really important

Today was weird. Gabriel was off school, and I ended up bringing him and Beatrice to campus with me when I went in to work to stay with a sitter. Mike picked him up early and brought him home, which was a bit tricky, while I picked up Beatrice a little later - and really - actually - the details are so boring. These kinds of things should only fill the heads of the actual parents who choose to take on these specific logistical brain-filling messes, certainly not their friends, nor families, nor readers. Apologies.

The upshot of it all was that Gabriel was bored out of his mind, apparently, while waiting for me to come home and watching his Papa prepare for class. It was torture.

At least this is what he told me, as we piled back into the car shortly after I came home, off again to pick up Frances.

(Wait. Will you indulge me one more boring detail? I had the stomach flu over the weekend. A feverish, bone-shaking, icky, achey, 10 hour nightmare. And then it was gone. But the aftereffects, for me and everyone else, have taken a bit longer to quiet down. Oh my. Don't you feel sorry for me? A little? But - back to my story.)

Gabriel, I said, why didn't you build with Legos or draw or write or practice piano or make something amazing?

I did for awhile, but then I got bored out of my mind.

But you're so good at doing cool things. And I'm really not that exciting anyway.

-pause-

...What are you talking about, Mama?

I just mean I'm not so so much fun. Sometimes I'm just cooking dinner or reading. You know? You guys can have a great time without me.

...Mama. You're the best person in the world! How can you even say that? Everyone loves you so much! You're really important. You are.

Well, I...

Seriously, Mama. You should be proud of yourself.

Wow. That was about it. I should be proud. I just smiled at him in the rear view mirror and thanked him, and then he started making Beatrice laugh, or she made him laugh, and we picked up Frances and the girls who live next door at their school and the day just kept barreling on.

I don't think I was trying to sell myself short with Gabriel. I think I was trying to get off the hook. Sometimes I would rather not be so important (like when ill) and sometimes I would like everyone to need and want me a little less. But somehow being the best person in the world is part of the deal, an inescapable responsibility and a boundless blessing. We are tied together, quite firmly. We are, all of us, really important. What a mysterious force a family is!

beatlemania

It all started months ago. I was giving Beatrice - already quite the contrarian - a bath. She took to the whole defiant toddler mentality thing like a fish to water. So to speak. Ha! Anyway: to my every suggestion, she'd flash her blue eyes at me and say the opposite. So I did what I often do in my life with strong-willed children; I broke into an enthusiastic fragment of a pop song: you say yes, I say no. You say stop, and I say go go go!

Oh, did she love it. Again, again Mama! When we came downstairs in pajamas, I played the song for her. Then we watched it on Youtube. They are just darling, those Beatles. Frances and Gabriel were also transfixed. They'd heard plenty of Beatles songs before but somehow the time was right, and all three of them surely and swiftly fell into an obsession that only seems to grow in magnitude as time wears on.

I wish I had a photo, Harry Potter-style, of the three of them dancing in the kitchen, or of Frances and Gabriel collaborating thoughtfully in order to get all of the lyrics to You've Got to Hide Your Love Away just right or of Beatrice shouting her signature, life-affirming, delightful AGAIN! the minute a song is over in the car and Frances and Gabriel laughing because let's face it, she is outrageously predictable sometimes.

Here's something I've noticed: one of the greatest parenting joys for me is the sound - usually in the next room, or as in the above photo, in Gabriel's hideout behind the couch - of my children laughing together. Sometimes when they don't know I'm there I hear how they crack each other up, wrestling or singing or doing silly dances, and my knees nearly buckle with the sweetness. Gabriel and Beatrice in particular lately have been so dear in their intimacy and shared humor. They jump on my bed while I get ready for work. Gabriel builds towers and Bea knocks them over. He pretend eats her pretend cooking projects.

He is so very patient. Yesterday there was a two hour delay for him, and I was going into work late, so the three of us had some extra time at home in the morning. I was upstairs brushing my teeth when I heard him yell Mama!! HELP! Get her out of here! She was in his lair, which he does not normally tolerate. She breaks all his Lego projects and grabs at whatever he is playing with. But by the time I came down, they were huddled around the heating vent, quietly collaborating - somehow - on a Lego house. I looked at Gabriel, eyebrows raised. It's okay now, he smiled back. Nevermind.

In the same token, I feel utter rage when my children are mean to one another. That has historically meant Frances belittling Gabriel - often subtly suggesting he is too babyish to understand her sophisticated world. This has been going on for many years. Irrational, ferocious anger courses through me when I overhear that kind of stuff and sometimes I react in ways I later regret.

Three is beautiful, three is hard. Frances wants to be responsible and care for Beatrice. Gabriel wants to play with Beatrice. Gabriel wants his Didi's affection and inclusion; he is devastated when she suggests he is not good enough for her, often lashing out in anger. Frances wants his devotion and wants to maintain her sense of power and in-charge-ness. This is complicated, deep, eternal, intimate sibling stuff. Far be it from me to fix it all.

Though I wish I could. I wish I could help them let go of hurts and expectations and just be together - but I can't, not really. However. It does seem possible that John, Paul, George, and Ringo can. We watched Help! over the weekend. Beatrice asks me to sing Let it Be for her bedtime song nearly every night. Gabriel has perfected some of John's wild dancing, and he and Frances have studied Wikipedia articles on all four of them. Did you know Ringo was the first Beatle to become a grandparent? Did you know George was only 14 when he auditioned and joined?

Periodically, all three ask one another: Who's your favorite Beatle? They always agree, after some discussion, that it is impossible to choose just one.

The Beatles, our great unifiers! Thank you, thank you. More than sixty years later, you are still inspiring fans to new heights of love and dedication.

is it was

Frances requested a CD of music to listen to when she feels angry for Christmas, so Mike assembled some punk, angry songs for her. In the process he also discovered her bedtime CD from when she was a baby. So that one got included in the little sleeve as well, full of sweet tunes he had hand selected when she was three or four months old. 

Last night, on her way upstairs, Frances said she thought she'd listen to the old songs to fall asleep by, instead of Bach. I offhandedly replied that I'd probably cry my eyes out upon first listen. She looked a little startled. Oh, it's okay, I reassured her. You can still play it.

So she did, and I was transported to her pale green bedroom in Lancaster. Mike and I would read Goodnight Moon to her together, then he would say goodnight, stand up, turn off the light, find the remote on the shelf and point it at the CD player that sat inside her odd little closet across the room, turning on the music as he quietly shut the door behind him. That was the cue that it was time to nurse, nestled in the glider, to the chimes of that first song. We would linger over Innocence Mission and Sufjan Stevens, and I would always gently settle her in the crib and leave before the last song, which was, I do believe, called This Song, by Badly Drawn Boy. If I heard it begin, I knew we were off script.

Back in the nine year old chaos and swirl of Frances's present day bedroom, the chimes began, and without a thought I sat on the edge of her bed and cried. I hope I didn't freak her out too much (I did warn her, after all) but the truth is that girl soaks up any nostalgia having to do with her babyhood like a bone dry sponge. We hugged. She cried a little too. She needs reminders that she was the one and only baby once, and that my heart sometimes sings yearningly for our simpler days as a family of three...when Mike and I conjured up and perpetuated a carefully orchestrated, twenty-step, airtight bedtime routine, night after night! Can you imagine? 

We visited Mike's parents after Christmas, who have recently moved into a new home. During the visit we discovered that they live less than five minutes away from a beautiful state park. We were a bit unprepared when we arrived, but I had spent too much time inside and was driven a little mad by the warm weather and sunshine, so couldn't resist advocating for an unknown hike. It was uncomfortably close to sundown, and Mike had to sling the stroller, and I had to sling the toddler (without a sling!), but I didn't care. Trees, air, Andrew Wyeth's watery yellow light everywhere I looked! Let's do it!!

Beatrice did walk for some of it. But mostly I carried her. Mike thought we might double back at a certain point and I said no way! We can make it, and it's such a beautiful day. (It really was.) After awhile, I could feel nervousness quietly emanating from his body, competing with the sunshine's effects, but I persisted in my cheerful, plunge-ahead attitude, while secretly scanning for blue blazes to reassure me we were on the right trail and exhaling every time I saw one. Occasionally the trail split, or became so littered with leaves it was unclear if we were still on it, and I hoisted Beatrice higher, wondering every so often, as the sun sank, if I was being absolutely crazy and leading my family into a cold, dark disaster.

Along the path we'd seen a number of fresh hoofprints and Beatrice was getting increasingly excited about the presence of horses. I kept telling her we'd see some to help maintain the momentum, though I was uncertain about that. Then, midway up a rather steep hill in which the trail began to fade into the forest floor, I looked up at the ridge to see two excellent horses poised at the top. 

Horses! Look, horses! (On the trail! I thought - they must be on the trail, so we are too!)

We all walked quickly uphill to catch up with them, though their indifferent riders turned without acknowledging us and walked in the other direction. Rather unfriendly. Beatrice could not stop talking about them: there are horses! People are riding on their backs! We see horses! The horses are there! 

Soon, after they'd left our view, her assertions became questions: there are horses? There are people on horses? We see horses? We see them?

Until finally, as we continued along in their wake, Beatrice - in reference to the magical, elusive horses - said: is it was?

Woah. Is it was. She meant, I think: did it really happen? Was the past real? Can you please confirm for me that something important happened, which is not exactly happening now, but in a sense is, because the memory of it is filling my mind and heart?

This holiday season has been very sweet, very full - of open, sprawling time playing with toys and games, of meaningful family visits, of Beatrice chattering away. I won't remember what her voice sounds like now in a year's time. I can barely replicate her cadences for you here. We are all of us growing and becoming in every which way, but the children most especially so, and so remarkably fast at that. What a blessing to have slower days and lazy afternoons, complete with boredom and bickering, to look around and notice, to feel all the feelings. To remember Frances in my arms like it was yesterday, to feel hot tears in my eyes before my thoughts have caught up. 

Is it was? Yes, it was, Beatrice! And I might add, which I suspect has a slightly different meaning, was it is. Also, was it will be, and will be it is. These past days have been punctured with flashes of joy that are so brilliant, so painful - that is the potential that slowness holds. Watching my family hike up the hillside against the low sunlight filtering through stands of trees, draped in my responsibility and delight, I knew the truth of is it was, and will be. A world without end.

And our hike? I gave in and panicked about 100 yards from the trail's end. Mike joined me. Not our best moment. Then a few feet later we heard voices on the park's main path and realized we had finished the hike. A Christmas miracle! I couldn't have been happier, or prouder of my uncomplaining big kids, or more relieved not to have put in motion the harrowing true story behind Hollywood's next wilderness disaster.

Happy, happy new year to all of you. Thank you for walking these trails with me! I send wishes for love, peace, healing and joy in 2015.

rainy day snowstorm

We've had a lot of dreary weather of late. Saturday was yet another very cold and damp day, and in between errands and chores the children conspired to plaster our kitchen windows with countless paper snowflakes. I absolutely love it. Part of what I love - and am, frankly, a bit unsettled by - is that they did it nearly all by themselves. They are so very capable.

A couple of days beforehand, I showed them this apparently foolproof technique for creating gorgeous paper snowflakes. We folded and cut one batch together. I said something vague about glitter enhancements before being distracted by our little Mama-barnacle Beatrice (pick me up Mama, pick me up!) and when I came back to the kitchen table Frances and Gabriel were working on a pile. Each time they unfolded and discovered a new one I'd hear them ooo and ahh, and occasionally run to find me and show me the latest. Look at this one, Gabriel would exclaim, can you believe it?! Come see Didi's, it's so amazing!

Their enthusiasm was infectious and when I said they could cover the windows they were delighted.

On Sunday the sun came out. I tried to kick them outside but instead they invited our neighbor over to "make stuff" with them. She came running and the three of them cut and sewed and glued while I made guacamole and beans, sometimes looking up to admire the snowflake shadows slanting across the pink kitchen walls. 

Frances is nine years old. She has become a new kind of child: more sophisticated, independent, funnier, steadier, kinder, and much less inclined to contradiction and defiance, especially around me. She is interested in peers, coolness, identity. I think it's all been marvelous for our relationship. She's also pointed out to me, quite reasonably (though this is not always communicated in a reasonable tone), that she has reached the age of consent when it comes to blogging. Even if I ask permission, I find writing about her is dangerous territory (see above concerns). So I have tried to avoid it, and tend to focus more on the person in the family who is not yet able to protest. But if I could, I would write and ponder more about Frances, my first born, my dear one, my complicated, mysterious, beautiful, sharp-minded girl.

So let's say these are more pictures of snowflakes. Not blogging about Frances right now. Nope. Just the snowflakes.

And for good measure, a picture of some actual snow. Inclusion in photo of abovementioned girl is purely coincidental.