"Late? What are you talking about, Mommy?"
"You left the house later than usual yesterday morning, remember? We talked about how you were going to have to scurry!"
"Oh yeah, that's right, but I have no idea. I don't remember."
"Really? Well, do you remember if the kids were still in line when you got there or if they were already in the classroom?"
"No."
"Oh, okay, um, if you're sure you don't remember --- really?"
"I really don't remember. The thing you don't understand about me, Mommy, is that I don't have great, big, google eyes that can roll around and see in every direction. When you ask me things like that, like about the school line yesterday, it makes me feel bad because I can't remember. I can't see behind me, Mommy."
"All right, well, then that's something I'll try to remember."
***
The past few weeks have been a blur for me, a hazy progression of beds made, then unmade, of meals cooked, then eaten, of laundry washed, then worn, and even though I've been happy -- joyous, even -- I haven't wanted to record it. I don't know why.
It's ordinary, and I'm reveling in ordinary.
I'm not thinking about the next step. I'm not longing for the next big moment. I'm just here, living, not striving, while the girls eat popcorn and drink hot chocolate on the living room floor. They're wide-eyed and flushed, watching a Christmas program.
Right now, the rain outside our window is falling as steadily as the sunset. Chris's birthday cake is cooling on the counter; it's lopsided, but homemade, and decorated with candy canes in a lumpy, buttercream frosting. Penelope helped me bake it, and after school Katherine did the decorations. I have dirty dishes in the sink and steaks marinating in the refrigerator, and as soon as I finish typing this I'm going to start roasting red potatoes for dinner.
Chris just called. He'll be home in half an hour.
***
The thing is, I don't have great, big google eyes that can roll around and see in every direction either, but if I did I think these are the moments I'd want to remember.
I agree. Ordinary is a good place to be. I've learned to revel in it, too, and in doing so, have found it to be extraordinary. You will too, you'll see.
ReplyDeleteHappy Birthday, Chris!
D
You're singing my tune in this post. I can't possible shoe-horn in any great writing time these days, what with a load of laundry every day, school to teach, snowflakes to snip, cookies to bake and a soon-to-depart husband to hang out with. And I'm fine with this ordinary-ness, too. Here, here!
ReplyDeleteP.S. I think we'd all look pretty silly with those big google eyes in our regular-sized heads anyway.
Yes, yes, yes. The everyday moments are what make up that wonderful feeling of "home".
ReplyDelete---I Love your writing sooo much... X
ReplyDeleteLove this~Contentment at it's best!
ReplyDeleteThis was just beautiful, and the next time I feel like my memory is bad, I'm going to remember that I don't have great big google eyes and I can't see behind me :)
ReplyDeleteOrdinary is good! And I'm betting your two girls and husband are far from ordinary. :)
ReplyDeleteah, exactly. exactly.
ReplyDelete