the writing life

We are still muddling through a mala racha, as the people I met in Spain so many years ago would say. I have a little mantra I've been silently repeating to myself: this too shall pass, this too shall pass. Either that, or I suggest out loud - through clenched teeth, while steams steadily escapes from my ears - that my daughter remain silent for 3 minutes, starting right now, I will time you, no not another word, no words at all, just quiet, Frances did you forget already? It's only been 30 seconds, please, just try this for me, 3 minutes of SILENCE.

But as many of you know, silence is near impossible for a girl who has had words continually rushing through her body, mind, and soul since babyhood, a girl whose universe is all about language. So ordering silence is hardly effective; it just ramps up the anxiety (but a mama can dream).

safe and sound

So I was going to tell you about a rocky few days of life with my children, the nadir of which was a cake walk gone very, very wrong. (Imagine me hoisting my six year old daughter toddler-style, sobbing and screaming, out of a tightly-packed circle of children hoping for cake, followed a few feet behind by my stumbling, crying, bewildered four year old son who only knew there was no chance of cake whatsoever where I was taking his sister but could not bear to remain in the circle by himself...and how I almost barked over my unhinged child's shoulder at the mother who, looking a bit desperate to quiet the screams, offered a consolation cake to Frances: NO! NO CAKE!).

Yes. Well. That was pretty bad. I was also going to tell you how I am attributing days (or weeks) like this to simple brain-branching, neural overload, the inevitable ravages of inhabiting a growing body and mind. The good thing about this is that one has only to adopt a this-too-shall-pass attitude towards the whole thing, and pray for patience and fortitude til the storm passes.

But then this morning I was sitting in church and watching a young teenager snuggle into her papa's shoulder, admiring their easy intimacy, how they inclined their heads and whispered into each others' ears. It brought back memories of sitting with my own father in just that way, along with an attendant wave of feelings: safety, security, warmth, the peace of being encircled and contained by the boundless love of a parent.

day in the life

 6:30 am Good morning! It is spring, the sun is shining, and the children and Mike are already bustling downstairs. I am groggy, replete with pollen-induced ickiness from the chest up, and distracted, still thinking about an excellent, late-night (for this mama), wine-soaked conversation with a friend and colleague the night before.

8 am After a last minute scramble for shoes and chase with a hair brush, we are off to drop Frances at school. Gabriel is devastated when I tell him he cannot take his new robotic bug in to show her teacher. Frances clings to me at the door, just for fun. Goodbye, have a good day!

9 am I oversee Gabriel's dutiful picture-drawing (there are many people who have lavished him with birthday treasures who are in need of proper thank yous) while I call his teacher to see if he can drop in on after-school enrichment this afternoon. Turns out there is no enrichment on Thursdays. I call a mama friend who sometimes babysits. Her son had a 103 degree fever last night. Hmm. I call his best friend's mama, who graciously agrees to take him on a play date. Hooray! I can make the Eastport Girls Club meeting I forgot to arrange child care for after all.

boy with hose

Parents, have you had The Conversation about boys and girls? The one that begins, "They really are so different." You have it on the playground or at school pick up time, standing back and watching the children play. You wind up talking with another parent you may or may not know very well about how before kids, you thought boys and girls were socialized to like trucks and dolls, but now you know better. They just come out that way.

I've had the conversation. And it's true, I've been astounded by the differences in my children (as compared with each other and with other children of the opposite sex) in terms of what they find compelling from a surprisingly young age. My baby boy's first song was an ode to balls; my baby girl would pour over family photo albums and memorize each name and face.