We had a baby group at work today. (Side note: Burmese babies are the cutest babies in the entire world and I am always scheming as how to get myself a Burmese baby. Unfortunately for me, any baby that comes out of me is NOT going to look like a Burmese baby, no matter what I do.) Anyways, our program's baby groups replace the regularly scheduled well-baby checkup which means that babies get naked and weighed for their vitals.
This particularly baby group had all three and four-month-old babies. Truly the best part about that age is just how fat the babies get. They have rolls on their thighs--roll upon roll upon roll. It's most certainly a product of being in the baby furniture stage. Babies that age are like seals storing up their fat for when they start becoming mobile and then they just burn through that fat and become lean again. (Another side-note. All of our babies in that group were well above the 75th percentile in both weight and height which just warms the cockles of my heart. So healthy and strong!)
At one point, I was holding a chubby boy who was wearing nothing but a diaper. He had these luscious, squeezable rolls and I had the sudden desire to just gently bite his soft thighs like I used to do to The Bean at that age. I turned to our interpreter, a lovely middle-aged gentleman, and asked him if there were any affection expressions in Burmese that expressed a desire to eat a child. I was thinking along the lines of the English phraseology of, "He's so cute, I just want to eat him up!" or "I just want to nibble his thighs!"
However, "S" immediately gave me a look of panicked alarm and I realized how culturally relevant expressions about eating children are. After I explained what I meant (i.e. terms of endearment, because the fat rolls are so kissable and naturally, kissing leads to biting, just a figure of speech, etc., etc.) he had a good chuckle and assured me that, no, there was not an equivalent turn of phrase or idea in Burmese.
But at least now I've realized how the rumors that white people eat ethnic babies got started.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Chop Chop
One of the most annoying things about moving is having to find a new salon. The entire three years that we lived in ABQ, I never once found a salon that I liked. After the first year, I pretty much gave up getting my hair cut. It's been a long time since my last hair cut. It was time. I found an ad in a local paper (support local business, right?) for a salon the next block over and made an appointment yesterday.
The stylist was a nice older gentleman and he did a great cut. Unfortunately for me, the style (blunt, chin-length bob) makes me look like I'm about 12. I profusely thanked him, tipped him well and then left with a sinking heart. I hated my hair.
But more than hating my haircut, I hate the fact that I lied. I had the sinking feeling as he was cutting that the style that I requested was not the style that I envisioned in my head. And yet, I effusively thanked him.
Why is it so hard to tell someone that I don't like a service they did for me at the time the service is rendered? I mean, I flat out lied to the man. I tipped him 20% for crying out loud! What the fuck? Why am I sitting here the next day, dreading going into work on Tuesday because I know that my haircut is not flattering? Why do I feel the need to help a hairstylist who I don't know save face? Am I afraid to hurt his feelings?
I think perhaps this is an American trait. Or an American woman trait. I have several coworkers who are not American who flat-out tell you what they don't like. You ask them if you look fat in this dress, they'll tell you yes. No sugar-coating it by saying "Oh, I think it brings out your eyes!" They'll just say, "Yes, it does." And you know what? Said dress probably does make me look fat! Better to not wear it again than naively walk around thinking I look svelte when really I look like a Guernsey cow. In the long run, an honest opinion is far better than a lie (for fashion, anyways. Perhaps not other things?).
I really do think I need to do a better job of being honest when people ask for my opinions.
Especially if I'm paying them.
The stylist was a nice older gentleman and he did a great cut. Unfortunately for me, the style (blunt, chin-length bob) makes me look like I'm about 12. I profusely thanked him, tipped him well and then left with a sinking heart. I hated my hair.
But more than hating my haircut, I hate the fact that I lied. I had the sinking feeling as he was cutting that the style that I requested was not the style that I envisioned in my head. And yet, I effusively thanked him.
Why is it so hard to tell someone that I don't like a service they did for me at the time the service is rendered? I mean, I flat out lied to the man. I tipped him 20% for crying out loud! What the fuck? Why am I sitting here the next day, dreading going into work on Tuesday because I know that my haircut is not flattering? Why do I feel the need to help a hairstylist who I don't know save face? Am I afraid to hurt his feelings?
I think perhaps this is an American trait. Or an American woman trait. I have several coworkers who are not American who flat-out tell you what they don't like. You ask them if you look fat in this dress, they'll tell you yes. No sugar-coating it by saying "Oh, I think it brings out your eyes!" They'll just say, "Yes, it does." And you know what? Said dress probably does make me look fat! Better to not wear it again than naively walk around thinking I look svelte when really I look like a Guernsey cow. In the long run, an honest opinion is far better than a lie (for fashion, anyways. Perhaps not other things?).
I really do think I need to do a better job of being honest when people ask for my opinions.
Especially if I'm paying them.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Footloose
In a desperate attempt to make friends at work and actually make this craphole town feel like my home, I've done the unthinkable (well, unthinkable since I was in my early 20s). No, not binge drinking--my last attempt at that ended in my mid-20s with my head in a toilet next to Roommate Barb sometime in Feb. 2007.
I have joined work's intramural soccer team.
Since The Doctor works nights, CEWG will be accompanying me to the games which are every Weds night. I haven't run in a long time, even after my own child (I tend to just let her go off. She usually come back pretty quickly if I stop looking for her.), so this should be quite the adventure.
So here's to a whole new round of shin guards, soccer socks, sweat and sore muscles starting at 7:30 tomorrow. I can't hardly wait.
Seriously.
I have joined work's intramural soccer team.
Since The Doctor works nights, CEWG will be accompanying me to the games which are every Weds night. I haven't run in a long time, even after my own child (I tend to just let her go off. She usually come back pretty quickly if I stop looking for her.), so this should be quite the adventure.
So here's to a whole new round of shin guards, soccer socks, sweat and sore muscles starting at 7:30 tomorrow. I can't hardly wait.
Seriously.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Small Heros
One of my personal pet peeves since 9/11 is the overuse of the word "hero." Everyone is a hero these days. It's all over the Info-tainment: "Hero Dog Saves Small Squirrel from Certain Death!" But surely, we can't all be heros, right? What use is a word that applies to us all?
Working with such a significantly underserved population has again reminded me that sometimes, the word hero is still applicable to regular people. There is so much need in my line of work. So much material need--people needing rent, food, clothes, shampoo. Not to mention emotional need and spiritual needs that are neglected in favor of those more pressing physical needs like hunger and shelter.
But every day, my colleagues come into work to face another day of doing only what they can, giving only what they can and having to say "no" more times than they say "yes."
This line of work isn't for people who want to be heros or have glory. It isn't a career that will pay much more than entry level. Ironically, it isn't a career that even has a lot of gratitude. Sometimes, it seems that everyone is always asking for more and something is never enough because when you have so little, there is always more needed.
But every day, my coworkers come back. Some days more burned out than others. Some days, tired with circles and exhaustion, the toll of endless "no's" and "cannot's" evident in their eyes. Some days there is a triumphant smile or a story of success. But still, my colleagues come, each with their own reasons for their work, their own passions, their own stories to tell but with one goal: a desire to give respect and dignity to those who have gone without for so long.
Working with such a significantly underserved population has again reminded me that sometimes, the word hero is still applicable to regular people. There is so much need in my line of work. So much material need--people needing rent, food, clothes, shampoo. Not to mention emotional need and spiritual needs that are neglected in favor of those more pressing physical needs like hunger and shelter.
But every day, my colleagues come into work to face another day of doing only what they can, giving only what they can and having to say "no" more times than they say "yes."
This line of work isn't for people who want to be heros or have glory. It isn't a career that will pay much more than entry level. Ironically, it isn't a career that even has a lot of gratitude. Sometimes, it seems that everyone is always asking for more and something is never enough because when you have so little, there is always more needed.
But every day, my coworkers come back. Some days more burned out than others. Some days, tired with circles and exhaustion, the toll of endless "no's" and "cannot's" evident in their eyes. Some days there is a triumphant smile or a story of success. But still, my colleagues come, each with their own reasons for their work, their own passions, their own stories to tell but with one goal: a desire to give respect and dignity to those who have gone without for so long.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Confessions of a Monoglot
For someone who would love to fancy herself a writer, I have absolutely no talent in language. Well, let me rephrase. I have adequate command of the written English language. I often joke, however, that my written vocabulary significantly exceeds my spoken vocabulary-- not because I don't know the words but because I simply cannot pronounce the words correctly. I often settle for words that don't exactly convey the true meaning and intent because at least I won't make an ass of myself if I say the word incorrectly. (I once pronounced the word "hypothetical" "hi-poth-i-call" in front of my entire 150-person MPH Biostatistics class and almost died of shame when, yes, everyone in the room burst out laughing. And let's not even talk about "posthumously.")
I distinctly remember the day that I discovered that language acquisition was not my forte. I was about 9 and struggling through 3rd-grade phonetics (Mrs. George, how I hated chanting those charts out loud: "PH says ffff, TH says thhhh"). I was sitting at my parents' kitchen table eating lunch and reading a list of clothes that my father was planning on ordering from L.L. Bean (these were the days of the catalogue phone orders, mind you). I saw the word (forever burned in my memory) written out next to "pants" and I could not figure it out. I asked my father how to pronounce the word and I will never forget the incredulous look on his face. "Sound it out, Elisabeth. You know this word. You've heard it before." I struggled and struggled for what felt like an hour but was probably three minutes, and still, I couldn't figure it out. I wanted to shout to my father, "I may have heard it but if I haven't seen it, it's meaningless to me!"
When he finally said the word out loud, I felt like a dipshit (though, that word had yet to be in my vocabulary). The silent "k" combinations had yet to be covered in my phonetics class.
"Khaki." Please.
I've tried my best to move forward from my 9-year-old self. I studied Spanish through high school and in college every semester my entire four years. I even studied abroad in Spain, desperate to learn another language and prove myself to be better than those Amerophiles who refused to learn foreign languages based on principle. I flopped at Spanish. Next on my list was Kiswahili during my stint in Kenya, at which I also failed.
Well, perhaps "fail" is too strong a word. I actually had an amazing grasp on the rules and structure of both foreign languages. I loved seeing how sentences and thoughts fell together, how the rules guided the parts of speech, the nuances of verb tenses. Even the structure of the noun classes of Swahili opened a whole new world for me. But for the love, I could not pronounce a damn thing correctly in either language. My tongue always felt thick in my mouth, unable to make the proper combination of sounds at the right time.
Fast forward to my life in the present. I've given up on foreign languages. Completely stopped. It's been five years, more or less, since I've even attempted speaking more than a short phrase of anything other than English. Whenever my linguistic past arises in conversation, people always smile knowingly and say, "Oh, it'll come back to you if you just practice." I have to refrain from outright laughter and tell them that it was never really there in the first place. No one ever believes me, though.
One of the best things about working at an international organization is the languages. Every day that I walk into that office, it's like being greeted by the Tower of Babel. It's not just languages spoken by our clients, but our staff, too. Each day, there's a good chance that I will hear each of these languages: Arabic, Burmese, Karen, Karenni, Nepali, Farsi, Spanish, Cuban, Russian, French, Swahili, Kirundi, Chin...the list goes on. My office mate alone speaks four languages fluently and I am beginning to pinpoint who she is talking to on the phone by the sounds of the words coming out of her mouth.
The hum of foreign languages flows around me, seductively luring me in, enticing me to want to learn again, to pour over lists of flashcard vocabulary and learn new rules and structures of speech. I hate that I am that typical American, unable to communicate with anyone outside of my language because I think it truly hinders my ability to understand a culture. Understanding language and syntax is the first step to understanding a different worldview. Language is the first glimpse a novice has into the way things fit together in the mind of the other. I've always wondered if lovers who speak different language use their mother tongue in that critical moment of passion or clumsily try to use their common language to express their mutual feelings of ecstasy. I marvel when I hear the sounds of other languages spilling out of others' more fortunate mouths, "Does that sound/grunt/tone actually mean something to someone? Amazing!"
But I must accept my shortcomings. I will never be able to seamlessly switch between languages to use the words that best describe my intent. I will always be clumsy and never witty in another language. I am confined to reading inferior English translations of Tolstoy and Sartre and Rumi, never to grasp the full beauty of their written word.
Here is my confession: I am, and will never be more than, a monoglot.
I distinctly remember the day that I discovered that language acquisition was not my forte. I was about 9 and struggling through 3rd-grade phonetics (Mrs. George, how I hated chanting those charts out loud: "PH says ffff, TH says thhhh"). I was sitting at my parents' kitchen table eating lunch and reading a list of clothes that my father was planning on ordering from L.L. Bean (these were the days of the catalogue phone orders, mind you). I saw the word (forever burned in my memory) written out next to "pants" and I could not figure it out. I asked my father how to pronounce the word and I will never forget the incredulous look on his face. "Sound it out, Elisabeth. You know this word. You've heard it before." I struggled and struggled for what felt like an hour but was probably three minutes, and still, I couldn't figure it out. I wanted to shout to my father, "I may have heard it but if I haven't seen it, it's meaningless to me!"
When he finally said the word out loud, I felt like a dipshit (though, that word had yet to be in my vocabulary). The silent "k" combinations had yet to be covered in my phonetics class.
"Khaki." Please.
I've tried my best to move forward from my 9-year-old self. I studied Spanish through high school and in college every semester my entire four years. I even studied abroad in Spain, desperate to learn another language and prove myself to be better than those Amerophiles who refused to learn foreign languages based on principle. I flopped at Spanish. Next on my list was Kiswahili during my stint in Kenya, at which I also failed.
Well, perhaps "fail" is too strong a word. I actually had an amazing grasp on the rules and structure of both foreign languages. I loved seeing how sentences and thoughts fell together, how the rules guided the parts of speech, the nuances of verb tenses. Even the structure of the noun classes of Swahili opened a whole new world for me. But for the love, I could not pronounce a damn thing correctly in either language. My tongue always felt thick in my mouth, unable to make the proper combination of sounds at the right time.
Fast forward to my life in the present. I've given up on foreign languages. Completely stopped. It's been five years, more or less, since I've even attempted speaking more than a short phrase of anything other than English. Whenever my linguistic past arises in conversation, people always smile knowingly and say, "Oh, it'll come back to you if you just practice." I have to refrain from outright laughter and tell them that it was never really there in the first place. No one ever believes me, though.
One of the best things about working at an international organization is the languages. Every day that I walk into that office, it's like being greeted by the Tower of Babel. It's not just languages spoken by our clients, but our staff, too. Each day, there's a good chance that I will hear each of these languages: Arabic, Burmese, Karen, Karenni, Nepali, Farsi, Spanish, Cuban, Russian, French, Swahili, Kirundi, Chin...the list goes on. My office mate alone speaks four languages fluently and I am beginning to pinpoint who she is talking to on the phone by the sounds of the words coming out of her mouth.
The hum of foreign languages flows around me, seductively luring me in, enticing me to want to learn again, to pour over lists of flashcard vocabulary and learn new rules and structures of speech. I hate that I am that typical American, unable to communicate with anyone outside of my language because I think it truly hinders my ability to understand a culture. Understanding language and syntax is the first step to understanding a different worldview. Language is the first glimpse a novice has into the way things fit together in the mind of the other. I've always wondered if lovers who speak different language use their mother tongue in that critical moment of passion or clumsily try to use their common language to express their mutual feelings of ecstasy. I marvel when I hear the sounds of other languages spilling out of others' more fortunate mouths, "Does that sound/grunt/tone actually mean something to someone? Amazing!"
But I must accept my shortcomings. I will never be able to seamlessly switch between languages to use the words that best describe my intent. I will always be clumsy and never witty in another language. I am confined to reading inferior English translations of Tolstoy and Sartre and Rumi, never to grasp the full beauty of their written word.
Here is my confession: I am, and will never be more than, a monoglot.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Tonight
It's raining in the desert right now. There is something so satisfying about the gentle patter of the drops as they run down my windowpanes. Most often, it seems, we get the torrential rains, the pounding sheets of driving rain that turn a person blind, the fast cataclysmic downpours that shake up our brown earth and turn our empty washes into coursing rivers..
But occasionally, we get the soft rains of the East, the leisurely splatters that instead of washing away the dust in a torrent of floods, gently caresses our dirt, healing, coaxing change and bringing green, even for a short time.
This is one of those rains.
But occasionally, we get the soft rains of the East, the leisurely splatters that instead of washing away the dust in a torrent of floods, gently caresses our dirt, healing, coaxing change and bringing green, even for a short time.
This is one of those rains.
Friday, January 08, 2010
Rediscovery
I never thought going back to work would change me. I mean, I knew my life would change, I knew that my schedule would be different and I'd have less time to cook and clean and play with CEWG. I knew I'd be juggling the demands of The Doctor's career which is neither forgiving nor flexible. But I figured that at this point in my life (ripe old age of 29, thank you very much!), I've come to figure out who I am and where I am going. If not, what was that quarter-life crisis for?
Boy, was I ever wrong.
This job has thrown me into another world that I had forgotten which challenges who I am now and where I want to be every single day I walk into that office. I have never worked harder, more intensely and with more discipline in my life and I have never been happier than I am right now.
The only thing that has affected me more is becoming a mother.
I cherished the time that I spent with CEWG at home. I got 22 beautiful months to intensely fall in love with my child. Learning how to be a mother and setting a foundation for perhaps the most powerful relationship a person can have has truly been the most life-altering experiences I have ever embarked on. I feel so fortunate that I could make the choice to stay home and simply exist with my child without any other demands placed upon my time.
I feel like I'm in rediscovery mode again, but this time, instead of learning who I am as a mother, I'm relearning who I am as a person. I am reminding myself who I am outside of my family, reminding myself of my interests, my passions. Each day, I learn more about myself. Each day, I am given a new challenge, a new viewpoint, a new problem, a new way of looking at the world.
How awesome is this?
Boy, was I ever wrong.
This job has thrown me into another world that I had forgotten which challenges who I am now and where I want to be every single day I walk into that office. I have never worked harder, more intensely and with more discipline in my life and I have never been happier than I am right now.
The only thing that has affected me more is becoming a mother.
I cherished the time that I spent with CEWG at home. I got 22 beautiful months to intensely fall in love with my child. Learning how to be a mother and setting a foundation for perhaps the most powerful relationship a person can have has truly been the most life-altering experiences I have ever embarked on. I feel so fortunate that I could make the choice to stay home and simply exist with my child without any other demands placed upon my time.
I feel like I'm in rediscovery mode again, but this time, instead of learning who I am as a mother, I'm relearning who I am as a person. I am reminding myself who I am outside of my family, reminding myself of my interests, my passions. Each day, I learn more about myself. Each day, I am given a new challenge, a new viewpoint, a new problem, a new way of looking at the world.
How awesome is this?
Sunday, January 03, 2010
Old Friends
Last night, ex-Beloved came over to my house for dinner. We hadn't really spent any quality time together in the last five years. In fact, I hadn't seen him in 4 years except for once for a brief encounter a few months ago (The Doctor, CEWG and I invaded his house for an hour to say hi).
There is something wonderful about seeing people from your past. They remind you of who you were and you can get a glimpse of your old self as well as a new perspective on who you've become. It was wonderful to simply sit and talk, laugh about old times, reflect on memories and who we used to be and begin to learn who we are now.
I am so thankful that I have so many friends who are comfortable friends. Friends who are like favorite pairs of jeans--you can slip them on and just be yourself. My college experience was wonderful, the education was top-notch. But truly, the best gift that William and Mary gave me was a collection of friends that have been there for each other through thick and thin.
There is something wonderful about seeing people from your past. They remind you of who you were and you can get a glimpse of your old self as well as a new perspective on who you've become. It was wonderful to simply sit and talk, laugh about old times, reflect on memories and who we used to be and begin to learn who we are now.
I am so thankful that I have so many friends who are comfortable friends. Friends who are like favorite pairs of jeans--you can slip them on and just be yourself. My college experience was wonderful, the education was top-notch. But truly, the best gift that William and Mary gave me was a collection of friends that have been there for each other through thick and thin.
Friday, January 01, 2010
A New Year, Another Beginning
I can't believe it's 2010 already. For some reason, 2010 sounds so futuristic to me. But I suppose since it's here and now, futuristic it is not. And here I am. Starting another year, one step closer to 30.
We're firmly settled in PHX. I didn't turn the air-conditioning off until mid-November. Pity me, please? At least our electric bills will get a respite since we don't need heat and I doubt we will since the projected highs hover around the upper 60s/low 70s before they shoot back up to the upper 80s.
But of course, the biggest news is that I'm back at work full-time! I somehow, I managed to land my dream job with my dream organization. I'm still in shock that I'm so lucky to get up every day and do what I do and take home a paycheck for it! How does that happen? And how does that happen to me? But it did.
And amazingly, we've all adapted to the change well, CEWG included. She's enrolled in daycare (AKA nursery school) and after two to three weeks of transitional crying, loves loves loves her teachers and class.
I'd like to start to get back to blogging, simply because it forces me to write. I didn't get time to do NaNo this year because of personal extenuating circumstances. And of course, since I've moved, I have no writing group to force me to write, either. But hopefully, writing here a few times a month will at least get it out of my system and give me that creative outlet.
To here's to the New Year, you and yours!
We're firmly settled in PHX. I didn't turn the air-conditioning off until mid-November. Pity me, please? At least our electric bills will get a respite since we don't need heat and I doubt we will since the projected highs hover around the upper 60s/low 70s before they shoot back up to the upper 80s.
But of course, the biggest news is that I'm back at work full-time! I somehow, I managed to land my dream job with my dream organization. I'm still in shock that I'm so lucky to get up every day and do what I do and take home a paycheck for it! How does that happen? And how does that happen to me? But it did.
And amazingly, we've all adapted to the change well, CEWG included. She's enrolled in daycare (AKA nursery school) and after two to three weeks of transitional crying, loves loves loves her teachers and class.
I'd like to start to get back to blogging, simply because it forces me to write. I didn't get time to do NaNo this year because of personal extenuating circumstances. And of course, since I've moved, I have no writing group to force me to write, either. But hopefully, writing here a few times a month will at least get it out of my system and give me that creative outlet.
To here's to the New Year, you and yours!
Monday, September 28, 2009
Moving On
Well, we've moved on. Or, over. Our family has officially relocated one state over, back to Arizona, but this time in Phoenix. It's taking a bit of adjusting (as to be expected, naturally) and I'm anxiously awaiting the end of summer (and thus the end of 105 degree heat). Yes, it is almost October and yes, it is currently 102 with a high of 106.
But we have a beautiful home that is (mostly) unpacked. Much more space than we had before, which is nice. We're slowly making new friends and reconnecting with old ones.
I am enjoying my toddler who occasionally tries my patience and almost always makes me laugh. It's nice to have a bit of my life back now that she isn't so needy as an infant.
But we have a beautiful home that is (mostly) unpacked. Much more space than we had before, which is nice. We're slowly making new friends and reconnecting with old ones.
I am enjoying my toddler who occasionally tries my patience and almost always makes me laugh. It's nice to have a bit of my life back now that she isn't so needy as an infant.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
I Didn't Know
I didn't know it would be like this. Motherhood. Wearing your heart exposed. I see the photos of Mary holding the Christ Child, her Immaculate heart exposed with a sword in it and I just get it.
Motherhood is like that. A heart on the outside, waiting to be pierced with both sorrows and joys.
Last night, I spent the evening reading a blog by a mother whose fourth pregnancy had a "poor prenatal diagnosis." She chose to carry her pregnancy to term and give birth to a daughter who lived for two and a half hours, a daughter who died on her birth day. I'm not a sentimental person. But I wept, wept at the photos of her tiny daughter, wept at the thought of losing my child, wept because throughout the world, there are mothers who lose their children every day.
Every six seconds, a child dies of hunger.
Every thirty seconds, a child dies of malaria.
Every eight seconds, a child dies of lack of water or a waterbourne illness.
Every three seconds, a child simply dies.
That's 20 children per minute, 1,200 per hour, 28,800 per day.
Those statistics should stun anyone. But it should especially stun us who are mothers. The mere thought of losing my child is enough to bring me to my knees in grief because I love her so much. And motherlove is the same across all languages and cultures. Every child on this planet--every person on this planet--is loved like I love my child. The thought of that much love is staggering.
That is over 28,000 women a day whose exposed hearts break as their beloved babies and children die in their arms, the sword piercing.
The thought of that much sorrow is staggering.
Motherhood is like that. A heart on the outside, waiting to be pierced with both sorrows and joys.
Last night, I spent the evening reading a blog by a mother whose fourth pregnancy had a "poor prenatal diagnosis." She chose to carry her pregnancy to term and give birth to a daughter who lived for two and a half hours, a daughter who died on her birth day. I'm not a sentimental person. But I wept, wept at the photos of her tiny daughter, wept at the thought of losing my child, wept because throughout the world, there are mothers who lose their children every day.
Every six seconds, a child dies of hunger.
Every thirty seconds, a child dies of malaria.
Every eight seconds, a child dies of lack of water or a waterbourne illness.
Every three seconds, a child simply dies.
That's 20 children per minute, 1,200 per hour, 28,800 per day.
Those statistics should stun anyone. But it should especially stun us who are mothers. The mere thought of losing my child is enough to bring me to my knees in grief because I love her so much. And motherlove is the same across all languages and cultures. Every child on this planet--every person on this planet--is loved like I love my child. The thought of that much love is staggering.
That is over 28,000 women a day whose exposed hearts break as their beloved babies and children die in their arms, the sword piercing.
The thought of that much sorrow is staggering.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
The Deepest
I thought maybe I'd forget this year, that my life had woven its way out of your memory and into the future. But here we are again.
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
*e.e. cummings
Friday, March 27, 2009
Co-Sleeping
Five tiny toes
pointed high
straight to the ceiling.
Arm thrown out.
Sweaty hair pressed
against forehead.
Hand patting my face
reassuring
while sleeping.
Sweet smell of
milk breath
mingling with mine.
Snapshots of my nights.
pointed high
straight to the ceiling.
Arm thrown out.
Sweaty hair pressed
against forehead.
Hand patting my face
reassuring
while sleeping.
Sweet smell of
milk breath
mingling with mine.
Snapshots of my nights.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Friday, January 30, 2009
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Monday, January 26, 2009
Sunday, January 25, 2009
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