With butterfly wing in palm
Hickory nuts woo her through woods
And she asks questions
Old enough now
For me to be left incapable
Of answering
How can I respond
cotton-mouthed reluctance
Keeps the words
Trapped
Fearful of the truthful
Consequence of her
Coming-of-age reality
Her butterfly wing
Crumbles apart at
The soft blow from her lips
Falls to the ground
In pieces
Carrying my lost words
Back to the Earth.
All it takes is one pic
Twenty minutes on their blog
And I’m sold
For ten grand we could
Buy that bike
Load up our trailer
And pedal into the
Vacation of my dreams.
You (and everyone else)
Would say we’re as crazy
As Icarus flying his chariot
Too close to the sun.
But I will always know
(we will always know)
That before the wax melted,
He burned a trail of glory
(we’ll burn a trail of glory)
That all of us can see behind us
For the remainder of our lives.
What he does if you need to know
(really? it’s been five years)
is wake up one morning girl
and two obstinately not-morning girls
arguing with them to
go to the bathroom, get dressed,
eat breakfast, brush teeth,
and get out the door
before most people have left for work.
Alone, because I have usually
left already to enjoy a bike ride to school
(something he allows me to do
every day if I want, without question)
and even if they don’t want to do
any of it, with his patient words,
his no-nonsense attitude,
he convinces them to obey.
What next? You’d be amazed.
Takes Mythili back and forth
to preschool, setting timers for
snack and show-and-tell reminders,
grocery shopping with Riona in tow,
plans a menu that is healthy
(and that they’ll all eat, and that
we can afford), cooks and does dishes,
sets out my morning coffee and oatmeal,
cleans the house top to bottom every Friday,
(have you ever seen Dad use a vacuum?)
budgets and pays all our bills,
takes the girls to the park,
the zoo, the museum,
sets up play dates
and manages homework.
All without one critical word,
with the sensitive nurturing
every child needs and deserves,
all so that our evenings are calm,
relaxed, child-filled (not errand-filled),
so that we have a home, not a house.
What does he do, you ask?
Have you not seen our spotless home,
tasted our delectable dinners,
thrived on his technological advice,
and witnessed firsthand those
small arms reaching out for Daddy?
Let me apologize.
Perhaps you have not been blinded by love,
or perhaps in your narrow world of
work, work, work,
you have forgotten (or never knew)
what a happy family,
a perfect husband,
looks like.
Riona
You were getting into bed last night
still waiting for us to cover you up
when you told me a story,
your three-and-a-half-year-old
version of a story
“I had to get my piwow
and then I saw that Snoopy wasn’t
he-ah, so I got Snoopy and
put him down they-ah,
and it’s my Snoopy not Isabewa’s
she thought he was hers
but that one’s mine.”
And I realize as I write this
that I have a poet
for my youngest daughter,
and if not a poet,
a poem.
Mythili
Holding your stomach all
through the crowded mall
you let me know
it was time to go
you rushed to the van
holding out your hand
“I need my blankey
I need my blankey”
the door opened wide
and you dashed inside
five minutes couldn’t pass
with your eyes turning glass
your fingers curled silk
like it was mother’s milk
your lids relaxed
sleep came fast
and all was calm in Mythili land
because of the blankey in your hand.
Isabella
Turning seven to you
means a tea party
filled with pink cupcakes
and a houseful of girls
daintily sipping from china cups
only to abandon the table
for screaming pursuits
of chopped-up white snowflakes
foam doilies and spilled glitter glue,
cat chasings and scavenger hunts
whose competition almost drew blood
a smile on your face
as you hand out goodie bags
blow out your candles
and remark more than once,
“Three hours is not long enough.”
Happy birthday my love,
my first child
whose energy fills our lives
for every waking moment.
here we are
in our pajamas
munching on
leftover tea sandwiches
(mozzarella tomato,
tuna salad,
strawberry cream cheese)
before six o’clock
on Valentine’s Day
just hours beyond
a house filled with girls
in dress-up clothes
(dresses with puffy sleeves
and hems at the ankles)
who sipped from
white china cups
and licked pink
cream cheese frosting
off heart-shaped
red velvet cupcakes.
there are five of us now,
poor Daddy outnumbered
(even the dog is a girl)
and we share a box
of chocolates for dessert
given to our oldest daughter
(who celebrated seven years today)
by her boyfriend,
each girl picking out
a different fruity flavor.
and I think, as my youngest
takes a bite she doesn’t like and
brings her chocolate to my lips,
how unromantic this is,
yet
so very filled with love
on Valentine’s Day.
I am from a tire swing that never stops
a stone wall made by hand
to match the house with the crown molded ceilings
(I can still see the corona of flowers)
window panes as thin as ice
(and covered with it too)
thick foam shutters that my mom
decorated a different color in every room,
choosing fabrics to match the walls
(sewing with her ladylike hands and expertise)
I am from early mornings before dark
the backseat of a brown Nova
hot coffee spilling on the vinyl
on the way to the newspaper
and the babysitter who lived next
to the pig farm
(I loved to hold those piglets)
I am from a lonely empty house
and Flint Creek, full of black snakes in summer
covered in ice for skating
and sledding down the banks in winter
and the swamp behind the schoolyard
(surely too dangerous for Jen and I)
that sucked a shoe off my foot
in a quicksand moment that my penniless
mother would never forgive
(it was pink and blue—I was six)
I am from “Now that you’re old enough”
(chores that never ended)
to “That’s enough”
(sister fights that left scars)
and “That’s not the way you do it”
(snatches of mop, rag, vacuum, glass)
I am from the Dowlings but with the Jordan blood
(and it’s that blood that stings)
hand-me-down shoes, shirts, and bicycles,
the store that sold Bazooka gum for three cents
and fireballs for ten
I am from Dewey Avenue (do we or don’t we?)
the secret steps that led to Jen’s house
parents whose work stole them from me
and the maple that stood in the yard
holding the tire swing with one loyal limb
shading the upstairs porch we slept on all summer
growing there before I ever came into this world
(and I know it’s still there, waiting for me to remember,
to always remember, where I am from)
I am going to write for several days about a question that I often encounter from many people who tell me, time and again, that they think it is impossible for their families to live on one salary. To me, after so many years of hearing this, I find it almost offensive when I hear people say that. If it is possible for us, why can’t it be possible for other people? We are certainly not wealthy by any means. I make $50,000, but when we started doing this, my salary was just $37,800.
So many people are losing their jobs now that this might be something they not only have to consider, but have to live with. So these few blog posts will be about how we do it.
In 2005 I was happily staying home with my two young children and taking care of another little girl for $550 a month while my husband worked full time earning about $40,000 per year. We had a comfortable life, filled with vacations, and were able to save a little money every month. Then he received the news that his job would be coming to an end within six months, and I knew what I was going to have to do: go back to work. As much as I hated the idea of working and leaving my then-two-and-a-half-year-old and nine-month-old at home without me, I didn’t want to lose everything we had. Part of that everything, as a personal and VERY important choice for us, was keeping our kids out of daycare. Bruce never went to daycare growing up and had a very close relationship with his mother. I, on the other hand, spent my childhood with various babysitters, and have too many negative experiences to count (nothing horrific—just neglectful). So that was one of the many priorities we had in mind when we were faced with this challenge.
We made a plan. The first part, as difficult as this was to accept at the time, was to eliminate all debts other than our mortgage. Unfortunately, the only way for us to do this was to completely drain our $12,000 in savings. We paid off the rest of my small student loans, our credit card debt, and a loan we had taken to put siding on our house. This brought our bills down by $230 a month, which may not sound like a lot, but it can make a huge difference.
One thing that we did not have, which most people do, was a car payment. Both of us had cars and both were long paid off. I think this is the single most important factor determining a family’s ability to live on one salary. In my opinion, there is almost NO reason to ever have a car payment. What is the purpose of a car? It is to get you where you need to go. There is no reason that I can imagine why anyone should ever buy a new car. And if you need to upgrade to a larger car, as we found out later that same year, expecting baby number three, that we would need to do, find a way to make it work! We used our tax refund ($4000) and sold our old Explorer ($3000) and bought a minivan with cash.
So, to return to my story, the only debt we had, and more or less still have, is our mortgage, which in my mind hardly counts as debt. Another thing to consider is where you live. We certainly don’t live in a fancy house in the most beautiful neighborhood around. We live in, gasp, Aurora!! Ghetto central, right? Come on, your home is what you make it. We have never experienced any crime that I know of. We don’t lock our doors—car or house. We live in a quiet cul-de-sac that our kids play out in with the neighbors’ kids just about every day of the year—similar to any other cul-de-sac in any other suburb, but without the fancy HOA or whatever it is that makes people feel so special about where they live. That being said, our house payment is around $1400 a month.
When I first started working, I was bringing home $2600. Ouch. Do the math. That left us just $1200 for all the rest of our bills. Much higher than the 51% or less of the take-home income that you would get approved for if you were applying for a mortgage… But we did it… and if you read tomorrow’s blog post, I will tell you how.
