Tag Archives: baby

pricey coffees and stubborn weeds

the other day, I dropped Ryan off at a Saturday appointment,
and stopped at the coffeehouse to kill some time
the baby chewed on wooden train cars,
and i sipped my mug of hot muddy drip-brewed black,
the first quarter cup marred by my irritation at the 2.15$ pricetag.

I got over it,
and settled in to read Robert Sund poems
liked this bit especially:
“we walked across a lavender carpet/while the pastel lights sent cheap violins weeping through the air/ trying to break us/between the rows of luxurious coffins”

two men walked in
both middle aged
with a blue-collar aspect about them
they ordered soy cappuccinos
which surprised me.

as i wrestled the squirming back-arching baby into his carseat,
the men walked past,
and stopped on the sidewalk nearby
to discuss the electronic ankle bracelet one of them was wearing
he pulled up the leg of his jeans
and they both looked at it,
neither seemed particularly upset or ashamed
and i decided they were old friends
brothers maybe
who had been looking forward to that cappuccino for some time.

later, the sun came out
i put the baby down for a nap, attacked the weed-choked garden beds with a hoe
ended up on my hands and knees, digging at the roots with my fingers
they ran deep, and resisted my efforts
and i thought: assumptions are the same way
but if you don’t mind a little dirt under your nails,
it is possible to uproot them

totally unrelated to this blog post. but pictures are fun. Callum and Assata.


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Filed under Ordinary

Annie jumped the fence this morning

Annie. Photo credit Andrea Fuentes-Diaz. http://www.afdphotography.com

Annie jumped the fence this morning
I drove loops around our neighborhood
Staring in vain down alleys
Hoping for a flash of white
But the only sightings were plastic
grocery bags on the wind

Stopped at the park down the street
Breastfed the baby in the drivers seat
And watched a dozen ducks startle
all at once scattering from the reeds
all at once settling together,
In a unified splashdown

At the church on 14th, the readerboard says only
Jesus forgive me.
The skies are slate grey and a cold rain begins to fall sideways
Pelting the clouds of pink and white blossoms
which burst from their buds a week ago,
and are now looking sort of sheepish,
like the girl in the flashy dress who showed up early for the party.
La Nina spring, they say.

I circle around the elementary school many times,
watch parents ushering their tiny backpack-clad progeny

go home to change the baby’s diaper, and
the neighbor from the strange yellow house across the street
comes down the driveway
to breathlessly inform me Annie’s been in her chicken coop
100 yards away this whole time.
there are few survivors, she says.
she has Annie locked in her house,
and i walk across the street to reclaim her
there is no sign of chicken carnage,
i catch a glimpse of the inside of the home
it’s the sort of scene you see on tv shows about hoarders,
dim and impossibly cluttered, with only a narrow aisle to navigate.
She rushes off somewhere,
and I’m left wondering what the bill will be

a friend calls to tell me of tragic losses.
i navigate rush hour traffic to pick up the car at the mechanic in lake city
as i drive onto the Alaska Way Viaduct
the radio plays a commentary on the likelihood of a tragic viaduct collapse
the rain is unrelenting
the card won’t go through at the mechanic
and i sit on the phone with the bank
until its sorted out
transfer the carseat out of the loaner car
as sheets of rain soak through my sweater
and crawl back into rush hour traffic in the other direction to pick up Ryan

on Northgate Way, i pass a protest at Planned Parenthood
women holding aborted fetus posters in the downpour
across the street a bedraggled man holds a damp sign
that says only
I need help.
I want to support his campaign but he’s on the wrong
side of the street

my husband and I drive back across town
to attend our weekly class on karma and the 12 Links of Inderdependent Origination
the baby crawls among the class participants,
making new sounds and playing everyone’s water bottles
and I stare through the big windows
at cherry blossoms hovering in the dark
thinking about effect
and cause


Filed under Assata and Annie, basic goodness, Dharma, stories, watching it all go by

Like Instructions for Dancing

This morning, I took the dogs outside
the neighbor’s chickens cackled
and a foghorn sounded a few blocks to the west
softskinned baby on my shoulder drinking the world in without concept
the squash plants are dying off in the garden
inside again, i realize:
when confronted with eight wet dog feet while holding a baby,
bending over to dry them is impractical.
it is easiest to simply follow them around the house,
pushing a towel across the floor with one’s toes
in so doing, i notice how much their footprints
are like instructions for dancing
and so we do

(listening to “i was made to love her,” Stevie Wonder)

Annie and Assata, photo by Andrea Fuentes-Diaz


Filed under Assata and Annie, autumn weather, basic goodness, Garden, gratitude, love, meditation, motherhood, Ordinary, outside, poetry, stories, watching it all go by