waiting for spring

I am listening to Mike read King Arthur stories to Gabriel and Frances in his characteristic hushed yet dramatic storytelling voice. The last batch of banana oatmeal chocolate chip cookies (yes, add the chips) are in the oven. The smell is heavenly.

Thursday night was something else entirely. Mike had seminar. Gabriel was performing a skit with his class, all the lines of which he had been studying and chanting to himself around the kitchen for weeks. Frances was also due on stage for her music/dance performance that evening, an event - as her music teachers always remind us in their opening remarks - that the children have been working towards all year long. The annual Orff Schulwerk-inspired masterpiece is a transcendent culmination of every hard-won inch of learning and practice. The children shine.

I am not even kidding. I was sort of trying to, but the truth is every year I cry to the drone of their glockenspiels and recorders.

Here is what happened: after talking with the relevant teachers and reviewing the schedule, I thought it was possible to see everything. So Mike dropped Frances off at her school, then went to campus. I brought Gabriel and Beatrice to Gabriel's school, where the two of them jumped right into the chaotic energy that was intended to be a pre-kindergarten and first grade showcase before the PTA meeting. Around 7 I asked his teacher when she thought they would begin. She was waiting on Legend, the lead role.

Eventually Mrs. Pirela took the stage in his stead. It was marvelous. The kids were tickled and charming and Gabriel was a complete ham. Who knew?

After they finished we rushed home, where I texted our babysitter (who lives next door, hallelujah) and said come over quick!, ran a bath, told Gabriel to get in it, got Beatrice ready for bed, put her down (someday soon we will talk about weaning, and that last little bedtime piece - how to give it up?), greeted Angelica in the living room, said goodnight to dripping naked Gabriel in the hallway, and ran out the door. I drove to Frances's school. I walked briskly across the dark parking lot, confident that I was there in plenty of time to see her scene, helping a disgruntled late grandfather find the performance along my way.

He and I walked in to the sound of exuberant applause. The show was over.

A slew of speeches followed, and with each one my heart sank deeper as the realization hit with greater force: I had missed the entire thing. All the children sat on stage, politely applauding after the Lower School head, the old Head of School, and the new Head of School made speeches. I could barely bring my heavy hands together. I was standing in the dark, against a wall, looking at all the parents seated in the audience, still smiling and gripping their various devices with which they had recorded the event. Mrs. Mahoney, who had been Frances's second grade teacher, stood next to me.

I like her so much. I want her to think I am not a mess. I want her to think I'm a good mom.

When the lights came up and Frances ran off the stage and straight to me, crying, in pain, nearly spitting her words - why was she the only child there whose parents didn't even bother to show up until after the performance? Why did I let her down so bitterly? Why am I like this?? - I cried. It was an instantaneous, reflexive kind of thing. Fight, flight, or freeze: I froze. I looked helplessly at Mrs. Mahoney. My heart was wrecked. I didn't feel guilty so much as devastated by the terrible disappointment and sadness and anger she felt, all rippling along her delicate, beloved surfaces.

In the end we got through it - with the help of many sugary snacks provided by the parents who actually showed up for the performance. I apologized and coaxed her onto my lap in a corner of the gym and we watched all the kids stuffing their faces. She dropped a vanilla cupcake and it left a trail all over her black costumed lap. We actually laughed. I felt grateful.

But wow, this time of year is rough. Mike is working a lot, the sunshine makes infrequent and lackluster appearances, we continue to need renters for our house. That old container of refried beans is still in the back of the fridge. The mysterious gurgling toilet keeps gurgling. My perioral dermatitis is a persistent and determined beast. Most recently: the bureacratic nightmare of applying for a passport and visa on behalf of a kid (passport picture outtake above) whose last name is wrong on her birth certificate and social security card, and always has been, and yet we have never dealt with it, because grown up stuff is hard. (Social work skills notwithstanding, this situation is killing me).

Cutting to the chase is not my strong suit, but I'll try: sometimes I don't feel up to this job.

Please understand, I am not complaining of any injustice. My life is a blessing and I know it, deep in my bones. It's just that - lately I've been wondering - when will the elves who come in the dead of night and solve all one's problems arrive? If you by chance meet them cleaning up your kitchen in the wee hours tonight, you might give them my number. I will, of course, do the same for you.

with love & solidarity & dreams of spring,
Meagan

the shoe fits

I returned to work today after a good long hiatus. The college students went on spring break, and thus - amazingly - so did I. The two week break can seem almost excessive. I explain it apologetically when I run into a rarely-seen friend at Trader Joe's on a Thursday morning with Beatrice. Yes, yes, I know, it's so leisurely, so long, it's ridiculous.

But do you know, it took my lower back the entire first week to stop hurting? It takes a body a little while to catch on.

And not just a body! In the first couple of days of my break, I hosted Beatrice's second birthday celebration, baked bread and muffins, did countless crafts, pursued knitting, arranged play dates, read many books aloud, and planned our sabbatical year (more on this in another post, I think) with a little too much energy. Totally internet-sick. Three out of five school days that first week were snow days (oh, Maryland!) so I did all this with the kids, at home. I told myself I had a lot of pent-up domestic energies that simply had to be released - in a deluge - but sometimes I wondered if I was also having trouble downshifting. 

Not that I didn't enjoy myself! I did. The smell of baking bread is like a benevolent presence in the  kitchen, and one of life's great pleasures. I made quite a few loaves. Beatrice is a dear funny little creature and we spent a lot of open time together. I went to the gym nearly every day. The sabbatical plans began to take shape, and become exciting. 

One day, on the elliptical machine, I listened to Krista Tippett's interview with Brene Brown. I watched her TED talk years ago and found it terrific (and I am, irrationally, opposed to TED talks as a rule, so that's saying something). Though her name regularly comes up, I seemed to have decided to avoid further contact after that. She's a social worker, like me. I love social workers, right? Yes, I do! Except she's also an accomplished academic, a good speaker and writer, rather photogenic, researches topics that I find extremely interesting, is not much older than me, sells oodles of books, and has a mysterious accent mark over the second E of her name. I couldn't even figure out how to make an accented E while composing in Blogger. 

Maybe you heard the interview. Maybe you've read her books. If so, you might know her story - how in the course of her research about shame, she experienced a dramatic clarifying moment about herself. She had been listing the concerns and values of people who are driven by shame, and thus find less meaning, connection, and satisfaction in their lives: judgement, comparison, productivity, achievement. Without expecting to identify herself in the column of 'don't' words - the how-not-to-live words - she did. 

And that paragraph above, about how I avoided Brene Brown because she reminds me of what I have not accomplished? I didn't really know that, until I listened to the interview. Oh. Yes. I do sometimes measure myself in terms of external checkmarks. And no, it does not make me happy.

When you're home taking care of kids, you can't accumulate checkmarks that the world will admire. The work is internal, and interpersonal, and also, regularly, dreary. Sometimes thankless too. The laundry keeps piling up, the toddler melts into a wailing puddle when she can't have another piece of pie for lunch (it happened), a thousand tiny beads spill all over the kitchen floor, bouncing and shimmering under the stove and into every corner. What do you have to show for it? What will your TED talk be about? Your genius for baked oatmeal?

(That is only a halfway joke. I think I am becoming quite amazing with the medium).

But maybe that is partially what drives Facebook (and why it can really get a person down). If I knew about Pinterest I might have something to say about that too. Goodness. Maybe it's where this blog comes from. That stings a little to consider. I know I wanted to connect. And I know I still do. But maybe I also wanted to make this intimate parenting project into some external accomplishment, to ease the anxiety of not achieving in the ways I had grown up expecting to?

I have a very serious question for you: Does this blog ever make you feel bad?

Would you tell me if it did?

Did I bake and craft that first week with an eye towards productivity? Maybe it wasn't just about maintaining my breakneck pace, but finding a way to justify something so radical and anti-American as two weeks off work that I didn't even ask for. They were simply given to me. A break.

Last Thursday when nap time rolled around I had about ten things on my to-do list. But then Mike asked me if I wanted to spend some time with him. I confess it was hard to let go of my private agenda, but I did, and we sat huddled in the almost spring-like sunshine in the backyard and talked about hard things. Beatrice slept for a long time, and we spent it all together.

The rest of that day I stepped over toys instead of picking them up. I made a great dinner, because I wanted to. I spent some time learning about DBT, because I wanted to. I gave and received a lot of hugs. I definitely ignored the laundry. Spring break had finally worked its restorative magic in me.