A Lighter Take On Swine Flu Pandemonium

I know it’s serious, and I pray no one else dies from this, but I can’t help making fun of the pandemonium and media frenzy that has taken place around the world; the pandemonium taking place today in my province, as people line up for six hours or more, people with chronic illnesses, with their babies and toddlers, standing in the freezing cold, hacking and coughing on each other, waiting to get this vaccine. There’s got to be a better way.

On Swine Flu

I’m standing in line,
and I’ve got a gun.
Gimme that shot for H1N1.

Roses are red, violets are blue.
Let’s make love; not swine flu.

And for your holiday cards:

Kiss me, Santa Baby,
but don’t use tongue.
Let’s not spread H1N1.

Discipline

“Don’t hit your brother.”
“Don’t fight!”
“We don’t hurt people. It’s not nice.”
On the playground, at the grocery store,
on children’s TV shows;
out of our grown-up mouths.
Hear it, believe it, repeat it.

“Don’t fight.” “Don’t hit.”
Drill it into their moldable minds
like an annoying Internet ad,
always in the background.
Be effective parents.
Be consistent; be real.
Teach them about non-violence,
sharing, honesty—
Life’s greatest lessons.

And when you find your youngest
colouring the National Post in purple,
his innocent fingers tracing the truth:
Fighting in the Gaza Leaves 18 Dead;
Pudgy, Band Aid-patched legs
barely covering gruesome photos of
“necessary hits” on families like yours,
hits justified by fear, by greed—
by nothing at all,

Don’t see it, don’t believe it,
Don’t bother to explain it.
Only now learning to read,
he’ll flash an oblivious smile,
his crayons erasing the dead.

'At War' by Heather Grace Stewart

On being wired differently

“Our home will be the only super-wired
house on our block!”
you grin at me amid a mess of wires
that fall two stories from our new master bedroom,
branching out like octopus arms to a spot
below the basement stairs.

I think you’ve gone mad.

It’s nearly midnight as I hold a flashlight
up for you to find the missing link.
We haven’t eaten, but you’re being fed
by some crazy kind of adrenaline—
and I, by the passion in your eyes,
as you realize your brilliant scheme
plotted back in March when this house
was just concrete and mud.

It’s nearly one a.m. now;
we flutter about the house
like moths in the moonlight;
You, humming as you wire us for life,
and I, listening to the crickets,
content in the darkness,
in this space that will be our jungle;

In this place you and I have marked
and called home.

Wired by Heather Grace Stewart

Honey-Do List

I’ve been meaning to tell you.
There was this guy, Mike—
I think that was his name—
on TV today.

Mike can kick himself in the head
over and over and over,
twenty-five times in one minute.

It gave me this idea.
A time-saving technique.
When we’re fighting about
nothing and everything all at once;
When you’ve just said it’s only PMS,
and I’m glaring at you with that
“You’re so not getting laid tonight!” look;
When you’re throwing your
hands up in the air, yelling,
“What do you want from me?”

Give Mike a call.
Learn how to do that.

There Will Be Giants

I was watching the morning news with our 4-year-old daughter, and couldn’t help but say aloud, “Oh no, Ted Kennedy died.”

I usually try to hide the heavier topics from her but for some reason, I didn’t this time. I thought she could handle it.

“Who was he?” she asked me.

“A pretty important politician in the States. People are going to be sad,” I replied.

She put her arm around me. “Well, did he get a chance to help people in the world before he died?”

I nearly spit out my coffee. “Yes, honey, I think all in all, he did.”

“Well, that’s good then.” And back she went to colouring Dora and Diego.

Everything became clearer to me in one short conversation with a four-year-old. We’ve lost a lot of Giants this summer,
but that loss seems a little less overwhelming when we look to the giant potential of our younger generations.

We just need to keep on listening to them, and pointing them in the right direction.

The Pilot

Little girl,
golden curls bouncing,
tries to run in
lime green rain boots.

“Hi Daddy! Look! It’s
Daddy!” she shrieks,
quickens her pace to greet him.
Arms up high.
Full speed ahead.
Lips pursed in concentration,
she jumps, groans, tries to
touch the sun.
We laugh, but
stop ourselves from
saying, “you can’t.”

Little girl,
golden curls bouncing,
runs home in rain boots,
dreaming of jet planes.

Promise

Today the lilacs opened;
and I almost missed it.

My spring tradition since childhood:
reaching up on my tippy toes,
plucking down a fresh bloom;
closing my eyes, memorizing that scent,
taking out the inner core, sucking
on the sweet nectar.

And I almost missed it.
I was distracted; glued to my computer screen,
stuck on my cell phone, head in the dirty laundry;
Caught up in things that just won’t matter
100 years from now.

Then you came home,
scooped up our busy
one-year-old, took us to a little lilac tree
you’d planted in our barren backyard.

The scent was so familiar, a reminder
strong and insistent like your
stubborn side,
damp petals poignant
grazing against my face.

So for a moment it was just the three of us,
carefree and content;
Surrounded by that powerful scent
and the promise of renewal:
The promise of purple.

'Promise' by Heather Grace Stewart

Responsibilities, Rewards

floppy head to hold oh so gently,
tiny fingernails to cut;
whispered breaths to check on in your sleep,
chubby rolls of baby skin to clean, dry,
dress in warm sleepers;
diaper rash to prevent,
cradle cap to clear up,
little rosebud lips to keep satisfied.
But when that mouth finally forms a smile,
the world stops spinning on its axis,
and all I can hear is the sweet song
that is your laughter.

'Pure' by Heather Grace Stewart

Spring walk

purple crocus buds
rise from their
winter beds;

spotted ladybugs
dance upon
our window panes;

one small hand
holds my hand;
holds my heart.

Spring awakening by Heather Grace Stewart

Questions you never thought you’d have to answer

Come on, come on. This red light is taking way too long.

I do a double take in my rearview mirror.

There’s a six-foot tall, broad framed guy standing on the main street corner of our small, family-friendly, stand-up-community, wearing a pink Easter Bunny suit.

He’s jumping up and down, madly waving at the passing cars, trying to get them into a Chocolaterie.  Or a Subway restaurant. What he’s selling is not completely clear.

What is clear is the guy is not having a Joyeuse Paques. I almost expect him to say,
“You lookin’ at me? You lookin’ at ME?”

Our four-year-old daughter doesn’t need a rearview mirror. From where she sits in her comfy car seat, he’s precisely in her line of view.  However, she’s more excited about the balloons tied around the corner lamppost than the guy in the bunny suit doing some silly dance.

“Oh, balloons!” she says gleefully, and I breathe a sigh of relief, thinking I’ve once again avoided answering questions I don’t want to answer.

You know, “Why’s the Easter Bunny standing on a street corner? Or “Why’s Santa look different in this mall?”

Then I notice the guy in the suit isn’t jumping anymore. He isn’t waving, either.

He’s leaning against the lamppost. He’s on his break.

The light turns green. Not fast enough.

“Mommy?” I hear her small voice hesitate, then gain power as she formulates the difficult question in her mind.

“Mommy? Why is there smoke coming out of the Easter Bunny’s mouth?”