Poetry & Words

POETRY & WORDS :: When it rains

June 2013 - Hanna Andersson star pajamas and Anthropologie Fables and Feathers beddingIt’s 2 am, and I’m awakened to the sound of a sobbing little girl and heavy raindrops beating against the side of the building. She is teething, the rain’s falling from the swirling fingers of a tropical storm, and my head is tired and groggy. I lie still for several minutes, as if by remaining motionless I could somehow will her back to sleep. She shifts from quiet crying to calling out “Mummy!” and in a moment, we are both in her room. She’s upright in her crib, stumbling around half-asleep and half-awake as though the mattress were a ship deck, rolling on the high seas to the sound of the pelting rain.

“Get out,” she asks, stretching out her wobbly hands. “Wear blanket scarf.” I wrap her favorite fuzzy blanket around her the way she wants it, and she reaches her arms toward papa. He holds her while she drinks water, and then she lunges in my direction. “You hold,” she says.

Her tiny hands clasp together behind my neck.  I stretch out on the rug next to her crib, and she nestles her blonde head on my chest, the same way she’s done scores of times since the moment she was born. She moves her ear over my heart, and the rhythm soothes her. We lie there together in the darkness, listening to the staccato of rain and the beat of my heart. She sighs. I close my eyes. She’s tall, and I marvel how her feet stretch down past my knees now.

I think how thankful I am to have her here with me. I think how wonderful it is that when she cries, I can be next to her.

Over the next hour, she alternates between crying and whispering, “Nigh’ nigh’ sleep.” Finally, I hear nothing but the persistent noise coming from the very loud frog claiming squatter’s rights in the second-story rain gutter outside the window.

I close my eyes again, this time in my own bed, and fall asleep to the constant stream of tropical rain.

Poetry & Words


the dishwasher surges and pauses, a mechanical ode to the ocean’s pulsing tide. my spoon scoops up the last bit of milk off the bottom of my cobalt cereal bowl. behind me, i hear josiah laugh and talk into the headset as the xbox goes beepbopboopbeep.

baby fast asleep on pink fleece blanket

aveline is asleep. my eyes feel like sandpaper. her sleeping moments have been scarce, these last few days. i flip my just-washed hair back over my shoulder, and a few drops of water drip off onto the pink fabric of my pajama pants. i reach for my water glass and drink deeply. i sigh, satisfied.

my eyes can not stay open much longer. i hear the click of the tv behind my turning off, and hear josiah’s footsteps across the grey carpeted floor. i rub my eyes. sleep will come soon.

oh life, you are beautiful.

Life in Photos

aveline alenka is 16 weeks old

baby aveline alenka - 16 weeks old

baby aveline alenka - 2 days old - hand crocheted cotton hat - lime green and pink

can you believe it? sixteen weeks already. i took the top photo this morning as she was lying on her quilt, looking at me with those huge eyes and impossibly squishable cheeks, melting my heart. she’s amazing. she babbles away non stop, and is becoming shockingly mobile (rolling and scooching and doing the worm).

she never stops moving. and she smiles dozens and dozens and dozens of times per day. she’s such a happy baby, and she’s growing up so fast. even looking at the other picture, it’s hard to believe she was ever just two days old. it seems like yesterday she was that tiny, but it also seems like a lifetime ago.

i can hardly remember what it was like before she was in our arms. i’m treasuring every single moment–even the sleepless ones.

Poetry & Words

letters to aveline: mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird

hush little baby now don't you cry / daddy loves you and so do i

dear aveline,

we didn’t sleep so well last night, you and i. (and daddy makes three). you tossed and turned until midnight, and then finally fell asleep at 12:30. you were up again at 2 and didn’t fall asleep until 3. up again at 5. i was so tired i could hardly see straight, but somehow just your tiny little presence, restless in my arms, filled me with happy joy.

you wouldn’t go back to sleep, so around 6:30 i started singing softly to you, hush little baby, don’t say a word / mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird…

and you smiled at me. you looked up through your little tears and red-rimmed eyes and smiled at me. …and if that mockingbird don’t sing / mama’s gonna buy you a diamond ring…

my heart melted, and just kept on melting …and if that diamond ring turns brass…

your eyes slowly fluttered closed, then opened again to look at me …mama’s gonna buy you a looking glass…

i heard soft clinking sounds coming from the kitchen, and smelled coffee in the air. …and if that looking glass gets broke…

you sighed, a deep, satisfied sigh, and drifted into a peaceful sleep as the first rays of dawn peeked through the windows and cast soft shadows over your sleeping body. i could feel my eyelids getting heavier and heavier. your daddy walked into the room, set a fresh cup of coffee down on the bedside table, kissed my forehead, and said, you can drink it later.

and then we slept, baby. you and i. after that restless night, we slept.

so hush little baby / don’t you cry / daddy loves you / and so do i

love, your mama