I Wanted to Write You a Love Poem . . .

Laura, Scott, Mike and Steve Circa 1985

Today was a busy, crazy day. I tended Lucy (my adorable 14 month old granddaughter), drove Brent into town for some minor eye surgery (with my adorable granddaughter in tow), canned 28 quarts of peaches (with help from Rachel), froze another 9 quarts of peaches, had a few of our great stake young single adults over for french toast after they did some temple work tonight, and other things that I can't really remember now. I'm not sure if it was the delicious smell of all those peaches wafting through my kitchen or chasing a one year old or just the general chaos of the day, but I remembered a poem that I wrote for Brent about 25 years ago and I dug it out of an old file. At the time I wrote it I had four children the oldest being six and the youngest, three months. We were living in a tiny rental home on a four lane highway in Roy, Utah. The basement of the home was rented out to another tenant giving us 800 square feet of living space (four kids in one small bedroom). We did have a small area at the bottom of the stairs where we had a washer and drier that I kept busy washing mountains of cloth diapers . . . I had two in diapers at the time. We were managing three four-plex apartment buildings for Brent's parents in exchange for rent on our place. It seemed like there was ALWAYS someone who was moving out with very little notice, requiring us to go clean yet another filthy run-down apartment. Sigh. We only had one vehicle between us, an old turquoise blue Chevy Suburban, that ran on about five of eight cylinders (when it ran, at all). We called it "The Blue Max". I had one of those giant Schwinn tricycle type bikes with a big basket on it that I had purchased from Brent's grandfather. I can remember loading two small children, a box of cleaning supplies and a carpet shampooer in that basket and pedaling down a few blocks to one of the apartments to clean it while Brent was working at a construction job that he had to drive to in the sometimes running Blue Max. So . . . the poem. It was Valentine's Day, I believe, and I had the idea that I wanted to write Brent a love poem. The following is what I wrote and titled "I Wanted to Write You a Love Poem". It's long . . . read it if you like or skip this one and wait for my next post which will be decidedly shorter. And for all of you who do read this . . . my daughters, daughters-in-law, young friends, old friends, my world class mom, those with children and those without . . . I think you will find things that you can nod at and say to yourself "yeah . . . I get that".

I Wanted to Write You a Love Poem

I wanted to write you a love poem
Full of lovely sentiments
And expressions of my undying love for you.
I had it all planned out in my mind,
You know.
I wanted you to come home to a perfectly clean house,
A delicious dinner prepared with care,
And quiet, happy, contented children
Basking in the glow of a gracious, soft-spoken mother . . .
Calm, cool and collected.
I meant to meet you at the door
With open arms
And a charming smile.
"How was your day today darling? Are you tired?
Please won't you sit down and relax for awhile before dinner?"
I was really going to ask you
All of those things.
But getting back to the love poem . . .
I was going to sit down at 1:00 o'clock
And taking pen in hand, was going to wax
So beautifully poetic . . . I really was.
A special man like you deserves a
Special love poem.
I wanted it to say all the right things
And that kind of a poem takes thought
And time.
So, I was going to start at 1:00 o'clock and give myself
Plenty of time.
But lunch took a little longer than I thought it would
And Scotty made a terrible mess around his high chair.
Well, actually it wasn't such a terrible mess,
Just the usual, you know?
I did the lunch dishes and then I was going to
Really get down to the business of writing an elegant poem.
But . . . I realized that if we were to have little pizzas for dinner
I would need to get the dough started.
Dough takes time to rise and it was getting close to
Two o'clock.
Baby Laura started to cry . . . she was awfully hungry
And no doubt needed a diaper change.
Well, I supposed that if I got started on the poem by
Three o'clock, it would be alright . . .
Perhaps not as elegant or well written but still
It would come from my heart and that's what's really important,
Isn't it?

Baby Laura was happy again, Michael had come in from school.
(I forgot it was short day, today.)
He had so many things to show me and tell me.
The dough! I hadn't started on the dough yet!
I had almost enough flour but I was short
By about a cup, so
Downstairs, to fill the flour container so that
I could finish the dough for our little pizzas.
Oh no! There was the diaper pail sitting beside the washing machine.
I had forgotten to get the diapers done.
I flew to my usual routine . . . dump the diapers in the washer,
Spin them out, pull in the hot water, add the bleach,
Throw a little soap in the diaper pail and
Upstairs with the flour bin in one hand and
The diaper pail in the other. . .

All the poetic, elegant, lovely sentiments
That I had so carefully planned out in my mind
(My, now, cluttered mind)
Were starting to dissolve and flee.
Well, if I could just get started by four o'clock (I reasoned)
Perhaps I could just quickly jot down a few
Of my remaining thoughts.
Before I could get started though,
I really needed to finish the d*** dough.
I got it done . . . it was lovely dough.
Before I sat down to write my poem I supposed I ought
To change little Scotty's diaper.
I was going to just dash into the bathroom
To drop that very wet diaper into the pail, but
I looked around and the bathroom really needed
A quick cleaning.
A special man like you deserves to come home to a clean bathroom.
It only took a few minutes and the bathroom
Really did look better.
Laura started crying again . . . she couldn't possibly be hungry already,
Could she?
I tried to be calm as I sat down to feed her and
Direct the boys in a quick pick-up of the front room.
I tried to stay calm and collected
But I ended up yelling and setting the timer.
I wished that Scotty wouldn't keep pulling the toys out
As fast as Michael and Stephen were putting them away.
It would have been nice, also, if he hadn't pulled all the silverware
Out of the drawer.
The front room finally did begin to take shape and
Michael and Stephen began to devote themselves
To a serious game of He-Man, using my wooden spoons
For swords.
It was a splendid sword battle
Until Stephen inadvertantly took a swing with his sword that connected with Michael's fingers.
It was becoming increasing difficult to feel poetic.
I suppose it would probably have helped if Michael had quit
Screaming at Stephen and calling him a "poo-face"
Over and over again.

The phone rang, again.
"Yes, I'm calling about the two bedroom apartment you have listed in the paper . . ."
The phone just had to come off the hook for a few minutes.
If I'd had to say "1920 West 4975 South, Apt. 1" one more time
I'm sure that my jaw would have dislocated from the effort,
You know?

I'm afraid that all remnants of poetic thoughts had fled
By five o'clock
And had been replaced by wild thoughts of
Running away from home.
Also by a simple prayer . . . Lord, please
Help me get through the dinner hour
Without doing serious harm to anyone.

So . . . if I didn't meet you at the door with open arms,
Please don't feel rejected or
Take it too personally.
If my hair didn't look freshly curled in anticipation of your arrival
It's probably because it had been standing on end
Since about two-thirty. You know?
If the house didn't look especially tidy
Please hold on to the thought that it really was tidy
At least four times today.
A special man like you should come home
To a nice, clean house . . . I tried.
And if you are disappointed about not getting
A beautifully written love poem,
Then chew on this thought, my dear.
I love you and respect you more than any words will ever
Be able to effectively communicate.
And when I hear the old "Blue Max" come rumbling down
The driveway
My whole soul breathes a sigh of relief.
Maybe you didn't know that
But it's true.
The sound of the back door opening and shutting
And your footsteps on the back stairs
Are music to my ears.
Because sometimes the only thing that makes
My crazier days seem bearable is that
We're in this thing together.
Perhaps the constant needs of our four little charges
Kept me from presenting you with a perfectly clean house,
A beautifully prepared dinner and a calm loving demeanor.
I'm so glad, though, that I have you and that I am the
Mother of those children . . . your children,
Our children.
All my dreams for the future begin and end with you.
But I don't want to cheat you out of your poem
Entirely, so . . .

North, South, East or West.
You, my darling, are the best!

-February 14, 1985

Til next time . .