balancing act

What a week.

Last Tuesday my mother- and father-in-law arrived to settle in and help take care of Beatrice, as our child care provider was unable to. Beatrice is newly in the throes of separation anxiety, unable to tolerate being in anyone else's arms when I am visible. Or audible. Or probably smell-able, too, because why wouldn't olfactory experience play into the amazing mysteries of love and attachment?

Anyway. She was also getting sick and in short it wasn't an easy babysitting gig. They persevered and managed to also pay sweet attention to the big kids as well as this author in the form of laundry folding, grocery shopping, and general moral support. 

Weirdly enough, two extra adults in the house who adore her seemed difficult for Frances in some ways. Maybe because they also adore her brother and sister. Maybe it was also because the week culminated in her papa's big lecture, delivered on Friday (more on this later), which occupied him and in some ways the rest of us quite a bit, and was followed by an extraordinary dinner given in his honor by two other adults the children love - but they weren't invited. (Whoopee!)

The long and short of it was my big girl had been very snippy, compulsively contradictory, and borderline rude for days. On Saturday, after Grammy and Poppy left, I was on the phone with my mother. She only had a few minutes to talk and we needed to do some Thanksgiving planning. Frances wanted to talk too; I told her she couldn't this time. Huffing and puffing and foot-stomping ensued. I told her to go to her room. She slammed her door.

A moment later she opened it and hollered in my direction, "You're nasty! You're horrid! I hate you!"

Gasp. Splutter. Rage raced from my heart to the very tip of every extremity in about a half a second.

Good thing I was on the phone and couldn't go tearing up the stairs immediately. As it was I hung up with my mother, went into her room, and told her she was hurting my heart with her terrible mean words. I told her I was very very angry with her, and she needed to think about why, and she could not come downstairs for a long time. 

Her face looked absolutely pale, as if her words had shocked her more than they had me. 

Later, when she was granted permission to come downstairs, she came to me in the kitchen to apologize. "Mama, I don't hate you," she said. "I'm just so jealous all the time."

I sank down with her on the stained orange ottoman in the corner. 

"I'm jealous when you hold Beatrice. And when you feed her with your fingers, and when you change her poopy diapers, and when you nurse her, and when you carry her around because she's fussy and won't play on the floor anymore, and when you kiss her neck, and when you sing her songs. I'm jealous when you give her baths, and when you say, Come here baby, it's okay. I want you to do all those things for me."

I think her list had about seven more specific descriptions of caregiving, and each one felt like another little stab in my heart as she spoke them aloud, because I felt the pain in her voice and recognized the reality of life with a baby. Beatrice requires near constant attention. And instead of finding it irritating, everyone absolutely adores her. I cried, a little. It wasn't just that Frances feels so sad and left out of the mama-baby blissful dyad, it was that she had hit some kind of bottom and recongized the depth of the problem along with her sense of confusion about how to handle it. 

What to do? Sit and hug and talk. 

There's more to it all, especially involving discipline and consequences for the mean words (which have a way of escaping despite her best intentions) and I am still uncertain about how best to support and contain and guide this passionate girl of ours. But it's interesting that the past two nights before bed, she and I have foregone our customary reading and snuggled up with things like nail buffers or special foot cream. We talk a little while I take care of her body, eight year old style. It doesn't fix the problem, but it feels good. 

And one more thing. Mike's lecture was a brilliant success. He did it. I was sort of floating at first, watching him in action, then finally settled into the pleasure of seeing my husband alone on the stage, speaking with honesty, rigor, eloquence, and heart. There was my Mike, for all the world to see.   

What a week, what a week! And now onto Thanksgiving. May yours be beautiful and delicious, gratitude-drenched, and filled with the mysterious movements of love and attachment.

november song

The clear light and saturated colors this November have been breathtaking. They leave me speechless - except when they don't, and I drive my family members crazy by interrupting them midsentence to beg them to admire a tree or a streak of perfect white clouds in the sky.

So instead of talk talk talking, I humbly offer a few pictures (no brilliant hues here - just images from a lovely fall afternoon, including Bea in her autumn sweater).

enchanted evening

After work today, I made it to the bus stop just in time. I pulled up to the corner, jumped out and half-walked/half-ran in my noisy heeled boots towards the baby, who was hanging out in an Ergo worn by our wonderful sitter Danielle, mother to Eligh, who would soon tromp down the steps of the bus with Gabriel.

When I am reunited with the baby I am terribly rude; I only have eyes for her and can't manage to say hello or notice anyone else until she is in my arms. Happily Danielle seems to get this and just hands me the baby when I approach. With Beatrice climbing up my front and jamming her chubby fingers into my mouth, the big kids arrive and we all decamp for Danielle's, where I need to pick up the car seat. Once there, Danielle feeds us pear bread (so good!) and after some negotiations, I leave Gabriel playing with Eligh on the skate ramp his dad built in their backyard while I go looking for Frances.

I drive the minivan home, and find Frances making rainbow loom bracelets at our next-door neighbor's house. Frances gets a ride home from school with our neighbor most afternoons. We walk in, Frances tells me about her Native American project at school, and the baby cannot wait another second to nurse, so I sit with her while Frances talk talk talks and part of my mind wonders what I can possibly rustle up for dinner. Then I put some big white beans on the stove to simmer, slip on my old clogs, and announce that we have to go get Gabriel immediately because though it is only 4:45 it will soon be dark!

Miraculously this is met with no complaints and Frances, Beatrice and I soon rush out the door and down the street. We find Gabriel and Eligh running around like wild beasts, which is their wont when together, and after I apologize to Danielle for taking so long to get back, my three children and I head home.

And much as the point of lots of strenuous yoga is the deep restorative rest of savasana, the point of all this back and forth and regular life logistics was our quiet walk home. We needed the buzz and rush to come before in order to more perfectly absorb the peaceful neighborhood and evening sky, which was exquisite. The sun setting at the end of the street lit up the clouds in so many shades of warm. It looked, according to Gabriel, like a box of pink Puffins (the cereal) had spilled across the sky.

Walking down the middle of the street, with my baby nestled against my chest, my son on one side of me and my daughter on the other, I felt complete. Grateful. Everything as it should be, even the early darkness.

Eventually Frances and Gabriel started bickering. I told them to cut it out because they were ruining my beautiful moment. They laughed. No, seriously, I said. The sky is too perfect. You cannot fight with each other right now.

Well. Ahem. They started back at it about a minute later. But it was okay. We were still bathed in that fading light, which clung to us when we went inside.

Fall, I think, is the best season. And maybe - just maybe - November is the best month.