childhood – Erin Strybis

I want to remember you like this

Immersed in the world of Dogman,
our dog curled against your chest,
your head resting atop the mega Pikachu pillow,
one leg dangling off the leather couch,
and laughter bubbling out of your mouth.
What I like most about you now is that
when you’re reading, you’re completely at ease.

I want to remember you like this, too:
Handsome in your chambray shirt,
standing tall with a genuine grin,
your hands anchoring your little brother’s shoulders.
Chances are high that he kicked you before this photo
— you are his nemesis and his idol —
still, you keep answering the call to lead
and love your brother (sometimes giving tough love).
I am awed by your nurturing spirit.

I need to remember you like this:
Far away from me, eyes locked on the horizon,
pointing to something unknown.
Was it the waves breaking?
The impossibly blue sky?
All I know is that, going to the beach was your idea
you asked us all summer when we could go,
and on Labor Day, the wind was whipping like crazy,
but you got your wish.

After I took this photo, you sprinted toward Lake Michigan,
your little brother (naturally) at your heels, by the time you reached
the water, your sunny blonde hair was tousled and sandy. Eyes shining,
you stepped into the tide. Gripping your brother’s hand, I watched. For the first time, I wasn’t afraid if you could hold your own, because this summer, you swam like a fish at the pool. Still you stayed nearby
(a small mercy on a day when the waves were wild),
you even came back to me the first time I called.

One day sooner than I’d like, you’ll swim away for good. Like the stones
your brother collects from the shore, I store up this truth
to revisit later. Today you’re still my boy, content at home
and also pulled toward adventure. I want to cherish you at eight —
so ebullient, so bright.

This poem is dedicated to my son Jack; today is his eighth(!) birthday. The title of this piece was inspired by poet Michelle Windsor.

First snow

Glittering from the heavens
“Stick out your bubblegum tongue,”
I say. “Taste a bit of magic.”

Whole cars are swallowed
Gardens and rooftops blanketed
Take this messy world and make it
cool clean sparkling bright

My son dives in
Soon he’s swimming in sugar
Sifting it with his mittens
Floating on his back, beaming at the sky
Leaving behind imprints of angel wings

And when the 6:00 church bells
start chiming “Joy to the World”
he says,
“Mommy, let’s dance!”

So we twirl and twirl and twirl
in that fine snow
Cool clean sparkling bright.

Some Things You Never Forget

The first time you swam
you leaped into the pool,
trusted the strength of your arms and legs,
let the swell of water carry you forward,
triumphant in your magenta swimsuit.

The call that made you sink
to your knees in dread,
“Cancer,” the doctor said,
and your world stopped turning for an instant.

Your first big heartbreak —
dumped before senior year —
you thought he was “the one,”
he wanted to date around,
you ran all summer to ease the pain,
you grew beautiful and resilient.

Your wedding day —
facing your soulmate in the chapel,
warm, white light streaming down on you,
promising to love and cherish each other
until the day you die,
exchanging rings, kissing,
basking in his goodness.

Your first dog,
whom you’ll always adore,
how, as a puppy, he curled up
in your arms and looked into your eyes
and made you feel safe, known and loved.

The dog who bit you,
and drew blood.
You thought he was gentle,
you thought you could trust him,
but he was a wolf all along.

The one you called when you were in trouble,
who held you when you howled in pain,
who cleaned the wound,
kissed the scar
and healed you.

I could call him a wonder

Today is Adam’s first birthday. From our couch, I watch him cruise the living room, weaving in and out of midwinter sunbeams. He picks up a blue building block and passes it through the mail slot of our front door. Turning to me, he exclaims “Da-da-da!” while I hover my pen over my notebook.

“Good job, baby!” I reply, setting my pen down. I’m trying to think of a metaphor that encapsulates his spirit, but everything I write sounds stale. I guess love does that to you, doesn’t it? Sometimes love leaves you wide-eyed and bewitched, unable to translate the heft of your feelings into words.

Some call the first years of a child’s life “the wonder years” and for good reason. A year ago Adam was just a tiny babe who wanted nothing more than the comfort of my arms, but now he’s crawling and toddling. He’s hungry for new tastes and faces and experiences. And I’m stuck wondering how he underwent metamorphosis before my very eyes. How did he turn from shy smiles to rich giggles? How did he outgrow those tiny onesies? How did he move from tummy time to banging pots in the kitchen?

If my life was a sonnet, Adam would be the volta, the turning point where the speaker shifts her focus and entertains a new perspective. He burst into my world and gave me the courage to claim a new beginning. He was born the day Kim and I received an offer to write The Beauty of Motherhood. He was by my side as I wrestled words to the page in the midst of feeding and diaper duty. He woke me over and over at night and taught me there’s beauty in the darkness. He’s helped me laugh, slow down and appreciate the person I’ve always been and who I am becoming.

I read today that we’re approaching the halfway mark between winter and summer. Outside snow dresses the ground, trees and homes in our neighborhood. Steam rises and twists in the twenty degree air. Inside Adam abandons his game and scrambles toward me. I gather him up in a bear hug, relishing the warmth of his love. I could call him a wonder. I could call him a turning point. I could call him the midwinter sun.

Our world

after “This World” by Mary Oliver

I would like to create a home
in which there are rarely any messes,
but that seems impossible
given the fact that children live here,
considering the Legos that sprinkle
our playroom floor and prick
our soles,
a deck of cards fanned out
across the coffee table,
oodles of library books littering
the kids’ bedrooms, each object a portal
to another realm where imagination reigns
and couch cushions meld
into the body of a race car,
a swingset transforms
into a shuttle rocketing to Mars,
stones unearthed
from the flowerbeds become
marble.

“We could be rich!”
my son cries, cradling his prizes,
holding them out to me like offering.
Dirt speckles his grin,
dresses his hands and feet,
piles next to him on the patio,
I sigh,
send him to rinse up, pick up my phone
and scroll the news,
confronting a barrage of harshness.
I sigh again,
but he laughs, unaware,
spraying his palms clean with the garden hose
— or is it a fire-breathing dragon?

(I would like to create a world
in which there are rarely any messes
but that seems impossible
given the fact that humans live here,
and they keep hurting
each other.)

I glance at my son’s hands,
fresh and five years young,
whatever they graze
shape-shifts from ordinary
to extraordinary.
Could they fashion
marble from our muck?
Maybe
we could be rich.

This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale — an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series “Ordinary Inspiration.”

Because one day . . .

Lately my desire to document the days has felt stronger than usual.

Maybe it’s because my due date is rapidly approaching. And that our firstborn turns five at the end of January, which means kindergarten’s on the horizon for him.

The days of big belly kicks and no diapers will be ending soon, and I want to remember what life looked like before our family expands.

Because one day Jack won’t fit in my lap when it’s “time for watching.”

One day he won’t dash into our bed upon waking and shimmy next to me under the warm covers.

One day he won’t scatter Hot Wheels like breadcrumbs near the baseboards, in the bookshelves or across the coffee table.

One day he won’t subsist on Cheez-Its, hot dogs and small gulps of air.

One day he won’t want to wear “cozy pants” with his favorite Superman shirt, worn soft from overuse.

One day he won’t say, “Wanna hear some rock-n-roll?” and plink the keys on his tiny piano. (Actually, I’m fine losing the tiny piano.)

One day he won’t race around the yard in circles, breathless at the sight of stars.

One day he won’t craft jewelry out of pipe cleaners and beads and present it to me proudly.

One day he won’t ask his dad to build him a race car from a giant cardboard box.

One day he won’t make snow angels and sand angels and leaf angels with glee.

One day he won’t cup my face in his hands and kiss my lips before he falls asleep.

One day his habits will change and his whole perspective will widen.

Because one day soon he’ll be a big brother. What a gift to see him grow.

// Inspired by Joy Becker’s “Because one day you won’t” series.

Tag Archives: childhood