The map of our lives takes us down many roads like a heartbeat in the light
we chug roughly around each bend no matter how treacherous the road
no matter how long or hard, I will always travel it with you
we bullet across long stretches of desert highways
we choke on earth spewed from our tires kicking rocks off caliche roads
we test sharp twists and turns of mesas
we cruise through canopied forests, blind to dangers within
we slam to stops, just to rev up and go again
we rush through busy cities, jumping from one place to the next
we jam up in traffic, white knuckled and sore
we feel fury breathing down our necks when we have no drive
we fly to the tops of rollercoasters only to fall back down again
we stumble over rocky roads and slide across sharp crags
we travel unknown terrain through forbidden alcoves
we find hidden trails with secret treasures
we ponder forks and intersections
we take many u-turns
we've been here before
but, no matter how long or hard, I will always travel it with you
©Pamela N. Brown 02172014
Monday, February 17, 2014
Friday, January 3, 2014
The Things Kids Say
Now that my eldest son is grown and youngest son is just several months from adulthood, I find myself thinking back to things that they did or said when they were very young. One in particular stands out more than any other and makes me smile each time that I think of it.
I had taken the boys to Toddler Time at the Michigan City, Indiana library. Dyl was not a member of the group, as it was for children two and older only, and he had not quite hit two yet. However, not having a babysitter, Dyl tagged along anyway, and the librarian in charge did not mind him being there.
Damien was still communicating with sign language, points, and grunts, but Dyl was talking and talking very well for his age. A side note: It was through Dyl's developing language skills that we actually realized how far behind Damien was in language, which lead to his early diagnosis of autism.
Anyway, after the librarian was finished reading the weekly story, the children all gathered around the table for their snacks. As soon as the book was closed, Dyl began to chatter away to other children, mothers, and anybody that would turn her head Dyl's way. I overheard Dyl tell one of the mothers, "Momma gots poo-poo. I gots poo-poo. Suh-shy (Dyl's pronunciation of Sunshine, Damien's nickname) gots poo-poo."
The young mother snarled her nose and walked away. Dyl toddled after tugging at her skirt. "Momma gots poo-poo, I gots poo-poo, Suh-shy gots poo-poo on shirt."
Again, the mother snarled her nose and turned away from my son. I looked at Dyl's shirt first, before looking down at mine and over to Damien's, and I realized what he was talking about. Dyl, Damien, and I all had a similar element on our shirts, Winnie-the-Pooh.
Noticing his frustration with the young mother as he toddled after her again, I decided it was time that I intercede. I swooped up Dyl and apologized to the young mother, "I am sorry that he is bothering you. Dyl is just so excited about our new Winnie-the-Pooh shirts that he has to tell everyone."
The look on the annoyed mother's face softened before she burst out laughing. She replied, "Oh, I should have known! I am glad to know that you don't have hygiene problems."
Although the years have passed swiftly, this memory is one of Dyl that has stayed fresh in my mind. In a mere matter of seconds, he had given me a precious gift that I will always cherish, the words of a small child befuddled and clumsy. However, they are more than that to me. They are a memory that I can draw from a deep well to remind me how special this child will always be, to smile when I am feeling down, and to not take quick judgment on something I may not quite understand.
I had taken the boys to Toddler Time at the Michigan City, Indiana library. Dyl was not a member of the group, as it was for children two and older only, and he had not quite hit two yet. However, not having a babysitter, Dyl tagged along anyway, and the librarian in charge did not mind him being there.
Damien was still communicating with sign language, points, and grunts, but Dyl was talking and talking very well for his age. A side note: It was through Dyl's developing language skills that we actually realized how far behind Damien was in language, which lead to his early diagnosis of autism.
Anyway, after the librarian was finished reading the weekly story, the children all gathered around the table for their snacks. As soon as the book was closed, Dyl began to chatter away to other children, mothers, and anybody that would turn her head Dyl's way. I overheard Dyl tell one of the mothers, "Momma gots poo-poo. I gots poo-poo. Suh-shy (Dyl's pronunciation of Sunshine, Damien's nickname) gots poo-poo."
The young mother snarled her nose and walked away. Dyl toddled after tugging at her skirt. "Momma gots poo-poo, I gots poo-poo, Suh-shy gots poo-poo on shirt."
Again, the mother snarled her nose and turned away from my son. I looked at Dyl's shirt first, before looking down at mine and over to Damien's, and I realized what he was talking about. Dyl, Damien, and I all had a similar element on our shirts, Winnie-the-Pooh.
Noticing his frustration with the young mother as he toddled after her again, I decided it was time that I intercede. I swooped up Dyl and apologized to the young mother, "I am sorry that he is bothering you. Dyl is just so excited about our new Winnie-the-Pooh shirts that he has to tell everyone."
The look on the annoyed mother's face softened before she burst out laughing. She replied, "Oh, I should have known! I am glad to know that you don't have hygiene problems."
Although the years have passed swiftly, this memory is one of Dyl that has stayed fresh in my mind. In a mere matter of seconds, he had given me a precious gift that I will always cherish, the words of a small child befuddled and clumsy. However, they are more than that to me. They are a memory that I can draw from a deep well to remind me how special this child will always be, to smile when I am feeling down, and to not take quick judgment on something I may not quite understand.
Thursday, September 26, 2013
Creativity
I've lost my creativity;
I can't find it;
it's gone.
It gave me longevity,
the vast will to
live on.
No longer there for us to see,
invisible,
moved on.
You seen my creativity?
Bring it to me.
I'm wan.
©Pamela N. Brown
Thursday, August 22, 2013
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)