Recited in list form as follows:
One, I'm really so tired and hungry.
Two, it's really too hard for me.
Three, I don't even know why I'm so tired.
Six, I do not understand this and I am very, very, very tired.
Seven, I am so, so, so hungry, and
nine, I just don't think I can handle it.
The weekend was lovely - it's amazing how being completely away from my life somehow allows me to not think about all of the things I'm not doing all the time, a feat which has become all but impossible closer to home.
I even worked on the short story that has been haunting me for the last few weeks. The cottage is a writer's dream - quiet, airy and light, totally isolated and peaceful. It was only after I started that I discovered the flaw in the whole set up. Without the internet to turn to for idle entertainment every fifteen minutes, it was completely impossible to concentrate! And so the following notes were born:
Friday - 4:21 pmThere you have it, proof of my terrible addiction to the internet. Sigh. I did actually get quite a bit of writing done, in spite of my inability to focus.
I am so used to working with interruptions that I'm not sure I can work any other way. I have to stop and do something else, but I can't because there's nothing else to do. It's making me tired. I'm not much of a napper, but I'm thinking of taking it up, just for the weekend.
5:06 pm
The lack of distractions is killing me! I need the internet! Also I think I need more practice at just writing. If I had more time to just write, maybe this wouldn't be such an issue. Half an hour and then I'll stop. I can do this. Focus.
5:24 pm
Not even 20 minutes yet.
5:29 pm
Alright, close enough.
Last night Aurora slept over and we had a girlie night of watching Hairspray and doing make-up, nails and hair. There was popcorn, and lemonade and Swedish fish. Even Steve had his nails done and I let the girls do my make-up, which may not ever happen again, we'll see.
This morning, after at least nine different interruptions during my morning bathroom routine that included cramps and attempting to wash my hair, I demanded that the girls scrub their faces.
You'd have thought I'd asked them to hack off a few toes. The wails that greeted my demand were piercing - just what I needed.
"The washcloth in the bathroom is clean. Use warm water. Scrub." I was hard and cold as a frozen stone. No sympathy here, ladies, keep on walkin'.
Five milliseconds later:
"Ugh! This washcloth smells nasty!"
"I think I'm gonna throw up!"
"Yuck! Your mom wants us to use this on our faces?"
They reentered the kitchen, where I was doing a fairly good job of ignoring them completely and making myself a cup of coffee, mmm coffee, my love...
Ignoring the small, loud people completely I turned to Steve, "Could you please go in the bathroom, small the washcloth and tell them that it's clean?"
"I'll tell them the truth," he said and I glared at him for displaying such shocking disloyalty.
Then from the bathroom:
"It smells like a washcloth. A clean washcloth." Ah, sweet vindication!
The whining continued until I gave them a new clean washcloth, which I have no doubt smelled exactly like the first clean washcloth.
They scrubbed, the make-up was removed (mostly), and then they left both washcloths in a wet little balls in the sink, arranged the towel on the floor just so, and set off to start the rest of their day.
As you know, I've been thinking a lot about Matilda lately as she enters her sixth year; her jealousy of her sister, all of the amazing new things she's doing - like reading and obsessing about possible outcomes of thing that haven't happened yet - the insecurity that developed about halfway through kindergarten (and was never there before), about my own responsibilities when it comes to making sure she gets the love and support that she needs. All of that. And then I read this (and the kajillion responses to it) - a story about a mother who let her nine-year-old son find his own way home in New York City.
The point - made by someone else - that stuck with me the most, was that for many kids, this wouldn't even be a big deal; kids whose parents don't have the luxury of being able to follow their little darlings to and from school and down to the corner store for a snack since they are busy working two jobs just to pay the bills.
The other thing that was mentioned, both by the author of the article and by others, was how disproportionate the ratio of parental fear to actual danger really is. This is not a surprise to me, our media just loves to sensationalize the few cases of true tragedy that occur in this country (and around the western world), this I know. Still, it's easy to become a part of the world of fear when you're living in it.
But it has become one more thing to think about in relation to Matilda and her burgeoning independence coupled with a need for reassurance and affection. I want her to feel comfortable doing things on her own, but I'm never sure if she'll want to or not.
So today, at the end of a too-long shopping trip, we stopped at the fabric store to get Freya a little $1.00 coloring kit. (This was prearranged.) I suggested that in the interest of time (and a trunk full of frozen groceries) that maybe Matilda should just run in and grab it. She knew where it was, she had paid for her own just an hour or so earlier, but I wasn't sure she'd go for it.
She did. She didn't even miss a beat, she thought it was a great idea. So we pulled into a space right in front of the store and she hopped out, and Freya and I waited in the car (wondering how long was too long to just wait for her) until she came back, coloring kit and receipt in hand. All. By. Herself.
I told her I was so proud of her and she kind of shrugged as she buckled her seatbelt and said, "My outside was scared, but inside I wasn't scared at all."
Regardless of how careful I might need to be when it comes to making sure that each of my daughters is getting the love that they need from me, she has showed me, once again, that I'm crazy for doubting her. Maybe there never was any contradiction between the toddler who never even had the time of day for me, and this new creature that my daughter had become, only a phase in the evolution of a beautiful, confident woman, who bravely takes risks when she is ready, even when she is kind of scared.
The Cul-de-sac
Across from the one-runway airport in our town, down the hill, there is a street with only ten houses. Nice houses, the kind you see in TV sitcoms, the kind people who have 2.5 kids and a dog live in. It ends in a loop, with a little grass and a young tree at the center.
Matilda's friend lives in one of these houses with her family. They have a beautifully landscaped yard, and what seemed to me to be an impossibly clean, almost staged house (where are the crayon marks on the floor, stacks of unread magazine, the mis-matched curtains and children's artwork?). The house wasn't devoid of life, rather it was full of perfectly ordered life, something that fills me with a sense of inadequacy and unreality: how does this sort of life happen? Does it happen?
There is of course, something to be said for living on a street down which toddlers can safely pedal their Radio Flyer tricycles, and having a sun-filled breakfast nook. The idea that if I lived that life, my children would be born with an innate knowledge that crayons are for paper, and that dinner is served at six-o-clock sharp is dreamily fantastic.
The Farm
When I was little I had a pet goat. Her name was Thistle and my dad built her a little goat house in the back yard. She was a sweet goat, and she had come to us from a farmer who lived nearby. This farmer's house was the kind of place where a kid could get lost for hours, full of treasures and junk and more treasures, it was always dark and cool inside. Some of the rooms were so full of lamps and tables and knick-knacks that it was hard to imagine anyone living in them.
Every square inch of space was used - things were hung from the ceiling and walls, brightly colored glass bottles lined the window-sills, and the space beneath tables and chairs was stacked with boxes and papers.
My memory of this farmhouse has undoubtedly been merged over the years with others like it - artists' studios, loft apartments, rambling country houses with secret rooms and full attics; all wonderlands of color and fantasy, an adventure waiting around every corner, the kinds of places where children are equally likely to be invited to help paint a mural in the bathroom, to muck out stalls in the barn, or to be left alone for hours to entertain themselves.
The Way We Live
Our home is lived-in. It has not been carved from a two-dimensional television set, it doesn't invoke fantasies of the American dream. Neither is it crammed full of the treasures of a lifetime: light can reach the interior of the house, and so can a gentle breeze when the weather is as it has been. The painted wood floor is full of scratches and the linoleum in the kitchen is lifting up at the corners. The posters of our own youth have been replaced with the paintings, sculptures and Barbie art dioramas of our children.
Our lives are lived-in and even though I experience suburbia-lust and then a quick flash of shame, followed by a straightening of my shoulders and a lifting of my chin when I am confronted by picturesque three-bedrooms on charming little cul-de-sacs, and even though the disorder of my life frustrates me and turns me into a screaming banshee more often than I care to admit, I hope that when I am an old lady I have the kind of home where children can get lost for hours exploring my collections of books and shells and bottles, and then help me paint a mural in my bathroom.
Lately Matilda has been jealous of any attention I give to Freya. Steve says she doesn't do it with him, just me. Therefore I know I'm doing something to provoke it. I know this because I babysat for many children before I had my own and as an outsider I could always see why a child behaved differently with me, or with their mother or father. It was all so clear when I wasn't in it.
But now that I am, I don't know what to do. I try to reassure her, but as I tuck Freya into her bed and kiss her forehead, and let her pull me down into a hug, I feel Tilly watching us. Sure enough, when I look up, she is wearing a very long face.
"You give Freya more love than you give me," and then, because they've been working on identifying feelings at school, "I feel jealous."
I find myself sitting beside her on her bed, partly wanting to hold her and reassure her, and partly wanting to shake her out of it.
I try to step back and see if maybe I really am giving Freya more attention, more love.
I do treat them differently, after all, Matilda is six, my girl, very smart, very willful, and very loving, and Freya is three, the youngest, my baby, willful, tricksy, and snuggly. They're not the same, and so I don't treat them the same. Oh sure, with some things it's much simpler to treat them the same, they are not so different in age that they must have different bedtimes, or eat different foods. But for the most part I try to treat them as individuals, and I thought this was the right thing to do...
As a toddler - before Freya was born, and when she was still very tiny - Matilda was confident and independent. She would run down sidewalks, say hi to strangers and do as she pleased. She was in control of her world, and it showed. But with the arrival of kindergarten, a new school, a sister who no longer passively takes orders, all that has changed.
There are a million reasons why she could be going through this right now, not the least of which is the impending move to Missouri, about which she is not happy, but really, I don't need to know why it's happening to her now, only what my role in it is, and how to fix her. I want my confident, independent girl back, she was so much more fun, and okay, I'll admit it, much easier to handle.
Matilda also seems to believe that love is a weapon, distributed or withheld as circumstances demand. Here is a poem she wrote when she was supposed to be cleaning her bedroom this past weekend:
I have no DreamApparently it's a song, but I've never heard it put to music, so I can't tell you the tune. I have edited only for spelling, the rest is all her. It's not her fault she has no love, she has no choice, it's on me. I am so mean.
that love begins
when there is love-
and love began
when there was
love is heart, when star comes,
you will be a star
love you
I have no choice
when you are mean
so no love.
Lately it seems like I just don't have time for anything other than cleaning the house and, if I'm very lucky, getting some work done. I know I'm not the first person to be driven to the brink of insanity by putting a house on the market in which two small people live lives dedicated to a unique brand of destructive creationism, but at times like this, does it really matter that someone else has done it all before?
The time I used to set aside for blogging, or reading, or even watching TV, (never mind paying attention to what's happening in the outside world) has been usurped by an onslaught of walls to be painted, PTOs to run, fundraisers to organize, meetings, messes to be picked up (for the fifteenth time), more meetings, and a never-ending pile of laundry. Add to that the fact that my partner in crime has been ridiculously busy working at his understaffed non-profit job, and well, time for relaxation becomes not just a luxury I can no longer afford, but a long lost idea that I usually don't even have time to remember.
Yet amid the chaos, I am satisfied. I find a certain rhythm and I settle into it, as if it was all I had been waiting for.
Every now and then I'll be driving, or staring into space, and in those bubbles of stillness that seem like a rare gift (or the glimpse of a migrating bird en route), I see for a minute all of the things I am not doing, all of the things I am missing. But only for a moment and then I'm back, transporting the children to school, or the doctor's office, and mentally catapulting myself onward into an uncertain future.
It's not that I want my life to be boring because that would be, well, boring. But here's the thing, if anything else happens that requires my attention I will either need to acquire a personal assistant or have a mental break down and commit myself to a psych ward for some quality down time.
I write this in part as an explanation for my increasingly length blog absences and also as an apology to those of you who had gotten used to me hanging around your places in the blogosphere. I still love you, and I still read you, I swear, I just haven't had as much time to sit and comment as I used to. I'm still lurking around, I promise - maybe not every day, but I'm there.
More soon, and by soon I mean in a day or two, not sometime next week. Hopefully.
