a walk of one's own

At the tender age of 21, I had lived in Brooklyn with Mike for nearly a year when I took my first car ride through the neighborhood. I can't remember whose car I was in, but the vision of the buildings lining Fourth Avenue racing past from behind car windows was completely arresting. I hardly recognized it from that strange perspective!

I prefer life on foot - the scale and intimacy are more my speed. The feel of the wind and sun on my face clears out the inner muck. Arriving at my destination becomes an accomplishment. It grieves me that we spend as much time in the car as we do in our Maryland lives. Every day I drive over the Eastport bridge to pick up Frances from school and I watch the joggers and dog-walkers and tourists with a terribly envious heart. Sitting in traffic, I begin to suffer unproductive fits of the-grass-is-always-greener. I must tell you, they are not pretty, those internal what-if and why-not monologues of mine.

But yesterday I set that aside. It was a rare day in that I was able to leave early to pick up Frances, and Gabriel was still at his day care. I parked at her school, left everything in the car, and I walked. Fast. By myself!

The blue water and open sky, the warm sun, and the elemental satisfaction of moving within them melted the stress of escalating sibling rivalry at home, unfinished Halloween costumes, work to do, dinner to scrounge.

Life with children involves a lot of compromise, sacrifice even. Accepting that and finding the joy within the ever-shifting confines of family life can be a challenge for me sometimes.

But yesterday, I took a walk, and that was good enough. The limitations of my life helped me to see it for what it was - a gift.

a slippery season

When I was a girl, I lived in hot and humid South Florida. I spent a considerable amount of time lolling on one of the swings in the backyard, or draped on the couch belly up with a book, or perfecting acrobatic tricks on the furniture. In my memory the climate somehow facilitated this drooling, staring-into-space kind of open time, but I suspect it's an essential part of childhood that - if given the opportunity - most all kids naturally gravitate towards.

In the midst of one of those happily bored, heavy-limbed childhood stretches, I started to think about the meaning of now. What the heck is now? How can it ever be now, when the moment you think it - or even utter the word aloud - the moment has passed, and you are in the future now, which wait, stop! is already sliding into another future now! Somebody please put on the brakes! I couldn't slow time down to take stock of what now is like. Hmm. If I couldn't describe now, did it even exist?

I conducted all sorts of little kid phenomenological experiments in the quest of discovering now. I was driven; finitude freaked me out. My reality experiments included playing with blinking, trying to feel what it is like to be mid-step with my airborne foot between takeoff and landing, and seeing how quickly I could say the word NOW. If I whispered the magic word fast enough, I might just catch the experience before it slipped away. Basically, I was absorbed in the kinds of oddball behaviors grown ups observe children doing with bewilderment. What the heck was that kid up to? Little did they know, like many a small person before me, I was working on some major philosophical problems!

Nowadays I don't sweat the impossible present moment too much. When I am able to be with my kids in a homemade time kind of way, I sometimes glimpse the eternal now (that whole love is greater than death thing) and it is profoundly reassuring. They give me more now - when I am soft and open enough to receive it - than I could ever capture with my own grubby hands as a kid.

But there is something about the fall. The brilliance, the red and gold of it, made more extraordinary by our anticipation of its rapid passing into the bareness of winter. I do succumb occasionally to that grasping childhood feeling. I want to stoop and collect all the beautiful leaves I see on the sidewalk. Quick, before they turn brown and crunch, unnoticed, under our feet! But of course they will turn brown on my kitchen table too.

And my kids get bigger, and the patch of silvery hair on the side of my bangs grows, and elderly neighbors die. Soft and open, that's what I said, right? Peaceful before relentless time? Sure, no problem.

Today has been a beautiful day, perhaps more beautiful because it is slowly sliding past me. In an open-handed way, I offer you some images that speak a little to what this moment has held.

Halloween prep: Frances' mummy pants are nearly finished. In a rare moment of indulgence, Gabriel and I sprinkled the messy stuff all over black fabric this morning from which I will make his Glitter Dog costume (his concept).

When I consider the evidence, I feel certain that Quadir is the First Crush. Frances brought the picture in today to give to her friend, and I found her arranging those blocks in the kitchen before school. They read Frances 5 Lovey Quadir - though she ran out of letters for his name and eventually made a U out of a sideways C and the I out of a 1. The letters are surrounded by animals, all of them apparently full of symbolic power. I swear she has never seen anything on a public bathroom door or tree trunk reading So-and-So Loves So-and-So, at least not that I know of. All I can do is marvel at all the ways she expresses her love for this kid.

The last flower picking foray. Gabriel loves to use his scissors and so we hacked at marigolds and the pineapple sage's red flowering tops.

We made bread dough too, an activity that used to appeal on a basic baking level to Gabriel. Now that we use the stand mixer, which he associates with heavy machinery, it is a whole new kind of thrill. He stands on a chair and flips the button into locked position, and then makes insane throaty noises along with the machine. He becomes one with the motor.

Does it matter? All these little details? Tomorrow might be different. Frances and Quadir might fight, and Gabriel might not be interested in making bread. Perhaps blogging is like my hands reaching backward to touch all the little nows, one sliding into the next, that fill our days. I cannot resist brushing over them with my fingertips, like lightly running a bouncing stick along a picket fence. I loved you then, and then, and then. Tap tap tap. It's a gesture that seeks to honor the fleeting moment, and then - inhale, exhale! - let it go. 

good clean fun

Which is what all of you deserve after all the bathroom talk in my last post. That was a bit much, wasn't it? All that sweet wondering about blurry boundaries with our children, while simultaneously I was doing some seriously aggressive boundary blurring with you, dear reader. Dragging you into a story that took place on the toilet...!

 

I'm sorry about that. And now...getting back to the good clean fun. Yes, we had some of that today! Frances was in heaven at Clark Elioak Farm, which is where the pre-kindergarten and kindergarten classes from Annapolis Elementary School took their first field trip of the year. She was elated that the small group I was assigned to chaperone included her beloved friend Quadir and good pal Ali. I was thrilled to finally log some time with all the children and adults I hear so much about. Her brother loved playing with all the big kids. And the day was just beautiful.

Gabriel told me that he wasn't scared of the emu. The goats, on the other hand, had him hiding his face in my sweater.

Frances and Gabriel initiated Ring Around the Rosie, and as they sang, more and more kids came rushing over to join in. It was too much! More kids were waiting to get into the circle when I took this photo, but then we had to break it up in order to visit the donkeys.

Jamari, to my left: Is that a chicken?? That is weird. That's really a chicken...? Man. I like chickens!

Serious hayriding.

While we were in the field picking pumpkins, I showed little Giovanni how pumpkins grow. Even as we were wandering the "pumpkin patch," I realized that most of the kids still had no idea where these stunning vegetables come from, since they were pre-cut and convincingly placed around the vines, most of which were long dead and brown. He was genuinely interested, so we hunted blossoms, pumpkins that were still attached to vines, and even investigated the innards of a smashed pumpkin.

A handful of kids came over to join us. They were so curious, so ready to learn! It was such a pleasure to watch them reverently pass around seeds and touch the yellow pollen on the inside of a blossom. Breathtaking is not too strong a word for the spectacle of such natural learners, immediately engaged and deeply curious about the world and how it works.

Later I realized I didn't see any teachers or assistants initiate anything like this with the kids. They were too busy counting heads. But I also suspect they are not in the habit of working with children's natural curiosity and interest - how could they when there are so many worksheets to complete, so many scheduled activities to squeeze in? Tests loom! It was disappointing to confront the fact that a day spent at a "farm" involved very little ecological exploration with the children.

You've already heard me talk about the lack of imagination I perceive when it comes to learning at Frances' school. It's a bummer, for sure. But you guys. Listen. Today, I saw how happy Frances is. Her best pals are a little boy who lives in the projects and had never been to school before the first day of kindergarten, and a little boy whose parents are immigrants from Brazil and Egypt (who met here, at the local community college). How would she ever know she loved those two, if not for Annapolis Elementary School?

I'm still working out what it is about "diversity" that makes it all worthwhile. That word is shorthand for so much and is sometimes used in ways I'm not comfortable with. Am I saying diversity trumps learning? Goodness me, I don't think so. I do think that Frances' daily encounter with children who are very different from her is proving to be excellent for her developmentally - for the whole Frances she is becoming. If we consider education holistically, I might say that diversity can aid learning. A lot. Frances is slowly but surely learning to be herself, and those little boys are giving her immeasurable help along the way. 

intimacy (in which i defend being a hugger)

It is late morning, a quiet cloudy day. I am in my bathroom, and I can hear Gabriel making truck sounds downstairs. I am doing a rather Papa-like thing: reading bits of the New Yorker while sitting on the toilet.

Suddenly I hear Gabriel calling on his way up the stairs to find me. Mama!! Mama, are you in your bathroom??

Yes!

Did you shut the dark? (Which means did I shut the door to the large closet in our bedroom, the one he has to walk by to get to the bathroom, the one that oozes scary darkness when the door is left ajar).

Yes!

After hearing that, he barrels into my bathroom and throws his arms around the top half of me, sending the magazine flying.

Mama, I had to find you so I could put my arms around you and love you!!

I hug him, hard. He slips behind the gauzy white curtain and laughs big belly laughs as he reaches through the fabric to touch my face. I can touch your nose! I can touch your lips! He stretches the fabric across his face, smashes his nose flat. Ha ha!

I should remind you, I am still sitting on the toilet at this point.

Oh, the joys of intimacy! What new mother, during those misty midnight nursing sessions when she and her baby are the only two people awake in the world, would imagine the ways boundaries continue to blur as her baby grows up?

Of course, there are also the unexpected ways the fuzzy boundaries suddenly become more distinct. Last night during Frances' bath she announced she had to pee. I dried off her lower half and then threw the towel over my head, to give her some privacy. It didn't work. I can't go, Mama. Still wearing my blue terry cloth burka, I fumbled for the doorknob and waited in the hall. When she had summoned me back in, Frances explained that putting a towel on my head is definitely not giving her privacy. You see, you have to be alone to have privacy.

I've been thinking a lot about the fluctuating boundaries between us, and about the necessity of touch as we define and re-define how rigid those boundaries need be. Gabriel had to find me in the bathroom so he could love me - that is, hug me. He almost always says I love you when he initiates a hug. For him, touching is loving. The inner feeling and the outer sensation are one.

We begin in a state of near constant touch with our children. I remember an achy, itchy feeling in my arms if I'd been away from my babies for too long (then, it was an hour - now I get it after a day). The touching is without conscious thought, instinctive; at least it felt that way to me. Brushing my cheek along Frances' tiny smooth cheek, I imagine she felt both the safety of my presence and the extraordinary surprise of having a cheek herself. The sensation of being so near, yet separate.

It is all rather paradoxical; the holding, the nursing, the nearness lends itself to a sense of being utterly continuous with one's baby. And yet, through this near-merging physical way in the world, the baby learns that she has a body. An experience of where she begins and ends, a wholeness and completeness all within the bounds of her own body. Being awash in togetherness forms the foundation of our capacity to be alone.

As children grow and become more separate, they return as needed for the reassuring reminder of togetherness. I suppose the object relations idea is that the original togetherness is internalized eventually. Thus I don't need to drive the two hours home to my mother for some snuggle time whenever being me feels rough and panicky (that said, it wouldn't hurt - snuggling with my mom does make me feel stronger, more capable of dealing with myself, and I'd do it every day if I could).

How I love to watch this back and forth - this ever-shifting together and separate - in my own children! Gabriel was fine on his own this morning, until he wasn't, and then he needed to love me a little to feel comfortable in his own skin again. I marvel that he knows this, that he came to find me, that once he had some together time (albeit in the bathroom) he was ready to head off and play some more.

It is not always smooth sailing. Lately Gabriel is experimenting with aggression and violence (instead of affection) to figure out his boundaries and mark his separateness. I surely prefer him wrapping himself around my leg to whacking me with a lime green rhythm stick while I make dinner. And I do not always keep pace with my children; I hug a little too long, or I neglect to initiate a much-needed hug. I throw a towel over my head instead of doing the decent thing and leaving the room.

My dad was a toucher. He liked holding hands and full-body smashing hugs. It was embarrassing when I was 12 and in public places where other 12 year olds might be, but for the most part I loved how he was so like a large, affectionate puppy. Once Edith told me that I hug just like my dad. I almost fell over. That idea struck me with an accompanying wave of emotion...like him? I do, really? To receive a hug from my dad was to feel loved, completely. Just like receiving a hug from Gabriel. I like to think of some long loving reach, a cool hand on the back of the neck, connecting him to his grandpa.

With every tickle, every snuggle over a book, we give the gift of being a body in the world, with all the accompanying sensations and pleasures that brings. At least I hope we do! I hope the thousands of hugs communicate to my children that they have a whole body, one that is integrated into a whole, irreducibly unique and loveable self, one that will do just fine when - someday - mama hugs are farther than a flight of stairs away. 

(I cannot resist ending with this picture from the days after Gabriel's birth. Touching between these two is a lot more complicated nowadays, but somehow just as essential, as they push and pull and figure out their relationship.)

ladies who lunch (on soft greasy mall pretzels)

 

There we are, basking in the neon glow and muted excitement emanating from so many young shoppers in the suburban uniform of the day (skinny-skinny jeans, Ugg boots, little tops, shiny blown-straight hair) meandering all around us. It was a teacher development day last Friday for Anne Arundel County schools. It was a gorgeous day too, but we decided to hang out at the mall, of all places.

My intimates know about my mall disease (symptoms include headaches, a feeling of intolerable heat, serious disorientation, all developing within an hour or so). I've probably been to the mall here in Annapolis four or fives times over the past two years. I'm not proud of being such a sensitive shopper. I surely like having the stuff it is such a drag to procure. And I feel a pleasurable kind of nostalgic tenderness towards the packs of teenagers that roam the mall. On Friday I discovered that Frances does not seem to suffer from her mama's mall disease, and thank goodness. She's an awesome shopping partner; she kept me afloat.

 

Here she is at our first stop. Looking for a birthday gift, we passed one of those little islands of commerce in the center of the mall hall, and a persuasive Israeli woman named Gabriella suggested Frances might like to try her very expensive curling iron. Well, did she ever! I have never before succumbed to the siren song of those mid-mall hawkers, but Friday was like time out of time. We were up for anything.

I usually work from home on Fridays, and Gabriel spends the day at Lucky Duck. It seemed strange to send him off when I wasn't working, but his willfull, irrational, toddler-style contrarian side is asserting itself vigorously of late and I welcomed the break. I was going to try to find alternate child care for Frances, but then it struck me that the day would afford us more exclusive time together than we've probably had since her brother was born. So in the end I took the day off, and we followed our whims all over the mall, starting with the curling iron lady.

We acquired one enormous greasy soft pretzel, The Young Birders Guide for Jackson's birthday, James and the Giant Peach for cousin Lily, Ramona the Pest for Frances, a cord that enabled me to finally charge a hand-me-down Ipod, two bundles of very appealing socks for Frances and Gabriel from H&M, and a package of Halloween-themed silly bands proudly purchased by Frances, using her own money, which she solemnly removed from her blue Hello Kitty wallet and passed to the mustachioed teenaged cashier with bated breath. She looked at me with enormous eyes. She whispered: Will I get change back? I realized she thought it was up to him. As in, I give you some money, then if you like the looks of me, you give me some money back. 

Dear girl, if I were the cashier I'd empty the quarter tray into your little hands.

We had a beautiful day. We really did. We ignored normal mealtimes, we didn't need to rush home for Gabriel's nap. Time out of time. After the mall we walked to the playground. Frances has been been begging all the adults in her life to hold her around the waist so she can practice doing the monkey bars for the last six months. Usually I find it tiresome, because I have perceived absolutely no progress and she wraps her legs around me with the same iron grip, near terrified, every time we do the drill.

But Friday was different! I noticed her going from rung to rung on this climbing apparatus like it was no big thing. When her feet were only inches from the ground, it wasn't scary, and it wasn't hard, either. I pointed this out to her and it was completely freeing.

She was so proud. She told me that next week, she'd be able to do the monkey bars all by herself. (But then on Saturday we went to the same playground with Gabriel, and she did it! Over and over! She was amazing. We were all giddy with the joy of her accomplishment.)

We ran to the library, so we'd have time to get books before it got too late. We even sat on the couches and cracked ourselves up reading about naughty Squirrel Nutkin. 

 

It is my wont, my habit, to worry about my kids when they aren't with me, and to feel obligated to rush to them as soon as I am able. When we approached an acceptable time to pick up Gabriel, I started to feel anxious. It's crazy for a mother to be having a good time at the playground and library while her toddler is in someone else's care, right?

Or not. In the end I decided it was actually just fine. The playground and the library were such fun with Frances, and Gabriel is perfectly happy with his friends at Lucky Duck. In fact, we ended up staying once we finally got there and doing a bit of crafting with Miss Lynda and the gang. That was a happy reassurance for me, that my decisions were okay for everyone involved, but that's not the point.

The point is I really needed some uncompromised, undivided time with Frances. Within about five minutes of coming home with both kids, we all reverted to our more usual irritating behaviors - the children competing for attention, Gabriel resorting to physical aggression, Frances baiting him and then tattling, Mama yelling and threatening time outs. How quickly things turned more combative. How quickly we lost that easy companionship!

Or maybe not. It had been right there all along, and it still is. I just need to remember that making the space and time for it to emerge naturally is so important. For the both of us.

still us

I don't talk much about Mike in these posts. You have read many an intimate detail about our family life, and goodness me, to think of the secret soft parts of our children that I have here exposed...! But when it comes to the beloved adults in my life, Homemade Time offers pretty limited information.

Let's put an end to that. Just for tonight.

I would like to tell you something about Mike: I love him. A lot! I like him too. We spent 26 hours together over the weekend, and friends, I am happy to report: I think he's the bee's knees. The cat's meow. Or is it pajamas? No matter. He's both.

Except he doesn't like cats very much, which I already knew but learned about in greater detail while sitting on a flat boulder just off a hiking trail. The autumn leaves you see here are what I was looking at while we talked about the value and limitations of life with animals. (Jim the Fish merited little comment). 

We dropped the children off with my mom in Lancaster and drove to an area north of Reading where we spent much of the day hiking to and from a rocky outcrop on the Appalachian Trail called The Pinnacle. 

We had dinner in the one lively spot we could find in desolate, sad Reading before going to see a movie. A movie! And then we talked about the movie. It was as if the Mike and Meagan who existed before the children were born had been carrying on in an alternate universe all this time. A portal opened up, we stepped right through, and there we were. It was us. We're still us.

We still like to walk and talk. We like to talk about music, religion, books, the future, the past, and all the things that matter most. We still like to buy candy at a convenience store and stash it in my purse on the way to the movies. Mike still makes me laugh so hard I guffaw, and I guffaw all the harder when he doesn't get what's so funny. And all that talking I mentioned? We still get lost (so many times!) because we're talking and not paying attention.

It was a great relief, and a great joy, to find our old selves right where we had left them, just waiting for us to get rid of those kids for a little while so we could slip back into being us.

I like that my 101st blog post is about this blessed discovery of continuity, of a love and way of being together that is the same and yet growing all the time. In the noise and diverted attentions of everyday life with little ones, it can be hard to know. Part of me, I confess, was a little scared about what we would find in the forgotten hills of Pennsylvania...but it wasn't a bit scary. To live for a day and a night as a couple, rather than co-parents, was a gift. 

And do you know what else was a gift? Staying in bed in the morning until we felt like getting out of it! Lazing about until 8 am! How outrageously satisfying.

So then we drove home and I started to miss our babies. We pulled up to my mom's house and they weren't there! We soon found them at a downtown playground. While I was anticipating a dramatic run across the lawn into each others' arms (and had to stop myself from sprinting when I caught site of them on a seesaw with my mom), they acted as if we'd been gone for twenty minutes. I went in for a hug and in response Gabriel asked if I'd push him on the swing now. Do it high, okay? Really high!

So I did. Some really high-flying big kids came and joined us. They did amazing tricks, leaping and somersaulting off the swings. We happy five applauded and shouted our approval.


My mom made all this possible. Oh, she is a treasure! The children adore her, and so do we. Besides being a little tired, I think she survived her solo flight with the kids beautifully. (At least, that's what I'm telling myself, so I can keep up this whole everything-was-fantastic! story line). 

We spent the afternoon visiting with neighbors and friends, comparing notes on apple butter making, schools, gardens, kid sleeping arrangements, mutual friends, and exchanging hand-me-downs. Watching the kids run in and out of houses, clambering up and down porch steps. Lots of easy, peaceful family fun. This in itself is a delight, but on Sunday afternoon, in the middle of it all, I felt something more rooting down inside me. A quiet sparkle of refreshed confidence. I love my husband and he loves me. It began with us; there is a very good reason we are making all of this together. 

reflections on leaf rubbing

When Frances comes home from school, we check her red folder together. The left side pocket is labeled "leave at home" and the right side pocket is labeled "bring back to school." The left side is typically jammed with papers from her day that look a lot like busy work to me: photocopied pictures that she has carefully colored in, worksheets on which she has written the letter M five times or circled all the words that start with K. Most nights, on the right side of the folder, there is homework to do. 

Given how many hours she must spend doing this stuff during the day, and the intensely structured life of the kindergarten classroom, I've taken to giving her as much freedom and run-around time as possible in the afternoons. After I pick her up, we usually stay and play on the playground for awhile. I linger because once we're home, she dives into her relatively mindless homework and the heavier lifting that is Processing Her Day. Some afternoons she talks for hours, focusing particularly on fascinating discipline incidents and the "sweet food in plastic bags" her friends bring in their lunches. (This invariably leads to questioning my stubborn use of waxed paper and little reusable containers. Why, why, WHY?)

Her post-school mood is precarious. She's often ragged around the edges and can be tough to deal with. Such was the case when I picked her up today. She got very negative and irritable when Gabriel did some things on the playground that she feels too nervous to try herself. But the day was too beautiful, the Eastport bridge too picturesque, and when she kept complaining on the drive home, I turned up the music to drown her out.

It was The Velvet Underground, and both kids grew silent during I'll Be Your Mirror. Frances asked to hear it again, and again. Listening to those lyrics as a girlfriend made me feel a little funny, but they work in a new way as a mother - especially as the mother of an intense little person struggling to cope with her feelings.  For example:

I find it hard to believe you don't know
The beauty you are
But ... if you don't
let me be your eyes
A hand in your darkness, so you won't be afraid

Nico sounds a little different with Frances and Gabriel in the backseat, doesn't she?

After the pop music worked its magic on us, I decided to scrap the elaborate dinner-making plans. I needed some time with my daughter, rather than moving around each other in the kitchen as we tend to our own projects and Gabriel becomes more and more unhinged. So I moved the little table to the deck for a round of colorful, satisfying leaf rubbing.

We hunted the most excellent leaves in the backyard.

 

Frances wanted to make a picture for her cousin Lily, who will soon become a big sister. We both contributed rubbings and helped each other choose colors. We used a set of gorgeous homemade crayons, a thoughtful gift from the kids' summer babysitter Kelsey, who heated her own childhood crayons and poured the wax into madeline molds. 

 

Here is Frances. I don't know if you can tell from these pictures, but she is happy. Happy working. I realized today that giving Frances space - which she uses to relive every minute of her school day through pictures, homework, and constant talk - is maybe not the best thing for her. Maybe her brain needs a little help switching gears into something more peaceful.

I have hesitated to add any "activities" to her day during the week. But good gracious, I had forgotten that we do activities together. And the kind of activities we tend to pursue are of the leaf-rubbing variety, rather than the coloring-the-leaves-green-on-the-worksheet variety. She is missing more open-ended creative pursuits, and she is missing time with me.

 Here is the girl I know. Such relief, to be with her on a Thursday afternoon! Here she was not competing with her brother (who was cooperatively playing with a truck while we worked), or with kids at school, or feeling twisted up inside. When we get out the crayons and sit in the autumn sun together, I am being a kind of mirror, reminding her of who she is, allowing that person to shine with an easy light. And yes, she reflects me back to myself too, dear girl. Making leaves magically appear on paper together, I felt down to my depths how much I had been missing her.

self-sacrifice and other puzzles of personhood

This is how I was feeling on Saturday.

Expansive, free, golden. I spent it with the kids doing the most mundane things, but we did them all with gusto. The morning was cool, the farmer's market cheerful, the swing set inviting, the afternoon sun glorious. We drove home from errands with all the windows down, listening to many good songs on the radio at a volume inappropriate for tender ears. Despite the fact that I was spending a lot of time with small people who regularly hang on my legs and beg to be picked up, I felt a particularly happy sense of space and freedom.

But today began with Gabriel's all-too-familiar croupy cough echoing down the hall around 4:30 am. There is something fundamentally and deeply distressing about one's child not getting enough air. I always feel panicky when I hear that barking cough, and I did this morning too.

But it's happened many times, and I must confess, in the early morning darkness a disappointed realization followed closely on the heels of the panic. Before I made it to his bedroom door I bid a sad adieu to all the things I wanted to do today. Goodbye, gym and doctor's appointment. Goodbye, rainy day baking with Gabriel. Goodbye, naptime writing.

This morning made me think of the early days with my babies, days of operating with only one free hand and having to think strategically about using the bathroom. How quickly we learn that our agenda is vulnerable at every turn! And how frustrating it can be to try and muscle through things, denying the power of a tiny baby to make even the simplest tasks impossible. There is something I had to learn, about opening myself, loosening my long fingers and holding the controls with a lighter grip.

Just like his baby self, Gabriel would get upset if I left his side. As our doctor said this afternoon, you don't want to upset a "crouper." Agitation worsens the barking and wheezing. So I told him we would stick together today, which we did. I canceled my doctor's appointment, we said goodbye to Frances and Mike, and I set about following his lead.

It was surprising, how hard I found it. I love spending time with my son, but today he was a moody, slow-paced, home-bound version of himself. He wanted to make train tracks together. Sure, I said, my back turned to him as I clicked on WAMU to stream the Diane Rehm in the family room. It was a weird gesture of self-assertion, some clinging to my own interests and directions. Yeah, I'll play trains, but you're not the only thing in my life, you know! And of course I couldn't listen to the show and listen to Gabriel, and the noise was irritating, so I turned it off.

The day featured a series of abandoned emails, laundry left on the stairs, magazines dropped back down immediately after picking them up. Why was it so hard to just be with Gabriel? I felt like I finally found my way to him after an abbreviated early nap. He woke up way too soon with the awful barking, crying and grumpy. After many unsuccessful attempts to soothe him we sat down in front of the laptop and found an innocuous kid's show on Netflix. He soon quieted and assumed the hypnotized video look, which was my cue that I could sneak off and assert my independence elsewhere in the house. But I didn't. I snuggled down into the cushions with him and almost fell asleep, warm and heavy together.

It was my homemade time turnaround. My acceptance that we were going to be here now, so to speak, and do it together, and that was so much better than what I had been doing. We played with cars. I helped him decorate a little pumpkin in the pure style that Gabriel wanted to pursue, featuring stickers and a lot of glue.

We sat down on the floor and sorted acorns. These are our alphabet acorns, collected on Saturday, then painted and written on.

By "sort," I mean we sat on the kitchen floor, lazily rolling them around while Gabriel cracked himself up by misidentifying letters. He insisted that A was G, and K was P. Ha ha!!

But it actually was kind of funny. Just because we were all, you know, being here now. A person just feels happier, quicker to laugh, when she lets go of her grand schemes and self-insistence. At least, I did today.

But here's what I'm wondering: is what I'm describing self-sacrifice? Is the gesture we repeat over and over as parents - relinquishing control and coming to meet our children wherever they may be - is that good for us? Does it help us grow? (And if so, in which direction?) What does it mean to slow it all down and pace ourselves in a new way? To be able to give up our plans at the drop of a hat - or the sound of a cough?

It is part of why so many of us feel ourselves to be firmly planted in adulthood only when we become parents. Of course, I often feel like a kid. And as I kid I was always ready to be a helper, to be good, to go out of my way. It was a little bit nuts at times, and I still do it: is there some way I could inconvenience myself for your benefit? Oh please??

But when I was a kid there were limits. I would be awfully mad at anyone who interrupted me during the last thirty pages of my novel, or suggested I wouldn't be able to go out tonight after all. What does it mean that we learn to place others' storybooks and evening agendas at the center of our lives?

And why do I feel so much happier when I give it all up and sit down with the acorns on the floor?

I will not attempt to answer this now. It is good for our children that we give them baths even when we don't feel like it. I think it's good for us too, but ... it's a bit more complicated. There's gender stuff to muddy the waters, there's preserving space for ourselves. There's definitely an upside to dirty kids.

I do, however, feel confident about one particular good thing that comes from being here now - living in homemade time - with my kids. It comes with a deeply peaceful sense of intimacy, one that begins with nursing (an ultimate gesture of giving oneself away, if ever there was one) and grows with days like today.

Frances and Gabriel asked if we could do Songs in the Chair tonight, after many months without, and many months of the two of them fighting over who gets to sing a song - any song - in competitive efforts to prove their abilities. Songs in the Chair is when the two of them climb into the glider in Gabriel's room and get snuggled up, and I sit on the ottoman facing them. I rock the chair back and forth and sing lots of favorites to them while they sit open-mouthed, staring at me with the same unblinking big brown soul-windows open so wide that I struggle to return their gaze without looking away or laughing or crying. 

I sang Wild Mountain Thyme, and Goodnight Irene, and All Things Bright and Beautiful, and the Donovan song Happiness Runs. They sang with me, moreso than in the past. They were so big and so little at the same time. I felt us to be rocking and singing together, if only for a moment, in some kind of intimacy that touches timelessness, a place where love is greater than death.