I'd tell you all about Beatrice's naked antics in the bath, or latest outrageous diapering incident (sorry!), but not my eldest. As ever, she can infuriate, inspire, and amaze, but I respect her too much to write about it in the way I once did.
As an older kid, my skin would crawl when I'd overhear my mother talking with a friend about me on the phone. Don't talk about me! I wanted to shout. (Maybe I did. Mom?) You can't represent me, you can't know what really happened, how I felt, what I did, why it mattered. I can't even imagine what I would have thought had my mother posted about me regularly for the viewing pleasure of hundreds of people on Facebook, let alone written about me on her blog. Oy vey.
So what does a blogging mother do when her kids get old enough to rightfully claim some independence and control over how they are represented?
In this case, acknowledge that it's complicated to write about Frances ... and then write a little about Frances.
Sometimes she and I get into communication ruts. We follow a kind of nightmarish snippy script, wherein I nag and she pushes back with negativity and exaggeration, then I try to use infuriating reasonableness to poke holes in her claims about every other kid in her class or something being the worst thing that has ever happened in her entire life, then she pushes back harder still, then I do, and everything goes south in a matter of minutes.
Last night after Gabriel was in bed I invited Frances to read with me. She has been rereading Harry Potter for weeks now, gobbling it up at every opportunity, refusing to be read to at night so she can pore over one of the books until the last possible second. Mike and I are both sad about this, as we miss reading aloud with Frances. It's something that has been a dependable connecting activity for all of us since she was 3 months old and we're afraid that era is ending.
But - but - she finished the series a couple of nights ago. I saw the door swing open again, and I tried to muscle my way through it with new book suggestions, despite the fact that she really wasn't interested in reading with me. I felt my temper simmer. We started getting snippy. I flopped onto the couch in despair. Why was this happening? Where was my sweet daughter, ever ready to snuggle up with me and a book...?
Frances sat in the chair opposite and looked at me plaintively. Why are we fighting, Mama? I don't want to fight.
I don't, either.
Let's think about happy things instead.
So we began free associating: ice cream sundaes, Christmas, dancing, birthdays, flowering trees in spring, Beatrice's eyes, a card in the mail, listening to you play the piano, reading, writing, running a 5k with you.
We kept on and on, and got happier and happier. Frances called it The Joys of Life game.
We played again tonight. Mike was at seminar, and Gabriel and Beatrice were in bed. We ate frozen yogurt out of those weird tubes, draped over the furniture in our bare feet and new summery skins, and began to list: singing, bakeries, Miyazaki movies, time together, 'lying around when there's no homework and nothing on the agenda at all,' friends, traveling, popsicles in summer, swimming at the pool, Bach, birthday cake, yoga, swinging.
Frances amazes me. She saw we were headed for a crash, tapped the brakes, and with no help from her mama - who sat beside her grimly bracing for the impact - she turned the car in another direction and discovered something entirely new. She took me with her, and it was terrific.
We felt so close to one another, my eldest and me. I had no idea we had it in us. Joys of life, indeed!
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