rainy day contentment

After dropping Frances off at school this morning, I told Gabriel we had to stop by Sandy's house to return some books. I don't want to, he said. Oh, you can stay in the car, I'm just going to drop them off.

But I don't like the car.

Ah, I thought. So that's how it's going to be. I didn't say anything. Then I heard Gabriel twist in his seat and kick the car door.

I don't like the Prius, I don't like the station wagon, and I don't like taking Didi to school.

Still, I kept silent.

...Mama? Where are we going after that?
The Rec Center.
I don't like it! I don't like the Rec Center!

At this point he broke down in sobs and begged me to take him home. I leaned an elbow into the spot where the car door meets the window and rested my heavy head in my palm, feeling as if an ice cream scoop had scraped my insides empty of will as I listened to his pitiful, twisted up wailing. After a moment, I asked him if he was feeling sad and grouchy today. Between sniffles and sobs, he managed to say yes.

And then a few minutes later, in a desperate act of self-control, I heard a much calmer, almost reasonable voice from the backseat urge, Please let's go home, Mama.
 
I had no idea whether or not complying with his request was the right thing, but lacked the inclination or strength to fight him on it. So I resolved to do some yoga during his nap and turned the car towards our house. The boy immediately felt better. After an enlivening peanut butter sandwich, I suggested we do some cleaning. His enthusiastic dusting would have made Martha Stewart proud, and we mopped the kitchen floor cleaner than it's been in months. Gabriel played with tinker toys while I responded to email. We listened to music and watched the rain outside. The morning was miraculously restful and productive.

Then at 11:15 I noticed the clock and it hit me: we were missing his first 'On the Go' class that I had signed him up for weeks ago. Parachutes, balls, slides! We had both been so excited for the class to start. And it was happening right now, without us. How could I have forgotten? My first impulse was to slip on Gabriel's jacket and herd him to the car so we could catch some of it...but of course he objected. And when I thought about it, I objected too. Why introduce rushed car seat-buckling and other kids' runny noses into our beautiful quiet morning?

My fallback mode is 'on the go.' The three mornings each week I spend with Gabriel are usually passed at the Rec Center, or running errands, or meeting up with friends. It was surprising to realize just how unusual a day like today is. Maybe Gabriel had had enough of being on the go. Maybe I had too. Maybe some part of me conveniently "forgot" our new class because we were both in need of some restorative time at home.

The day only got better. Frances had an early dismissal from school. After she came home, I put Gabriel down for a late nap, which resulted in an all-too-rare stretch of exclusive time with my daughter. Without Gabriel around to match behavior-for-behavior in a mad grab for attention, Frances proved an utterly delightful companion. We read lots of Pippi Longstocking, then I explained I was going to do some yoga. She opted to join me downstairs, reading and drawing while I luxuriated in movement gloriously unencumbered by small children. Forty minutes of ujjayi breathing later, with that delectable sense of increased space between my bones and increased calm in my momentarily wide chest, we headed to the kitchen.

I endeavored to cook with dried fava beans for the first time this afternoon. While Frances and I talked, I slipped off their purplish gray skins, tossing them onto the counter in a pile that resembled a strange tangle of insect husks. (The gray-green industrial prison hue of the pureed favas inspired little confidence, but tasted great, and I think might even please children when hidden between slices of bread or inside tortillas). The persistent rain only served to make the kitchen cozier, and the earthy smell of lentil soup simmering seemed to reach out and gently touch my face each time I lifted the pot lid to stir. I felt present to Frances and everything around me.

And now, despite some reservations, I'm going to share a little about churchy stuff. I fear alienating some of you - but please, just stick with me. This part is kind of interesting. Last Sunday, I attended a Lenten Bible study group at our relatively new church. I was late ('on the go' often translates into late for me) but the circle of people gathered graciously found me an extra chair. The reading was from John, the story of Jesus bringing Lazarus back from the dead. I heard it read aloud twice, and then read it aloud once myself. We talked about what struck us most in the story, and with a few others' help I began to think about it in a new way. I imagined Lazarus, bound in cloth from head to toe, unable to see or to use his hands to feel, responding to Jesus, who called to him from outside his tomb: Lazarus, come out. For the first time, I truly considered the courage and faith required to walk blindly forward like that. Come out. A man named Joe sitting across the table locked eyes with me for a moment. Yes, he said, it's like God is saying it to me too: Joe. Come out.

So often I feel clueless about where I'm going - in parenting, in my work, in the greater community - so I suppose it isn't surprising how that reflection on Lazarus has stayed with me. Meagan. Come out. After a rainy day like today, marked by small gestures and peaceful intimacy, I am feeling a momentary comfort with blindness. Sometimes you have to stay in to come out.