Position: Parent

Must be an excellent spin-doctor. Must be patient, consistent, and creative. Medical, teaching, debating, and policing skills; ability to clean up puke in strange places; tears on small faces; to help heal hurt feelings and mend broken hearts: Required.

Assets: Thinking on your feet, running with sore feet; willingness to play the same (physical and mental) games over and over, to enthusiastically pretend to like the hokey-pokey and later, try to understand the latest teen craze; to explain things you don’t really understand yourself, to be fair and flexible and admit all your mistakes.

No paid vacations or medical benefits.
Hours: Long and variable.
Must accept frequent schedule changes without notice.
Pay: You’re joking, right?
Rewards: Endless.

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.

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?”

Perspective

Sick kid. Snow day.
Six-feet of white flakes at the end of
our driveway. At minus 30
with the wind chill,
my little one and I can only stand
and stare out the frosted panes.
I sigh:  boring day ahead.
“Cooold” she mumbles,
then sneezes and stumbles off,
drunken sailor style.

At nap time I check my email.
Good news: my interview with the
Peat-Bog Mummy researcher
is on for next week. Another hour
writing about spiders gives me shivers.
I set it aside, go make green tea,
wake my groggy girl.

Let’s make a lovely dress for Cinderelley, Cinderelley
Bippitty Boppitty Bippitty Boppitty Bippitty Boppitty
I might be sick myself if I have to hear that song
one more time today. Tick tick tick. 4 p.m.
Just three more hours, then Daddy’s home.
Perchance to sleep? Perchance to
soak in a bath with bubbles.

Before logging off for the day
I Google “Women in Iraq,”
Click on the daily Iraq Violence Report.
57 civilians killed in Iraq today alone,
most of them women and children.

My daughter’s small voice
singing in my memory, I read on:
Many Iraqi women have never worn
that smothering, submissive scarf,
but now, dead bodies of women and girls
are being found in rivers, on waste grounds;
veils tied tightly around their heads:
a clear message from extremists.

My cheeks kiss a soft pillow;
My own message clear.
Amen for sick days, for snow days,
for bubbles and Bippitty Bop.

Amen for boring.

Holiday Checklist

This Christmas, I am telling
my inner Super Mom to
leave the building.

In the pre-Christmas chaos
I will remember to breathe
while juggling the buying
flying shopping shipping
put-it-on-plastic
happy hoopla
pot luck and good luck
trying to squeeze into
last year’s
little black dress.

Multi-tasking to the point
of burn out will no longer
be my middle name.
I will not apologize
or feel inferior
if the cards are late or
the presents aren’t perfectly
gift-wrapped or
the kids look like baboons
in the family photo.

This Christmas
I won’t trip over my words
when I start to say Merry Christmas
to someone celebrating Hannukah.
Screw political correctness, this year
I will remember what’s truly important:
opening a door for a senior
giving food and clothes to the homeless
teaching the children it’s not all
about that guy in the red suit.

This Christmas
I will put on John and Yoko’s
Happy Christmas (War Is Over)—
And listen.
No. Really, truly listen.

Another year over
And what have I done?

And so happy Christmas,
for black and for white,
for the yellow and red ones,
Let’s stop all the fight.

This Christmas
I will be still

between the turkey
and the silly paper hats
between the wine
and the goodnight kisses

I will find my true North star,
make a wish for the world and
count my blessings,
every one.

Poem and photograph
copyright 2008 Heather Grace Stewart, Where the Butterflies Go
http://www.hgrace.com

If you’d like to read more poems like this, please check out my poetry collection at
http://www.lulu.com/content/1506907
or email/ message me if you’re interested in signed copies.