The Last Day of the Year

It's my opinion that Phil and Ted's classic stroller with add-on kit is the accessory to have if you have small children and spend a lot of time traveling in Europe. I've wanted one since Penelope was just an idea and now (at last!) I've made the plunge, spent the fortune, and I have one. Let me tell you, it's fantastic. This morning we walked out against a bracing wind, past the sheep grazing in their orange grove, across the park, up the big hill, around the bend toward Etna, and home again. The air was cold, almost wet. The girls huddled under their blankets and watched the wheels, round and round, splash effortlessly through the mud and the puddles left over from last night's rain. Afterward we tumbled back into our warm house, turned on Bach: The Cello Suites, and cooked pears and peas to accompany our lunch. Really, it's been a great morning.


Oh, and for those of you who are keeping track, Katherine had a wonderful time last night at the fairy ball. She ran into my room this morning full of stories to tell. Everyone was there--Captain Hook, Peter Pan, Tiger Lily--and everyone was small with shimmering fairy wings. Katherine wore a pink dress with blue sparkles. Tiger Lily's gown was orange. They ate off flower-petal plates and drank acorn cupfuls of fizzy, pink drink. Toward morning Katherine fell asleep in the center of a flower and a fairy wrapped her up in it and carried her home. She grew to be a little girl again right away. Of course her wings started to disappear as soon as she left Neverland, but this morning, for just a little while, I could see the place where they had been still shimmering ever-so-slightly.


I don't need to say it, but it's been a beautiful year.

Peter Pan Reads This Blog

Peter Pan sent us an email this morning outlining all the reasons why he's too busy to come collect K at the nursery window. Apparently, there's a lot of work to be done in Neverland this time of year. He's sorry. He'll come when he can. He really wants to see her. "I ran out of gas. I had a flat tire...There was an earthquake! Locusts! A terrible flood! It wasn't my fault!" You know, the usual stuff. Not having much experience with men, K was delighted. Nights of disappointment were forgotten, forgiven, and happiness was restored. She understood. She moved on. I, however, did not.

I could see Peter too clearly, sitting at the computer in Hangman's Tree, hand lodged in disheveled hair, eyes downcast, feet shuffling beneath the desk. Too busy for K? How could I possibly let it go at that? I couldn't. I wouldn't. Surely, I could find a way to keep the magic alive.

Fortunately, I didn't have to invent anything. When I was getting K's dress out of the closet this morning I happened to notice some pixie dust scattered across her quilt and lying there, half-buried in the golden dust, was an invitation to the fairy ball. I recognized the invitation immediately because, you see, I've seen them before. The fairies host balls almost every night. Of course grown-ups can't go, but children are often invited. The fairies sneak in through the window--yes, just like Peter--and if they find you sleeping in your bed they whisk you off to Neverland. Then you become as small as a fairy. Shimmering wings appear on your back; you find yourself dressed in a beautiful gown. All night long, you fly through the air, dancing, twirling, and in the morning they bring you home to your own room; they tuck you back into your own little bed. You might think, because of that, that the fairy ball is nothing but a wonderful dream, a dream you can't quite remember, but of course it isn't a dream at all, the fairy ball is real. I have no doubt K is there now, dancing with Tinker Bell.

(Okay, now I want you to think ahead a few years. Let's say K is 15 and some pimply-faced Peter has just broken her heart--what on earth am I going to say then?)

Peter Pan, the jerk

Every night before K goes to bed she wraps her arms around my neck and whispers Mommy? Do you think Peter Pan will come tonight? Every morning when she comes downstairs she tells me, He didn't come. Mommy, Peter Pan, he didn't come. Let me be perfectly clear about this, I don't want any strange boy-like men flying to her nursery window or whisking her away. I want to wake up in the morning and find K sleeping exactly where I left her. Mrs. Darling barely survived it and she was only fictional. I can't bear the most far-fetched image of K off without me or adventuring without my knowing where. And yet, I want Peter to come. Desperately, I want Peter to come.

I remember being little and tucked into my bed. I pulled the quilts over my head, squeezed my eyes tight. I imagined Glenda floating down in an iridescent bubble. She took my hand and we flew off to her castle in Oz. I saw her gown; I saw my own. I feasted on chocolates and tea. I walked with her through a forest. We picked apples off a tree. But all the while, I knew it wasn't real. I was under my covers at home trying not to notice that the air beneath my quilt was getting stale.

So, tonight I asked K if she thought Peter Pan was, maybe, just a story. She smiled and said, Oh no, Mommy, he's real. Isn't he? And then, softer, she said, Isn't he, Mommy? He's real? She waited with her body held carefully still.

In the end, I couldn't do it. I mumbled something about imagination and belief. Imagine it so hard it starts to feel real and then maybe it will become real. I think that's how you get to Neverland. I kissed her goodnight and walked away. At the door, I turned, ready to blow one last kiss, and saw her with her eyes shut tight, imagining. I hope she could feel the wind on her back; I hope she heard the mermaids singing. I know it won't be enough. I think that's how childhood ultimately ends, with hope and suspicion, disappointment and stale air. I guess that's why it makes me ache.

Parenting on the chain gang

When I imagine parenting I see a long line of adults--hunched over, crouching low, thighs aflame--marching shoulder to shoulder with a line of children. They trudge endlessly under a burning sun, through a dry and rutted field, shoulders pressed together, sweaty, muscles straining. Occasionally one side presses too hard and someone falters. The entire procession must halt until balance is regained. Is that a terrible image? The idea of parenting as some kind of chain gang? Possibly. And yet, I think it's true.

I feel like I am constantly having to wrest control away from the girls. K, for instance, took complete advantage of Christmas, my terrible cold, and her overly-tired up-all-night-rocking-the-baby Daddy. She drank many, many cups of warm milk; ate Cheerios for breakfast; watched a ridiculous number of movies; and spent ever-increasing amounts of time in our bed. She seemed delighted to get away with so much, but by last night she was miserable. She showed up in our room at 1am and screamed when I tried to take her back to the nursery. Her screaming woke P, who also screamed, and compelled me to drag K into her actual bedroom, not the nursery, a place she hasn't slept in for months. Strangely, as soon as I plopped K into her actual bed she stopped crying. She seemed thrilled. She told me her bed was soft and warm and she wanted to sleep in it always. Sure enough, she went to bed in her room tonight without any fuss. In fact, she's been a joy all day. I had to force her, through tears, to eat a hot breakfast, but finally she did eat (a lot!) and afterwards she perked up, became compliant, happy, and even played toys with her little sister.

Parenting may feel like being part of a prison gang, but I guess kids aren't happy if there's too much slack in the chain.

A Sad Goodbye

Jeremy left this evening and, for us, it was a sad goodbye. He lent an air of festivity to our holiday. The girls adored him. He and Katherine did various projects around the house: they sailed construction-paper boats; they made rainbows appear on the wall. He taught Penelope how to wave. Chris and I adored him, too. He reads interesting books. He cooks. He has a lot to say about politics. He is competitive at Wii. Really, we couldn't have asked for a better holiday; and, at a time when we were feeling far away from home and wanting family, the reappearance of an old friend truly was a gift.

Siracusa

Imagine accordions playing in the distance; buttery pasta, warm and rich; the air after rain; Christmas banners, velvet and red, hanging from an ancient temple, now a church; a pot of hot tea. We spent the afternoon in Siracusa, the city of Archimedes and Aeschylus and Pindar. We wandered through narrow streets and looked out over the water. I saw a family of white ducks swim out among the papyrus just as the sun set over the Mediterranean. I came away feeling rested and renewed.

Tiger Lily

Merry Christmas!

After days of creeping hoarseness, I woke up this morning sick. Fully, undeniably, drippingly sick. Imagine me in the background of all these pictures with a tissue pressed against my nose, but happy nonetheless. We came downstairs early, opened presents, feasted on cocoa and kolach, then spent the afternoon cooking and lounging. Tiger Lily played at Neverland. P & I napped upstairs. Now both the girls are in bed--Tiger Lily still in costume. There are leftovers waiting in the kitchen, whipped cream and apple pie.

Trimmings

Right now, our house is filled with scent. Walnuts, chopped and fine, are being cooked in butter then drizzled over with honey and baked into our Christmas kolach. Red cabbage is being simmered together with apples and pear. The scents of cloves and cinammon mix and linger. They've already been sprinkled into pumpkin pies. Now, the little ones are in bed. The kettle is beginning to sing. In the living room, presents are scattered alongside wrapping paper and ribbon, tape and scissors. Upstairs, K is still not sleeping. She's listening for the sound of bells.

Mobility!

In the past few days P has changed from a rolling, wriggling, blanket baby into a full-fledged mover. She doesn't exactly crawl--it's far more torturous than that--but she can get anywhere she wants to go through this combination knee-pushing, belly-flopping, hands-and-feet flailing scoot. What does she do with this newfound power, you ask? Well, she is a chaser of brooms; an overturner of dust pans; a collector of pine needles; and a stealer of snacks. She's days (maybe weeks) away from a more traditional crawl and, judging by the look in her eye, that's when the real fun will begin.

Ave Maria

Tonight I'm tired. The backs of my arms are over-stretched and heavy. I feel small electric shocks firing quickly, erratically, throughout my legs. It's a twitchy kind of tired. We spent the afternoon in Caltagirone. The sun was blazing; the sky was a deep, cloudless blue. We climbed the steps with my friend J. He left Germany yesterday and came here to spend Christmas with us. K played among the flowers; J & I lingered in the shops, studying ceramics. I came home with a new hand-painted plate. J found presents for his family. Later we wandered off the steps and out into the town. C led us through a maze of cobbled streets with P asleep in his arm. Caltagirone was crowded. As J said, the air was full of olive oil and exhaust. As we walked, the streets began to widen. There was silence. I saw a tablecloth blowing on a line; buildings made of stone. We heard the sound of bells. Then we saw a wooden door, open. A church. We stepped inside: into light, and white, a painted tile floor, colorful really, with ribbons of yellow and blue. We saw St. Mary in a white gown. K & I knelt before an altar. We whispered prayers, dropped offerings into a box of honeyed wood. When we came back out into the street I noticed a row of orange trees. I felt happy. I felt cleansed.

A tree, at last!

One of my strongest memories of my grandmother is a Christmas memory.

I was small and we were walking through a local craft store. I was following her, really, and the aisles felt wide. The shelves were tall. It was Christmastime, so the store must have been stuffed with velveteen Santa dolls, knit stockings and embroidered reindeer pillows. I imagine there was music too, We Wish You A Merry Christmas or something like that. Yet, aside from my grandma, I remember everything as being white and concrete and still. My grandma, in her tan trench coat with her gray hair curled at the nape of her neck, was the only thing in the room that was moving. She was walking, slowly, and when she glanced back at me I noticed a flash of light reflected in her glasses. She was pointing up. I looked, and there, way up on the top shelf, stood a row of painted-plastic Christmas stars each complete with its own plastic angel in the center.

I picked out the prettiest one. She had blonde hair and a pink dress made with real fabric. Her eyes, I think, were blue. She was a child angel, a little girl, like me, with golden wings. I held her carefully. My grandma smiled. After that, she was our Christmas star. Always. Year after year, even after her plastic cracked, then broke--even after I realized she wasn't, really, very pretty after all--I still insisted: she was our star. She was a present from my grandma.

Now, she's gone. Well, not gone, but packed away. Chris and I have never had a star on top of our tree. I've always half intended to go home and get my angel. I never thought I could find another one that felt so special. But now, this year, we have one--a stapled-around-the-edges star made of construction paper and glitter and glue--and I think I love it, almost, even more.

K's Song

K was running around the house singing a funny song this afternoon. When I asked her who taught it to her she told me she'd just made it up. Are you ready?

Row, row, row your boat,
Gently down the stream,
And if you see a crocodile,
Don't forget to scream. Ahhh!!!

Christmas Spirit

Today was clear, blue and bright; snow-covered and frosty, Mt. Etna loomed beneath a blinding winter sun. K had a Christmas party at school. P & I went to library. I read Agamemnon while she slept. Until today, I'd been crediting Seamus Heaney's Mycenae Lookout with the immediate and alarming image I have of Cassandra's death. Heaney made her such a modern character, which is brilliant, but Cassandra as written by Aeschylus is as powerful as any character I've read. "A line, a shadow! and if ill fate fall,/one wet sponge-sweep wipes all our trace away--" It was difficult to shake her off when the time came to pick K up from school. K, however, didn't notice. She was in a Christmas frenzy. A flash of her skirt and she was gone. I found myself hurrying after her at the store, ineffectually calling. Don't get too far ahead. Are you listening? K, you're not listening. You need to mind. Finally, I gave up and we came home. We set a few Christmas decorations out--we're decorating the tree tomorrow, but at least now it's starting to look a little like Christmas--and watched The Nutcracker. K, a snowflake, twirled across the living room in a sparkling tutu while C, the mouse king, brandished his sword. As for P & me, well, we watched it all with our eyes open wide.

This and That

After a day spent crying every time I left her sight, P went to sleep tonight without a single protest. Break out the champagne! But first check out Flora, P's special snuggle friend. She came home with us from Germany because her arms are such a delight to chew.












K's been asking me to plait her hair before bed lately, which I find adorable. Best of all, braided hair doesn't seem to tangle in the night--now there's a reason to celebrate! Oh, and an aside: we discovered a great new book (new to us anyway) called _Don't Let The Pigeon Drive The Bus_ by Mo Willems. It's funny and smart. Simple enough for extremely young children, obviously appealing to preschoolers, and still funny for the adults who will be reading it again and again. And while we're on the subject, _I Ain't Gonna Paint No More_ was another recent hit in our house. I can't remember who wrote it, but K has it memorized and P wiggles with delight every time we pull if off the library shelf.

Letter to Santa

The kids wrote letters to Santa today at school. Here's what K said:



Dear Santa,


My name is K. I want a Tiger Lily costume with blue moccasins and a headband. Mommy said she needs a Tinker Bell costume, and Daddy a Captain Hook costume. I have been a good girl.


Love, K

Better

Morning sunlight, golden and thick, wove through the air and poured down on us like honey. No, not like honey. Honey-colored, maybe, but softer and not so choking. The air today was cool, moist without being dank; it brushed against our skin as we walked; it smelled alive. I saw yellow flowers blooming along the highway; I saw oranges starting to ripen in their trees. Once we were at the library P settled into a deep sleep. I read a few short stories by Joyce Carol Oates. They were entertaining, engaging even, and some of her images were arresting, but I prefer other short story writers. Alice Munro, for instance. I would recommend Alice Munro to anyone. In the stories I read today at least, so many of Oates' characters were disagreeable, aberrant in some way. The backdrops were all too grandiose, too sensationalized and tragic. I guess she was exploring something about tension, the straining psyche grasping for something ordinary within the extraordinary. I just found it all a little exhausting. After K finished school, we met C for lunch and then came home to a clean house. Hiring a housekeeper was the best decision I've ever made. I feel better tonight. The house is clean. I plucked my eyebrows. K & P are sleeping in their own beds. C & I are planning to watch a movie. And even though we've been plunged back into a heavy fog, I feel happy again.

Another Round of Insecurity

Outside my window the sky looks whitewashed; the sun is weak. Inside, the bathroom wall is beginning to mold. We are in a constant damp unrelieved by the green-budding scent of soil. My skin feels oily. My eyes feel tired, hot. I've been thirsty for days. My lips aren't chapped, but they feel greasy, peeling. Our house is messy with overuse. I'm having a crisis of confidence. Maybe I'm tired. Maybe I need more vitamin D. Maybe this all started days ago with my ill-considered decision to revisit _The Journals of Sylvia Plath_. I know better than to read Sylvia Plath. Her mind expands around me, resonates just enough, and then twists back on itself, sharply, and begins to bind. I'm left with a sense of failing. I'm not sure if I'll ever be enough. Then again, I'm not even sure what that means. As a mother I'm caring and committed. As a housewife I'm unabashedly bad. As a writer I'm insecure, maybe inadequate, certainly not what I would like to be, but still someone who enjoys writing. So, maybe this is all just about the weather. It seems strange that I wouldn't know.

Cuddly K

Incredulous P

Pillow Fight!

K's best friend is spending the night tonight while her parents are at a Christmas party and then at a swanky hotel in the city. C's still on his trip to Spain, so it's just going to be me and the kids--all of them. Wish me luck!

Our Biggest Concern

Try as we might, C & I cannot keep the girls out of our bed. We always put P down in her crib, but K now "starts" in our room. This began a few months ago. At first she would tiptoe to the nursery door and peek her head around, checking for grown-ups. If C or I happened to be there she'd giggle and hurry back to bed; if we weren't there she'd run down the hall, fast, climb into our bed and pull the covers over her head. We pretended not to notice. After all, she wasn't crying; she was actually eager for us to go downstairs. It worked for everyone.

Somehow, though, the intervening months have made her bold. Now she slips out of bed right after stories and strolls into our room. She settles into her spot--once upon a time, my spot--smiles and says, "I think I'll start in here tonight, Mommy." What can I do? Argue? March her straight back to the nursery? Face the tears I know will wake P? Watch my two precious evening hours slip away? No. I leave the room, turn to blow one last kiss at the door. Two hours later C carries her to her room and we all go to sleep. That used to be the end. K would stay in her bed until just before dawn and P, sweet little P, would stay in her deep, open-mouthed, baby sleep until 7:30am. Things have changed, again. Now sometime around 2am P wakes up crying. C stumbles across the hall and--because we're tired and afraid she'll wake K--he carries her into our room. Then K comes back. She climbs over me and snuggles down next to P. They sleep well together, if you don't count K's foot sometimes being squished against P's face. This morning when I woke up they were even holding hands. Though in the interest of full disclosure, I think K was just trying to keep P from pulling her hair. The point is, they sleep. C & I sleep, too. Half-off the bed and with our arms twisted at awkward angles, we sleep.

So, there it is, our biggest concern as parents, the thing C & I always discuss in hushed voices: We're co-sleeping. We practically have a family bed. It feels like the ultimate parenting sin. According to every book, we should march those kids back to their room night after night until they learn. But the thing is, we kind of like it. P has her own spot, nestled in the crook of her daddy's arm. K sleeps close to me; I try to tuck those wandering feet between my knees. Sometimes C reaches across and strokes my hair, enveloping us all. We're crowded together and cozy. I wouldn't like it for the whole night, but in those early-morning, half-lit hours, it feels sweet and safe and oh, so special.

I'm A Believer!

I've been kind of down on baby slings in the past--thinking they were difficult to use, hard on the back, etc.--but I have to admit, I was wrong. P's had a bad cold for a few days and my Maya wrap has been invaluable. Since she's been sick all P wants is to be close to her Mommy and with the sling that's possible. I'm able to play games with K, do chores around the house, and still snuggle P. She's even been taking naps in there! K's old Baby Bjorn really did hurt my back after awhile, but the Maya wrap is surprisingly comfortable. I feel like I should film an infomercial. (Oh, and how do you like K's feet in the mirror in that first picture? She's really getting to be a good photographer!)

Working Mom

P & I were at the library this morning as usual. She'd just fallen asleep in her stroller, so I was reading the news on-line when a woman came up and offered me a job. It's really a nothing job, a few hours a week watching babies in the Chapel nursery, but I can't decide what to do. I kind of like the idea in some ways. P might enjoy playing with the other babies; it would give us something else to do while K's at school; I could tease C about being a dual-income family. After all, I'd be pulling in a whole $25 a week. I'd only work on Tuesdays. But still, I really like our library days. Of course, we'd still have Thursdays at the library. And it really might be more fun for P to play in a nursery. I just don't know. Do I want to spend my free time with other people's kids? I can't decide. I told the woman I'd think about it and let her know tomorrow. Any thoughts?

The Big 3-0

Both the girls are fighting off colds, so C had a quiet, but happy, 30th birthday celebration. We had good bottle of wine, a warm meal, and a great, big, chocolate cake. There were two little girls who wanted snuggles--and let's not forget, the Wii.

The Neverland

We stayed in our pajamas all morning, turned the couch into a pirate ship, played tricks on a crocodile lurking in the water. He captured us each by turn, dragged us to his lair. Shrieking. Squealing. Tickle his ears! Tickle his ears! He'll fall asleep! Come on! Come on! Get away! Away! Sunlight streamed in slantwise through the window; countless bits of dust, stirred-up and shimmering, flew furiously through the air.

When I kissed K goodnight this evening she told me that her bed is magic. It swirls her off to Neverland just before she falls asleep and brings her back again in the morning. I imagine she's there right now, swashbuckling with Captain Hook, chasing mermaids with the Lost Boys, having a picnic on Skull Rock. I wonder if P, the ever-intrepid baby Tink, is with them, too.

Bedtime Girls

As you can see, the girls are becoming a team--united against bedtime!

Tick Tock

I felt a bit like Mrs. Dalloway today, skipping from activity to activity, busy with my domesticity. What a lark! What a plunge! The hours were crowded together; peeking ahead; elbowing past; toppling into the room with tangled hair. K's best friend spent the morning with us. We arranged flowers in a vase, ate persimmons, hosted a royal ball.

C came home early from Gibraltar. As they ascended into the clouds, he said he saw a tanker snapped like a toothpick against the rock. All the people were evacuated, out of the wind and wet, in a basket at the end of a crane.

Wii? Oui.

I got C a Wii for his birthday and he already found it, the sneak, so tonight we're battling it out on Mario Kart. Actually I should say, he's battling it out. I'm just trying to reach the finish line before the game ends. Wish me luck. It's rough out there!

Gratitude

While I was making dinner I felt like the day was a loss, as though nothing good had happened from the moment we woke up. But feeling that way made me feel terribly sad. My girls are too little for us to have entirely bad, wasted days in our lives. So, I tried to think of a few good things that happened today, a few reasons to be grateful. Here's what I came up with:

--P in my arms, tilting her head back, turning her face so she could look up at me. Over and over, she squirmed until her cheek was resting right in the center of the V on my V-neck t-shirt. Her skin felt soft and cool against mine; her hair was fuzzy. I would look down at her, smile at the way she smiled each time my hair brushed her face, and then she would close her eyes, waiting to be kissed.

--K coming home from a hard morning at the park, gathering up her puppies, then running straight into my room, climbing in bed, pulling the quilt up to her chin, and telling them all about it.

I wouldn't say that the night got easier after I came up with those things, but something changed. K played peek-a-boo with P. I could hear them both giggling in the nursery while I ran their bath. Then a neighbor stopped by with flowers for me as a thank-you for checking on her 82-year-old mother while she was at work. And then, best of all, both the girls went easily to sleep; happy; clean; and with their tummies full, despite the fact that I still don't have paper towels.

Complaints

We're having a bad day. C is gone, again. The girls didn't sleep well, again. I broke a jar of picante sauce on my foot. We're out of paper towels. We're out of milk. We're out of bread. We're out of everything. My girlfriend called this morning and invited us for a picnic at the park. K was the kid eating sliced peppers, mango, kiwi and tamales while all the other kids had peanut buter. And double strollers. That's another thing, I don't have a double stroller. Also, I'm always unprepared. I never remember to bring essential things in my diaper bag, hats or jackets or sunscreen. Today I forgot the diaper bag entirely. Earflap woman was there with her freakishly strong five-month-old. She kept sort of apologizing for his precociousness. I couldn't think of a polite way to tell her I'm not competing with her snotty, slobery little boy. I have a headache. We have to get down to the shops before dinner; now it's raining. K seems to be regressing. I'm sure it's because of P, but I'm not sure why. Is K not getting enough attention? She's having accidents of all kinds; puddles on the floor; spilled bowls of oatmeal. I really need paper towels. She even dropped the chocolates her best friend brought to share after their picnic. Then a little boy chased her around and made her cry. She seems sad and tired and angry. This time, I can't snuggle it away.

Maybe we'll move to Australia.

Night

The sun goes down early in Sicily during this part of the year, and tonight was especially clear and crisp. We were out with some neighborhood friends, enjoying the night air and having one last play before bedtime, when I happened to look up. The moon was a crescent, silver and slim, clustered together with two bright, perfectly-aligned stars--planets, as I later discovered. I wish I would have thought to take a picture because it was beautiful. I wish I had the words to describe what I saw. There was no depth to the darkness tonight, nothing was hidden. The sky seemed somehow sharp and flat--cloudless, starless, clear. But high above the tree in our front yard, springing away from the sky in three dimensions, luminous and large, were the bright-edged moon and the planets. We stood beneath them, looking up; the wind was cold; we shivered inside our coats; and, as evening turned to night, they crowded together and began to merge.

Starving Mouse

I'm really consistent about certain messages in this house. You never hit. You never bite. You never, ever honk Mommy's nose. But when it comes to other things, I'm all over the place. This morning:

"Just leaving crumbs for the mousie" K announced at breakfast. She was looking up at me from the corners of her eyes, searching my face for a reaction. I glanced down. The space under her chair was appalling: chunks of granola; dried, grated cheese; pieces of chips from last night's nachos; pencil shavings; ground-up bits of crayon. I held my coffee cup with both hands, felt its warmth on my palms, curved my back a little more, and took a long sip. I read an article last night saying bad posture might be causing my fatigue. "That's okay, sweetie," I replied, "the housekeeper comes tomorrow and she'll help us clean our floors." Admittedly, not the best response. I immediately began a mental list of the inappropriate messages I'd just sent: classism, laziness, a lack of personal responsibility. I took another sip of coffee, closed my eyes; and so, it took me a minute to realize K's face had fallen. "Oh, Mommy, no!" Her voice was quiet, serious. "The poor mousie. She will be so hungry." I didn't falter. "Don't worry, honey. She'll come tonight and get her pantry all stocked up for tomorrow. It'll be okay. She won't be too hungry." K still looked serious. "Alright Mommy, do you really think so? She'll get her pantry full so she can just stay home tomorrow? She won't have to come out?" "That's right," I smiled, "the housekeeper won't even know she's there."

I think need another cup of coffee.

Kite Flying

Today was really an incredible day: sunny and blue with a steady, strong wind; the light playing with shadow among the clouds. As K said, it was a good day for flying a kite. I think we've all finally regained our equilibrium after the big trip to Germany. P's sleeping well again and everybody seems more relaxed. I was even able to take a long nap this afternoon, which is the hallmark of a good day.

Bulgarian Princess

A Bulgarian princess stopped by the house today and she was in a really good mood. Lucky us!