making time

When Frances first coined the expression homemade time, I knew that she was communicating some deeper truth about the way I wanted to mother, but I wasn't sure exactly what it was. It became the name of this blog and eventually shorthand for being present and intentional as a parent, for allowing my children to disclose the kernels of beauty and meaning in everyday life by resisting the urge to rush from one thing to the next. It meant slowing down my pace, which tends towards brisk, in order to share a dewy spider web on the back deck or a perfect poem ten times in a row. Homemade time seemed like a spiritual practice of sorts: difficult, requiring discipline, but eventually one that I might cultivate and thus more fully experience and enjoy these long days that blur together into a handful of very short years.

I think there must be all kinds of books about this. Buddhist parenting? Slow parenting, maybe? I rarely read those books because I'd almost always rather read novels in the precious little quiet time I have. So forgive me if I'm explaining something that has already been labeled or already had its moment, duly reported on the Motherlode blog. But really, there is something magical about participating in temporality as our children do--joining them in this moment--that can make parenting joyful. Transcendently so. You don't need money or special skills or friend in the know. It's not a cloth versus disposable kind of decision; it's an intention that colors everything else. It's a willingness to sit down next to a child who doesn't want to walk anymore, and find out what's so interesting crawling along the sidewalk anyway.

But my kids are older, and over the past month or so, I've noticed a certain distance and frustration that came with the schedules and new activities. I thought homemade time was a way in the world--something anyone could access, at any time, with any child. But I have been losing that openness in the struggle to get shoes tied and jackets zipped, faces washed and carseats buckled so we won't be late. I've thrown up my hands in exasperation when the children won't cooperate, but I've only been urging them to keep up, keep moving. I rarely sit down next to them on the sidewalk to see what's caught their eyes. Even though they are big enough to go to Girl Scouts and dance class and playdates, they are still small enough to be enveloped by the present moment, receptive little creatures that they are. It's a blessing, and I've been missing out.

So in recognition of this disturbing trend, this weekend I cancelled apple-picking, and then a friend canceled a playdate because her daughter was sick. We did go to a rainy picnic at Frances's school on Friday, which culminated in a thrilling rainbow (pictured above), then spent the rest of the weekend at home. There was time for book-making, and time to actually read the book (Autumn Has Come is crazy good. Ridiculously good!). Time for baking, for reading Tin Tin on a blanket in the sun, for playing with neighbors in the backyard, for a long jog, for conversation with Mike, for tacos with friends, and perhaps most thrilling, time for practicing brand new skills.

So many of those things happened because we were together, with open time spread before us. An expanse of time with nothing to do was just what we all needed. 

As a parent I learned (all over again) that young children never kill time. Waiting for a bus is just as potentially rich with experience as is riding the bus or arriving at one's destination. Children don't experience time as something to be dealt with. They do the opposite of kill time. They make time. They enliven it; they fill it. It's one way that they teach us.

I'm feeling grateful for that particular lesson tonight. Such a golden October weekend we had, full of homemade moments! I hope yours was, too.

high low

As Frances and I ambled across the Eastport bridge this morning, admiring the sparkling water and gently rocking sailboats amidst crowds of happy boat show-goers, I kept thinking of that Lou Reed song--well, at least the chorus:

Oh it's such a perfect day, I'm glad I spent it with you. 

I think the verses tend towards bleakness (surprise), so my mind stayed with that simple and complete sentiment. It's such a perfect day. We had the morning together, since her school was closed and Gabriel's was not. We stopped by her old school, where Frances played on the playground and I interviewed parents about the school food garden they were tending. Eventually the two of us squatted down to help with the weeding. After that we took a glorious walk into Eastport and landed at our favorite cafe (Can I get chocolate milk? Can I, can I?), where we made friends with a dog and yes, had special drinks.

Without anyone around for Frances to compete with, we made a peaceful, companionable pair, soaking up the golden October sunshine. Every kid and parent should have the occasional luxury of this kind of exclusive, unplanned day, an 'adventure day,' as Frances dubbed it, where the sole point is to be together, and you only find out where you're going when you get there.

*               *               *               *               *

I wrote that this afternoon. It really was a perfect day--until it wasn't anymore. It is now official that my orchestration of napless Mondays for Gabriel was a Bad Decision. Premature, anyway. His music class runs too late and Frances's pick up time is too early to allow for a proper rest and wow do I hear about it come five o'clock. Today's tantrum took place in line at the grocery store. It was like an excruciating scene in a Hollywood movie that is meant to symbolize all that is hard and demoralizing about parenthood. The bad behavior continued all the way until bedtime (early, early bedtime) and now I am a hollowed out, beaten down wreck. These moments can really undermine one's confidence. 

But the documentation of my morning with Frances is proof that everything can feel perfect and everything can feel abysmal, all in the span of a few hours. Sometimes we play a game called High Low at dinnertime. Everyone gets to share one good thing and one bad thing from his or her day. There is something validating in this, for both the adults and the children: our days have high and low moments. It's okay. We can talk about it all.

But back to the high: when you have perfect days (or rather, moments), is there a song that goes through your head? A happy song? In writing this I realized I have a few: Good Morning from Singin' in the Rain, Oh What a Beautiful Morning from Oklahoma! (I must be a morning person. And a musical person. Who knew?). Recently Gabriel and I heard Friday I'm in Love by the Cure on the radio in the midst of a sunny perfect moment and we heartily agreed that it was an excellent happy song. 

Have any others you'd like to share?

the after school club

Most days when Gabriel and I pick up Frances at school, we come prepared for the after school club. We bring snacks, water, sometimes a book or two, sometimes the makings of a sports collage.

Yesterday the weather was fine, and it was nearing five by the time the club members dragged themselves off the playground. Gabriel and I usually greet this late afternoon idyll with a similar happiness. Our bodies relax, our minds loosen their grip: we will spend this wide-open hour outside, free from structured activities, and with friends.

The club is what we call the few families who linger at the playground after school. The other mothers are a pleasure; the other children are accepting, imaginative, and even game for Frances's elaborate pretend games and Gabriel's sports collage-making. We've found a place teeming with peers. I've already begun to sink into this reality as if its a hum drum, regular sort of thing, but sometimes I look around and marvel. How did we find this?

Yesterday, while we mothers sat in the shade chatting idly and watching the children play, it struck me that this scene was like a page ripped from the book of fantasy images I had been accumulating during my last weeks of full-time work (that I had long ago discarded, thinking it utterly unrealistic). It might just be that my children have grown bigger and easier, but it is also that I'm starting (three years later!) to figure out how to live in this still-new town.

Earlier in the day I talked with two other mothers on the playground after I picked Gabriel up from preschool, and we confided about the Quarterly Crisis (equivalent to Tina Fey's Triannual Sob). Every few months we have to freak out about the professional life and identity we are unsure we will ever be able to return to. All three of us work in some capacity now, but part-time, and in circumstances that are limited and far less appealing than those of past jobs. It's rare to find fulfilling, challenging work that you can do for fifteen or twenty hours a week. But oh, it's a pleasure to find other mothers who know intimately the exact spot I'm in.

In other news: you may have noticed that I decided to monetize. There's an ad below this post. It's a trial thing; deep down I know it's not the greatest idea but I wanted to see if one can actually make any money through ads. 'One' being me, of course. Some time ago I made the decision to scale back my regular work hours in order to do more freelance writing this year, and when Mike and I made up the budget, I set a monthly earnings goal for myself. The goal represented the minimum of what I should be making to keep everything else afloat around here - and believe me, it seemed like a modest goal at the time. Yet I'm falling short of meeting it. 

I have never felt comfortable being our family's spender (groceries, gas, prescriptions, incidentals) while not being a family earner. The first 24 hours of advertising on Homemade Time earned me 77 cents. Clearly, this is not going to pay the bills...yet I'm still reluctant to take that icky ad off the site. The reluctance is irrational and deep, about both money anxiety and worldly recognition anxiety. Will I ever have a meaningful job again? Will I ever do something judged worthy of a substantial paycheck? Might this ad for vitamins on my mama blog somehow ameliorate the situation?

Taking care of my kids and sharing them in broader, caring communities is a rich life. We'll be just fine, even if I don't earn as much as I'd expected to. And yet I succumbed to Adsense! 

I hope you'll forgive me. Sometimes it's hard to trust in an unknowable future, to relax into this overflowing present replete with blessings. 

corduroy weather

Golden, you are,
October.
Golden sovereigns on your trees.
Golden guineas on your floor,
golden coins of leaves that fall
for us to scuffle through
and rustle
and rattle
and hustle
and scrabble
and dabble
and paddle 
as they fall
into an October carpet
which hides
our shoes. 
-from  Around the Year by Elsa Beskow

Last night, as I tried in vain to slow down after a day of buzzing from one thing to the next, I climbed into bed next to Mike and announced that I have a disease. A do-too-much disease.

He laughed and said, "I've been telling you that for almost fifteen years!"

I see. Well. I suppose I do have a tendency to over-extend, volunteer, and generally let my enthusiasms get away with me. Yesterday involved school for Gabriel and Frances, work for me, an after-school music class for Gabriel (during his usual naptime), an after-school dance class for Frances, the biggest tantrum of Gabriel's short life, culminating in a mad dash through a parking lot thronged with SUVs and minivans (whose drivers could not possibly see a barely three-foot-tall person sprinting along the ground beneath their lofty windshields), a flurry of phone calls outside dance class in search of a babysitter, a quick mac-and-cheese dinner for the kids, a change into grown up clothes, and a reception at the Government House in honor of a very cool new program in Maryland. Then I came home, relieved the sitter, worked a bit more, and greeted Mike around 10:30, after his final class of the day. I hadn't seen him since 8 that morning.

This is not how we do things. What is happening?

I have no one to blame but myself. This mama, like many before her, sets the family tone and rhythm. I make the social commitments, schedule the classes, and set my work calendar. We had a special visitor over the weekend, various church activities on Sunday, and now I am sitting in my chaotic house, hoping the boy is catching up on sleep, marveling at how we fell off the lunch-planning wagon so soon, and wondering how I can slow. everything. down. 

There are plenty of good reasons to pursue everything that we pursued yesterday (like chatting with First Lady O'Malley!) but maybe it is time to make some choices. Otherwise, perfect days like today would forever elude me: Gabriel and I ran a few errands, stopped to collect stacks of new books and read at the library, and soaked up some long-awaited autumn sunshine over a picnic in the backyard. With sports guys books, of course.

If I had scheduled our morning away, we wouldn't have had time to brainstorm a Halloween costume, or sing ridiculous songs, or examine the latest crop of baby grasshoppers bouncing lightly over our picnic blanket. I wouldn't be comforted by the smell of chipotle white bean soup simmering on the stove just now, nor would I have finally folded and put away the basket of clean laundry that had taken up residence at the top of the stairs. What a relief! It had been sneering at me for days.

It is corduroy weather, finally. These perfect days slide so quickly into the dark gray chill of winter. I'd hate to succumb to the lure of doing-too-much, only to look up and realize I'd missed the golden days of October.