Still Counting

When my children were born,

I knew to count their toes. 

I knew to wait for them to hold their heads, 

to watch them grab their feet 

and sit up on their own.

My mother would watch them crawl. 

She said playpens were jails. 

The longer they crawled, the better. 

Still, I bribed them to walk— 

with strollers, outstretched hands, 

catching them when they fell.

My brother never crawled, 

or walked. 

He had CP. 

We went on picnics and played Connect Four

at the OCCC— 

the first letters I learned. 

I waited, 

wondered, 

if I would have a child like him.

When I potty trained my children, 

I knew their panties would stay clean— 

eventually. 

My brother punished my mother 

by soiling his pants. 

Then he’d laugh out loud. 

For both of us.

I taught my children to count,

until they could count on their own.

My mother looked on and smiled.

And I relaxed.

And counted my blessings.

Now, as a grandmother, 

I’m learning new fears: 

the staircase in my home,

the stories I overhear.

What to name.

More letters,

than I knew as a child.

Still, 

I watch for the crawling, 

and for children who love to count— 

especially money, 

when we play games. 

I wait for the laughter, 

for language, 

for the affection they give freely. 

And count my blessings.