All the Times I've Saved You

A little while ago, as I sat down to do some work, the baby started crying. It's well past her bedtime, so I went up to check on her, gave her a little bit of bottle, and got her re-settled. As I was leaving, I heard a weird noise. I ran back in the baby's room, and she was asphyxiating on her own vomit. I lifted her up, flipped her over, and patted her back until her airway was clear. Jillian was downstairs watching a movie and came up as I was doing this. Then she took Ellie to give her a bath, and I cleaned up everything.

I've lost count of how many times we've saved our daughter's life. It might seem like a melodramatic thing to say, but I think any parent would know what I'm talking about, here. And I don't mean that we're negligent, just that babies are fragile. I remember the first time -- it was similar to this time, which is why I'm thinking about it. Ellie was sick; I don't remember the details, but she was choking. Jillian took her to the bathroom, turned her over, patted her back, etc. Ellie got so scared she went to the bathroom, but we'd taken her diaper off to give her a bath. I remember seeing my wife tending to the baby while the baby made a mess on Jillian's clothes. I remember thinking that some people might've balked at that, but Jillian wasn't fazed. Of course, that's the kind of person she is. The other day, we were in the grocery store, and a kid -- maybe 3, 4 -- was messing with something on a shelf, fell over, and pulled it off the shelf and onto herself. She let out a howl, and Jillian ran to check on her, arriving just about at the same time as the mom. She's not a busybody; she's just a natural born mom. When there's a disaster, she fixes it.

I remember when we were still in the hospital, and Ellie couldn't nurse. We fed her from a bottle, but she would get so tired, she'd fall asleep before she got enough nutrients to really matter. So we had to hand feed her -- fill a syringe (sans the needle) with formula and squirt it in her mouth carefully. She was such a little thing, and we held her life so completely in our hands. I had been thinking about all the things I needed to do at work, all the bills we were acruing, all the obligations I was neglecting, but knowing that if I didn't get those nutrients into Ellie's body, she would die -- well, let's be honest, the nurses would hook her up to a machine, etc. Still, it felt real in a way that is hard to forget. Even now, I can't help but think how stupidly we've arranged our society when most of us don't actually get to see our kids and spouses for most of our lives. As if anything could be more important than this.

Ellie's sleeping, now, and I still smell a little like vomit. In the morning, I'll feed her oatmeal and get to spend about an hour with her before work, and then I'll hand her over to essentially a stranger to raise. I won't think about what might happen if Ellie chokes during the eight hours or so Jillian and I are away from her, or if she gets sick. I'll do what everybody else does and think about calls I need to make, deadlines and numbers. If everyone else does it, it must be right, right?

Miscellany

A couple years ago, a journal (I forget which one) put out a call for entries for an Ambrose Bierce-like 'Devil's Dictionary.'I sent a couple in and never actually heard back from them, so I'm assuming they didn't want them. I tried to emulate Bierce's style, which perhaps came off as verbose...so here's what I wrote:

Hope, n. A system of emotional credit in which the fruits of feeling are spent before the currency of accomplishment has been earned.

Truth, n. A very appealing lie often employed in discourse as a substitute for a sound and compelling argument. Spelled with a capital “T” to distinguish it from the more common lies.

* * *

Here are a couple poems I wrote about encounters with uber-religious types. Neither really seems to work. Too preachy, maybe. I'm still tinkering with them.

You Push I Push Back

The ex-priest spoke of women in the third person
to their faces, took us on a tour of churches of New
York, where the squirrels are segregated and rudeness
is considered style. He finished eating before we’d
even sat down. He was an old teacher of my wife’s father
and adored the man. When we walked in the door after a five
hour drive, he stood us in front of the piano to sing; “Start
again,” he’d say. “I don’t see how you could like anyone
who doesn’t like me,” my mother in law said to her husband,
who lost the smile he’d worn since we’d arrived.
___

The Other

It was the fat preacher who made us afraid
with his stories of shameful creatures
who shared our names. It was his dirty smile,
his greasy hair, the stains on his lapel
that made us uneasy when he talked about clean
souls. It was his belligerent children with torture
in their eyes who made us doubt his understanding
of the role of a father, in heaven or otherwise.

He told us to doubt ourselves, to trust the absurd
notion that life is anything other than joy and pain
and random collisions of matter. They’re coming
for us, he said. I’d be afraid to think, if I was like you,
he said; I might think something wrong.

* * *

Last one for today: another poem I might be giving up on.

Your Cousin is Lying

I never went cow-tipping, though once, Stephen
wasn't looking and backed into a sleeping one,
which got up, moved away, and sat back down—
because cows sleep bellies to the ground,
that's horses you're thinking of that sleep standing.

I never made moonshine, though I admit,
my father did, but that was at least a decade
before I was born. We smoked meth. Or pot
or drank stuff we filched from our parents' liquor
cabinets or coolers. We made things from eye drops
and allergy meds. We huffed glue. We sucked
aerosol cans. Why grow it, process it, hide
it when you can buy it? We're not farmers
anymore. We work at Wal Mart. We get discounts.

I never lynched anybody, but we shot each other
same as you do over the color of our
clothes and the contents of our
wallets. I dated black girls—well, I would've
if they'd have had me.

I'm just as educated as you: I've seen the same TV shows, sat
through the same droning lectures
based on the Prussian model.
If you were from here. you'd know;
it's just like there. Only not the same.