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