went back up.

Up and down the Q line, over and over. We caught the rush hour crowds and then saw them thin out again. We watched the sun set over Manhattan as we crossed the East River. I gave myself deadlines: I'll talk to her before Newkirk; I'll talk to her before Canal. Still I remained silent.

For months we sat on the train saying nothing to each other. We survived on bags of skittles sold to us by kids raising money for their basketball teams. We must have heard a million mariachi bands, had our faces nearly kicked in by a hundred thousand break dancers. I gave money to the beggars until I ran out of singles. When the train went above ground I'd get text messages and voicemails ("Where are you? What happened? Are you okay?") until my phone ran out of battery.

I'll talk to her before daybreak; I'll talk to her before Tuesday. The longer I waited, the harder it got. What could I possibly say to you now, now that we've passed this same station for the hundredth time? Maybe if I could go back to the first time the Q switched over to the local R line for the weekend, I could have said, "Well, this is inconvenient," but I couldn't very well say it now, could I? I would kick myself for days after every time you sneezed -- why hadn't I said "Bless You"? That tiny gesture could have been enough to pivot us into a conversation, but here in stupid silence still we sat.

There were nights when we were the only two souls in the car, perhaps even on the whole train, and even then I felt self-conscious about bothering you. She's reading her book, I thought, she doesn't want to talk to me. Still, there were moments when I felt a connection. Someone would shout something crazy about Jesus and we'd immediately look at each other to register our reactions. A couple of teenagers would exit, holding hands, and we'd both think: Young Love.

For sixty years, we sat in that car, just barely pretending not to notice each other. I got to know you so well, if only peripherally. I memorized the folds of your body, the contours of your face, the patterns of your breath. I saw you cry once after you'd glanced at a neighbor's newspaper. I wondered if you were crying about something specific, or just the general passage of time, so unnoticeable until suddenly noticeable. I wanted to comfort you, wrap my arms around you, assure you I knew everything would be fine, but it felt too familiar; I stayed glued to my seat.

One day, in the middle of the afternoon, you stood up as the train pulled into Queensboro Plaza. It was difficult for you, this simple task of standing up, you hadn't done it in sixty years. Holding onto the rails, you managed to get yourself to the door. You hesitated briefly there, perhaps waiting for me to say something, giving me one last chance to stop you, but rather than spit out a lifetime of suppressed almost-conversations I said nothing, and I watched you slip out between the closing sliding doors.

It took me a few more stops before I realized you were really gone. I kept waiting for you to reenter the subway car, sit down next to me, rest your head on my shoulder. Nothing would be said. Nothing would need to be said.

When the train returned to Queensboro Plaza, I craned my neck as we entered the station. Perhaps you were there, on the platform, still waiting. Perhaps I would see you, smiling and bright, your long gray hair waving in the wind from the oncoming train.

But no, you were gone. And I realized most likely I would never see you again. And I thought about how amazing it is that you can know somebody for sixty years and yet still not really know that person at all.

I stayed on the train until it got to Union Square, at which point I got off and transferred to the L.

    Friday, February 15, 2013

    A Song

    Oh, Anaïs, you write folk operas based on Greek myths and set 19th Century ballads to new music, but I'm partial to this oldie.

    Summer went the way of spring
    winter's waiting in the wings
    And we haven't saved anything
    but that's alright
    Cause we already paid the rent
    there's still some money we haven't spent
    Go put on something different
    we're going out tonight

    I have loved you for so long
    even when I could only do you wrong
    go see if they have our song
    on the jukebox over there
    A dollar gets you seven plays
    I watch you through a smoky haze
    a secret smile on your face
    I'm sorry if I stare

    But you look like a stranger
    in that old-fashioned hat
    And I've got a pocketful of change
    and I don't wanna go home yet

    Clearly I remember when
    I used to scratch my poems
    on the backs of other lovers in
    the darkness of my mind
    Back before I made my home
    in the marrow of your bones
    Now I know your figure like my own
    even from behind

    But you look like a stranger
    in that old-fashioned hat
    And I've got a pocketful of change
    and I don't wanna go home yet

    Hey and we'll be married soon
    we'll be dancing to this very tune
    Then we'll have a honeymoon
    then we'll start to fight
    Bring the tonic and the gin
    say what was your name again?
    Stick another quarter in
    and stay with me tonight

    You look like a stranger
    in that old-fashioned hat
    And I've got a pocketful of change
    and I don't wanna go home yet

    Thursday, February 14, 2013

    Happy Hallmark Cha-Ching Day!

    My mom told me that one Valentine's Day, in college, my dad and his friends ran around campus spray painting some variation of "Happy VD!" on things. If you know anything about my dad, this is surprising.
    Geez, Michael, a little respect for the made up holiday, please.

    In other news, a poem.

    A Very Valentine
    Gertrude Stein

    Very fine is my valentine.
    Very fine and very mine.
    Very mine is my valentine very mine and very fine.
    Very fine is my valentine and mine, very fine very mine and mine is my valentine.