I turned back to Beatrice. Had she brushed her teeth? No. That wasn't it though. She was leaning over a chair with one dirty foot in the air.
And then I knew. I could not for the life of me remember the last time she'd had a bath. It had been many, many, many days. So many it had fallen out of the nighttime routine. My first thought was: does that constitute neglect? Will her teachers notice and call protective services?
My second thought: don't the painstakingly homemade cookies somehow counterbalance my lackadaisical approach to hygiene? The cookies that I involved Beatrice in baking, even after I watched her fall backwards from her chair at the counter, taking a bowl brimming with a double batch of dry ingredients toppling with her, coating every kitchen surface including our shoes in cinnamon-scented white powder?
(Not even that event prompted a bath).
(To her credit, she spent a long time industriously smearing flour into a gluey film all over the cabinetry with damp paper towels, trying to reverse the damage.)
The fact that I forgot that Beatrice sometimes needs a bath weighed on me as we walked to school. It was a reminder that I'm back in the mode I inhabited last fall, during Mike's initial chemotherapy. The conditions are remarkably similar: we're wading into a big transition full of uncertainty, Mike is really sick with a slew of complications, and the kids need extra support. Multitasking is frying my brain. I'm back to making frequent trips to the CVS, where the kindly pharmacist greets me with "Picking up for Brogan?" and ends the transaction by giving me a sympathetic smile and calling, "See you tomorrow!" as I head towards the door.
The difference is that now it's more familiar, and so while less laden with anxiety, it's also somehow less tolerable because this isn't supposed to be happening. When Mike was recovering earlier this spring, we allowed ourselves to make plans, to nurture expectations about the future. Now, three cycles of cancer treatment later - and anticipating a fourth - we are letting go of one expectation after another. Visits with friends, a birthday fishing trip, an anniversary date - all canceled.
Today was the last day of school. I thought that on the last day of school I'd be back to inviting friends over for dinner, to making plans, to living a life generally colored by more giving and less receiving. I thought we'd be squeezing a lot of fun out of our last weeks in Lancaster. Instead I dropped off the kids and talked through Mike's symptoms with the nurse who called to check in, to see if he improved after IV fluids yesterday.
Throughout the scariness and heartache and tumult of this school year, the children had a safe, peaceful place to go every day, organized by reassuring routines and populated by kind teachers and friends. I have never felt so grateful for a school community. The New School is marked by a culture of courteousness and creativity; it's a place where a seven year old patiently holds the door for the three year old behind him (and her mother) and the art show is the biggest event of the year. We've walked the four long blocks there in all kinds of weather, meeting friends along the way, sighting bunnies and mushrooms and irresistible big sticks, arguing and joking and gossiping.
So can you blame me for crying when Beatrice's teacher Sybil enveloped me in a goodbye hug at pick up time? All the losses of the moment got jumbled up, and in the safety of her arms - and in the sight of her glorious purple hair - I cried.
My kids have been mothered by so many excellent teachers and older children and fellow parents; now as the summer diaspora begins I fear the mothering gig falls back entirely to me. I'm afraid of the responsibility; I'm afraid of the sadness I'm sure they will feel at losing a daily connection with such vibrant networks of care.
This afternoon Gabriel's grandfather came and picked him up for a special solo visit. Frances and I played in the front yard. I made dinner. Mike felt well enough to help clean up. I read nursery rhymes to Bea. Frances and I sat and read her writing from the year that she brought home to share.
Before I sang her bedtime songs, I gave Beatrice a bath. And when she asked, I got in with her. She loves that.
