Day 37

6 Feb

Dear Dad,

Sometimes I like to write poems– no one make fun of me. When I was a teenager, I wrote poems a lot because I was so full of raw emotion and, you know, teenaged angst. Real funny stuff about how nobody understood me, I’m sure. But now I like to write poems that are actually readable.

I like to write about things I see, moments that strike me as particularly needing to be put down on paper and captured, and about people I’m around. Lately, I’ve written a lot about my kids.

Okay, a lot about Lazarus mostly.

Zoe and I, at times, are more like adversaries than a perfect mommy-daughter team. I love her and her spunk, and she is very affectionate right back at me; but she’s also 2 (nearly 2.5) right now, and we have to work a lot on obedience. She’s lovable and fun, but a ton of real work and effort. (Our relationship has always been slightly strained– admittedly mostly on my side of things– because of her surprise conception and my own issues with my mom… things that I’m trying to work through and deal with and hope and pray to not pass on to her.) I love her very much, but she’s no longer a baby. She’s developing into her own person which is hard work for all of us.

But Lazarus is a little baby-love. I know that one day very soon he, too, will be telling me and trying to run across the parking lot. And I try to enjoy his baby-ness as much as possible. And that’s turned into a couple of poems about his sweet little nose or his bowed legs.

I do wish they’d both be babies forever, but I suppose there’s something to them become whole, grown people, too. I guess.

It’s hard to love grown ups. They come prepackaged with their own disfunction and world views. They’re not easy to love simply because. And I worry about this fact, too, when I think about you.



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