the gloaming

My children don't know what happened in Connecticut on Friday. In a way, I still don't know what happened. I can only bear to absorb tiny bits and pieces at a time, and for now I think I am saturated. I haven't read any more news today, nor have I indulged my public radio habit in the car.

You'd think that in the light of unthinkable violence like this, I'd hold my kids tight and tell them how much I love them. But that wasn't what happened for me - the shock and grief were so great, and I felt myself withdrawing, hiding away, becoming irritable when they asked for something twice. That is one of the strangest things about grief: at a time when we need each other the most, we isolate ourselves. At least I know I do, sometimes. I just finished  a novel in which the protagonist patiently and tenderly cares for his dying mother for many months, and when she does die, he asks his friends and daughter to give him one week. One week in his bed, alone. When the week is out they can come get him and bring him back to life. 

So I suppose I am lucky the weekend was busy, because part of me wanted to take to my bed. Away from my kids and their need, away from my responsibilities, awash in my white comforter, with only the view from my bedroom window to distract. It is a selfish impulse.

But that didn't happen; too much to do. Saturday passed and still Frances had not discovered that something was terribly wrong in the world. Then at church this morning, one of our priests prayed at the opening of the service for the children who were killed, naming them all, slowly, deliberately. I could feel so many others crying with me, and was grateful that we went to church that morning after all, even though I hadn't wanted to.  You can't hide away when you're smashed seven in a pew. You can't turn away from pain and grief when they are a palpable presence, held by everyone in a room.

We went to lunch at an older couple's house that Mike works with. They filled our kids' glasses with undiluted juice, offered seconds on sweets, and brought out a box of toys from when their children were young. We came home, crafted, went on walks. Before we went to our neighbors' house for dinner, Gabriel and I took clippers outside to cut back the raspberry bushes. The day was grey and moist, and even though it was just four in the afternoon we could feel the evening rapidly rushing in. I realized it's almost the solstice, the twilight of the year.

We admired the red branches' soft, dense thorns, the ring of pale green surrounding the white center of the branch that was revealed when we cut through at a thick-enough spot.

At Taco Sunday Katie let the children wear her reading glasses while we talked and they played school. She offered Gabriel his first bite of lobster (a hit), then later she and Chester surprised the children (and us) with tiny individual cups of Ben & Jerry's for dessert.

We were fed and cared for all day, and it was a fine reminder that everyday expressions of love are a powerful thing, a source of healing and light in the world that cannot be undone. I cannot conceive of the grief so many are going through right now, but I can imagine the love and care and help surrounding them. And so even if my kids do find out about what happened, or begin to ask questions, after today I feel more hopeful about their ability to bear it.

Mr. Rogers' mother advised him to "look for the helpers" when scary things happened in the news when he was a child. Look for the caring people in this world. No matter the depth of tragedy, you will never have to look far. It's no small thing.

12.12.12

Frances tells us that today, the twelfth day of the twelfth month of the twelfth year of the twenty-first century, at 12:12 pm and 12 seconds, her entire class let out a bit whoop of happy amazement. Then it was 12:12 and 13 seconds and they got back to second grade business.

I do think she may always remember that moment. It is the kind of thrilling stuff that drills indelibly into a seven year old's brain. At dinner tonight she earnestly pitied her poor baby sister who will join us in 2013, long after the possibility of such magical dates has expired, at least for their lifetimes.

It seemed like a fine day to share some of our latest favorite things. And so, in no particular order, I present to you a snapshot of what is bringing color and depth to our lives on this oh-so-momentous date:

1. Arcadia. I find this novel captivating. It pains me to put it down, which I sadly must do often. I wept through the first chapters as sensitive, mystical little Bit, the protagonist, makes his way on a commune in upstate New York. The prose is perfect, and Groff - with amazing accuracy - captures a child's magical understanding of events (including the severe depression that renders Bit's mother unreachable - particularly heart-wrenching for this pregnant mother who has recently returned to clinical work).

2. Daniel Handler on Fresh Air. A really and truly delightful conversation. Could he and Terry have hit it off any better? I listened at the gym and laughed out loud far too often, which was sort of embarrassing.

3. A sincere longing for open time to mosey into holiday projects with the kids. Until the end of next week though, we are on our regular schedule, in which the downtime together that I am craving seems in short supply. So stringing popcorn, making ornaments, and rolling pinecones in peanut butter and birdseed will have to wait.

4. The return of granola. I haven't made it since I became pregnant, which would have been, oh my goodness, some twenty-nine weeks ago. My family has gone without for a long time. Maybe it's some kind of third trimester-induced desire to nurture, but I couldn't stand it for a minute longer today and finally filled the jar back up just before Gabriel and I went to pick up Frances. (My simple bare bones recipe is here).

5. Sufjan Stevens' Songs for Christmas. This music has become forever associated with the season for me (some of the songs are achingly, transcendently beautiful - listen to his original Sister Winter sometime) and now I hear he has a new box set of Christmas songs called Silver & Gold. Oh my. I don't think we can wait for Christmas morning, because I imagine these are songs best spooled out slowly over days...in the meantime though the same old melodies are feeding my soul, and helped give me patience as I put the lights up on our fussy tree this afternoon.

6. The return of the Spy Network.

The children found their old box, folded and creased and - at least I thought - rendered unrecognizable by the ravages of life in the garage over the past few months. But no. An innocent venture in search of a hammer led to a fantastic discovery: Look, it's the Spy Network!! Then before I knew it the two of them were lugging it through the kitchen and down to the playroom, cleaning it out, posting new rules, and placing important spy items inside: my kitchen scissors, tape, a telescope (really? from where?), and the big heavy red dictionary. Why does Frances need the dictionary, you ask? Why, because it has morse code in it, of course.

7. Fresh cranberries. Fold them into nearly any baked good and it will be that much better, tart and fresh. Seriously. I made banana buttermilk cranberry muffins for Mike's last classes earlier in the week (I am still feeling rather proud of the nice gesture) and happily there were extras for us.


Now. Will you tell me what is floating your boat today?

preparations

With the addition of a new part-time job, life feels a bit more slippery these days. I can't quite get a handle on where I'm supposed to be and what I'm supposed to be doing, and my mind quietly emits unbidden reminders of strange and unrelated responsibilities at odd times of the day: what will we do for teacher presents? Have I called that friend back? When will I be able to exercise again? What will we do about the car that is falling apart? Frances needs socks. When will I get Frances socks?

But despite the occasional buzzing in my mind and some family-wide growing pains, I have been amazed of late to notice that Christmas is happening despite it all. We are getting ready. Friends brought the children their presents early and Frances has been wearing her beautiful Christmas dress and new sparkly red shoes ever since. We've baked cookies. The kids have been making secret packages for their friends, the contents (and outer wrappings) of which may be trash to some, but hopefully will be treasure to the receivers. We just came back from practicing for the pageant. I got together with friends last week to make ornaments.

Gabriel and I brought up the holiday boxes and he went nuts digging through everything, finding bits of ribbon and boxes, the holiday storybooks, the stockings, the lights.

Life has this way of carrying us along, which I find immensely reassuring, given the sense I have every so often of ineffectively thrashing about. All will be well, and all will slow down: most immediately during the holidays, when we will all be off of school and work and can luxuriate in pajamas together. And soon, so soon, this new babe will arrive and set me straight. Teacher gifts? The preschool coop schedule? All these obligations will settle down in a heap like so many worn-out puppies, and we will return to the essentials: eat, sleep, touch, breathe.

Gabriel tried to push his way into Frances's room after she yelled at him not to come in as we got ready for bed tonight. I gave him a hard time about not respecting privacy, and he wept bitter tears, telling me that she will never, never let him in her room to play with her.

Have you told her you like to spend time playing with her in her room?

But she - sob - won't let me anyway!!!

I convinced him to ask her to talk about it. We knocked and she reluctantly admitted us. We sat down on the bed together and Gabriel humbly, heartbreakingly told his big sister that he liked to be with her in her room, and could he sometimes? Frances wrapped her skinny arms around him and told him yes, yes. But knock first, okay? Then they climbed into bed to read together and told me to go downstairs please.

See what I mean? Sometimes all it takes is a gesture, a nudge, and life carries along the rest. Tiny Christmas miracles, everywhere I look.

words for aliens

It's happening. Gabriel is entering the magical time when the connection between spoken words, stories, images and written symbols on a page is becoming real. He strings together letters to label and title his drawings. He asks what the word he has written sounds like, and when I say heelohzackillsss he laughs in a goofy way that is nonetheless tinged by awe. Did he really create that sound, just by putting all those letters together??

We experienced this before with Frances, in a different way that was just as delightful and mesmerizing. It's a happy discovery, learning that it doesn't really matter how many children you've witnessed opening to the power of reading and writing - it is just as incredible, every time.

Last night at Taco Sunday Gabriel made a Book of Aliens. Each page was numbered and depicted a different planet with its inhabitants. Each planet was labeled and as we looked through and added to his book this afternoon, he explained: These aliens are from the planet R-E-S. How do you say that, Mama?

I think Tintin taught him about using word bubbles with his pictures. In the Book of Aliens, on different planets aliens alternately say "hih," "ih," "hie," and "hii"- and Gabriel was beside himself when I pronounced them for him, more or less, as "Hi!". Did he really write Hi??

Pretty close, kiddo. It just gets better and better from here on out.