first night

After an early dinner I told everyone to come outside and help me in the garden. It took some coaxing but they all made it. The children dug a desultory hole or two, pulled a radish, munched an arugula leaf. And draped their bellies over the swings for a good lazy hang, and generally wandered the yard, disoriented (isn't this supposed to be story time...?) and all the while I transplanted the last of the flowers and checked on the tomatoes I moved into the garden earlier today. While I puttered around (incidentally, I have never puttered around a garden before) I wondered how all of them would fare during their first cool, breezy night outdoors.

It's weird. I am empathizing with tomato plants. I imagine the undersides of their delicate leaves being blown upwards by a sudden night wind and I involuntarily shiver. Oh dear. Sleep well, little ones.

rumpus

I am so sad about Maurice Sendak's death. His books accompanied me through childhood and now parenthood; I don't think we ever go more than a few days without reading In the Night Kitchen, The Moon Jumpers, Where the Wild Things Are, or Higgelty Piggelty Pop. His exquisite art and attunement to the perils of childhood (of personhood, maybe) have surely influenced me more than I know.

About a year ago I stumbled upon Outside Over There at the library. One glance at the cover made me shiver. I'd forgotten about this one, which I read as a child--over and over--though it scared the daylights out of me. It's the story of a brave big sister who has to rescue her baby sister from goblins all by herself. The images are haunting (including those of her abstracted, mournful mother who does not seem aware of the trouble at hand). I got up the courage to check it out a month ago and read it to Gabriel, who told me it isn't scary at all and please read it again. And again.

transplanting

This is a precious, fleeting season in Maryland. The days have grown long and warm enough to accommodate a post-kid-bedtime visit to the garden, yet the nasty biting bugs have not arrived (when they do, they will make bare-limbed evening rambles the kind of thing only a crazy person would attempt. Or, I suppose, a person drenched in Deet.) 

Do you see the curling pea tendrils, the arugula, the tomato plants preparing themselves for the grand, risky move from the safety of their plastic pots to the wilds of the garden? I missed those plants. I thought about them while we were in Lancaster over the weekend. I wondered how they were faring in my absence.

My goodness, that's a first for this novice gardener! Now that I'm in charge, I've grown attached. I never thought my heart could open for a mere plant, but this spring I've learned different. Maybe something about being ultimately responsible for another living thing inevitably stirs up affection.

It was a lovely, short visit, the highlight of which was a spin through the long-awaited fair in the park at the end of my mother's block. There were countless run-ins with old friends and their much-taller children, bumper cars, a fun house, snow cones, and an unfortunate episode after riding the swings with Gabriel: I was quite literally brought to my knees in the grass a few feet from the ride's blinking lights, a gesture inspired by sheer gratitude that the endless spinning was indeed finally over and a feeble attempt to control my nausea and dizziness. Lesson learned: Mama doesn't do the swing ride.

tussie mussie

Frances, like her mother, is a hatcher of schemes, a plotter of plans, and a lover of grand, purposeful, and well-executed Events. We both get a rush from the early conceptual stages of plan-making, and even though I really get it when Frances starts talking a mile a minute, describing the imagined event she will orchestrate, I often find myself attempting to pull her back down to earth. Do you really think everyone will come in costume? Where do you suggest we find the fantastic decorations? Who will pay for those amazing snacks? Etc.

It's just that I don't want her to be too disappointed by the disparity between fantasy and reality that will inevitably make itself known. In the name of protecting her bright spirit, I engage in a little spirit-squelching. Does that make any sense? Her perceptions are so very different from mine; why not let her see through her own plans on her own terms? Maybe reality won't disappoint. Or maybe it will, but surely she can handle it. So a couple of weeks ago, when she began describing the May Day party she was going to throw during recess, I kept my mouth shut.