sprung

Doesn't it look as if these two are climbing the walls of their cage?

That's exactly how I felt yesterday. I hit a wall, scrambling, but my efforts to scale it were futile. Downright pathetic, especially when compared with these agile and energetic climbers. At one point I crashed onto the couch, defeated, near tears, while the two little animals continued to torture me. Mike eventually dragged them away, thank goodness. I can't even remember what they were doing exactly, or why I felt unable to rouse myself into more definitive action to put a stop to it.

I can tell you that Gabriel is enjoying a new destructive streak, delighting in his ability to throw heavy objects and empty jars and baskets of small items (crayons, beans, letter magnets) all over the kitchen floor. Frances is reveling in naughtiness; I caught her squeezing agave nectar from the bottle straight into her mouth the other day. The two of them can inspire each other to greater heights of whining, picky eating, and general disobeying. And of course it's a two-way street. My role in all this makes me feel most frustrated of all. I am wondering why discipline is difficult for me; why setting boundaries seems so effortful and enforcing consequences wipes me out. But that is a post for another day.

Instead, let me tell you about today. It is 1:45. I just took a shower, after which I leisurely put on some clothes, then placed the clean laundry sitting on the bed into its home drawers, taking the time to neatly close them. Then I plucked my eyebrows. I read some of the paper. Can you believe this? Are you wondering what planet I have moved to?

Planet Kindergarten! Bring on the bon bons!

Annapolis Elementary opened my cage door with a simple flick of a wrist. Gabriel and I had a beautiful morning together. Without his beloved big sister/mastermind around to imitate, he is more laid-back. Mellow. Interested in eating sugar snap peas for lunch and building towers out of blocks and uninspired to protest when naptime rolled around. It was so quiet in the house, he knew he wouldn't be missing much.

And can you blame me if I put him down a little early? If I couldn't stop grinning as I anticipated naptime? At first my mind was abuzz with all the satisfying things I could do: clean up the garden, read my novel, deal with the neglected pile of bills and mail sitting on the counter, make tea, write thank you notes, catch up on the New Yorker...when it hit me. I get to do this again tomorrow. There's time.

I'm sure if Frances weren't so darned thrilled by kindergarten I wouldn't be like a kid in candy shop right now. But she is! Her first day was a great success. In fact, she told me it was "the best first day of school ever." She attended three preschools over three years; they varied in quality but happily her enthusiasm for school never wavered. She loves meeting new people, loves feeling independent, loves learning. Mike reported that she wanted to walk into the building by herself this morning, which she did, and didn't glance back at him once.

So all feels right in my world, if only for this moment. Frances is happy in school. I'm happy having a break from her. Gabriel is chomping at the bit to go to his new "school" too, which will begin on Wednesday (a home-based day care called Lucky Duck, where he'll spend two days a week). And right now, he's happily sleeping!

I hope you and yours are happy right now too, as fall brings all its changes. Happy Monday!

addendum

Today is Kindergarten Eve. During Gabriel's nap, I asked Frances if she'd like to do some reading or painting together. She declined.

Let's just be together, she said. Let's have secret time together. Like, secret just-girls time. We'll be like grown ups, just us, having our time together.

Well, that sounded good to me. We bustled around the kitchen, talking, and eventually I asked if she wanted to do some yoga with me, thinking it might help ease some of the tension I could see mounting in her little body.

But, Mama, we can't talk when you do yoga! You have to breathe all the time!

I assured her we could talk. So we did some silly poses. I gave her a little massage on the mat and jiggled and bounced her arms and legs til they were like wet spaghetti. I did some asanas on my own, with her crawling under the bridge my downward dog makes. In the middle of my triangle pose, Frances sat back for a moment and then reflected:

You look like a girl when you do yoga.

Between my noisy inhale and exhale: Like a kid, you mean?

No...no...like a person. Like a grown up person.

A 33 year old person?

Yes. Mama, you look like yourself when you do yoga. You look just like you.

I had to sit down. I told her I felt like myself when I did yoga, which is exactly why I like doing it so much! And she sat with me and struggled to get her words out, asking me about what that meant. It was an excellent conversation.

When she told me that I looked like myself, I think she was saying that she could see me. A separate me, apart from her own desires. In that moment, I looked like a person to her, not just a mama. 

Developmental leaps! For both of us, really. And tomorrow morning we drop her off at Annapolis Elementary, where she will join Mrs. Simms' kindergarten classroom. Readers, I am very stirred up.

Here is some yoga that took place in Vermont, the memory of which inspired me this afternoon. Tree pose, I think, is best experienced surrounded by trees.

brown butter in the green mountains

I was very negligent during our vacation in Vermont. I spread sunscreen on our children but once or twice over the course of a week spent mostly outside in blessedly cool mountain air and bright yellow sunshine. So now they are brown. Is it so very wrong if I delight in their summer bodies? If I inhale deeply and tell them they are like brown butter when we are snuggled close? (This was after a bath, on our way home...believe me, I caught occasional whiffs that were not quite so delicious emanating from my dear ones earlier in the week). 


Vermont was idyllic; time out of time spent with beautiful and inspiring people. It could never have happened if not for the big-hearted Presler family, who welcomed us on their land and made things like preparing dinner for 15 people with nothing but a camping stove, a couple of coolers and a few dishes seem effortless, even pleasurable. We sat down together at picnic tables festooned with wildflowers in beer bottles and sang grace; we managed to wash up and put children to bed before it was too dark to see. I often find the task of preparing dinner and getting everyone in my family to sit down at the same time a challenge; how was it that it came together so happily in Vermont? I am convinced it was the influence of the Presler family and their hallowed camping traditions. 


Besides the quart of maple syrup from the pristine and breathtakingly beautiful Raven Ridge farm, I have brought home many simple, sweet things. The parenting solidarity was abundant. I feel restored and renewed in my efforts; the burdens of life with young children are considerable, yes, and yet so are the joys. Oh, the tantrums that shattered the quiet and shook the green mountains! Talk about breathtaking. But the moments of singing, dancing, storytelling, and the visions of naked little skinnies in the cold, cold water...! (I am reminded of little Sky, who had just peed in her underwear. Her father helped her to step out of the wet pair and off she ran into the meadow, wearing a polka dotted shirt and nothing else, looking behind at us, her admirers, and declaring: Now we're camping!).


It was a gift to be surrounded by that peaceful green beauty with such dear people; people who reflect my values back to me, a little bit brighter. Being together in Vermont reminded me of who I am; what I want and what I hope for. These friends gave my children to me, seen afresh through their eyes. They lent me their patience and love, helping me remember what I need to create space and time for in my everyday life in order to keep that calm center within reach. 

This is what friendship means, I think. Our friends help us to remember ourselves; they call forth what is most true in us. And so friends who are also parents, who beckon to the mother I want to be and who invite me to share that person with their own children...how could I do this without them? This gets to why I'm hooked on writing this little blog. Parenting can be so hard, but in the company of friends (like all of you, dear readers) the frustrating moments easily turn a sharp corner into absurd hilarity and the loving moments blossom. How I treasure life in the village.

Singing and dancing along to Mike Hsu's original composition, "Hello Goodbye Meaniehead."

Frances following minnows in the river at my favorite swimming spot. I discovered/remembered how clear, cold river and pond swimming can cure any ill I may be suffering from, whether it be internal or external. I became a bit of a water junkie.

Mike weighing the pleasure of taking off those jeans and getting in with the first painful shock of cold water.

Making faces with little Maya, the world's most peaceful and adorable baby, outside the house we rented together for a few days.

Sky and Frances kissing a two day old chick at Raven Ridge farm.

Heading off to see the sunflowers at the farm.

Of course there were blueberries...

Larissa adds up our bill. See the jar of maple syrup? It is proudly displayed on my pantry shelf now!

The amazing meal we created that evening from the Raven Ridge haul.

Cows, enjoying their view.

Dinner, featuring Asa, who is modeling the elephant print shirt he made.

And this was the scene the day before, painting shirts with stencils and guidance lovingly provided by Clara and Andrew.

Clara and Asa.

The toddler crew: Sky, Gabriel, and Priya.

Frances wearing Mike's old Phillies cap, Asa wearing Yoshi's mesh cap.

Frances basking in the attention of many children as she reads "What Do People Do All Day?"

dress up heaven

A new friend offered us many bags of beautiful hand-me-down dress up clothes today. I guess her fifteen year old daughter has outgrown the fur hat, the leopard gloves, the tutus...but if she is anything like me, she'll grow right back into them, eventually. So Diana, if you are ever missing that gauzy red scarf, you know just where to find it.

 Coco Chanel heading off to a luau, trying to decide which purse to bring.

La Duena, very solemn in her mantilla. Off to mass?

This mysterious person came into the kitchen while I was making dinner and freaked Gabriel out. She told us to follow her to her lair and refused to answer any questions about whether or not she was a witch.

An Afghan princess? An Eastern European songstress?

What an awesome gift. It will be hard to part with all the fancy clothes when we leave for Vermont Friday morning. I'll be away from computers for well over a week, so this will be my last post for a bit.

Stay cool and happy as August marches us all towards new beginnings. I send my love to you, dear readers!

buried treasure

Yesterday morning I yelled at Gabriel. I yelled loud, while pinning him with one hand and forcing shorts onto his little legs with the other. He had been running away from me. It was time to go to Frances' swimming lesson, and he was refusing to wear clothes and we were running late and I yelled at him, hovering but a few inches over his face. Understandably, he was bewildered and scared. He burst into frightened tears.

The thing about yelling, for me anyway, is that it's hard to stop once I start. It feels like scratching some anger itch. Most days I have a few nasty mosquito bites and most days I scratch them. They itch more and then I scratch more and then they itch more. Occasionally I scratch so hard they bleed. But they still itch! And that is just what yelling is like. It feels so good to yell! Once I open that door, I want to keep on yelling - even though it is only exacerbating my anger and frustration, rather than relieving them. I don't think yelling has ever been cathartic for me. And I know this, even while I'm doing it.

Frances, reveling in Gabriel's naughtiness, reminded me that she was dressed and being very good. I muttered some acknowledgment and hoisted Gabriel into the car, buckling him into his seat and noting his adorable, sad, tear-streaked face. But I was still mad.

By the time we'd arrived at swimming I'd let it go, and I apologized to the kids as we walked together through the parking lot. They were very receptive, if curious about what being "stressed out" means and what exactly made me that way. During Frances' lesson, Gabriel sat on my lap and told me some toddler-style jokes. It was very sweet, but one part of my mind kept remembering how I'd scared him and wondering about the false promises of yelling. Why do I succumb to that temptation, and what other expressions of anger would be more helpful? Did Gabriel understand my apology? Had we both really recovered from the episode?

Even after a fun post-swimming trip to the farmer's market involving sugar cookies baked onto popsicle sticks and covered in rainbow sprinkles, I still felt uneasy. What finally put my mind and heart at peace was time together in the garden. The humidity was unusually low, the mosquitoes were mellow, and we spied one or two potatoes popping up out of the soil, patiently waiting to be picked.

I decided a little while ago that potatoes are my favorite kid-friendly crop. Planting these was a blast, and digging them up is a delight. You start to move the dirt aside, then claw a little deeper, then eventually you hit something smooth and cool.

Like planting the seed potatoes, harvesting these yukon golds is joyful in that it is a meaningful activity I can freely and easily share with the children. I'm not making up little jobs for them. I'm not carefully measuring the flour and then giving them the privilege of dumping it into the bowl - rather we both dig, we both find potatoes, we both shake the dirt off. Together. It's messy, but it's supposed to be.

And the best part, both my children will actually eat potatoes! We cut these up and roasted them with olive oil and salt for dinner. They were even more special because we served them to Mike's parents (aka Grammy and Poppy) who are visiting this weekend.

Digging for dirty treasure, side by side, is what really healed the hurt between me and Gabriel yesterday. Sharing meaningful work did what even the most beautiful lollipop cookie could not; I was able to let go of my mistake, and Gabriel was able to trust me completely again. Next time I complain of all the domestic tasks we willingly take on - the weedy garden, the endless laundry on the clothesline, the bread I need to run home to punch down - remind me of the beauty and joy there is to be found in family work. 

the thingamajig queen

When I was seven years old I wrote a fan letter to Beverly Cleary. I loved Ramona and Beezus and all her books so much I couldn't keep it in any longer; I had to extend my gratitude outwards and touch the source. I told her she was the best author in the whole world, and I meant it.

She wrote me back. She sent a short hand-written postcard addressed to Miss Meagan Howell, which made me feel very grown up. I still have it in a box somewhere.

Now I am thinking about writing another fan letter. (She's still alive; I checked!) Last night we read Janet's Thingamajigs, a book Ms. Cleary wrote when I was too old to read it, but thank goodness we found it at the library and I can partake now. We've discovered it is one in a series of small-scale charming stories about Jimmy and Janet, preschool-aged twins, with Mother and Daddy and Mr. Lemon, the mailman, in supporting roles. Another favorite from the series is The Growing Up Feet.

These are lovely, well-written, simple stories about daily life for children who are not yet in school and so reflect our experiences in a particularly satisfying way. Janet's Thingamajigs is about how Janet begins to hoard little items like paper clips and shells and bits of paper (already I am giggling, especially because within my field of vision right now is a plastic bag filled with a tin foil ball, a striped paper clip, and a push pin). She leaves them around the house, then becomes furious with her brother Jimmy for playing with them (Jimmy doesn't really understand their inherent value but gets that Janet thinks they are treasures, thus worth having). Then they fight, then Mother says, "I am at my wit's end."

Then my children ask in unison, What does at my wit's end mean?

Then I read the next line in which Jimmy asks, What does at my wit's end mean?

It is eerie how close to life this book is, at least for me.

Basically, Janet starts keeping her thingamajigs in little paper bags in her crib, which becomes a new problem. I won't give away the ending, but just so you understand why I laughed so hard I almost peed on our couch ... consider Exihibit A:

There is very little sleeping space left, unless you are a small stuffed animal. And now, Exhibit B, the view in Frances' play/sleeping tent:

You can see she is about to crowd herself out of the tent now too. And just so you have a complete picture of the thingamajig madness, Exihibits C and D:

Frances' room is filled with such tubs containing empty seltzer bottles, old collages, wrappers, and ribbons that she cannot bear to part with. She has been hoarding things since she was a tiny baby. Most nights I roam the house and gather up things to hide in the bottom of the recycling bin, but still she manages to save a LOT.

Of course, Mother solves the situation and nips the thingamajig problem in the bud by the end of the Beverly Cleary story. This Mama is not quite so adept. But yet again, I am reminded of how this second immersion in children's books that parenthood has brought opens stories in new and refreshing ways. I identify with the parents now, and oh, how I appreciate them! The good ones, anyway. Mother and Daddy in these stories are a fine pair. Ma and Pa Ingalls, Betsy Ray's mother in the Betsy-Tacy books, and of course Mother and Father Badger from the Frances the Badger books all provide me with regular inspiration, as much as any parenting book.

May all the children's books in your life be good ones, friends.