March 11: When You're a Kid, Natasha Trethewey, "Flounder"

It isn't easy trying to figure out who you are when you're a kid.  My eight-year-old son has tried tee-ball and hated it.  My 16-year-old daughter used to love wearing pink as a little girl.  Now, it's jeggings and vintage tees.  I have a whole cabinet full of Barbie and Dora movies.  Last year, my son was totally into Nerf guns.  He doesn't really touch his arsenal any more.

I don't envy kids these days.  The world is very complicated.  Changing all the time.  Trying to figure out your place in it, that's not an easy thing.  I wouldn't be a teenager again for a billion dollars.  Well, maybe a billion, but it would have to be tax-free.

Saint Marty wouldn't mind reliving his thirties, but without all the problems with mental illness and addictions and George W. Bush.

Flounder

by:  Natasha Trethewey

Here, she said, put this on your head.

She handed me a hat.

You ’bout as white as your dad,

and you gone stay like that.

Aunt Sugar rolled her nylons down

around each bony ankle,

and I rolled down my white knee socks

letting my thin legs dangle,

circling them just above water

and silver backs of minnows

flitting here then there between

the sun spots and the shadows.

This is how you hold the pole

to cast the line out straight.

Now put that worm on your hook,

throw it out and wait.

She sat spitting tobacco juice

into a coffee cup.

Hunkered down when she felt the bite,

jerked the pole straight up

reeling and tugging hard at the fish

that wriggled and tried to fight back.

A flounder, she said, and you can tell

’cause one of its sides is black.

The other side is white, she said.

It landed with a thump.

I stood there watching that fish flip-flop,

switch sides with every jump.

Setember 25: Morning Mishap, Bowling Birthday Party, Classic Saint Marty

This morning started out a little rough.  Had a little mishap with my new car that will involve some body work.  Nobody was hurt.  No police report needed to be filed.  It was an unfortunate mistake, and I will have to deal with the insurance company tomorrow.  However, I didn't let it ruin the day.  Didn't have time for that.

Just got done with my son's birthday party at a local bowling alley.  As of last night, we knew of only two kids who were going to be attending.  Two.  This morning, two more parents called to RSVP.  That brought the total up to four.  I made twenty gift bags last night, just in case.

So, as we were sitting at a table in the bowling alley, I was a little apprehensive, hoping that my son's cousins would show up soon.  And then little kids carrying presents started showing up.  One, two, three, four, five, six and seven together, and on and on.  We ended up with about twelve kids.  We had to order an extra pizza to feed everybody.

It was a good party, with my son running around with his friends.  He got about 500 Nerf guns (which he requested) and a new winter coat from his aunties (which I requested).  I was simply happy that I didn't have to pay strange kids to show up.  Last night, my son was worried that nobody was going to show up for him.  Today, he had a whole posse.


Tomorrow, my son will be officially eight years old.  The thing he's most excited about:  he no longer has to be in a car seat.  "I'll be a big boy tomorrow," he told me.  He's growing up way too fast, just like my daughter.

Today's episode of Classic Saint Marty first aired two years ago, when my son was in first grade.

September 25, 2014:  My Son, Terry Godbey, "Smelling My Son"

Tomorrow is my son's birthday.  He will be six years old.

That number seems impossible to me.  I can't believe it's been that long since I first saw his squirming, naked form in the neonatal intensive care unit.  He was screaming at the top of his lungs, pissed off at a world where nurses and doctors were poking, prodding, stretching, and diapering him.  Wanting only to be warm and fed and asleep.

He has his struggles now, with kids on the playground, with his own impulsive mind.  But he is a genuinely good boy.  Terry Godbey has a poem about her son that I love.  It's from her newest collection of poems Hold Still.

Saint Marty dedicates this post to his beautiful boy.

Smelling My Son

by:  Terry Godbey

Leaning close to kiss his cheek,
I inhale the heady tea
of crushed wild grasses
and goldfish crackers,
the buttery fragrance
of baby flesh, lingering.

He snores softly,
the sound a dog makes
when someone it loves
gets too near the food dish.
I lie down beside him.

He cried on Christmas
after biting off the head
of a chocolate bear
with a large red heart,
his first taste of cruelty,
the treat spoiled.
But he is a different boy
at bedtime, devious,
willing to do anything
to stay up late, scattering
toys like cookie crumbs.

I, too, was devious,
willing to do anything
to trick my ovaries,
satisfy my craving.

Each night I stand over his crib
terrified the rise and fall
of his blanket
will stop,
remembering all my children
who never got to take their first breaths.

Happy birthday, buddy