The Snow Day (Part Two): Snow!

"Katherine!" I cry, jumping out of my seat and ushering her into the apartment. "You're dripping wet with melted snow. Oh honey, you must be so cold!"

"Well, of course I am," she says, looking up at me matter-of-factly. "I played in every single womp of snow on the way home from school. I even walked on my knees part of the time and now I'm freezing! I thought I was going to get frostbite. I carried that tragedy in my mind the whole time I was walking, that's how cold I was, but --- oh wow, it was fun! What have you guys been doing? Poor Penny, have you been stuck inside all day watching movies?"

Penelope doesn't respond. She just looks up from her burrow on the couch, shrugs her shoulders and smiles sweetly. I'm going to have to remember that smile though. I'm going to have to file it away, record it in my Lexicon of Penny, because I'm pretty sure that smile means...

Hardly.

Snow Day

Right now there's hot chocolate on my stove and snow outside my window. Penelope's in her fleeciest pajamas. She's standing by the balcony with her nose pressed against the glass, and I'd planned to write today, but somehow...

I don't think that's going to happen.

It's a snow day! And we're well again! We're heading out to play!

Comfort

The sun isn't up yet, but there's a light on in the kitchen. Chris is making tea. The house smells like jasmine. Katherine's standing by my bed again, but this time I'm not startled. I don't get up. "You need to go back to sleep," I whisper, looking at the clock behind her, "it's 4:30 in the morning."

"I can't sleep, Mommy." She climbs into my bed, rests her head on the pillow, and looks at me. Her cheeks are splotched, scarlet, and her lips are crimson. "I don't feel good," she whimpers. "Will you read me a story?"

No, I think, closing my eyes. My throat is burning, my back is aching, but now she's coughing. Her hair is heavy with sweat and I reach out, thinking I'll brush it off her neck, thinking that will be cooling, but she squirms away. She slips her hand inside my hand and pulls me toward the door. "Please," she says. "Come on, Mommy."

In the living room, her body is too hot, too close; the room is spinning. We're in the story chair, reading. The words are slipping from my lips, but they have to find their own cadence, their own rhythm. I'm reading, but I'm not listening. I'm so hot, is all I'm thinking. Then my voice strikes a different chord, it finds a different timbre, and the room turns in the opposite direction.

This is my mother's voice I'm hearing.

And now I'm a child again, feverish and small, but I'm also the mother reading. My eyes are watering, and suddenly I'm shivering, shaking, and I think again (as I've thought before in times of stress and sickness), I'm turning into my mother.

It's in the flash of my hands and the tone of my voice; it's the constant, the comfort, the gift of growing older.

So I lean against the cushions and Katherine snuggles closer, and we keep reading.

**Finding the Bigger Picture through Simple Moments.**

Sick Day

Szzzt!

The sound of my own breath wakes me up. I'm gasping.

What happened?

I scan the room and see a shape in the darkness, something small, but nothing moves. The heater hums. The humidifier gurgles. I blink. There's a nightlight in the hall and my door is open. I blink again. My eyes try to focus. The shape is golden at the top, almost glowing. I consider its height.

Katherine.

"Mommy," she whispers, "I'm thirsty."

I sit up, clear my throat. "What," I try to ask, but my voice catches.

"I'm hot, Mommy. I'm thirsty."

I press my hand against her forehead then draw it away. "How are you feeling?"

"Not good."

"Okay. Okay."

What am I supposed to do? I can't think. "Let's get you back to bed, okay?" I ease myself out from under the blankets. Chris coughs and rolls over. He's been up three times already. His chest rattles. "I'll bring you some water."

"I'm still hot," she whispers.

"You have a fever."

I wrap my arm around her and she leans against me. I take a step. Then stop. From down the hall, I hear a whimper.

"What's that," Katherine asks.

"Your sister."

***

Send healing thoughts, you guys. I'll be back when we're better!

Waiting for Beauty: A Confession

I've been feeling terrible lately, inadequate and anxious:

Her mind rushes toward me, swelling and expanding, scattering thoughts at my feet like seashells before lifting them up and drawing them in, and I ---

I'm shielding my eyes at the shoreline. I'm squelching my toes in the sand.

Her words circle around me. They're the rings on an oak tree, the map of a life, deep, embedded, and growing from within, and I ---

I'm a pocket knife carving, a scratch, uninspired graffiti:

Emily

Was

Here.

But I hope.

I hope if I just keep going, if I just keep scribbling down these little sketches, maybe one day I'll wake up and find there's beauty here.

On Joy and Fear and Flying

"You know," I tell myself, "I never see small birds flying."

I'm squinting into the sun, watching a hawk circle and drop with my head thrown back and my hands behind me, and my thoughts are winding. "I see them hopping through the grass sometimes, pecking at seeds, and every so often I'll see a group of them startle, but I never have to shade my eyes to watch them rising. They never seem to stretch out their wings."

Her voice cuts through my thoughts. "Mommy," she cries, "look at me! I'm flying!" 

Overhead, the sunlight flashes; the hawk is diving, but I turn around and look behind me.

Katherine is circling on her bike, pumping her legs up and down, faster and faster, weaving between all the concrete blocks in the parking lot, with the wind in her face and her helmet shining.

"Do you see me, Mommy? I'm flying!"

"Yes, yes," I cry, "I'm watching!"

She skids to a stop at the curb where I'm standing.

"Remember this summer when I was too scared to go fast?"

"Yes," I say, nodding.

"But did you just see how fast I was going?"

"You were really flying!"

"Oh Mommy, that was so much fun! I'm going to remember this moment --- forever!"

She laughs, and her laughter is high and clear. I smile at the sound. Then she pushes her foot off the curb and pedals out into sun, going faster again, and faster, and I tilt my head back up toward the sky.

I notice the hawk is rising.

A Family of Bad Dreams

Chris:

I dreamed there was a machine; it had to keep making things, had to keep moving. If I stopped moving my legs though, I knew the machine would stop, but the machine couldn't stop. The machine had to keep moving. Then I realized I was the machine.

Emily:

I dreamed there was a saber-toothed tiger, all stretched out and golden. He stepped onto my bed from above, sneaking in through a picture on the wall, or maybe a wooden carving. His teeth were hooked and jagged, but I knew I had to get past him. He was heading for my children. 

Katherine:

I dreamed I was on a water slide. People with spikes on their hands were standing on either side of me trying to tickle me. Their spikes kept cutting. At the bottom of the slide, the pond was full of snapping turtles.

Penelope:

I dreamed about bothery shadows: that one was a hawk; that one was a monster. I told them to leave, but they wouldn't listen.

***

What have you been dreaming about lately? (Do you believe dreams have meaning?)

**This post was inspired by a bad night and an interesting blogger.

Blackbirds in the Morning

They wheel above the forest, stark, dark, careening in haphazard arcs, two blackbirds tossed against a whitened sky. I watch them, coffee on my lips, nightgown trailing, cotton coming unstitched at the seams, and I think of them as ink spots, psych tests, sadness, until I see they're not haphazard. They're flying patterns, swooping sideways, wind rushing through their wings.

Discipline, Interrupted

"Penelope, if you don't get back in bed right this minute there's going to be a consequence. Do you understand me?"

"I'm not sleepy!"

"One..."

"No!"

"TWO!"

"No, Mommy! No, Mommy! I don't WANT to go to bed!" She threw her head upward and backward and toward me, and her mouth was open. She was chapped-lipped, streaked with saliva; her lips were turned down at the corners. Her eyes were scrunchy, crescent moons, glittering and red.

I tripped over my warning.

I can't do this, I thought. Not tonight. It isn't working. 

"Never mind," I sighed. I knelt beside her. "Just come here, baby."

She ran to me, head down, legs stiff, but when I scooped her into my arms she rested her head on my shoulder. She softened. I carried her back to bed.

I laid her down in darkness, kissed her quickly on top of the head.

"Wait," she whispered. Her voice was low and husky. She pressed her cheek into my hand. "Stay with me, Mommy. Please, just for a little while. Sing me a song," she said.

Down the hall I could hear the clink-clank-clink of dishes. Chris was cleaning up from dinner. I tapped my foot. I shook my head.

--- then I looked down at her and she looked up at me and I lost myself for awhile: in her eyes, which were impossibly wide and impossibly inky, and in the fringe of her lashes, which were darker than the darkness, and in the space between them, that velvety spot where her nose curves in, and in the curve of her cheek, which was warm and soft and pressed against my hand, and she's just a baby, said the voice inside my head.

And so, I started singing. 

I forgot about consistency and consequence. I forgot about discipline and dinner dishes. I just sat down and watched her eyes grow heavy. I heard her breath grow breathy. I felt her cheeks grow hot and thought, oh! oh, that's my baby in her bed ---

**Finding the Bigger Picture through Simple Moments**

History. Love.

"Nope, sorry girls, but you're having one-by-one baths tonight. You two splash too much when you're together and right now I'm way too tired to clean up your messes. Kat, you go first. Penelope, you can build a castle with blocks while you're waiting."

I braced myself for a fight, but nothing happened. Katherine grabbed her towel and scampered toward the tub. Penelope dumped her blocks onto the rug. I smiled at them and pushed the door to my bedroom open.

Down the hall, I could hear water running, the wooden clink of Penelope's blocks, and Katherine humming to herself, then singing, but the sounds were muffled. The house was quiet.

The shadows lengthened.

Chris was in bed, stretched out on top of the quilts, reading. I climbed in beside him. "I don't know why I'm so tired tonight," I said, resting my head on his shoulder.

"Yeah, I know. We stayed up too late yesterday. I'm tired, too," he said, still reading. He put his arm around me, pulled me in, and then ---

***

We woke up with a CRASH fifteen minutes later, and apparently we'd been facing each other while we were sleeping because my mind registered him before I realized I was waking up, or even that I'd been sleeping. His eyes were a streak of blue, sudden and bright in the haze of my confusion, but I couldn't place him. I couldn't place myself. Our history was swirling.

He was the boy who...

...baked me pumpkin pies when I had bronchitis...

...drove for 14 hours when I wanted to see the ocean...

...battled me for Air Hockey Champion of the World...

...almost beat me at Tag Racing...

...took me to baseball games and tennis matches and miniature golfing, and...

...kissed me in front of the fire when we went skiing.

And he was the man who...

...wrapped his arms around me on sunlit beaches...

...stayed up late researching the latch when I couldn't stop crying...

...guided our babies to my breast...

...brought me tea from England...

...stroked my hair after a nightmare, and...

...kept me up late, laughing.

And he was startled. He kissed me quickly, instinctively, and his lips were like a touchstone; the world snapped back into focus: Penelope was in her room. Katherine was still in the bathtub, singing.

"What was that," he asked.

"Penelope," I said. "I think she knocked down the castle she was building."

"Oh," he sighed.

I rubbed my eyes. "I was asleep," I told him.

"Yeah, me too," he said, yawning.

"We should probably go get them."

"I know," he said, "but let's stay here, just a little longer."

His body was warm. He pulled me closer.

"Okay," I said, and settled my head back onto his shoulder.

The Light in Her Room

The light catches my attention.

I'm walking down the hall, heading toward the bathtub, toward the girls, with a tsk on my lips and a stern quit splashing, but I pause. I stop. Outside Penelope's room, I lean against the doorframe. The girls are giggling now. They're directly across the hall and if I turn around I know I'll see them floating on their backs, kicking, wild, water cascading out across the floor, but I don't turn around. I linger.

The light is soft-edged here and warm; it's bouncing off the forest, illuminating the winter-brown branches and the dry, green leaves, but it spreads out at my feet, rose-colored and filtered; it's streaming through thin, linen curtains; it's lighting up the room.

At first that's all I notice. Then the girls start splashing harder.

I turn my head to scold them, but my eyes fall on Penelope's small, plastic kitchen in the corner; it's lit-up and shining, and suddenly I see the room, her room, all dappled with light and shadow: the pink-and-purple quilt with elephants embroidered, the baskets full of books, the scattered legos, teddy bears, dolls, and dinosaurs; this is the door she slams when she's angry; this is the bed where she dreams, and then I start to wonder.

What's it like to be the littlest person in this family? What does she dream about when she's dreaming in this room?

Minutes from now she'll run across the hall, towel-wrapped and shivering, the boss of all that light and shadow. She'll toss a teddy bear into her bed. She'll scoot into her pajamas, shove Alice in Wonderland into my hands and beg for a whole chunk of chapters, and I'll bend down and kiss the center of her forehead.

The light will fade. I'll get caught up in the story and I'll forget about the room, but I think I'll always wonder: What adventures are waiting for my baby?

Where will she go when she grows into her dreams? 

Celebrating Parents: Love in the Little Routines

I intended to tell you a story. I thought I'd sort through my memory, find a sweet moment, and spin it into a celebration, but when I woke up this morning I couldn't think of anything. 

I was floundering, so I decided to do some free writing: No looking back. No revisions. Just my own stream of consciousness answer.

What are you proud of as a parent?

Here goes!

***

My day starts at the cutting board. I chop mango, cucumber, apples, carrots, purple grapes and red bell peppers. I shell pistachios. I lather peanut butter onto sandwiches. Then I prepare a big, homemade breakfast: omelets and oatmeal and oranges. I check Katherine's backpack, tighten her shoelaces, wind her scarf, and send her off to school.

When she rides her bike, I make sure she wears her helmet.

Penelope wakes up. Another warm breakfast. Teeth to brush. Bleary eyes. Rumpled hair. Snuggles. Art projects. Spilled paint. Water messes.

Leftover chili. Apple slices. 

Stories.

Stories. Stories. Stories.

"Mama, I'm a baby skunk and you're my mommy. Come into the burrow, Mommy!"

After school Katherine rushes home full of fresh air and energy. She's hungry. Penny's hungry. I leave the burrow. Scrounge for food. Feed them.
 
We go outside if it's pretty. Katherine runs for the good climbing tree. Penelope hops onto the teeter-totter. There are other kids there, always. They organize games. Chasing, mainly. I wave at them when they run past me.

Home again. Homework.

A key in the lock.

"Daddy! Daddy!"

"I'm a magical snake and I'm going to eat you, Daddy!"

"Oh yeah, well, I'm a magical fox and a magical snake could NEVER eat me!"

"Daddy! Daddy!"

Dinner.

"Oh girls, daddy's grilling steak! Come and see the fire leaping!" 

And then, the nightly convincing:

"Where do we eat? In our seat!"

"Oh no! Don't eat that! You'll get way too much power! No! No! Do you see this? She's eating her dinner! SHE'S EATING HER DINNER!!!"

"Welcome, everyone, welcome! It's time for another night of The Dinner Game! And let me tell you, the excitement is thick tonight. This crowd is wild! Can they do it? That's the question on everyone's mind as the contestants settle into their chairs. Oh! The forks have been lifted! Can anybody eat a...CARROT?"

And then, of course:

Brush your teeth, honey. Did you brush your teeth?

Okay, good girl. Go climb in bed. I'll be right there for stories.

***

Honestly, I don't feel like I've done very well with this post or with this project, but I think what I'm trying to understand is that it's the little moments that matter to me as a parent. The failures are awful and the successes are sweet, but ultimately it's the constancy, the little routines, the showing-up-and-trying and the struggling-and-striving work of it all that makes me feel proud. 

What about you? What makes you feel proud of yourself as a parent?

Link up and share your story!

Celebrating Parents

First I was supposed to read about Why Chinese Mothers Are Superior.

Now I'm supposed to read about Why French Parents Are Superior. (And, trust me, I have a lot to learn from French parents.) I'm supposed to come to terms with my Mommy Guilt, regardless of my parenting choices, and I'm supposed to teach my children how to navigate the world of good, old-fashioned play. I'm not supposed to hover though (because then I might come across as ridiculous), but I can't back off too much or my kids might offend someone in a restaurant or on an airplane.

Is it any wonder Why Parents Hate Parenting? Or why we're all too worn out to Carpe Diem?

I'm tired.

I'm tired of trying to sort out The Things I Agree With from The Things I Don't Agree With, I'm tired of trying to figure out What Kind of Parent I Am, and I'm way too tired to sit down and do something crazy, like, you know, hang out with my daughters.

I want a break. I want to cast off all my anxiety and I want to celebrate parents for awhile.

I want to celebrate you.

I want to hear your success stories. What are you doing right for your kids? Regardless of your philosophy, what makes you feel proud of yourself as a parent? We're doing hard, important work here, so let's be like actors at the Screen Actors Guild Awards and celebrate ourselves.

What do you think? Does anyone want to swap success stories?

If so, come back here on Friday, February 10th and link-up! (And don't forget to spread the word!)

The Piano and the Wind

From the upper left-hand corner of my apartment three piano chords repeat themselves again and again. They're long and extended, and every four seconds there's a crescendo, but there isn't a piano; it's just the wind.

Outside, the rain is falling sideways; the sky is white. The temperature rose 15 degrees during the night and this morning Katherine said, the trees seem angry, Mommy, and Penelope nodded.

Maybe they're trying to blow the rain away, I offered.

Instead, they blow the tarp off of a trashcan and garbage skitters down the street. The piano begins its crescendo.

Decrescendo.

Crescendo. Crescendo.

Scenes from Life: The Confirmation

Happy February, and welcome to another installment of Scenes from Life!

This month I'm featuring Denise from Tulips and Togas. I've been reading Denise's blog since she started writing in January 2011 and I think it's safe to say I've never missed a post. Denise's life fascinates me. She's well-educated and articulate, interesting, independent, and successful in her career. She writes funny posts about what it's like to start dating in your early thirties, brutally honest posts about what it's like to grow up with a rare, craniofacial deformity, and inspiring posts about what it's like to push your limits. Whether that means conquering stage fright through public speaking or choking down a few bites of rice pudding, Denise is always an inspiration.

So, without further ado, I give you:    

The Confirmation

“Mom, weren’t you ever sad when I was born?  Weren’t you angry?  Didn’t you ever ask God why?”

They were questions that I asked time and again.  When the teasing was too nasty, when the stares became too intense, when looking different got too hard, when life seemed too unfair.  I would retreat to my mother’s lap – even when I was much too big and much too old to curl up comfortably – I would lean my head against her shoulder and I would ask those questions.  And her response was always the same.

“No,” she said.  “I got the little girl that I always wanted.  And I had my faith.”
  
When I was little, I thought my mother had to say that because she was my mom.  And Catholic.
    

************

We were not a devoutly religious family but we were good Catholics.  Our Bible was tucked away in the closet – we received the Word of the Lord from the priest at Mass; we observed Lenten Fridays by eating fish or pizza (mostly pizza); my brother and I – proud public school kids – received our religious education for an hour every Monday afternoon at CCD, an acronym that I am sure has a proper definition but which is known, maybe universally but at least on the East Coast, as Central City Dump; and we received the sacraments that every good Catholic receives as they grow up– Baptism, First Reconciliation, First Holy Communion, and Confirmation.

I was ten to my brother’s 13 when he was confirmed, took on a third name, and became an “adult” member of the Catholic Church.  The Catholic Church does ceremony very well.  It is pomp, it is circumstance, it is theater, it is beautiful.  My brother’s confirmation ceremony was all of that.  And more.

On the night of his confirmation, my parents and I sat in the last pew in our parish church waiting for the ceremony to start.  The instruments began to play, the choir began to sing, and the procession of young, eager confirmands began.  We watched as my brother and the rest of the CCD kids, at last integrated with the Catholic school kids, resplendent in their long red gowns and white shawl things that weren’t really shawl things but I don’t know how else to describe them, filed past us.  The procession walked up the center aisle, genuflected before the altar, and then entered the pews where they were to sit.

The music changed ever so slightly and the congregation rose to its feet to welcome the second procession into the church.  Altar boys carrying the processional cross, candles, and the Gospels, led the priests and bishop, resplendent in their own long, beautiful vestments, past the pews.  It was Catholic theater at its best – rich in solemnity and beauty and religious tradition.  It was all going according to script…until it wasn’t.  The bishop, bringing up the rear, suddenly stopped at the pew where my family was sitting.  At the spot where I was sitting.  And since the bishop stopped, the rest of the procession stopped.  And since the procession stopped, everyone turned to stare.  And wasn’t that just great?

I looked at my mother who was as confused as I was.  I think there were quiet murmurings as I stood up a little straighter trying to understand what was going on.  I was a CCD kid after all and they didn’t teach us about this kind of stuff.  The bishop smiled at me, I remember that his face was old but kind; he blessed me with the sign of the Cross; then he said, “Everything will be alright.”

Then he returned to script and the procession continued on towards the front of the church, towards the eager confirmands, and towards the altar from where that kind bishop would deliver the Word of the Lord to us. 

That night, my brother and the rest of the confirmands were received into the Catholic Church.  

That night, I began to understand that religion and faith aren’t the same thing at all.  

But it would be years before I became a believer.  

Do you have a memory to share? You could be featured on Keeping Time!

Send an email to thekeepingtime@gmail.com for more information!

Percolate

I fantasize about yoga.

I see myself pressing my heels to the floor, muscles warm like clay, lifting through my hips, deepening and lengthening. Vertebrae by vertebrae, I see my spine rippling down my back like a ribbon caught in the wind, fluttering, wild for a moment, and then snapping back into place: alignment.

I don't get up.

I stare at the computer until my eyes feel small and hard, hot, like two sun-shriveled blackcurrant berries, and I want something, some future place, some future me, something better than this, but just the same, but different, and then Penelope wakes up.

She bounds down the hall with her bathrobe open. Her nightgown is swinging. "I'm shivery-cold," she announces, so I tie a knot in her robe. I straighten the seams over her shoulders. Then I pull her close and think to myself, again, "I've waited too long."

It is my first real moment.

**Finding the Bigger Picture through Simple Moments**