what i'm reading today

New author discovery: Kathleen Norris. Currently loving _Cloister Walk_: a starkly beautiful meditative collection of musings about her time spent living in monasteries. Perfect for evening reading, as snippets can be read as a way of centering oneself. She also is good for those of us who tend to think in ways outside the bounds of standard religiosity, but decidedly passionate about living a life of faith.

And that, friends, is today's installment of a recommended read--as I often can go through a book a day, and there are days in which studies/paper writing/work take precedence over blog entrying, I figured the least I could do is share whatever book I am passionate about at the moment :-)

my goofy sister--far far away from here, in Germany . . . too far away from me :-) 

a family observed

The day was ridiculously busy. Sweaty tourists, grumpy with the heat and with the wait, spilled out from the hallway into the foyer. Servers performed the nearly orchestrated dance of hurriedly delivering steaming trays while miraculously avoiding seemingly inevitable collisions. And I spent the entire day darting from one “urgent” task to the next, unaware of the passing of time and mostly unaware of what I was doing at any given moment.
But they caught my eye and, for a moment, I was transfixed. Time stood still in a blessed moment of catch-in-the-throat emotion. An unnoticed bystander, I stood witness to a beautiful evidence of humanity. It was an East-Asian woman and her elderly mother, paying no heed to the bustling activity surrounding them or the other patrons pressing in against them. They stood engaged in what seemed to be just casual passing-time conversation: “I wonder if Dad found a parking space yet” . . . “Did you get the hotel keys back from Michael?” . . . . “Do you think I should wear comfortable shoes for the rehearsal dinner?” . . .
But what was striking was the unthinking way that they touched each other as they spoke. This was obviously a family for which physical affection was commonplace and daily. The mother patted her daughter’s hand, and straightened her rings for her. The daughter pushed a strand of hair out of her mother’s eyes, and let her hand linger for a brief moment on her cheek, just long enough to finish the phrase. Then, thought completed, she lifted her hand and gestured in the air with it as she pointed out an interesting advertisement hanging on the wall.
In that moment, my heart ached for my mother, and for all things familial. I thought, how beautiful, how lovely, how blessed to have daily instances of nothingness with which to care for our own--to be human together.

moments that carry us

It was a silly moment, all things considered. The day was a crazy one, as far as days go in the restaurant business, as I recognized even in my trainee state. We all bustled about madly, trying to avoid catastrophic collisions in the process—steering patrons around sailing servers, mindlessly repeating the menu mantra and, for my part, desperately trying to remember all that I was supposed to do, and stressing about doing everything correctly. It is infinitely strange to me how traumatic this business has been, and how I have been on the verge of tears over something so seemingly ridiculous over forgetting the table number order and not knowing which table I was supposed to be directing my current guests towards. How does someone who has spent 2 years supervising employees and managing/organizing a department feel like bursting into childish tears over a dirty look when I ask a “stupid question” from the perspective of seasoned servers?
I don’t know—I do know that I am grateful for this experience, for this time of branching out from what I have done thus far in life. It is a choice I have made, to at least try something totally different, and it will no doubt make me a better, stronger, and more compassionate person.
But, what made this one day worth it all was one small moment in the midst of the flurry of a day. As I seated the party, leaning over to hand them their menus, their server brushed past with the next table’s order and, in passing, touched my back to get my attention. When I looked up, he asked me if I had a moment to go ahead and take their drink orders.
Technically, I was not supposed to be doing that—I hadn’t even been “trained” in how to, and in my current state I stress over the proper way to do even the smallest, most inconsequential-seeming tasks. But, I certainly wasn’t about to try to interrupt the craziness by asking at the moment. So I, in a slightly uncertain and probably fumbling manner, took their orders and got their drinks.When I returned with them, he was taking their lunch orders, and, as I placed their drinks in front of them, he looked at me with the most genuine look of relieved gratitude and mouthed a silent “Thank you!” Whether it was the knowledge that someone, anyone, was thankful for something I had done, the endearing expression on his face as he breathed a sigh of relief, or the simple act of doing something right again, I do not know. But for whatever reason, my heart swelled up at that moment, and my eyes filled with grateful tears. The day continued in its hectic-ness, and we all continued in our frazzled-ness, but I was carried for the remainder of it by a single snippet of a moment.

a photo-necessary moment during Jill's wedding--one of my favorite captured moments, though the entire ceremony was truly lovely 

for those interested in literature for the young [and not so young]

As happens periodically, my work schedule of late has made it such that my for-fun writing has suffered. So, in lieu of my normally more frequently posted blog entries, I will post here the intro [don’t worry—only the intro!] to one of the book reviews my writing energy has been going into. This one is for a picture book that was published in 1996, and that I stumbled upon in McKays . . .

I. The Captivation
If, when done well, a picture book is “an artistic achievement worthy of respectful examination and honor,” as Karla Kuskin aptly states, then it is no wonder that Minfong Ho and Holly Meade’s Hush! captivated so thoroughly my sensibilities, adult though they may be (Horn Book 159). Kuskin’s description hints at the true reality—one would hope—of books for children: namely, that a book for a child, if worthy of a child’s attention, is just as worthy of the esteem and admiration of an adult. And so, it is fitting that this particular award winning picture book could leave me—a professional [if at times childlike] adult—in literary and artistic bliss as I experienced the book, in solitude [except for a similarly blissful kitten purring on my lap] and in my own home.
Once the initial effect of all-encompassing enjoyment had subsided, further consideration led me to the realization that I had a deeper reason for my love for this book. All things considered, Hush! is the sort of book that is instrumental in the healthy development of a young child. By this I mean that its different aspects—language, art, and music—combine to make it the ideal influence on a child in those earliest stages of life. After an exploration of the effect of the artwork as a whole and in its details, I will go on to examine each of those three aspects mentioned above, along with its role in early childhood development.

finished floor & proud owner 

gardenia watch

June 6, 2005:
fourteen fresh flowers fuse on the fragrant foliage

blooms abounding

Today was the day I have been waiting for, watching for, since the days began to warm: I picked the first 2 fragrant blooms today, savoring the moment as I set each one in a clear wine glass so that it's delicate while bloom floated on a bed of water.
Soon after we moved into our house, my mother realized how much she missed the native Gardenia plants that surrounded us in Zambia. So she did a bit of hunting and found one to plant in our Tennessee yard. Amazingly, thanks to mother's magic touch, it flourished.
I never noticed it much as a child, but shortly after moving in to the old homestead last summer, I was thrilled to discover the small bush, covered with blooms. Not only was it blooming in July. It continued to slowly bloom, offering me a weekly gift of 2 or 3 blooms--plenty to provide a steady supply so that I always had at least one fresh bloom gracing my apartment. And, to my amazement, it bloomed steadily well into the Fall.
So it was with pleasure that I realized today that the blooms have begun :-)

he's a tramp

As I roamed the aisles, peering into forlorn faces and pitifully sorrowful pup-eyes, I was, unexpectedly, emotional. I thought I was a hook, line, and sinker cat person, but it turns out I have a soft spot for dogs as well. Or maybe just for dogs that transport me directly into _Lady & the Tramp_. Listening to the soft whimpers and croons, I would not have been surprised to hear it all turn into a melodious chorus of "He's a tramp."
I am beginning the search for a dog for my folks, as they have had some trouble finding affordable adoptable pets up in their neck of the woods. While I had been already to the adoption fairs at the pet store, this was my first time to the Humane Society itself. So, I guess I was unprepared, not knowing what to expect.
While I did not find the perfect puppy--yet--I am now prepared to frequent the place in my quest. Today was certainly not fruitless, though; upon leaving the place, I was inspired to change my plans and go home again just so I could love on my own home-ful kitty, grateful to be able to do something concrete for at least one creature after being overwhelmed by all those I could not bring with me.
Mind you, I am in no way ready to be showered with homeless pets--so, please, no doorstep donations :-)

why i tell stories

As any of you who has read my blog with any regularity has probably noticed by now, I tend to tell stories. I believe in telling stories; more specifically, I have found that by telling my own stories I begin to glimpse the mystery and meaning that can so easily be hidden behind the daily-ness of a life.
My recognition of this drive came not so long ago, when I began to awaken in the night with the itch to tell a story. I would lie there wide-eyed and restless, feeling as though I needed to somehow give birth, yet not knowing why I felt this way. This was the sort of sleeplessness that does not need to be soothed to sleep; rather, it was the kind that needs to be nurtured, and gently coaxed until it can release its creative seed.
This was happening regularly, and each night it was a different event—a specific happening from my life, that was swirling about in my head.
And so I began to listen to it. When I awoke, I rose and began to write, to put words to that story. I wrote of childhood wounds, of silly anecdotes, of events in my adult life—all was fair game when it came to the need to tell a story.
The seed of the drive was taking root much earlier however, well before waking moments when I actually put words to these stories. It began when my family first moved to the U.S., and I would have those childhood introductory conversations.
“What’s your name? . . . Is that your sister?—she looks just like you.”
And then: “Why do you talk funny? . . . Where are you from? . . . Why’s doesn’t your Mommy walk?”
That was my cue to explain that I wasn’t really American, not like they were. I was African—or maybe Canadian—but apparently I sounded British? . . .I wasn’t quite sure, actually . . . but Mommy is paraplegic, because she was in a car accident when we lived in Africa. Daddy was in the car too. He’s in heaven now.”
It was always the same after that—a stunned silence, or a series of stumbling apologies: sorry for asking, sorry for making you talk, sorry that happened. A quick change of the topic or, more likely, an excuse to find a more normal playmate for the day.
But I was not sorry. I wanted to keep talking. I wanted to tell them about Africa, about my family, about what my Daddy was like. I wanted to tell them how tall the trees were in my village, and how small the huts looked from high in the Paw-paw tree. I wanted to tell my stories, and I wanted someone to listen.
So when, as an adult, I began to start telling my stories, what I realized was that the telling gave life to the experiences. Whether I was telling the story of my cat’s love affair with his pet duck or the story of scaling the icy mountain to get to work in the morning, the telling was as important as the tale itself. Because somehow the words give significance to the event. And suddenly life is no longer just a string of daily routines: each day is a glimpse into the mysterious beauty of the woven whole.
There is a power in the telling. A making real. So I speak the words, and write the stories . . . and live.

rug r.i.p.

Never underestimate the brute strength of a woman on a mission. Today I hacked, sawed, ripped, and tugged my way through this apartment’s original carpeting, and there is now a delightful mountain of rolled strips of carpet and carpet padding by my trash bins.
After a good bit of time mulling over the prospect of tackling such a task—was it even possible for me to do?—I devised a plan and today, having a day of freedom, I carried it out. With rather pleasant results, I might add.
I am left, for the moment, with a swept, mopped, and re-ordered apartment, minus only the pet-soiled, stained, and generally unappealing carpet. Mind you, this does mean that, instead of carpet, I am the proud owner of a paint-speckled and knobby concrete slab of a floor. Oddly enough, it really is not so bad—especially when it smells clean and orange-essence fresh :-)
The day also included a trip to Lowe’s, where I decided upon a tile that I purchased—along with primer—and will begin laying next week. Concrete does not bother me, but unfinished tasks do. Consequently, I planned the tile-laying for the weeks when I will be house-sitting and will not have to stay here looking at a partially-tiled floor. My plan at the moment is just to come and lay as much tile each day as I have time for, then returning to finished house. By the time I am finished with the house-sitting job, I will also have completed the lovely tiling. And don’t worry: I will not get too terribly attached to the concrete in the meantime.
I am always pleasantly surprised all over again at how much satisfaction comes from undertaking such projects as these . . . * sigh * . . . the satisfaction of a job well done :-)

malaria nights

Once I read that having Malaria as a child leaves one plagued later in life by recurring dreams. Do my repeated bouts of the feverish illness explain my later childhood years of frightful nightmares? Perhaps. I am more inclined to suspect that my own dark and brooding dreams were due more so to a childhood marred by pain and to a nature prone to dwelling on the same.
Like the night I spent imagining my father’s gasping last breaths, other solitary mental images and nightmares of my young mind claim a strangely predominant position in my memories of childhood.
In the years following my father’s death, I spent nights fearing the image that would no doubt appear, unbidden, once my waking guard was weakened by the stealthy grip of sleep.
The dreams would always begin innocuously, with the exciting certainty that I was to be with Daddy again, that perhaps he was not really dead. Or that, even if he really was, I would at least get to spend the span of the dream with him again. But each time, once my dreaming awareness progressed beyond the initial excitement, my heart thudded with the sickening realization that this was not my Daddy. And sometimes with the even more sickening one that it was him.
Each night, you see, he was altered somehow, deformed beyond recognition. I only wished that I were not so certain that it was still him. There was some deep knowledge that it was him, but nothing remained of the Daddy I loved.
In one dream he appeared in the form of a tiny dwarf, with exaggerated features and the head of a grown man but features and mannerisms of a child. That night he approached me cheerfully, awkwardly but speedily coming to greet me. And I ran, horrified more by the prospect of encountering him than I had ever been cheered at the idea of a reunion.
Another night he was not changed so much physically as he was estranged emotionally. He was an adult, and I knew it was him even though I couldn’t place his features into any recognizable form. I was terrified that I had forgotten what he looked like, as I often was in my waking hours, when I would seek out photos to memorize, in case I was losing my own mental images of his face, of his form. At any rate, in this dream he simply passed by me, engaged by his companions, ignoring me. He even looked at me directly, as if he knew who I was, but did not care in the slightest.
There were more, along the same vein of a recognizably him but strangely altered Daddy. I grew accustomed to my vivid dream life—so accustomed that it never occurred to me that it was anything worth coming out of my own head. Now I wonder how common that is, for children. And I remain fascinated by, and still slightly frightened by, the lapsing into the untamed, unpredictable territories of the sleeping mind . . .

my bald spot

My bald spot itches. And yes, I am 25 years old. And no, I am not undergoing chemotherapy. I did, however, have a biopsy not too long ago; it was purely perfunctory, though, not dramatic in the least. My doctor, after running blood work and finding nothing wrong, referred me to a dermatologist, who declared, with a rapid wave of his hand, that it was simply Alopecia Areata. “So,” I queried, “why exactly did my hair fall out?” He waved his arm in the air again and pronounced, “Who knows? Some people just react that way—it’s more common than you would think.”
And there you have it. I am just one of those people who, when under the proper combination of stresses, reacts by losing a chunk [or a whole head, for that matter] of hair. I suppose an indication of the stressed out state of mind I was in at the time (several months ago) is the reaction I had when discovering, while pulling back my hair in the morning, this large patch of smooth-as-a-baby’s-bottom baldness:
I felt it; pulled my hand back in confusion; felt it again; held up a mirror behind my head to confirm my suspicion . . . then I laughed. Oh my—I’m going bald! How oddly amusing! Mind you, I was sensible enough to be concerned. So I did my research, talked to knowledgeable friends, called the telephone nurse, and made an appointment with my doctor. What I discovered is that it was in fact probably stress. But I did not know if it would stop with one patch of hair for me, or continue. So my thought process went something like this:
Well, I have one bald spot. I may be losing all my hair. And even if it is treatable, then chances are, by the time the treatment kicks in, I will have probably lost at least another chunk, considering how quickly this one appeared. And what does one do with a couple of bald spots? Why shave the rest of it off of course!
And I proceeded to contentedly plan my baldness. What I realized in the process is that I was actually rather tired of having so much hair to fool with, so that the prospect of not having it anymore was surprisingly pleasant. What I concluded in my planning process was that I would certainly not wear a wig. An image came to mind of colorful cloth scarves wrapped artistically around the scalp. So I resolved to learn how that was done, and to buy various shades and patterns of cloth, and simply alternate head wraps for the duration of my baldness.
When I told my Mother what was happening, she laughed and said that it figured that I would be the one to lose my hair: see, I was always teased for having more hair than I knew what to do with. My relatives wondered where I had gotten all of it, since no other women, on either side of the family, had much to speak of. All I knew was that it could be a hassle having such a heavy head of hair.
At any rate, Mom said that if I did keep losing it, I should at least save it as it fell out and share it with the rest of them. I opted instead to ship it down to Locks of Love. Before doing so, however—and before warning anyone that I had just chopped it off, I took a segment out of the large ponytail I held oddly detachedly in front of me. I put this segment, unmarked, in a regular letter envelope and mailed it to Mom.
But, back to today’s appointment: what my dermatologist generally does [why I think of him as mine, I cannot tell you—I actually have never had a dermatologist before . . .then again, perhaps that’s why I claimed him so . . .]. Well, like I was saying, after a standard biopsy, he likes to do a series of scalp super-hair-growth-serum injections. Ok, so maybe that’s not the technical term for it, but as I cannot recall him ever telling me what it was, that is the term I settled upon in my head.
Today was the 2nd appointment in my series [and necessarily the last, as it is the last month in which I will be insured]. So, upon pronouncing my hair to be growing back nicely—he was, I am pleased to report, “proud” of my hair growth, he then shook my hand, told me it had been a pleasure doing business with me, and jetted out the door in his jauntily comical manner.
It all ended up being a bit of a false alarm, in the sense that my Alopecia Areata stopped with only one patch. But I learned a good lesson about monitoring my life balance more closely, being mindful of not letting school and work billow out of control, and keeping social outlets and positive stress-relieving activities in my life . . . and I do love having short hair!

this feeble faith

*this evening i distract myself by job applications interspersed with scrubbing the carpet* [we are having another episode of too-good-for-the-litter-box-ness]. consequently, class was a bit difficult to stay focused on tonight. i am, i must admit, anxious. it is official that i am unemployed, and the official-ness unfortunately coincided with the discovery that my scholarship for next year is substantially smaller than i thought. and i am feeling my humanity. oh ye of little faith . . . i try to trust, and believe that He who made me this way [whether or not i like it] is somehow in charge of even my mistakes, my silly human errors. but i worry . . .

mom + pond =

As far as standards of motherhood go, I believe I can safely say that my own mother plants her feet firmly outside the boundaries of the expected. Case in point:
Like the good, conventional daughter that I am, I called her this evening to report on the scholarship awards ceremony we were returning from—thinking I was fostering her need to be proud and parental. Like the unconventional mother that she is, she replied with her own rivaling tale of the day.
Overhearing from the front seat, when I said goodbye my grandparents promptly inquired as to what mom had gotten herself into this time. And I duly relayed the story . .
My mother, it seems, invented her own [unconventional] method for breaking in her new shoes this afternoon. She had accompanied my stepfather on a day trip to Keene so as to get some “big city” errands accomplished that their rural town does not allow for. One of these, earlier in the day, involved the investment of a new pair of shoes. Shoes are understandably important for Mom, and so she had decided to try a pair of Merrells this time. And they were on sale, so she [of course] had to buy them.
New shoes afoot, and several errands completed, later in the day she found a nice park, with a pleasant-looking pond, and decided to go for a short walk. Nearing the pond, one crutch found a wet patch of pine needles, her foot accordingly found a slippery slope of grass, and down she went. Into the pond. She emerged momentarily, laughing, and quite wet. Keep in mind that my stepfather was nowhere nearby at the time, and that the park itself was unoccupied, except for Mom. She now found herself in the predicament of being a slightly less-than-normally mobile person, alone, and in a pond. After surveying her surroundings, she noticed some stumps on the other end of the good-size pond that looked promising as far as providing the support needed to lift herself and her crutches back onto dry land. So she, as she relayed it to me, “rolled” to the other side. “Rolled??” I questioned, a bizarre image in my mind. She then clarified that she had probably slided more than rolled. But I dare say, I quite prefer to keep the verb “roll” for my own personal amusement. At any rate, her plan worked, and she got herself out of the pond. Then, being my [unconventional] mother, her next logical step was to go back to the store where she had purchased her fine new shoes and, in all her dripping finery, announce to them how pleased she was with her new shoes, now that she had “broken them in.”
And that, my friends, is my mother.

in the waiting

So now I feel like a fickle and slightly silly female, but in an oddly almost-at-peace sort of way. It seems that it took “moving on” to make me realize how much I really did love my job. I made too much of the creativity that has been blooming for this whole year and, once my job was steady and under control, felt like I needed to face a new challenge, to learn something new. When all this time it was the routine, the comfortable parts of my job that were really allowing my creativity to bloom on the side; if it were not for the steady, “easy” tasks, I would not have creative juices inadvertently bursting out while on my morning commute, while wandering down the grocery aisle, while shaving my legs, etc, etc. . .
In a week of impulsive [and hormonal??] decision making, I decided to burst out from the routine. And in doing so I realized just how much I was giving up. Now I may very well have lost my job. And if so I will grieve. But, I have also called my boss and requested that, if my job is not accepted by another, I can have a second chance with it, can have my dear job back again.
No, I do not want to leave. This is why I have spent several days now crying every time I talk about leaving, why I bawled into the phone, paced around campus rapidly depleting the roll of toilet paper I was carrying with me for lack of a box of tissues, why the only other remotely interesting prospect was another job on campus . . . But I have grown attached to my work—it has been my “child” for 2 years, and I will mourn for it if I leave it now. And if I do lose my job over this, it will have been a blessed lesson learned: a lesson in what it feels like to really grow to love the role that I am here to fill, work-wise; because the truth is that the love I feel for it now is a great enough gift to carry with me even if the job is lost. So I wait . . .

revelation of vulnerability

After 2 days of on-edge "what am I doing?" sadness-tinged anxiety, I had a blessed realization today. I burst into tears when talking to my Mother about the prospect of leaving, and am now wonderfully certain, if frighteningly vulnerable as a result, about what it is I really long for now. After 2 years in a workplace I accidentally stumbled into, I seem to have grown bound to it in spite of myself. Announcing my pending departure, and now training and preparing to leave my position has left me moping about and nervous at the same time. And so it was with a grateful shock this afternoon that it hit that I do not really want to leave. All I long for is a life-manageable position at this college I have grown to love so much, and with the students who have grown so dear to me. The overwhelming responsibilities of my growing department has just blinded me to what it is I do love about the place--the stark beauty of the rising sun as I drive up in the morning, the sweet communion of worship in chapel services, the energetic and purposeful passion of students just beginning adulthood and seeing the welcoming wideness life has to offer, the professors who give of themselves tirelessly, offering time, care, and tender concern for their students, the staff members who smilingly greet interruptions in the midst of a seemingly endless to-do list . . .
No, I do not want to leave. I will leave if I must, because I do not know if my sanity will permit me to continue juggling full-time work and studies. And practically, I cannot afford to skimp on studies, as I am now on scholarship thanks to my studious intensity thus far. But oh, if I could stay, could somehow manage it, I would be overcome with joy, with gratitude . . .

scent of a memory

The power of association upon a scent never fails to surprise me. When fully considered, it is understandable that all of our senses—smell included—would be powerful forces. Even as an inner-focused person, I certainly recognize how integral my physical body is to the rest of my intellectual, reflective, and spiritual self. But still, I am surprised when something so simple as a scent can affect me to profoundly.
This afternoon it came as I walked into Cadek to answer phones for wutc’s pledge drive. I have not been in that building but once or twice since moving back into town, as my normal work, school, and Church schedule never seems to take me there. Except for once, to pick up a prize that left me even more of a loyal listener to the station [that story I will happily tell, if prompted to by anyone] . . .
At any rate, I walked into the building and was instantly bowled over by my reaction to the smell—it is an old building smell, but seems somehow distinctive to that particular building; I, at least, have never encountered one quite like it. So one whiff of the inside air brought with it a flood of vivid, bittersweet memories . . .
I was 10 years old again, trembling as I walked onto the stage to give my first recital . . .
I was sitting in my practice room one night, bursting into tears when my teacher hinted that perhaps I should try to practice more that I had for this week’s lesson. She said it not unkindly, but I was guilt-ridden already about how little I knew I had practiced that week . . .
I was standing outside listening to my sister play, and wishing I could play Suzuki also [she learned Suzuki method, while I learned traditional]. I never did feel like I did as well with sight-reading as I did learning by ear. So I pretended to sight-read, while in fact relying upon my ears to clue me into the correct notes . . .
What this afternoon’s reaction left me with is just another reminder to stay attuned to what I am experiencing, in its entirety, in any given moment of life. I don’t know about you, but I, for one, would feel a great void without those moments of transcendence that come from living reflectively: the tear-rending emotional reactions, the bittersweet pleasures, the vivid memories, and even the acutely painful ones.

a poet discovered

Thanks to a listserv I belong to for writers and lovers of Children's Lit, I was recently introduced to a new favorite poet [one of my favorites, rather]. As I read a review of his newest volume, it left me gratefully weeping over my keyboard, at work, in plain view, for any passers-by to see . . .
So, I wanted to post an excerpt here, to share the joys of Michael Rosen's gifted words. And, I suspect, if you read to the end of this post, you just might sypmathize, if not share, my tears:

"Eddie and the Birthday
(Eddie is my second son)
When Eddie had his second birthday
he got lots of cards,
and he had a cake and all kinds of presents
and we sang Happy Birthday,
'Happy Birthday to you
Happy Birthday to you
Happy Birthday, dear Eddie...'
and all that.
He liked that very much
So he goes:
'More. Sing it again.'
So we sang it again.
'Happy Birthday to you
Happy Birthday to you
Happy Birthday, dear Eddie...'
and all that.
And he goes,
'More. Sing it again.'
So we sang it again.
'Happy Birthday to you
da de da de da, dear Eddie
da de da to you...
'And he goes,
'More. Sing it again.'
It felt like we sang Happy Birthday about
Two hundred and twenty-three times.

And the candles. On the cake.
He loved them.
'Eddie, blow.'
He blew.
And the moment he blew it out
he wanted more.
'More candle.'
So we light it.
'More Eddie blow.'
Eddie blew.
'More candle.'
We light.
'More Eddie blow.'
'More candle.'
That felt like two hundred and twenty-three times as well.

And he loved the cards.
Everyone who sent him a card
seemed to think he'd like one
with pictures of big fat animals.

Elephants and hippos.
He got about ten of them.
Imagine.
Your second birthday
and everyone sends you pictures of
hippopotamuses.
Maybe they think he is a hippo.

Anyway he had a nice birthday.
Next day he gets up
comes downstairs
and he looks around
and he goes,
'More happy birfdy.'
So I go,
'That was yesterday, Eddie.'
'More happy birfdy.'
'But it isn't your birfdy--I mean birthday...'
'More happy birfdy.'

Now you don't cross Eddie.
He throws tantrums.
We call them wobblies.
'Look out, he's going to throw a wobbly!'
And the face starts going red,
the arms start going up and down,
the screaming starts winding up
he starts jumping up and down
and there he is--
throwing a wobbly.

So I thought,
'We don't want to have a wobbly over this one.'
So we started singing Happy Birthday all over again.
Two hundred and twenty-three times.
Then he says
'More candles.'
'We haven't got any,' we say
(Lies, of course, we had).
'More candles...'
So out came the candles
and yes--
'Eddie blow.'
He blew.
'More candle.'
And off we go again--
Two hundred and twenty-three times.

And then he says,
'Letters. More.'
Well, of course no one sent him any more,
so while I'm singing more happy birfdys,
my wife was stuffing all the cards
into envelopes and sticking them down.
So we hand over all his cards again
and out came all the hippopotamuses again.

So he's very pleased.
And that's how Eddie had two birthdays.
Lucky for us
he'd forgotten by the third day.

Maybe he thinks when you're two you have two birthdays
and when you're three you have three birthdays
and when you're seventy-eight you..."

and later, here is an excerpt from The Sad Book (2005):

"What makes Michael Rosen sad is thinking about his son, Eddie, who died suddenly at the age of eighteen."
"Sometimes I want to talk about all this to someone. Like my mum. But she's not here anymore, either. So I can't."which makes me really, really sad, because my mom was the person I always had to talk to about things and now it's been five long years since she's not been here for me to talk with.