Sunday, September 30, 2007

Poetry Sunday: 9 Days

Karincita and Tricky's elder son is going to be three years old in November. The Monchichi and I are best buds. I know he is almost three, but sometimes it still kinda surprises me when he speaks in complete sentences. Even more when he plays jokes. He once crawled under the bed to tickle my toes. I saw his little fingers dart out and grab for my toes and I said, "Eek! Was that a mouse?" He crawled out, giggling, and replied, "No, it was just me." Noun, verb, modifiers - all in the right order. Plus, he GOT the concept of the joke; he knew that it had worked.

I have really loved watching Monchichi grow up. He's a person I like being around and I have known him since he was itty-bitty. When we first met him, he looked like he was in a constant state of shock. His blond hair was standing on end, wild with static electricity. His ENORMOUS blue eyes were probably just trying to focus on the blurry objects around him, but it had the effect of making him look perpetually surprised. Thankfully, his hair has calmed down a lot. It could be genetic, though: his three-month-old brother, Snickerdoodle, is beginning to get the same kind of shockhawk.

I can't even imagine how I'm going to feel when Snickerdoodle starts talking and walking. Or going to kindergarten. Attending college. Getting his first job. My feelings will probably include some variation of, "Wow, I saw that kid come out of his mom's hooha. When did he become A PERSON?!"

It has been almost three years now since Dusty and I lost our first chance at parenthood. I still wonder what kind of person our little Bean might have grown into if Nature had not been so cruel. It's been incredibly humbling for me to realize that I may not have been ready to be a mom back then. Without a kid, I have been able to live a pretty sweet life: free to travel at the drop of a hat, take lots of classes during the week, and work long hours and weekends on the BEST. FRICKIN'. VIDEO GAME. EVER. It's just that I'm sometimes curious--wistful, even--about what might have been. Or who might have been.

I wrote this poem while I was waiting to get surgery to remove my ectopic pregnancy in February 2005. Mama still loves you, little Bean. Whoever you may have turned out to be.

9 Days

1 day of sheer joy
blue plus sign
phone calls to grandparents
a happy secret

5 days of cautious optimism
a gallon of milk
small healthy meals
glorious guilt-free naps

3 days of waking nightmare

9 days not months
all wrong
all done
no Bean

my womb
my heart


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