Headbanger
Little jackhammer on the infant road gang, pounding his head against the crib slats every midnight: whomping us awake one room away, wood creaking as if in high wind. My aunts asked is he a good baby meaning does he sleep? He was my first chance to get it all wrong, read the wrong books, follow the wrong doctor's wrong advice, nothing worked, he either cried or smacked his skull, child of extreme touch, barely started, and I'd ruined him, held him too much, he was all demand, he was screaming on the 3rd Street Promenade, market day, strapped in the BabyBjörn, his howl like a hand to the chest, pushing hard. Other mothers with muted kids, slinked eyes, looking without looking. The avocado man whispered oh long days and short, short years. Gave me free fruit in my bag. Always winging it, I carried him up three flights. Peace not from absence, but amplitude: motion, engine noises, he was calmest on the roof (small still breath) of our Santa Monica apartment listening to the big trucks on Wilshire Boulevard.
4 replies on “Headbanger”
Oh yes, every parent can identify with the theme of this poem. Why is it that so often our children are so well behaved within the walls of our home, but take them out, and they make us look like failures.
Been there, done that! She hit the difficult babe, right on. And the feelings of the Mom trying to get it all right. Congratulations to the poet!
Well said! As the father of a now college bound daughter, and a second one “headbanging” for independence, I love the line
“oh long days and short,
short years”
Is this not the crux of it all? We wish away the day -then wish the years back!
So parents- soak up every minute…they are all precious in their own way. Well…most of them. ;)
I remember those days well. Taking a warm shower at 3am with my babe in my arms. It was the only way to comfort both me and him at the same time. The noise of the shower calmed us both.