Keeping Time

Percolate

2012-02-02T10:39:00.000+09:00

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**

Welcome, Tooth Fairy!

2012-01-31T10:12:00.000+09:00

Last week, while I was busy telling travel stories, I didn't tell you about the super-exciting things that were happening right here in Japan. It was a big week though, and the biggest part of all was when Katherine lost her first tooth!

But here, I'm going to let her tell you:

How My Tooth Fell Out

as told by Katherine

(age 6)

It was A's birthday and she brought Ariel cupcakes to school. We ate them during snack time, and I got a purple mustache from frosting. That's when I noticed my tooth was out. I felt something hard in my mouth. I took some of the cupcake out with my fingers and wiped off the hard bit. There was my purple, frosted tooth; it was exciting for the whole class! Everyone wanted to see the hole in my mouth, and they all thought it was cool because my tooth was purple. It was really magical. It wasn't sparkle-magic, but it felt like magic because I was so excited. My friends kept asking me, "Can I see your tooth? Can I see it?" And I said, "Yes!" I was so happy that my tooth had come out. I'd been waiting a long time! Before my tooth came out, it hurt when I was eating. My tooth had been loose ever since we were at our hotel room in Vietnam. My tooth was only a little bit wiggly when we first found out. Mom gasped, "Not only does she have a loose tooth, but she already has a grown-up tooth coming in!" When Mom said that I was very, very, very excited. I was so excited my head was popping off! Then we went down to breakfast and that's when I found out it hurts to bite down on things when you have a loose tooth, so I wiggled it and wiggled it to make it fall out faster. The night I finally lost my tooth, the tooth fairy came to our house. She left me 200 yen and a note. I was really excited! Now I can save all my coins until I have enough money to buy something I really want, like that white, stuffed puppy at the store; the one who really wags its tail.

Thank you, Tooth Fairy!

Love, Katherine
xoxo

A Stranger Tells a Story

2012-01-30T10:13:00.000+09:00

"You know," the man said suddenly, "the Khmer Rouge killed many people in Cambodia."

"Yes," we said.

The man looked surprised. "You know the Khmer Rouge," he asked.

"Of course," we nodded.

The river was shining in the evening light. Palm trees were in silhouette against the sky. "It's beautiful here," I sighed, resting my head on Chris' shoulder.

The man turned his face away. He shoved his hands into his pockets.

"They killed my parents," he said. His voice was a whisper. "They took them when I was nine years old. After that, I was alone. I had no one to care for me, so I worked in the fields. Spreading fertilizer. I remember the smell, the heat and the dirt, the mosquitos. I remember spreading manure with my hands." He shook his head and looked at Chris. "That job was very bad," he chuckled. Then he paused.

We stood there, quiet.

The man laughed suddenly. "Cambodian swimming pool," he said, pointing at two, small boys in the river. "There are crocodiles there, of course, but the boys don't worry. You hardly ever see them." One of the boys scrambled onto the muddy bank, grinned, and then jumped onto his brother. They both went under then came up again, spluttering and splashing. I closed my eyes. I could hear Katherine and Penelope jumping off stones in the field behind us. They were loud and laughing; every now and then one of them would shriek.

They're all the same, I thought, these children.

"In the old days," the man said, and his voice was soft again; his eyes were fixed on the boys in the river. "In the old days, we were always thirsty, but there wasn't any cold water; we weren't allowed to have ice. One year though, one year I remember they gave us ice. People stood in line, hundreds of people; they stood in line for hours waiting for one, small cup of ice water. That's communism, though," he said, turning back to Chris. "Communism, very bad."

"Yes, very bad," we nodded.

And The Winner Is...

2012-01-29T10:52:00.000+09:00

Oh you guys, thank you.

You've read my words so openly this week, so generously, and I can't tell you how much your thoughts, your insights, and your donations have meant to me as I've been processing my experiences in Southeast Asia. It's a testament to you, and to the kindness of the human spirit, that during a time of so much economic hardship you read a stranger's story about a still-more-distant stranger's sorrows and felt called to action. Thank you so much for reading, for listening, and for allowing me to be part of this amazing community. You inspire me.

Thank you.

Now, onto the drawing! I know many of you said you wanted to make donations without taking the little girl's bracelet, but I really would love for you to have it, so let's draw a winner, shall we?

And The Winner Is...

...Alita Jewel!

Congratulations, Alita!

Send an email with your contact information to thekeepingtime@gmail.com and I'll send you the bracelet!

And thank you all again, so much, for your donations!

Lucky Lives

2012-01-27T13:56:00.001+09:00

I'd already shaken my head, said no before she'd even asked me, but the woman jerked her chin in the air and looked past me. She was squatting in the gutter, loading bananas into a wooden basket. "That your husband," she asked.

I followed her eyes.

Chris was standing on the sidewalk, sunlight glinting off his hair, and looking down at Katherine. Katherine was talking. She said something to Penelope then waited, hopping from one foot to the other, while Penelope giggled. Penelope threw her hands over her eyes.

Chris started laughing.

"Yes," I answered.

The woman nodded. "Big," she said, "good job. He take care of you. You don't worry about the price of fruit." There was a gap in her mouth where two of her teeth had halfway rotted. She handed me a bag of bananas.

I handed her two dollars.

She tucked the money into an old, coin purse. "Lucky," she said.

I nodded.

***

"Oh Mommy," Katherine cried, wrapping her arms around my neck, "do you know what those women kept saying to me at the market?"

"No, baby" I laughed. "Tell me about it."

"They kept telling me I'm beautiful. Beautiful! At first I didn't understand them because I don't speak their language, but then a woman translated for me. She leaned forward and said, 'Do you know what they're saying?' And I didn't know, so I shook my head and she said, 'everyone thinks you're beautiful. That's what they keep saying.' Can you imagine? I mean, why do they think I'm beautiful?"

"Well, love, you are beautiful, but also, everyone always notices you because you're foreign."

"I'm foreign?"

"Well, yeah, haven't you noticed?"

"I don't know. All I know is, after that I had to blush several times. I felt so lucky!"

***

"Are you an American," he asked, standing up as I settled into the seat beside him. He was wearing a well-cut suit, and his voice was soft; his English was flawless.

"Yes," I nodded.

He smiled. "I could tell. I observed your family in the airport. I could tell you were American because of your accent. I am from Pakistan. Have you been to Pakistan?"

"No," I smiled, "I haven't."

"Oh." He looked so sad for a minute, so genuinely surprised and disappointed, that I had a wild fantasy about lying to him, telling him we were only just now on our way to Pakistan, and asking him all about his country. "Why not," he asked me.

"Um," I stammered, searching for answers, "I don't know. I guess I thought it might be too expensive."

"Oh, but Pakistan is not expensive! You can have a beautiful meal in Pakistan for only two American dollars, and the food is very good. There is a great deal of variety, and the people like Americans. You would be welcome."

"I didn't know. I don't know very much about your country."

He shook his head. "But why not," he asked. "In Pakistan, even in the small villages, everyone knows about America. We know about your political system and your leaders and your elections. Why do you not know about us?"

"I don't know. I'm sorry."

"I once met an American in my country. I believe he was in your Army, and he told me about all the places he's traveled. He's had a lucky life, he told me. And you? Where are you traveling?"

"Oh, we're on our way home now. We live in Japan. We've been touring Southeast Asia."

"And that man is your husband," he asked, nodding toward Chris, who was reading a story to the girls in the row behind us.

"Yes."

"He is a good father. Your daughters are very lucky. Literacy is a problem in my country. I'm going to Japan to study their educational system."

"Oh, wow, that's impressive! My girls love to read. I can't imagine life without stories."

"You are very blessed, I think. People lead lucky lives in your country."

"Yes. Yes, you're right," I nodded.

Culture Shock: a Motion-Sick Meditation

2012-01-26T11:52:00.000+09:00

Where are you?

In an alley, in a taxi. Buildings keep rising up to the right and to the left. They obliterate the sky. Lights flash. I can't see past them. We're lurching forward. We're slamming back. Families zip past us on motorbikes: moms, dads, babies in the middle. They turn their heads as they rush by. They peer at us through our rolled-up windows, flashing eyes in the flashing light, and I squint back at them, blinded by the series: eyes and lights and passings. City smells waft toward me, petroleum and sewage. Somewhere ahead, someone's making curry. Oh God, I can't do this. I can't do this.

My wrists are numb. My hands are shaking.

NO.

Where are you?

I closed my eyes! I closed my eyes!

Focus. Where are you?

Oklahoma.

Good.

It's night and my dad is driving. The streetlights are dim. The road is smooth. I'm eight-years-old, and there isn't any traffic. My dad has one hand on the wheel, his wrist is straight, and his other hand is resting on my mom's shoulder. She's half asleep in the seat beside him. I'm in the backseat with my legs tucked up. My head is resting against the cold, glass window. If I breathe deeply enough I can smell the night air and the sweet, prairie grasses. Everything is wide and dark and quiet.

But, oh God, now someone's burning incense. It's so hot here. My back is sweating. We're getting closer to the curry. The smell is stronger. Why does everyone keep honking? Jolting, jangling, jerking, stopping, my ears can't find the rhythm. I'm shaking. I'm shaking!

NO! Stay focused. Where are you?

Vietnam, and the motorbikes keep whizzing past us. The eyes keep looking. I'm spinning!

I'm shaking!

Comfort

My stomach muscles ached from heaving.

"Are you okay, Mommy," Katherine asked, looking up at me with wide, startled eyes. From the front seat, Chris turned around and patted my knee. "We're almost there, sweetie," he reassured, "just a few more minutes." Then Penelope took over the conversation. "Daddy gave me a bag to hold," she announced proudly. "If you need to throw up again, I will give it to you, but if you don't need to throw up," she shook her head, "then I will hold it. Are sure you're okay, Mommy?" She was holding the bag high up over her head and swinging her feet while she talked. "Do you need to throw up again? Do you want your bag?"

"No, sweetie," I shook my head. "I'm feeling better now. Thank you." I tried to unfurrow my brow, and failed, so I rested my hand in her hair, but in that moment, in that disembodied, flashing moment, I didn't see my hand. I saw my mother's hand, cool and soft and smelling like lavender, brushing the hair off my forehead. I straightened my back. I lowered my shoulders. And the thought came, inchoate and rushing forward:

I'm getting older.

I'm turning into my mother, and it turns out that's a gift; it turns out that's a comfort.

One Dollar

2012-01-23T11:22:00.000+09:00

She wasn't as cute as the others.

Her hair was too short, shorn, and her eyes were too wide, but she was the only one I noticed, the only one who looked bewildered, standing there, gawking at me with her basket full of wooden beads. Her legs were dirty to the knees.

All the same, I knew better than to let her know I saw her. I looked away when I passed, quickened my pace, avoided those too-wide eyes, and shoved my hands deep into my pockets. She trotted along beside me.

"One dollar," she whispered, holding up her basket, but you could tell by the way she formed her words that the sounds were still a struggle. The other kids rolled the phrase out easily. "One dollar," they'd call, holding up postcards or bracelets or wooden flutes, and shoving them toward you. Smiles on their hunger-eaten faces, shouting, "One dollar, Madame! You buy for your daughter! One dollar! One dollar!"

"No, no" I'd tell them, looking upward, away from them, and shaking my head. I knew I couldn't look down, couldn't take them in, or they'd swarm; it was too much like a promise. I can't help you all. There are just too many. "No. No, thank you. I can't help you. I'm sorry."

But this little girl, she didn't ask a second time. She just trotted along beside me, not saying a word, and I just kept my hands in my pockets. I just kept looking up. I just kept walking.

I quickened my pace again.

I didn't see her fall. Just heard the sound.

I took three steps away from her before I paused. Turned around. She was face down in the dirt. Her basket was empty, wooden bracelets all spilled out on the ground, and I was just standing there, hesitating, until I finally knelt down.

I picked up the bracelets and put them back into her basket.

She sat up and looked at me. Her eyes were even wider now somehow, darker, brimming with tears and even more bewildered; that's when I saw her, really saw her.

She was a baby.

Penelope's age, maybe. She couldn't have been more than four, and every instinct in my body told me to open my arms. I wanted to check her skinned knees. I wanted to hold her.

And she wanted me to hold her. I could tell.

She didn't cry, but she looked up at me with those wide, dark eyes, all full of hurt and surprise, and she leaned her body toward me. If I would have opened my arms she would have rushed into them. She would have rested her head on my shoulder. She would have cried.

I couldn't help her.

I pointed at the bracelets. "One dollar," I asked. She nodded. I handed her a dollar and she handed me a bracelet. Then I left her. She was still sitting in the dirt, examining her knees, just a baby, and I left her. I walked away.

I didn't want to walk away. I wanted to open my arms. I wanted to hold her. I wanted to help her, but I didn't know how.

I still want to help her, but this time I want to support an organization that can make a real difference in the lives of street children. And I want you to help, too.

So here's the plan:

I'm asking you to make a donation to UNICEF. You don't have to give much, but I want to honor this little girl, along with all the children I saw in Cambodia, and I want you to help me.

If you do donate, please leave a comment here saying "I Donated!" and I'll enter your name in a drawing. At the end of the week, on Sunday, January 29th, I'm planning to close the comments and draw a name at random. The winner will receive the bracelet I bought from the little girl in Cambodia. It isn't fancy, and it only cost a dollar, but it's special to me.

So I hope you'll participate. I hope you'll tell your friends.

I hope you'll like it.

*Finding the Bigger Picture though Simple Moments*

Southeast Asia

2012-01-13T06:19:00.002+09:00

We're spending the next week touring Vietnam, Cambodia and the splendors of Southeast Asia, which, arguably, range from a Wonder of the World to the anti-diarrhea medicines I have tucked inside my bag.

Wish us luck! I'll let you know when we get back!

A Glimpse into the Future

2012-01-12T08:08:00.001+09:00

"I have a crush on him, Mommy!" Katherine cried, bobbing up and down on tiptoe.

"I know! I can tell," I exclaimed, trying to let my voice mirror her excitement. "It sounds like he has a crush on you, too!"

"Oh, I know he does!"

"Hey wait," I interrupted. I was toying with the zipper on her backpack. "Did you remember to pack your spelling homework today?"

Pigtails swinging, she scampered across the room, scooped up her homework and flung her arms out wide before she continued, "he told me! He wants to go on a date!"

"A date?"

"Yeah," she said, pausing, "like, he wants to date me."

"Oh, well, um," I stammered, "maybe we could meet him at the park one day after school or something, but you're too young to date."

"What? No I'm not!"

"Okay then, tell me what you would do on a date?"

"Well, first we'd probably go out for a fancy lunch and then," her eyes lit up, "then we'd probably go to the library."

"Oh. That actually sounds perfect."

"Well yeah, the library is fun."

"Okay, but," I was casting about, searching for words, "but, um...oh! But you're not allowed to go on any dates until I get to know his mommy. Deal?"

She smashed her pigtails down under her bicycle helmet, fastened the strap under her chin and looked up at me with wide, excited eyes. "Okay, Mom," she agreed, pulling open the front door. Her foot was poised over her scooter.

"Hey, wait a second," I cried. "Come back here and give me a hug!" She turned and wrapped her arms around me, and I kissed the top of her pink plastic helmet. Then, with one hand resting on my heart, helplessly, I whispered, "Come straight home after school today, love."

*Finding the Bigger Picture through Simple Moments*

Love Stories

2012-01-09T11:46:00.000+09:00

Not far away, a woman sat on a park bench watching her son.

Her arms were drawn across her chest, her shoulders were raised, and a muscle in her back was just beginning to spasm, but she moved her mittened fingers up and down reflexively. "Five more minutes," she thought to herself, "and then it's nap-time."

Her son, who was three, was climbing up the slide and then tumbling down again. His cheeks were apple-red from cold and his nose was running. A pair of green mittens dangled from the string under his coat, but his hands, which were peeking out from the cuffs of his oversized sleeves, were bare.

He was laughing.

Suddenly, a gust of wind rushed through the trees. The branches rattled. From her place on the bench, the woman nestled deeper into her own jacket and then, with a flash of irritation, she opened her mouth and shouted.

"Why won't you stop pulling off your mittens? Can't you tell it's cold out here?"

"Jason," she shouted. "Do you hear me? Jason!"

***

"And this," Katherine explained, cupping her hands together, "is the mermaid sign language."

"Ooohhh," Penelope gasped, propping herself up on her elbow. Her pupils were wide and dark; her voice trembled.

I yawned.

"What did the sign mean," I asked, pulling Penelope into my lap. I was forcing my eyes to stay open. The tent was small, hot, and the air was fusty. "Five more minutes," I thought to myself, "and I'll ask them if they want to watch a movie."

"It was the sign for love," Katherine said. Her voice was solemn.

"And that was the sign she showed the prince," Penelope asked, "just before the bad guys came?"

"Yes," Katherine nodded.

Outside, a gust of wind blew across the building. From the living room, I could hear the windows rattle. I leaned in closer. "Four more minutes now," I thought. But out loud I asked, "and then what happened?"

--- and then, the sunlight brightened; it flooded through the room and filtered down through our homemade tent, all those variegated folds of quilted fabric. Katherine's hands seemed to darken in the sudden light. They were silhouettes now, rainbow-hued, and cast in shadows.

"Well," she said, fixing her gaze on me, "that's when the adventure started."

***

Outside, a swath of light fell across the woman's face. She squinted. Then, unconsciously, she lowered her shoulders. She breathed in deeply.

"What is it, Mama?"

The little boy trotted across the playground and she circled her arms around him. She tucked his hands back inside his mittens.

"You've got to keep these on, love," she said with a smile. "It's freezing!"

The Nomad Diaries

2012-01-07T08:19:00.001+09:00

Have I told you about my friend Lenae? She's a former Air Force linguist, the mother of four (heart-stoppingly precious) little ones, and one of my best blogging friends. On top of all that, she recently moved her family from Washington, D.C. to Azerbaijan, and she's been writing, with her characteristic blend of honesty and humor, about the struggles and triumphs they've experienced along the way.

She's also started a brand new series, The Nomad Diaries, and she invited me to share my experiences there today. So stop by and check it out, okay? This is the first time I've ever been interviewed and I'm super excited!

Thanks, Lenae!

Back to the Grindstone; or, I Love You More than Plankton

2012-01-05T22:46:00.000+09:00

"Mommy," she whispers, "I had a bad dream."

I brush my hand across my forehead, trying to brush her voice away, but she repeats herself, like always, in a voice that's soft, but insistent. "I had a bad dream, Mommy. I want to snuggle."

The air is dry. My lips are cracked.

I open my mouth and mumble, "Oh, okay," and she squirms into bed bedside me. She presses herself against my body and rests her head on the pillow right where mine should be. I wiggle away, but she wiggles with me; it doesn't matter.

The room is dark. The alarm is ringing. I switch it off and then look down at Katherine. Her head is tucked under my chin now, and she sighs, "I love you, Mommy."

"I love you, too, sweet pea."

"I mean, I really love you. I love you more than cicadas in the summer."

I shake my head and smile. "I really love you too, silly. I love you more than..."

"Plankton?"

"Yep," I laugh, "I love you more than plankton."

"I love you more than flowers in the springtime."

"I love you more than sun-sparkles on the sea."

"I love you more than kittens in a basket."

"I love you more than snowflakes on a mountain."

"I love you more than fancy clothes at tea time."

"I love you more than costumes."

"Oh!" She sits up in bed and gasps, "Oh, Mommy, I love you more than costumes too, because you're the one who buys them for me!"

"What? You! You, you little stinker," I sputter.

She giggles and scurries toward the door. "Oh, come on Mommy. I'm hungry. Let's make pancakes for breakfast!" She's ahead of me now, running down the hall with her arms flung open. She's greeting the day, despite the fact that it's still pre-dawn.

I flop back onto my pillow.

The room is dark, but Chris has been at work for hours. The sheets on his side of the bed look cool and inviting. Down the hall, I have breakfasts to make, a backpack to check, and two little girls who I do love more than plankton.

I shake my head again. Then I climb out of bed and follow Katherine.

Scenes from Life: Miracles Do Happen

2012-01-02T09:06:00.000+09:00

Now that we've all made it happily (I hope) into 2012, it's time for a brand new edition of Scenes from Life. We're starting the year in India with Vidya Sury and her powerful story of heartbreak and hope, and her simple testament that miracles do happen.

Thank you so much for sharing your story with us, Vidya!

Miracles do happen.

It was Sunday, February 21, 2010.

14 days after my Mother passed away.   My son, Vidur and I visited the Seva Sadan (a girls’ orphanage) in the evening around 7.45 pm. We sponsor the breakfast, lunch and dinner once a month and on special occasions like birthdays, anniversaries and other significant events. This is a very lovingly run Home for the destitute and orphaned.

We thought it might be a good idea to drop in during dinner and help serve the children. The lady in charge at the Home only speaks the local language and looked blank if I spoke in any other tongue, so I usually managed with my meager grasp of the language she understood.

We were asked to wait for a few minutes in the lobby after they sounded the gong for dinner and five minutes later, we were invited into the dining area where we heard the children beginning their prayers. I have to tell you, there is something about children praying or singing in a group that makes me feel all choked up and tears stream out of my eyes. I used to be embarrassed about it, but now I’ve stopped being conscious about it.

So - back to dinner. We saw 58 children seated in four rows with large steel plates in front of them. At the far end of this room was a large Prayer room, very nicely maintained - and gave the place an air of - for want of a better word - blessing. As these children sang their prayers, three of the older girls started serving the rice on their plates. Next, these girls brought sambar, which is a kind of mixed stew with vegetables and began to serve that. I was pleased to see them asking the kids where to pour this, as some kids wanted it on the rice, some wanted it by the side, some wanted it partially on the rice and partly near it. The affection in the atmosphere was tangible and that made me feel good. Around 8.10 the girls finished serving...and after another short prayer, the children began to eat.   And during all this, Vidur watched curiously, while I –well, I cried my eyes out. I felt a bit ridiculous about this later but at the time, I just could not control myself. I kept thinking of how lucky I was, to stand there, clothed, fed and with a family of my own. I thought of my Mom who had suffered much early in life and somehow managed to give us both a decent life, the fantastic friendship we shared. I had a medley of thoughts in my head. I thought, I could have very well ended up in an orphanage, or worse.   I couldn’t help recalling a childhood incident. It is very strange how certain early memories are almost imprinted in the head in minute detail.

The year was 1965. I was two years old, and my mother and I were in Delhi at her in-laws’ place, as is the custom in India. Odd that I never thought of them as my grandparents. I will never understand why my mother was married at 13 to a man who did not obviously want her. Almost everyone in that family treated her badly, sometimes violently and yet my mother always put up with it all because, as she told me decades later, she had promised her dying father that she would not complain, no matter what. My biological father left for the US just three months before I was born and never returned. He lives there, with an American wife and daughter.

Yet, after he left, rather than send my mother off to her mother’s house, her in-laws insisted she stayed with them. I’ll never understand why, since they were never kind to her. Many atrocities later, Mom was dumped in a mental institution by her mother-in-law. Fortunately the kind doctor there helped her escape and she returned home because I was there. She was not allowed to enter the house; I remember I was sitting outside and was thrilled to see her back. Then my mother’s father-in-law took pity on us and escorted us to the station, and got us a ticket for Mumbai, where my Mom’s mother, my grandmother lived. We got on the train, soiled and exhausted, but hopefully on our way to safety.

Through the two-night journey on the train, Mom’s health was sinking. The mental hospital had infused some gas through her mouth that made her gums bleed. Somehow we made it to Dadar Station, where we got off the train. Believe it or not, I still remember holding the little suraai (pot with a long neck) that someone in our compartment gave me and refused to let go of it. As we got off the train, Mom just fainted while I stood nearby and cried. A crowd quickly gathered. And, miracle of miracles, God arrived in the form of my uncle, Kondu mama, mom’s brother.

A word about Kondu mama here. A wonderful human being, he was the sort who would help the homeless - feeding them, giving them money or taking them to the hospital for emergency treatment. So imagine his shock when he realized that the battered and bleeding form lying there was his little sister and his favorite niece standing there pathetic and helpless!

Well, he got us into a taxi and took us home. Apparently I kept chanting that I hadn't eaten for two days. (six cookies are not the dietary recommendation for a two year old for two days). Once we got home to my grandma, Mom was rushed to hospital and I was bathed and fed. Mom was in hospital for a few days until she regained consciousness and was brought back home, to be nursed back to health.

I wonder –

What if my uncle had not turned up?
What if someone else had seen us?
What if nobody had bothered to help us?
What if Mom had not recovered?  

So – each time I think of this I cry tears of gratitude. If my uncle had not turned up at the station, I can't even begin to imagine what track our lives could have taken! I felt grateful for all the things I have. And a little ashamed of things I complained about.

My mother, who was a seventh grader when she got married, continued her education and took up a career as a school teacher. Life was not easy, but when you have an attitude like my Mother’s it is very hard not to be happy. I’ll never understand how she managed to always smile, no matter what. She would often tell me I was the reason she survived. I’ll never forget her words, “Vidya, I never thought it was my duty to look after you. I did it because I wanted to.” She was a generous person, in life and in death. She passed away on Feb 8, 2010, and as per her last wishes, we donated her body to the St. John’s Medical College here.

God cannot be everywhere, so he made Mothers. Thank you, God.

Vidya Sury

Vidya Sury earns her calories as a Freelance Writer and Professional Blogger. She’s mom to a fun teenager who is working hard at publishing a book.

When she’s not working, getting a caffeine overload, listening to music, reading or spring cleaning, she blogs at Going A-Musing, Coffee With Mi!, and Your Medical Guide, and she tweets as @vidyasury.

Holiday Kimono

2012-01-01T23:27:00.000+09:00

New Year's Day is the single most important holiday in Japan, so it's not surprising that there's an immediacy to the traditions here that I admire.

The holiday begins at the stroke of midnight. The temple bells ring out and the new year rushes in, but as far as I can tell the Japanese don't focus on making New Year's resolutions. Instead, they focus on the first experiences they have in each new year: their first sunrise, first kiss, first smile, laugh, and prayer, and because of this, on New Year's Day the faithful flock to temples and shrines all over Japan to pray for peace and good fortune in the coming year.

This year, we went with them.

We wandered through the city of Kamakura...

experimenting...

...with street food, and admiring...

...the details, and the delicate...

...natural beauty around the shrines; but the truth is, I was distracted. I couldn't really focus on my first laugh or my first smile or my first paper-thin octopus pancake because...

...I was too busy...

...looking...

...at all the women...

...in their beautiful holiday kimono.

Aren't they pretty? (Sigh.)

Happy New Year, friends! Welcome to the Year of the Dragon!

Raise Your Glass!

2011-12-31T17:47:00.001+09:00

If nothing else, 2011 taught me that life is unpredictable.

You know the story: I was climbing the Great Wall of China, just at the end of a bucket-list-style vacation, and two days later I was fleeing from my home in the aftermath of a terrible natural disaster. I felt jumbled and chaotic. I felt sad. I had to say goodbye to my husband, who had just come home, and then we were thrust back into the cycle of deployment and separation.

But 2011 wasn't the Year of the Disaster.

In 2011 I explored farmer's markets, family, and new foods with my mom. I watched my dad teach my girls how to plant a garden. I had a picnic near Walden Pond with my sister-in-law and my brother. I saw castles being sculpted out of snow and my little girl's face when she won her first horse show. I had midnight conversations with my baby. I kissed my husband. I welcomed him home. I even climbed the Great Wall of China.

So really, 2011 wasn't a disaster; it just gave a sense of urgency to my adventures.

Life is good and life is bad; it's all mixed up and random, but I think the trick is to seize each moment as it comes, to hold it in your hand like treasure, and then to hang on tight for the next adventure.

Happy New Year!

...a day meant for laughing

2011-12-29T10:48:00.000+09:00

"That's MY spot!"

"No, it's MINE!"

"That's not fair! You kicked me! Mommy, she kicked me!"

"It's MY spot!"

"No, it's MINE! I want to snuggle Mommy!"

"No, I want to snuggle Mommy!"

"Girls, stop it!" The first rays of light were playing at the window, but the room was dark. My eyes were burning. "Stop fighting! Do you hear me? Just stop fighting!"

"But she kicked me," Katherine shouted, "and that's not fair! You said I could come in for morning snuggles and I want to snuggle you, Mommy!"

"No, I want to snuggle you, Mommy!"

"But she kicked me and THAT'S NOT FAIR. Hey, she's taking my pillow! Give that back! That's MY pillow!"

I rubbed my eyes. My mouth was dry. "Just stop it, both of you," I mumbled.

"But I want to snuggle you, Mommy!"

"No, I want to snuggle you, Mommy!"

They glared at each other and then lunged toward me: hands, knees and elbows, clawing and frantic.

"She's MY mommy!"

"No! She's MY Mommy!"

Anger welled up inside my throat and pooled there, tight and constricting: They'll eat me if I let them.

I sat up in bed and pushed them away. "Get off of me!" I shouted. "Just STOP IT! Both of you, STOP IT! What do you want from me anyway? I'm only one person and I've only been awake for two seconds."

They grew quiet; startled. Penelope rested her head on my shoulder. "I'm sorry, Mommy," she whispered. Then Katherine slipped her hand in my hand. "Don't be mad at us, Mommy. It's not the end of the world. We're sorry."

I shook my head. "I just don't know what you guys expect me to do when you fight over me like that. I want to snuggle you, but I was asleep. And I'm only one person."

"Just don't be mad at us, okay?"

Penelope stroked my hair.

Katherine looked worried. "We're sorry, Mommy," she repeated. "But you said today was going to be a beautiful, laughing day, remember? You said we wouldn't be cooped-up and grumpy."

I shook my head. None of this was happening the way I'd intended. "I said that, huh?"

"Yes. Don't you remember?" Katherine's eyes were wide and anxious. Penelope was nodding.

I sighed. "Are you sure?"

"Yes! Last night you said, 'I'm sorry we've been so cooped-up and grumpy. Tomorrow we'll go outside and play because it's supposed to be pretty.' See? Today was supposed to be our beautiful, laughing day. Remember?"

Outside the window the sunlight brightened.

I sighed again. "Yes, I remember, but before we can play," I leaned in closer, "I need my snuggles."

I smiled and pulled them toward me, wrapping my rainbow quilt around them. They nestled themselves into the thick folds of fabric. They were suddenly soft, and suddenly sleepy.

"Oh, but wait!" I paused. "I forgot! Before I can snuggle you I have to give you...tickles!"

They shrieked. They squirmed.

They giggled.

After all, the day was meant for laughing.

Muddled in the Aftermath

2011-12-27T14:02:00.001+09:00

December 26th, 9:45pm

Chris (exasperated; pausing our movie): Why won't they go to sleep, Emma?

Me: I don't know, love. They're little. They're probably still excited.

Chris: Yeah, well, it's almost 10pm. They should've been asleep hours ago. I'm going in there. What should I tell them?

Me: I don't know. Just tell them...tell them if they don't quiet down right now we're going to have to celebrate them or something.

Chris (laughing): We're going to have to celebrate them? That'll definitely work! Way to take a firm hand, honey.

Me (throwing a pillow at him): Separate them! We're going to have to separate them! Warn them with a celebration.

Chris (laughing harder): With a celebration?

Me: What? No! No, I said a separation!

Christmas Morning

2011-12-25T23:46:00.000+09:00

I hope your morning was full of magic. Merry Christmas!

The Countdown to Christmas

2011-12-24T19:19:00.000+09:00

The stockings are hung, the cookies (and carrots) are waiting, the girls are asleep, the kolach is in the oven, and Chris just poured me a glass of red wine.

Now all we have to do is wait for Santa.

It's my favorite countdown of the season! Merry (almost) Christmas, everyone!

The Nutcracker

2011-12-23T23:43:00.001+09:00

Morning baths. Stiff fabrics. Christmas dresses.

The moment she realized she wasn't going to be dancing.

Train after train after train.

Soba at the station.

Standing outside the theater, and quickly...

...rushing in; and then:

Katherine's hand slipped in my hand. A little girl's hair bow silhouetted against the stage. Penelope, snuggled deep in her daddy's lap, hands pressed against her cheeks, gasping as the Mouse King launched his attack. Penelope, arms outstretched now, fingers spread, dancing the Dance of the Snowflakes. The rustle of two, little skirts in the darkness. Then, as the Sugarplum Fairy gathered her delights, Katherine's whispered exclamation:

Oh Mama, it's beautiful.

Look! Oh, look!

Do you see this, Mama?

Santa Be Warned...

2011-12-22T19:16:00.000+09:00

...there's not a cookie here we haven't tasted.

Oh no! It's a mischief!

2011-12-21T11:18:00.000+09:00

Penelope: Mom, do I look like a mischief?

Me: Yes baby, always.

Penelope: Hey Katherine, you better watch out! A mischief is coming!

Katherine: Oh no! Not a mischief! EEEEKKKK!!!!!!

My Knight in Shining Armour

2011-12-20T23:58:00.000+09:00

Chris (groaning): I don't want to go to work tomorrow, Emma. Don't make me.

Me: Okay, love, stay home.

Chris: No, I have to go. Unless you go to work for me. What do you think? You could go work on the ship and I could stay home and watch the kids. We'll swap! Great idea, huh?

Me: Um...

Katherine (furrowed-browed; stern): Daddy, stop teasing Mommy!

Chris (hands raised; innocent): But I'm not teasing Mommy! All I'm saying is, Mommy could go to work for me and I could stay home and take care of you and Penny. Think about it! We could have fun!

Katherine (glowering now; serious): Penny and I will play with you after work, Daddy, but stop it now. You're being mean to Mommy!

Chris: What are you talking about? I want to stay home and play with you! How could that possibly mean I'm being mean to Mommy?

Katherine (sputtering): Because Mommy doesn't know how to work, and you know it!

Oh! If only every mother could have such a dedicated defender! What can I say though? She's a chivalrous girl, that one.

Inside the Bamboo Garden

2011-12-18T22:14:00.000+09:00

Lately, I've been longing for natural spaces. I've been yearning for Sicily, the scene of all our old nature walks, games and explorations. And I've been homesick for Oklahoma, with its red dirt and secret places. I miss spending mornings in our garden.

Today, though, we found a different garden.

We spent the day at Hokokuji Temple in Kamakura, a hidden treasure in the middle of the city, and you can trust me when I tell you, it was exactly what we've been needing.

What We Don't Have (And What We Do)

2011-12-17T07:56:00.000+09:00

A few days ago Chris and I were talking about the lives we imagined for ourselves when we were younger, the lives we thought we'd have by now, and the lives we still (kind of) think our friends are already living. They're good lives --- lives played out on tree-lined streets where basketball goals dot the sky above the driveways and children scrawl hopscotch courts in chalk across the sidewalks --- and Chris and I can see ourselves inside them, but they're a far cry from the life we're actually living.

The conversation was discouraging.

We talked about the big things we don't have, like a house, or a car, or our kids enrolled in private schools, and the small things, like a full-length mirror, or an extra lamp, or even bedside tables, and I felt suddenly and intensely (and for the first time, really) like we'd fallen behind somehow. We'd forgotten to keep up with the Joneses.

We Don't Have:

a house
a car
a lawnmower (or a lawn!)
fashionable clothes
a washer/dryer
a headboard
bedside tables
a dresser for Penelope
a desk with drawers
more than four dining room chairs

Once I had time to think about it though, I realized something important: Chris and I were being crazy. We're blessed.

We Have:

stamps in our passports
charities we support
family dinners
a good climbing tree for the kids (at the park)
savings
books lining our bookshelves (and tossed into baskets) (and stacked up in piles on the bedroom floors)
friends
conversations
tickets to see the ballet in Tokyo
a train station we can walk to, and
plane tickets to Vietnam and Cambodia

We aren't living the life we always imagined. We don't have a four-bedroom house on a winding street. We don't have flowers planted in porch pots or in a well-ordered, backyard garden. Our kids don't have ready access to open, green spaces, but they have other advantages. We have an amazing life together -- a life we can't predict or settle into or take for granted -- and we're happy.

We're grateful.

***

What about you? How does the life you're living compare to the one you always imagined?

Swift-footed, fleeting

2011-12-11T14:11:00.003+09:00

Two hawks circle above the trees. Their wings extend across the cloudless sky.

Beneath the trees, children are playing. My girls are among them: two blonde heads in a sea of glittering black ones. They run across the grass and their braids fly out behind them. Foreign words tumble from their lips; words they've just learned; words that soon will be forgotten: chotto matte, kudasai.

I slip my hands in my pockets and turn my head to watch them.

Part Two: The Celebration

2011-12-08T19:40:00.002+09:00

The cake was half crumbled and we ran out of powdered sugar well before we finished making the frosting, but I think my favorite part of Chris's birthday cake this year was...

...the last minute candle addition. I have it on good authority that you can't have a birthday cake without a candle; so, Chris: happy 5th, or happy 33rd, or something.

However old you are, you should know...

...you are deeply loved.

Happy Birthday!

Part One: Reveling in Ordinary

2011-12-08T15:16:00.011+09:00

"Hey Katherine, I forgot to ask earlier, but were you late for school yesterday morning?"

"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.

Scenes from {My Mom's} Life: Mikey

2011-12-05T08:17:00.005+09:00

Happy December, friends!

This month I'm featuring a very special edition of Scenes from Life. It's a testament to the lasting effects of love and friendship, and it was written by an incredibly talented, but non-blogging, guest writer; so, grab a tissue and settle in --- because nobody tells a story like my mom.

Mikey

by Janie

We must have been a sight. Him, blond-haired and plump, still holding onto the sweet look of a toddler even though he no longer was one; me, my once blond hair beginning to darken, unruly, skinny, growing like a weed, they said, with knees stained red from the red clay dirt that touched every surface of the town. If things had turned out the way they should have, age and gender differences would have separated us eventually. I like to think we would have smiled at one another across the gap.

Time has softened the edges of my memories. Our friendship may have lasted a summer or more. In those days, when I still lived completely in the moment, a week would have been enough. If things had turned out the way they should have, you might say I would have forgotten Mikey, but I’ve lived long enough to know better. We can forget any memory that lives in our brain, but we never forget the ones that live in our heart; and, in all these years, my heart hasn’t let so many people in that it's had to turn someone out to make space.

I have a few clear memories of how we spent our time. We walked up and down the dirt road between our houses. We drank the Kool-Aid our moms handed out through back screen doors. We sat on logs, stacks of wood, or concrete steps --- we were nearly always outside --- and we talked a lot about buying diamonds for our mothers, or, depending on how the day was going, maybe some other lucky family member. Mostly, we were planning to buy them for each other.

Memories are strange. Sometimes they’re fickle and the things you think you should remember escape you, while random things remain, either in their entirety or in vivid bits. I remember it being a beautiful summer day. My mother was working outside. I was playing in the yard, and then I didn’t feel well. My neck felt stiff and my head ached. My mother was uncharacteristically brisk when I told her, saying that if I didn’t feel well I should go inside and lie down --- the mothers’ litmus test. I remember lying in bed feeling strange and a little neglected, but it’s probably the events that followed that make me remember all this. My mother came in and checked on me. She seemed different, less distracted. I started to feel better and got up after a bit. Later, women started coming over. They were talking to my mother, sometimes in hushed tones, and sometimes not. I was still small enough that my impressions were mostly of their legs and skirts, and their voices above me.

The women brought the details. It happened quickly.

Mikey died in a small town hospital, and what I remember most are the descriptions of his parents’ reactions. Those are etched in my heart, as if I knew the burden was too heavy for them to carry alone. I never knew what the illness was, but it almost surely would have had a different outcome today. I sometimes wonder about the way I felt that day, if my symptoms mirrored his, whether our hearts were somehow communicating. I’ll never know.

I only know that Mikey was my friend.

Penelope's First Recital

2011-12-03T20:38:00.019+09:00

Once upon a time, when I was three years old (maybe), my parents took me bowling. I must have looked sweet that day, crouching over the ball with my blonde pigtails swinging, because my dad told me about it once years later.

"I wish I had a picture," he said. Then he paused, "but I guess it doesn't really matter. I'll never forget the way you looked that day."

I know what he meant. I'll never forget today, either.

The throng of people; the crowd; the crush, and Penelope following after her teacher. Penelope in her long-sleeved black leotard, with a sparkly star on her tummy and puffy, pink pom-poms in her hair. Katherine in the front row and Penelope being oh, so brave on-stage.

And afterward, moment...

...by moment...

...I want to remember.

But here's the un-photographed moment. The tender one I'll always treasure:

"Did you have fun at your recital today?" I asked, bending low over her bed. She was all lit up in the moonlight, or the streetlights, and when I leaned forward my body cast a shadow on the wall behind her. I arranged the quilts around her anyway. "I was so proud of the way you danced today!" I smoothed her hair and kissed her forehead.

"I did have fun, Mommy," she sighed. "I had so much fun today." She yawned. Then she whispered, "will you sing to me before I go to sleep tonight, Mommy?"

"Okay," I said, and started singing.

Hush little baby, don't say a word, Mommy's gonna show you a hummingbird.

Her eyes were wide and dark and heavy; her shoulders were lost inside her big sister's yellow t-shirt, good for the inside of a child; and, with her hair still in bunny ears, two, small buns all disarranged, she raised her arms into fifth position, closed her eyes, and started to sway.

***

Sweet dreams, sweet dancer. You did a beautiful job today.

Penelope and the Disrespectful Pirate

2011-12-02T09:29:00.006+09:00

Me: Oh no, it's the Dread Pirate Penelope! Watch out! She's coming for the treasure, Cap'n Bones! Watch out!

Chris: Aargh, the Dread Pirate Penelope doesn't frighten me. I'm Cap'n Bones and I'll steal the treasure and lock her in me brig.

The Dread Pirate Penelope rushes into the room. Her skull cap is askew. Her hands are on her hips.

Penelope: That's not very respectful, Cap'n Bones! I don't want to play with you!

Chris: Ha-ha! But I'm a pirate, me hearty, and that means I'm disrespectful.

Sunlight sweeps in through the window. A sharp-edged glint comes into Penelope's eye.

Penelope: Well, I don't play with disrespectful pirates. I only play with respectful ones.

Me: Aren't all pirates disrespectful though?

Penelope: Not Captain Hook. He captures anything, and he's very mean, but he's always respectful.

Me: Oh. Yes. Quite right.

Chris (sweeping Penelope into his arms): Aargh! Hook's a codfish! I've got the treasure now, me dear, and you're coming with me to the brig. Ha-ha!

Penelope (shrieking, laughing): No! No! Bad form!

The Way A Furlough Ends

2011-11-28T05:00:00.001+09:00

Here we are in the middle of a train car.

Snowflakes beat against the window. They melt against the heated glass. Outside, waves come crashing toward the tracks: the Sea of Japan, white-capped and frosted; Russia in the dark, impenetrable distance.

I could live in this adventure.

Across the aisle, a woman slips off her jacket.

I look up at you and you shake your head at me as if to say, this moment never happened, but of course this moment happened; it isn't recent.

Did you want recent?

Here we are in the middle of our bed.

My head is on your shoulder. My hands are spread out across your chest. It's mid-afternoon and the sheets are cool and tangled. We're asleep in a pool of sunlight. I roll over and you roll over with me. You wind your arms around me, pull me in.

I could live in this adventure.

But here we are, now, and your alarm is ringing.

It's 4:45am.

Time for work again.

On Bilge Water and Rain and Feeling Grateful

2011-11-24T23:00:00.001+09:00

"Man, it smells good here," Chris said, throwing his head back and inhaling deeply.

I cocked my head to the side. "Here," I asked. "You mean, right here," I crinkled my eyes and looked at him, "on this platform?"

"You have no idea, Em."

I laughed. "You didn't get out much while you were on deployment, did you?"

"No, that's what I've been trying to tell you. My office smelled like jet fuel, and bilge water, and I hardly ever left. We didn't go outside that often."

"That's awful."

"Yeah, but right now," Chris inhaled again, deeply, "right now it smells like crisp, night air and fall leaves and rain; it's amazing."

"I think your senses are heightened, honey. It smells like a train station."

"Maybe, but it's good to be home. That's all I'm saying."

He smiled down at me and I smiled up at him. Then I lifted up on tiptoe and kissed him.

***

Happy Thanksgiving!

Welcome Home!

2011-11-23T06:47:00.002+09:00

"I don't know about this light," Andy said, adjusting the camera strap across his shoulder. "It's going to be hard to get the right angle."

"Really?" My voice was loud and bright. "I think the clouds are beautiful. They should be a metaphor for something."

"What do you mean," Andy asked, lifting Penelope's stroller over a crack in the sidewalk.

I squeezed Katherine's hand, signaling for her to follow him, and then I stepped carefully behind them. My high-heeled boots weren't meant for this uneven pavement.

"I mean --- just look at them! They're so dark over there, stormy and churning, but you don't even have to turn your head to block them out. Just shift your eyes slightly in that direction and everything is blue and clear and cloudless; the sun is shining. It's a beautiful day, right on top of the USS George Washington."

"You know the clouds are moving toward the ship though, don't you?"

"What?"

"Yeah, it'll be cloudy over there in just a minute. Don't you feel the way the wind is blowing?"

"Oh, no, I guess not." I stumbled in my boots and smiled down at Katherine. "Well, if I ever write about this, then I guess I'll have to change the wind's direction. The last thing I need right now is some kind of ominous, cloud-covered foreshadowing to blow in and mess up my metaphor for a happy ending."

Andy laughed. "You should probably just ignore it. Don't worry, we'll get a good picture."

***

That man is handsome, I thought, scanning the crowd for Chris. He was standing at the gate, bending over a wheelchair, and nodding seriously at an old woman who had a crowd of men around her.

"I'm sorry, Penny, but you're just too heavy," I said. "I'm going to have to put you down for a second while we wait for Daddy." I shifted her off my hip and scanned the crowd, again, for Chris.

Katherine tucked her hand inside my hand. She was nervous, she'd confessed, and her eyes were wide and round; quiet and searching.

Across the way, the man looked up at me and smiled. I smiled back in the happy, impersonal way I'd smiled at a dozen other arriving sailors, but then I thought again, that man is handsome.

He held my eyes.

I blinked and looked at him. He held my eyes for just a second longer and something clicked into focus. My vision zoomed out and my perspective widened. That handsome man is Chris, I shouted in my head. That man's my husband! And before I could open my mouth to say girls, that's Daddy! Katherine shrieked, no longer quiet and wide-eyed and searching, and both the girls ran toward him.

I nodded at the woman in the wheelchair, glad the girls were pulling Chris away from her and toward them, but in that moment I wasn't thinking about sunlight or shadows or metaphors or angles or the future. I was just thinking about the way Chris's arms were going to feel around my waist, and the way my cheek was going to fit against his shoulder, and the way the girls seemed to find their place with him so easily.

And it worked ---

His smile scattered the clouds like a sunburst and melted away months of tension.

He's home, you guys.

He's home.

...and, this time, I think he's going to stay.

Welcome back, love!

{Make sure you head over to Andy's site to see more sweet pictures from homecoming, okay? He captured so many families, so many happy moments (including a father holding his new baby for the very first time), and so many reasons to be thankful this holiday season. My family was honored to be part of the experience. Thank you, Andy!}

Nice Boys, Ninjas, and The Case Against Famous Men

2011-11-18T08:47:00.007+09:00

"So tell me about your day, Katherine! How was school? Who did you play with at recess?"

"Oh, I didn't play today at recess."

"You didn't? Why not? Weren't you feeling well? What happened?"

"I felt fine. I just didn't want to play. I wanted to sit on the bench and talk to Michael."

"Michael?"

"Yeah, Michael. He's new, and he's not even from Japan. He's from a different country."

"Which country?"

"What? Oh, I don't know. I didn't ask him, but I like him Mommy."

"You do?"

"Mmm-hmm, he's my boyfriend. He likes me, too. {dreamy sigh} He told me."

"Wow! Really? Umm...so, what did you guys talk about on the bench today at recess?"

"Oh, only gentle things. He brought trophies for Show and Tell. I think he won them for some kind of sports playing or something, but he doesn't like to be rowdy. He's a quiet boy, Mommy, and really nice. He's a ni-sa boy, not a ninja. If he was a ninja, I wouldn't talk to him. They're way too wild!"

***

"Hey, what's the matter Penny? You look frustrated about something."

"I'm just so mad at Elmo, Mommy! He's always coloring." Turning to the TV: "Why are you always coloring, Elmo? That looks like a piece of chalk anyway. Can't you see that doesn't look like a crayon? Ugh! You don't even know me." Turning off the TV: "I'm going to do a puzzle."

***

So there you have it, the girls in my house like nice boys, not ninjas, and they expect brilliance and variety from their famous men.

Case Closed.

Opinion Formed.

The End.

(Except seriously, who doesn't like ninjas? That's weird, isn't it?)

After-School Snacks

2011-11-16T07:56:00.006+09:00

Chris cooks a lot.

He's in charge of our rare, celebratory treats, birthday cakes and chocolate chip cookies, and our standard weekly treats, pancakes and eggs and cappuccinos, and the routine of our nightly dinners. He even does the bulk of our shopping. He goes to the store after work, loads bags of groceries into his backpack, and brings them home on the train; and, even when I complain, he's good-natured about it.

"Don't go to to the store today," I'll say on the phone. "Come straight home. It'll save you forty-five minutes."

"Yeah, but then what will we have for dinner?"

"We can live on love," I'll tell him.

But the truth is, I'm happy to let Chris feed the family. I don't like to cook, I'm not creative in the kitchen, and before Chris left for deployment I was terrified about feeding the kids without him. I kept imagining meals piling up like mud bricks all around me, windowless and low: breakfast, lunch and dinner, followed by breakfast, lunch and dinner, followed by...

After a few hundred nights on my own though, I think I'm finally getting a handle on our food situation.

The menu changes, of course, but here's a typical day:

Breakfast: scrambled eggs (with cheese and red bell pepper); toast; clementine sections
Morning Snack: yogurt with blueberries (for Penny); kiwi slices (for Katherine, who only has time for a quick snack at school)
Lunch: peanut butter sandwiches; carrot sticks; mango slices
After-School Snack: apple slices with peanut butter
Dinner: African Quinoa Soup with Vegetables

The problem is, none of that's enough for Katherine.

She comes home hungry from school, eats, complains, spends the afternoon still hungry, and then sits down to dinner feeling famished. I want her to have a good appetite at dinner, which is why I've resisted the idea of big after-school snacks, but I just don't think she's getting enough to eat at school. I can't send bigger lunches though. She only has twenty minutes to eat (and she's SLOW), so I think I need to give in and make her after-school snacks bigger, which begs the question:

What do you give your kids when they get home from school? Do you meet them with a plate of warm, homemade cookies? Or a platter of fresh-cut vegetables?

Let's do a swap!

Seriously, don't you ever wish you could peek into your kid's classmates' kitchens?

The Three Graces

2011-11-14T22:06:00.005+09:00

Penelope's moonlighting on someone else's blog tonight.

Curious? (You should be!)

Click this link.

Love Lessons

2011-11-12T08:40:00.006+09:00

She creeps into my bedroom just before morning.

Little feet, silent on the tile, padding down the darkened hallway.

She doesn't like the dark.

I think about her before I go to bed at night. I wonder if her steps will be slow and shuffling; if she'll be anxious. I make sure the path between our rooms is clear. I keep my door wide open. I don't want there to be anything unexpected, anything in her way, when she's padding down the hall at night.

Night after night, she stands next to me and whispers. "Mommy," she says, and I pull her into bed beside me. I don't speak. She doesn't fuss. We don't ask each other questions. She just squirms close to my body and then turns away; and, the truth is, it's all such a habit, such a routine, I barely notice.

Last night something different happened.

"You're cold," she whispered. "You're cold, Mommy." She leaned over and peered into my eyes. Her pupils were wide and anxious; darker, somehow, than the darkness. "Are you okay?"

I nodded.

She smiled.

She stroked my hair and covered me with blankets. She patted my shoulder. Then she squirmed close to my body, just like always, and turned away.

--- and I'm writing this quickly because the sun is shining and I've just been invited to the best tea party EVER, but I want to remember.

I want to remember: The love we give to others comes back to us someday.

Mitigating

2011-11-11T19:34:00.001+09:00

I feel bad for the negative, whiny post I wrote this morning. We had a hard day, but there were some good things that happened. Want to hear them?

I made miso soup for lunch. I've never made my own miso soup before, but it's something I've always wanted to try; so, this afternoon (while I was shivering and tired and desperate for a little comfort) I pulled out tofu and vegetables and borrowed miso and dried anchovies (for the broth) from a neighbor. The soup bubbled on the stove, which helped warm up the apartment, and I cooked rice, and in the end our lunch was delicious. The girls each had two bowls of soup and we all came away from the table feeling nourished.
While I was borrowing things, I also borrowed some Korean tea. I told my neighbor I thought the girls were coming down with colds and she sent me home with some Honey Citron tea jelly, which is a traditional Korean cold remedy; so, the girls and I spent the afternoon sipping hot tea in our cold house, and it really did make everyone feel better.
I couldn't borrow a space heater from the housing office because they were closed for Veteran's Day (and I couldn't go shopping for one because the girls are sick and it was cold and rainy), so I borrowed a small heater from the aforementioned lovely neighbor; it didn't work very well though. The instructions were all in Japanese and even though I turned it on and felt the heat coming out I'm not sure if I had the fan blowing as hard as possible. The space heater really only warmed up the area immediately in front of the space heater, so I turned on the oven. Call it wasteful, but we were really cold. I closed off the back of the apartment and let the oven warm up the front rooms and honestly it was kind of cheerful. The soup was bubbling on the stove and the tea kettle was singing and the oven was warming up the house, and isn't it nice when warmth and nourishment are emanating from the kitchen?
The back of the house is still cold though. I put the small space heater in Katherine's room and tucked both the girls into her bed under a pile of extra blankets. I hope the warmth will soothe them. I hope they'll sleep well and wake up happy. I hope tomorrow will be better.

Do you ever have one of those days where you feel like your life is suddenly just a complete disaster? If so, where do you go for comfort? What makes you feel grateful?

A Navy Wife Laments

2011-11-11T10:03:00.003+09:00

For me, parenting through deployment is a balancing act. We're always either building up or breaking down, and right now we're pretty broken.

I could take you on a visual tour through our house. I could show you the laundry wadded up in the chair, the crayons scattered across the table, the sink full of dirty dishes, the crumbs on the counter, the empty pantry, the toys strewn across the floor, the trashcan that's overflowing in our cabinet, and the overflow-trash-bag that's hanging off the doorknob in our kitchen. (Not to mention the one by the couch, the one full of Kleenex, which is rapidly filling.) I could show you the unmade beds and the smudgy windows, Katherine's dress-up box explosion, the high-heeled shoes in the hallway, and the empty space inside my closet, but it wouldn't be enough.

Showing you the mess still wouldn't give you the full scope of this domestic disaster. The girls are sick; the government hasn't turned on the heat in our building and our apartment's freezing. I need to clean; I need to get groceries; I need to go down to the housing office and ask them for a space heater, but I can't because it's cold outside, and raining.

Am I the only one who has such a tenuous grasp on housework? Am I the only one whose life is so easily thrown off kilter?

I work hard most of the time, but as soon as I stop for breath I feel like everything falls apart. I'll get it back together, of course. For one thing, I've built a few external checks into our system. Our housekeeper comes tomorrow. He'll mop the floors, take out the trash, and clean the bathrooms. This evening I'll pick up the toys and fold the laundry, and when he knocks on our door in the morning I'll bundle the girls into their stroller. I'll go out for a space heater. I'll get the groceries. I'll start rebuilding.

I can handle this, but I'm tired of handling everything. I'm tired of the routine. Despite our housekeeper, I'm tired of being the person in charge of all these responsibilities.

Maybe I'm just tired.

Night before last, Katherine couldn't sleep. Her eyes were itchy and her nose was stuffy. I stroked her hair and fluffed her pillows. I handed her tissues. I held her. Then last night Penelope couldn't sleep. Her throat hurt and her feet were freezing. I pulled her into my lap and gave her sips of water. The house was in chaos all around us, but I wrapped her in a warm quilt and snuggled her close to my body; and, on two different nights, with two different girls, she drifted off to sleep just as the sun was rising. Then, on two different nights, with two different girls, the other girl woke up and padded toward me. I held my finger to my lips and signaled silence. Then we tiptoed down the hall, toward morning.

So on two different nights, with two different girls, and then on two different mornings, I managed; but, I want to stop managing, you guys. I want someone to take care of me for awhile.

I know no one wants to hear all these complaints. I know these are First World Problems. I know I'm blessed, I know I'm lucky, and I know tomorrow I'll pull everything back together, but I've come this far so I might as well just lay it all out on the line. I'm feeling sorry for myself.

It's Veteran's Day, but I'm not feeling thankful. I'm holding back tears.

I just want Chris to come home right this instant.

Shaka!

2011-11-09T22:53:00.008+09:00

November 8th, 7pm:

Me: Goodnight, sweetheart. Try to go straight to sleep, okay? We have a big day tomorrow.

Katherine: What? Why, Mommy? I don't have to go to school tomorrow, do I?

Me: No, but we're going to watch Penelope's friend Lily and her little sister in the morning. Then you're going over to Miss Kathryn's house after lunch. We talked about that, remember? Miss Kathryn's going to watch you while I go to the conference with your teacher.

Katherine: Oh, uh-huh, but I didn't realize there were babies coming over first.

Me: Yeah, but it'll be fun! You can help me watch them!

Katherine (with a sigh): Yeah, okay Mommy. It's just, I mean -- I had my day all planned out and now you're springing this on me without any warning. Don't worry about it though, okay? I'm sure it'll be all right. I was planning to sleep until lunch, watch a movie, have a snack and then maybe play for awhile, but I'm sure I can squeeze in baby-watching. Don't worry.

Me: Um, okay, but...you know you're not watching them alone, right? I'll be here. I mean...wait. You know what? I love you. Goodnight, Katherine.

November 9th, 4pm:

Me: Did you girls have fun this afternoon? Did you listen to Miss Kathryn? Penelope, did you have a good time with Lily?

Penelope (clapping): Yes! We played clackin', Mommy! Jump! Jump! Jump! Sit down! Clackin!

Me: Umm...okay. How fun! What about you, Katherine? Oh! Wait! Did I tell you? You're going to get your turn tomorrow. Amanda's coming over while her mom goes to their parent-teacher conference.

Katherine: Really? Oh, wow! But wait, are you sure you want to do that, Mommy? You'll be so busy! We'll be all like, "we want a snack!" and "make us lunch!" and it might be stressful. Are you sure you don't just want to stay at the house and mom around all day, like always?

Me: No, it's okay honey. I like Amanda. Besides, I know it'll be really helpful for her mom if we watch her, but...mom around? What does that mean exactly?

Katherine: You know, the way you're always just mom-in' around: taking naps, eating cake, watching movies. You know what I mean, just, like...mom-in' around.

Me: Naps, cake and movies, huh? That's mom-in' around?

Katherine: Yep.

Me: Oh, okay, cool, sounds good. Amanda can come over tomorrow and I promise I'll get right back to mom-in' around as soon as I can on Friday. Deal?

Katherine: Okay, but only if you're sure, Mommy.

November 9th, 6pm:

Me: Dinner's ready, girls! Come to the table!

Katherine: Okay! What are we having? Oh! Hey, Mom! What did my teacher say about me today at school?

Me: She said nice things. She said you're doing well in class, you're reading really well, and you always behave nicely. I was proud of you, sweetie.

Katherine: What else did she say?

Me: Well, let's see, she said sometimes you work slowly. She said it's not because you don't understand the work though; it's because you're being careful.

Katherine: Yeah, I guess.

Me: Wait, is there another reason why you work slowly sometimes, sweetie?

Katherine: Well, it's just because --- it's because I feel so good, you know? I mean, I'm at school, I'm feeling good, I'm doing my work, and I guess I'm moving slowly, but there's no reason to rush, you know? I think --- I think to myself, there's no reason to rush when you can just be easy.

***

Is it just me or does anybody else see Tiki torches at the beach and possibly a surf board in her future?

Hang loose, man! Mom around! Shaka!

The Long Road to a Silly Question

2011-11-08T14:03:00.005+09:00

When I was eight years old my parents started giving me chores. Every week my mom would write a list of my responsibilities on a long sheet of columned, yellow paper. She would print the words in large, neat letters, Day of the Week, Name of the Chore, but the columns would always extend (in my mind, anyway) from the top of the page, where an orange, bespectacled owl sat perched atop the phrase Whose Chores, all the way down to the bottom of our refrigerator door.

The truth is, I probably only had three weekly chores, but I'd study those lists intently. Then I'd trot off to Sweep the Kitchen Floor or Wash the Front Glass Door; and, of course, I probably didn't cooperate as cheerfully as I remember, but I don't remember minding those chores. I would cast myself as a character: Cinderella in rags, carrying a broom three times taller than she was, or Katarina Witt ice skating across the wet, linoleum floor.

Twenty-four years later, I'm still casting myself as a character in order to get through all my chores.

Buttoning Katherine's coat before school, I'm one of the moms in Besty-Tacy. I'm picturing woolen skirts and new slate boards. Measuring flour for biscuits, I'm Ma on the prairie making breakfast for my family. Sick of domesticity, I'm the progressive American expat. I'm escaping the apartment for a plate of tempura and a bowl of noodles.

I don't know why.

Maybe I'm trying to make my life seem more important by casting it against the backdrop of literature and history, or maybe I'm just trying to escape the boredom that comes with making braids and breakfasts daily, but I'm almost always romanticizing something. I don't really mind though. I mean, I actually kind of like living in a story, but there's one moment in my day that I just can't soften.

How do you get out of bed in the morning?

We've entered that dreadful stage of life where this stay-at-home mom has to wake up before her children and --- it's awful.

My bed is warm. My alarm is ringing. My eyes are barely open, but they're already stinging, and it's just me --- and me alone --- in that moment. There isn't a fantasy I can spin to make the transition easier. There isn't a treat I can promise myself to stamp out the revolt my body's launching: no email to check, no first cup of coffee. It's all just cold air and a sense of duty. And I know it sounds ridiculous, but it's miserable, you guys, so unroll your eyes and tell me ---

--- how do you drag yourself out of bed in the morning?

Scenes from Life: How I met your mother

2011-11-07T08:32:00.000+09:00

Happy November, everyone! It's time for another installment of Scenes from Life! This month we're falling love as we follow Hyacynth, the force behind Undercover Mother, deep into the catacombs in Egypt.

Are you ready?

How I Met Your Mother

Thick ropes drape from one side of the descending, rocky staircase to the other, making a skimpy barrier across the private part of the history that's been unearthed.

And she, in a boldness that stretches beyond the silver ring encasing her lip and the fiery red streaks running through her dark hair – she bounds toward the unbeaten path with spirit soaring, freedom brimming, adventure beckoning.

The girl with the lip ring, he thinks, had originally come across as kind of scatterbrained and flaky; after all, she'd given him the wrong phone number while they were trying to coordinate transportation to the airport so he’d had to track her down. Then she'd arrived late for the limo departure and nearly forgotten all of her money in her boyfriend’s truck. She'd also announced, before getting in the airport-bound limo, that she really needed a drink. In front of everyone’s parents, nonetheless.

But the warmth in her voice, the deep wells of empathy for others, the laughter that easily escaped her mouth, the longing to know better their God, he'd told her just nights ago, were all like emerging mountains coming into view through the fog of the first-impression valley.

Really, all things considered, he's not completely surprised when she sneakily slides her body beneath the rope and begins slyly stepping into the catacombs, into the unknown with an Egyptian guard carrying a semi-automatic machine gun.

He reasons in his head for the slightest moment that maybe he should grab her hand, pull her back onto the solid ground of reality, but the thought flees and he quickly decides he'll walk beside her and the strange gun-toting man and he follows her straight down the darkened, ancient staircase.

They explore the bones – the forearms of ancient ancestors, strong bones that once built empires, now lying dusty in woven baskets -- in the dark shadows of the catacombs. And they climb into the actual tombs as they sneak peeks into an interesting past where ancient Egypt and Rome collided in a spectacular cacophony of old and new. Then, unexpectedly, the girl with the lip ring, who has a head scarf covering her red locks, steps to his right, emerging from the shadows, and steps into the streaks of sunlight that are slipping into the darkened caves.

And his mind flashes back. Dreaming, at the young age of five, he was venturing through a cave with a woman dressed in a traditional Middle Eastern headscarf; she had the dark features of a Mediterranean woman, and he knew, he just knew that the woman was his wife. When he woke, he had searched the maps in his dad’s Bible trying to figure out where on Earth he’d been in his very vivid, very real dream.

The man with the machine gun standing to his left brings him back to the reality of now by pointing to his watch, gesturing that it's time to reemerge from the underground haven of history and epiphany.

And there she is, still glowing in the slivers of sunlight that are poking through the cracked walls of stone and soil.

But now? Now she's not the just the girl with the lip ring and wide almond-shaped eyes encased with fiery red locks of hair interspersed with dark who's stepping into the unknown with an Egyptian guard.

Now she is the boldness of a dream in the flesh, only vows away from becoming part of his.

Now, in his mind, in this old-new reality, hers are the hands clasped in his own, hers are the feet next to his, venturing together into the next moments, into the unknown.

Do you have a scene you'd like to share? Send me an email at thekeepingtime@gmail.com!

All That Hard-Earned Normal

2011-11-05T23:51:00.007+09:00

Katherine's sick.

She's listless and pale. She says she's cold, but her body is warm, and this afternoon at the park she sat on the bench with her head in my lap. She said she wasn't interested in playing.

That doesn't happen very often.

...but, as I've been typing this, four small moths have flown out of my kitchen. I think we have an infestation, which means tomorrow I'll have to empty our pantry, throw away all our food, and wash each shelf with a vinegar solution. Earlier this evening though, before I knew about the infestation, I was making dinner.

...wait a second, Katherine's calling. She's hotter now. Her cheeks are flushed. I need to take her temperature.

...okay, I found an old thermometer in the back of my medicine cabinet, but it was broken. What kind of mother doesn't have a working thermometer? It doesn't matter though. I can tell she has a fever, but she isn't shivering anymore. I took off her thickest blankets and brought her a cup of water.

What was I saying?

Oh right, I made salmon for dinner.

I sauteed zucchini and red peppers and onions in coconut oil. (I've heard coconut oil is good for the immune system.) Then for dessert I gave Katherine a Japanese mikan, which is like a tangerine, full of vitamin C, because her nose was running.

(I might not have a working thermometer, but I believe in the power of good nutrition; I take a holistic approach to medicine.)

(Let's just hope there wasn't too much larvae in our dinner.)

Sigh.

Have you ever noticed how much work it takes just to be normal?

I'm not exceptional.

I'm not the smartest person I know. I'm not the most talented. Or the most creative. My house is clean, but it's not pristine: my furniture's old, my kitchen table's stained with glue-spots and marker, and all my bath towels are fraying. I can talk knowledgeably about a few subjects, but I'm not an expert on anything; and yet, I feel like I never stop working: just to make my house sort of well-ordered, just to wear a sweater that fits despite its kind-of-but-not-very-noticeable hole in the neckline, just to write a blog post that almost explains how I'm feeling, just to make my conversation occasionally, kind of, interesting.

I'm wearing myself out, just to be nondescript and normal.

But here's the connection, and you're probably not going to follow this because I haven't drawn it out very clearly, but Katherine was sick tonight and she had a warm meal for dinner. She was cold and I dressed her in winter pajamas. I tucked her under clean sheets and spread her great-great-grandmother's quilt around her. I put a box of tissues next to her bed. I set a small, lined trashcan within easy reach; and just now, when she called for me, I went to her. I took off her great-great-grandmother's quilt and I pulled up her clean, cool sheets.

I brought her a cup of water.

But I've killed seven moths, now, since I started typing and they've all flown out of our pantry.

Tomorrow I'll make Katherine a bed on the couch and set her up with a pile of books. I'll lead Penelope to the table and give her a stack of paper and some markers. Then I'll throw away all the food in our pantry. I'll take out all the shelves and scrub everything with a vinegar solution, and I'll hope it works. I'll hope it's killing.

...and then I'll remember that the back wheel on Katherine's bike is broken...

...and I need to get out more winter clothes for Penelope...

...which is okay because I've already done our laundry for the week...

...but I can't forget to buy a new thermometer...

(...and ugh! another moth just flew past me), and...

...it's all mixed up. Good and bad, it's all a jumble.

It's all very ordinary.

And somehow, it's --- extraordinary.

An Angel in the Morning

2011-11-04T09:27:00.001+09:00

Yesterday started with a play date at the park and ended with a bottle of wine at the beach, so even though I knew Penelope's angel dress was finally in our mail box there just wasn't time to play dress-up.

That may have been a mistake.

***

This morning, on our day off, BEFORE 6am:

Penelope: Mommy! Mommy, come quick! I need you!

Me (torn from a deep sleep: racing across the hall, eyes thrown open, wide and stinging, heart racing): Are you okay, honey? What is it? I'm coming! I'm coming!

Penelope (high and shrill): Mommy! Mommy!

Me (stumbling into the room, looking all around; the room looks dark and empty): Where are you, baby? What happened?

Penelope (from the closet): Here I am, Mommy! Come help me!

Me: Why are you in the closet, love? It's practically the middle of the night. What are you doing?

Penelope: I need my angel dress, Mommy! Can you help me?

Me: What? Right now? Really?

Penelope (stretching her arms toward her dress and jumping): Uh-huh, I'm going to be an angel, Mommy!

Me (taking the dress off its hanger and slipping it over her head): Okay, but play quietly, angel. I'm going back to bed. Katherine's still sleeping.

Penelope (twirling now, running down the hall, and yelling): Oh! Yeah! Katherine! KATHERINE, come see me! Quick! Katherine, wake up! Wake up, Katherine!

Katherine (lifting her head off her pillow, quiet and groggy): Penelope? Is that you? What is it?

Penelope: Wake up, Katherine! It's time to get up! We're gonna go angel-ing! Good morning!

Happy Halloween!

2011-10-31T21:53:00.000+09:00

Me (peering into our empty post office box): I'm sorry, honey. I thought your costume would get here in time, but it didn't. Your dress didn't come.

Penelope (crouching down beside me): But my angel dress is here, right? I was going to be an angel.

Me (pulling her into my arms and closing the post office box door): I know, sweetheart. I know you're disappointed, but there's nothing I can do. Your dress just isn't here; it didn't come in time. You can choose any other costume in the house though. Tonight you can wear anything you want from the dress-ups.

Penelope (serious, intent, looking up): Can I wear my angel costume?

Me (pulling her closer): No honey, your dress isn't here. You're not going to be an angel.

We were gearing up for a major Halloween disappointment, until:

Katherine (after school): Don't worry, Mom. I'll handle this. I'm an expert. Come on, Penelope! You can be my lady-in-waiting! Come on, I'll help you get ready!

So tonight, Empress Josephine dressed her attendant...

...and then the attendant promoted herself to princess...

...and her disappointment was forgotten, especially once she realized...

...that trick-or-treat is really just code...

...for give me candy.

Happy Halloween!

The Sugarplum Fairy Goes to School

2011-10-31T10:22:00.002+09:00

She's read the book, watched the ballet, drawn pictures and written poems, but today (today!) marks the culmination of Katherine's first "character project" at school.

Today the Sugarplum Fairy finally gets to go to the classroom:

But stay tuned because tonight...

...with a twirl of her skirt and the sweep of ermine in the moonlight, The Sugarplum Fairy will transform herself into the Empress Josephine...just in time for trick-or-treating.

Isn't that spooky?

The Making of Halloween

2011-10-30T22:59:00.005+09:00

Take one: my bedroom: this morning at six-fifteen:

Penelope: Mommy? Mommy, my feet are cold. They say they need to snuggle you so they can go back to sleep. Can I sleep in your bed, Mommy?

Me (dry-mouthed, and mostly unconscious): Mm-hmm, honey. Go back to sleep. You can use daddy's pillow.

***

Take Two: my bedroom: this morning at seven-fifteen:

I opened my eyes and blinked. The sunlight streaming across my face looked round and orange; it had solidity and color. I shook my head, confused. The room was thick with the sound of stifled laughter.

"Shhh, Penelope, you're going to wake up Mommy." Katherine's voice broke through my confusion.

I rolled over and squinted at my children. Penelope was propped up on two pillows, holding an orange, plastic, trick-or-treat bag high over her head, and laughing while Katherine scampered across the mattress, fluttering her hands and loading toys into the bag with a series of whispered exclamations.

"Oh my goodness, aren't you adorable?"

"Oh! You look so SPOOKY, dear!"

"Here, have a treat, my darling!"

They were playing Halloween.

But then, Katherine saw me: "Mommy! Mommy!" she cried. "Guess what! I came into your room because I couldn't sleep. Penelope was already here though, but when she saw me she just scooted over and patted the spot on the mattress beside her; so, I got into your bed and we've been playing and playing. Oh, and guess what Mommy! Tomorrow's Halloween! That means we get to carve our pumpkin today! Can we do it right now, Mommy? Please?"

I don't know if it was the orange, plastic-filtered light, or the excitement, or the giggles, or the funny domestic scene, but I agreed; and, as it turned out, seven-fifteen in the morning was the perfect time to start getting ready for Halloween:

Obviously, it's getting harder and harder to wait until tomorrow! Happy (almost) Halloween!

Penelope and the Cloying Cartoon

2011-10-30T12:46:00.006+09:00

Katherine and Penelope are snuggling under blankets in my bed; they're watching a children's program on the iPad. I can hear music playing in the background, but I'm not paying much attention. I'm fixing my hair in the mirror. I'm all the way on the other side of the room. Suddenly, a smile spreads across Penelope's face. She sits up in bed and starts singing along with the music.

"Glaring is my favorite thing to do," she sings. Her voice is bright, but the lyric takes me by surprise. I pause to listen. Katherine looks startled.

"Glaring," Katherine repeats, but her voice is a question. "Um, Penny, I hate to tell you this, but I think they said sharing."

Penelope's face falls. She looks at Katherine. "Oh, sharing," she says. Her voice is flat.

She wrinkles her nose, rolls her eyes, scoots out of the bed and leaves the room.

Lost in Translation

2011-10-29T00:39:00.004+09:00

Katherine: Hey Mom, what does daddy-o mean?

Me: It's American slang from the 1950s. You'd call someone a daddy-o if you thought they were really cool; it's kind of like the word dude. In the 50s you might've said, "let's go, daddy-o!" the way now you might say, "let's go, dude!"

Me (again) (pausing): Wait, do you know the word dude?

Katherine (staring blankly): Dude?

Penelope: Hey! My daddy is a daddy! I'll say, "Hello, daddy-o!" to him!

Me (turning to Penny): Yes, that's it exactly! You can say, "Hello, daddy-o!" when you see Daddy because (now turning to Katherine) he's not just your daddy, he's also a cool dude.

Katherine: Oh, okay, wait, so the word daddy-o is kind of like the word gozaimasu?

Me: Um, well...kind of...maybe...

Penelope (to Katherine): Hello, daddy-o!

Katherine (with a giggle) (bowing to Penny): Ohayou gozaimasu!

Penelope (bowing back, all stiff-legged and formal): Ohio, goat's-eye-ma-shush!

Come Home

2011-10-28T10:38:00.008+09:00

Sometimes I wonder what it's going to be like when Chris comes home. I mean when he really comes home, and not just for a visit. I'll roll over in the night, stretch out my legs, and wonder where he's going to fit beside me. I'll look across the table to his empty chair at dinner and wonder what he's going to add to our conversations, to all our jokes and silly chatter. I'll turn on the TV in the evening, glance at the couch and imagine him there. If I put my feet in his lap, he might massage them.

I have memories of him everywhere in this space we once inhabited.

At the train station, he's studying the map. He's carrying Katherine, pushing the stroller, leading the way and holding my hand. He's everywhere, a dozen memories all mixed up and then abandoned, but when I look around he isn't there.

This has to end sometime, right?

There used to be evidence of him in our family, a pair of socks at the bottom of the hamper, a phone call from one of his friends, an accident of habit, four plates set at the table for dinner, the book he was reading to Katherine still spread out on the chair, but now there's nothing.

He's nowhere.

Last night I made burrito bowls for dinner. I cooked exactly enough food for exactly three people. How will I cook for him? I can't even remember how much he eats when he's here.

The truth is, I'm worried. I can't quite remember our dynamic. What if we don't get along very well after this long absence?

What if he sees me and thinks I've gotten older?

I don't even know what he thinks about Occupy Wall Street, or about the police response to the protestors in Oakland. It's hard to keep in touch with someone when you've spent most of your time apart for more than a year.

But this morning I woke up and the sheets were cool, the sunlight was slanting across the bed at just the right angle, and I remembered what it felt like to have his body wrapped around me. I remembered what it felt like to hear the girls scampering around the house, giggling while we ignored them, and what it felt like to pad down the hall on a late, lazy morning and hear them begging for pancakes. I remembered Chris in the kitchen, cracking eggs and stirring batter, measuring coffee for cappuccinos, and smiling down at the girls around him.

He's not even on his way home yet, but one of these days he'll be here, right?

(He'll come home again, won't he?)

One of these days we'll all stand in the kitchen together, and when I look up at him on that sunny morning he'll smile down on me.

A Note About Six

2011-10-27T11:34:00.010+09:00

While I've been busy trying to re-learn all the lessons I learned while parenting a three-year-old, I think my six-year-old just catapulted us into a whole new stage of development. Today was "early, early release day" at school, which means Katherine was supposed to come home at 10:45am. When she wasn't back by 11 o'clock, Penelope and I went out to find her.

She was walking slowly, looking all around, with sunlight flashing off her pink, coat buttons, and swinging a Halloween treat bag in one hand. When she saw us she grinned and ran forward.

Then, in a rush: "Look what my friend M--- and his mom gave me at school today, Mom! It's way cool! See? It's a Halloween bag and it's full of candy! I've already eaten two pieces of gum (they were shaped like eyeballs, can you believe that?) and they were, like, totally good! I'm going to eat so much candy today! This is day is so totally way awesome!"

I tilted my head to one side and smiled, and Penelope wrinkled her forehead and blinked three times in rapid succession, but Katherine didn't notice. She'd already pushed past us and was in the elevator, bobbing her head up and down, chewing her gum, and waiting.

What I Know About Three-and-a-Half

2011-10-27T08:14:00.000+09:00

The sky was cloudless yesterday morning, endlessly blue and full of light, and the air was crisp. The waves were gleaming.

I closed my eyes.

The coffee was still too hot to drink, but the cafe was quiet. Penelope was resting her head on another woman's shoulder and I was enjoying the unfamiliar, weightless feeling. The woman, my friend, was reading. Penelope let out a soft sigh. I leaned back in my chair and let my body sink into the cushions.

"I can see how children learn language this way," I thought to myself, letting the Japanese syllables wash over me, new cadences and rhythms, all so soft and meaningless and soothing.

"She's a good girl," my friend told me a minute later, "very well-behaved and quiet."

"Thanks," I said, taking the first sip of my coffee and circling my arm around Penelope.

***

She's three-and-a-half years old and three-and-a-half is tricky. At three-and-a-half you're just starting to show the world something about yourself, something true about Who You Are, and everyone wants to beat you to it, everyone wants to find your category and settle this awkward first phase of self-expression.

At three-and-a-half, you know the rules but you haven't learned them. Your behavior always blurs with your emotion. You're a swirl of color. You're a rain-splattered chalk drawing. You're messy. You're beautiful and bold, unapologetic and lively, and lovely.

For a parent, three-and-a-half can be worrisome. You can start to believe that every role they try on, every shift in behavior and temperament, Means Something Important. It's hard to remember that three-and-a-half is, above all, transient and silly, but I know three-and-a-half.

We've been here before. Three-and-a-half is short-lived and sweet, and sometimes crazy, and right now my three-and-a-half, who was so well-behaved and quiet yesterday, but who sometimes clobbers other people with her Barbies, is sitting at the kitchen table smearing herself with purple paint, and ---

--- we'll get through it.

*This post is linked to Bigger Picture Moments**

Wanted: Little Terrors

2011-10-24T23:39:00.005+09:00

I don't know what's wrong with me tonight. I just can't stop crying.

I wish I was in Sicily having coffee with my friends. One of my kids would start acting up and then one of my friends would tell a story about the crazy, over-the-top, hilariously terrible thing her child had just done, and then another friend would nod and say Va bene, and from somewhere in the corner of the room I'd hear the word normale, and we'd all understand one another, even in our broken way, and we'd come away from the table feeling reassured and happy.

I've just been feeling so judged lately.

I know cultural differences are just differences, but isn't it okay to wish that everyone would just ease up on me for a minute? If my preschooler clobbers your preschooler over the head with a Barbie, couldn't we just, for once, skip the part where you then give me parenting advice for an hour? Couldn't you just laugh it off and tell me a story about the time your daughter bit a little boy at the park and then he had to go get stitches? We could commiserate about what a crazy-hard job it is to turn babies into fully functioning people (and you could rest assured that the Barbie-clobberer would still get her punishment for clobbering) (even if we didn't discuss the benefits of preschool on socialization, or my wacky decision to be a stay-at-home mom with a stay-at-home child) or we could talk about something else entirely...

...why do designer jeans get holes in the knees so quickly? aren't they supposed to be nicer?

...have you noticed how having kids is terrible for your posture?

...today, for the first time in months, I kind of felt like running...

...oh my God, I'm tired...

But seriously, doesn't anybody have a good My Kids Are Hellions story? I'm not kidding.

Notes

2011-10-23T23:10:00.009+09:00

...Katherine's braids sticking out from underneath her bicycle helmet every morning...

...Penelope's head on my shoulder; her feet dangling almost to my knees...

...an "I luve you, Momy" stuck to the refrigerator door...

...my hands, which always smell like garlic and onions, opening the curtains; sunshine; my voice singing, "Let's do our morning chores!"...

..."It's time to make your beds, little girls!"...

...laundry, always laundry; shaking wrinkles out of cotton that's still warm and fresh and clean...

...the kid upstairs practicing his saxophone every evening; Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb, Mary had a...

...connection, family life, and comfort, all in a stranger's routine...

..."Science is even more fun than math, Mommy!"...

...the couch cushions at my house: squished-down on one side; on the other side, still well-fluffed, untouched and pristine...

The Benefit of a Great, Big Sister

2011-10-18T11:23:00.003+09:00

You and I both know that even after it's all been written down and you think you've come to your conclusion, your children can surprise you. You might be sitting at the breakfast table, bleary-eyed and with a warm cup of coffee in your hand, and your littlest one, your baby, who didn't seem like she was paying the slightest bit of attention, might suddenly look up at her sister and say...

"Sometimes I get confused in ballet class, Kat'rine."

"Oh yeah? That's okay, ballet can be confusing."

"But sometimes I get so 'fused I want to go hug Mommy."

"Really? What does your ballet teacher say?"

"She says, 'No Penny, keep dancing. There's gonna be a puh-formance.'"

"Wait, do you actually go hug Mommy?"

"Yeah."

"You mean, you, like, stop dancing and go hug Mommy?"

"Uh-huh, because I get so confused. Sometimes I fall down."

"Does your teacher make you do it over? I mean, how do you keep learning?"

"Ummm...I'm supposed to try."

"Well, I think you should hug Mommy before ballet starts and then dance during your lesson. Don't worry about falling down, that just happens, but geesh! I wish I could come help you."

"Oh! Okay, Kat'rine! I'll hug Mommy first and then you can come see my puh-formance! Will you come, Kat'rine? You're invited! I can try!"

...and you'll realize again, and again and always, that there's nothing like a little advice from a great, big sister.

Need a Hug? Keep Dancing!

2011-10-17T21:13:00.009+09:00

Penelope dances on Mondays.

I want to say she stands at the barre with her feet spread carefully in first position and her eyes focused on her teacher, but I can't. The truth is, Penelope doesn't pay much attention to her teacher. She'll point her feet sometimes, extend her arms, and make her way through a series of wobbly passés, but then she'll peek over her shoulder, wave at me, and whisper, loudly, "I NEED A HUG, MOMMY!"

I'll smile back, nod encouragingly, and mouth the words Keep Dancing, but Penelope knows that if she runs across the room to me, her slippered feet padding across the wooden floor, my arms will always open; and so, she runs. The other girls keep dancing, with varying degrees of focus and attention, and the other parents chuckle, and the teacher looks stern, but patient, and nobody really minds.

Penelope's only a minor distraction.

In part of my mind though, I want to worry. I want to lead her back to the barre, back to her friends and to her teacher, and I want to remind her, again, about the recital: You have to practice if you want to perform.

And, of course, I'm tempted to overanalyze the situation. I'm tempted to think but if she can't focus in pre-ballet, how will she handle kindergarten? How will she ever make it through college? I'm tempted to blame myself: Maybe I haven't socialized her well enough. She isn't in preschool, after all. Maybe that's why she's so clingy; but, over and above all that, encompassing and calming, is the incontrovertible fact that Katherine sat on stage and yawned through her first recital. She didn't dance, she was just as clingy, and now she skips off to class without a backward glance. She's focused, and she's lively.

I'm raising a girl, not a ballerina, and I know children don't walk a straight line from pre-ballet to college; so, I let her run across the room and hug me. When she climbs into my lap, I stroke her hair. I'm trusting my instincts and my experience and my parenting. I'm ignoring all the lessons I almost want to teach, lessons about listening and focusing and performing, and I'm concentrating on the only lesson that feels important; the knowledge that

Mommy's arms will open, every single time.

Jokin' Around

2011-10-15T20:35:00.003+09:00

I'm not sure if it has something to do with the important work of Being Six, but the jokes have been flying at my house lately. Most of the time, they're just statements with style:

Why did the snowman go outside?

Because he didn't want to melt!

And sometimes (especially when Penelope tells them) they're strings of nonsense:

Why did the pom-poms hop into the milk and dance all around?

Because they wanted to get dressed up like humans!

But every so often, a joke will land, even if the teller doesn't quite know the reason:

Why did the plate jump off the wall?

Because it wanted to get smashed!

Lucky for me, nothing says Good Parenting like a six-year-old telling Drunk Jokes at the table.

Color me proud.

32

2011-10-14T22:35:00.009+09:00

If I'd thought about it at all, which I hadn't, I probably would've claimed that 32 was going to be the year I'd finally grow up, that this birthday was going to turn the key, smooth the brow, and flood me with a mythical store of patience and understanding.

After all, my parents were 32 when I was born --- and oh! the narcissism of children!

Of course, afterward, if you'd asked me, I probably would've shrugged my shoulders. I might have said, "I thought I would've been in more pictures," but I wouldn't have told you I was disappointed.

***

I was awake, the second hand was tick-tick-ticking around the clock, and Katherine was in her bedroom, screaming. She was having a Halloween-history-book, library-day nightmare, and when I say she was screaming I mean she was SCREAMING. But the second hand kept tick-tick-ticking until finally it ticked me from One Thing into Another and then I opened my mouth and I started screaming ---

STOP IT, KATHERINE!!

Stop it!

You're going to wake up everyone in the building.

Thirty-two didn't begin with a store of patience, a cool hand smoothing the brow, or any whispered words of wisdom. Thirty-two began with a bad decision; but, the clock kept ticking. And there's something in here about This Too Shall Pass, but I'm starting to wonder if there's any such thing as grown-up understanding or if life is, really, just about the clock still ticking. One moment moved into the next. Night turned into morning. I threw a party for myself, for the girls, and they showed me grace where I hadn't show them any; and...

...the highlight of my thirty-two...

...was homemade presents...

...a few wrapped packages...

...the cake they baked...

...(almost) all by themselves...

...early bedtimes, extra snuggles, extra stories...

...and the knowledge that even though it's all mixed up --- stress and calm and confusion and compassion and frustration and impatience and playfulness and understanding --- my life is good.

I am loved. My children are loved.

The days build, one upon the other, and the moments change, from good to bad to good, but love runs like a thread between them.

And --- we're happy.

To Africa! (On a Three-Wheeled Scooter)

2011-10-11T12:39:00.011+09:00

Penelope (chasing Katherine down the hall): Give it back! I said, GIVE IT BACK, Kat'rine!

Katherine (running fast, holding a doll over her head): NO, I won't! I WON'T! You always get all the dolls and it's not fair! She's my baby, too, and IT'S NOT FAIR!

Penelope (scrunch-faced, splotchy, red): If you don't give me that doll I'm going to, I'm going to --- ride my scooter all the way to North Africa and YOU'RE NOT INVITED!

Katherine (pausing): Oh! Wait, no, here's your baby, Penny. You can have her! I don't care! It sounds like fun to go to Africa.

Penelope (dropping the doll and running forward): Okay, Kat'rine! Okay! Let's go! North Africa, here we come!

----

Me (tiptoeing down the hall): Hey, girls? Are you all right? What are you two doing back there?

Katherine (calling from my bedroom): We're fine, Mommy! Don't worry, we're just in Africa.

Me: Oh, okay, um, well then, have fun. I mean, wait (looking back over my shoulder), what are you guys doing in Africa?

Penelope (head in her hands; blue-gray eyes, wide and searching): I don't know, Mommy. Everything's in Japanese and it's all so confusing. I just don't know what we're doing.

Anatomy Lessons

2011-10-10T22:40:00.003+09:00

Katherine, toying with her chili: "Hey Mom, why do they call these kidney beans?"

Me: "I think because they're dark red, like kidneys, and because your kidneys are shaped like beans."

Katherine: "Yeah, but Mom, do grown-ups have kidneys or are they just for kids?"

Me: "Grown-ups have kidneys! Everyone has to have a least one kidney in order to live. You know, your kidneys are really important. They help filter bad things, like toxins and chemicals, out of your body. They help keep you strong and healthy."

Katherine, with an exasperated shake of her head: "That just doesn't make any sense, Mom. You're telling me kidneys aren't just for kids and, and --- I mean, I've looked at my Inside the Human Body book: Your kidneys aren't even anywhere near your knees!"

Routine

2011-10-09T23:31:00.017+09:00

The typhoon damaged the foliage.

Did I tell you about the typhoon? It hit a week ago; or, maybe two weeks ago. The truth is, I can't remember, but it rattled the window glass, and I made anchovy soup with noodles, and it tore off the protective netting around my balcony, and the girls made origami doll clothes. The next morning the foliage looked dry and brittle, almost ashen, and three days later the row of cherry trees outside my window (and seven stories down) was leafless.

Yesterday, we got two boxes of fall clothes in the mail.

Today, I unpacked them.

I dumped them out on the laundry room floor. Then I dumped out the laundry baskets on top of them and divided everything into haphazard piles: play clothes, school clothes, my clothes, kitchen linens, sheets, towels and, occasionally, random costumes.

I must've done a dozen loads of laundry, but I didn't notice the tree outside until somewhere around Load 11.

In the fall, our laundry room is always cool. No matter how many loads you wash in hot water, or if you let the dryer run for hours, the room never really warms. In fact, in the late afternoon, after a day of hard washing, the laundry room feels especially crisp and clean, laced as it is with the scent of fresh cotton.

I was inhaling deeply.

I had a load of clean play clothes in my arms, and a load of bath towels waiting, but I looked up, across the hall, through the kitchen, and out the window, and noticed, for the first time, that a tree across the street was crimson; blazing.

I kept walking. I skirted past the girls, who were playing with Lincoln Logs on the living room floor, dropped the laundry into a pile on the chair, To Be Folded, and went back into the kitchen. Outside, and all around the tree, the foliage still seemed too dry, too brittle, to suggest a particularly pretty season, but right in the middle, thick-trunked and wide, the tree was lit up in the sun, and crimson, again, and blazing.

Suddenly, I wanted my house to breathe.

I opened the window. Cold air whooshed in, in rushes all around me, carrying the scent of acorns and twigs and leaves and pine, and I realized the house was gasping. I uncovered a pot, a soup I'd set on the stove to simmer, and let the warm aromas escape into the street: butter and onions and carrots and squash and cinnamon and nutmeg and curry.

I wanted a stranger to look up; a passerby, I wanted him to pause and inhale and realize he was hungry. I wanted him to wonder -- the way I do, so often -- about the mysterious women who fill the streets with scent every evening; the women who seem to know exactly what they're doing.

And then, I wanted him to shove his hands deeper into his pockets, lower his head against the wind, and walk away.

There is beauty here.

2011-10-05T23:59:00.005+09:00

...and ahead of me there was a row of yellow poplars, straight-backed and rising, towering above the golden gingkoes and the small, red-leafed maples, all misty in the rain.

I was walking, and the rain was plip-plop-plopping on my umbrella, and underneath the trees the moss had intensified somehow, green, as strewn as it was with browning beech leaves. I kept walking, listening to the long, lonely cries of blackbirds in the distance, with the wind in my hair and my jeans getting soaked at the knees. My face was tilted upward.

Above me, the wind was pulling at the poplars, tearing off perfect arcs of spinning leaves, and sending them out over the streetlights and into the twilight; and, for a moment, at least, I was watching.

Then, I joined the women at the window.

I bowed to a friend, a tomodachi, and she smiled at my greeting. "It's bad today," she said, pointing at the rain.

"Hai," I nodded in agreement.

Inside, Katherine was wearing a lilac-colored leotard. Her leg warmers were rumpled, but her arms were outstretched. Her pink slippers were pointed on the wooden floor. When her teacher spoke to her, not in English, she hurried into first position. Her wide, dark eyes, her solemn eyes, never left the sensei's face.

Down the hill, and up, and over, Penelope was staying with a neighbor. They were drinking lemon-honey tea and eating slices of Japanese prune cake, and when I left her there she didn't cry. She waved down the hall at me and said, "Bye-bye, Mommy!" exactly as though she'd never asked me to hold her hand while she sucked her thumb, never worried her baby fingers would be frightened at being so far away from their mommies on my hand.

So there I was, standing under an awning in the pouring rain, with the poplars blowing in the wind behind me, and thinking, in the way that all my thoughts are connected and yet still unconnected...

"...but it isn't bad today, not really. They aren't having the childhood I had, but there is beauty here, in this --- and that's what we're going to remember."

**click here for more Bigger Picture Moments**

Runaway

2011-10-04T11:30:00.005+09:00

October 3rd, 7:00pm

"No, no, I want to sleep with you Mommy! I don't WANT to go to bed!"

"Penelope, it's bedtime. Mommy has some grown-up work to do, but it's time for you to be sleeping."

"No, Mommy, please don't leave me. Don't leave me!"

Sigh.

"Look at me, love. I'm not ever going to leave you. You have to go to sleep now and I have to do some work in the living room, but I'll be here when you wake up. Do you understand? You're safe. I promise I won't ever leave you."

"Will you check on me while I'm sleeping?"

"Uh-huh, you rest now and I'll come back and check on you in just a few minutes. It's okay to rest. I'll be here, honey."

October 4th, 1:45am

"Mommy, don't leave me! Please, don't leave me! Mommy! Mommy!"

I'm standing outside in the dark and wet. The sky above me is cloud-covered and low. To the left, a row of streetlights is casting bands of light across the pavement. They cut the street into narrow strips; and yet, the street is wide and empty; almost empty. I'm running up the hill, along the sidewalk, under the bare-branched trees, and there is a man behind me. I can't see him, but I know him: trim waist, narrow shoulders, small eyes and round glasses. He runs with stiff legs and a straight back. His beige trench coat is flapping in the wind. He's coming closer. I can hear the smack of his shoes on the pavement. I can hear his coat flaps flapping; the heavy, folded fabric.

A few paces away, Penelope is crying. Tears are rolling down her cheeks, streaming across her nose, dripping into her mouth, and falling onto the sidewalk; they fall, unchecked, and spread out like raindrops on the concrete. She reaches out for me. I don't stop. I can't trust her not to shape-shift; "and besides," I think, "I can run faster without her."

I'm inside someone else's nightmare now, and it's a stereotype, but it's also something real. Even in the dream, I recognize: this is the scene that haunts me, this is the worst part of the worst story*.

"Here is a woman---she walks quickly, but tries to appear calm. A small child with a pink cherub's face runs after her and, unable to keep up, stretches out its little arms and cries: 'Mama! Mama!'

'Pick up your child, woman!'

'It's not mine sir, not mine!' she shouts hysterically and runs on, covering her face with her hands. She wants to hide. She wants to reach those who will not ride the trucks, those who will go on foot, those who will stay alive. She is young, healthy, good-looking, she wants to live.

But the child runs after her, wailing loudly: 'Mama, mama, don't leave me!'

'It's not mine, not mine, no!'"

"The truth is," I tell myself, "I've always understood that woman. I've despised her, but I've always understood her problem."

And here, consciousness and subconsciousness collide. I pry open my eyes and peer into the searing darkness. The house is quiet. The girls are sleeping.

2:13am

"Mommy? Mommy, I had a bad dream. Can I sleep with you?"

2:33am

"Mommy, I'm thirsty."

2:45am

"I have to go to the bathroom, Mommy."

3:15am

"I just want to pat you. I love you, Mommy."

3:25am

"Did it hurt you when I patted you, Mommy?"

3:36am

"I can see you, Mommy! I can see you in the darkness!"

3:47am

"Can I give you a kiss now, Mommy?"

4:13am

"Um, I want to sleep in my room. Will you carry me back to my bed now, Mommy?"

5:30am

My eyes are burning. My alarm is ringing. Lunch. School. Katherine. I force myself out of bed, peeling myself off the sheets like I would peel off a band-aid, probably leaving a layer of skin behind me, and pad into the kitchen. I unload the dishwasher. I re-load the dishwasher.

I fry an egg, toast some bread, chop a mango, saute an apple, mash an avocado and make a pot of coffee.

Then, I call Katherine.

8:15am

Katherine's at school. Penelope's still sleeping. I creep down the hall, balancing another load of laundry on my hip, and peek into her bedroom. Her cheeks are round. Her rosebud lips are slightly chapped, slightly puckered, and there's sunlight on her face; it's streaming in through the open window. In the sunlight, her golden hair is shining.

"She looks like an angel," I tell myself, smiling, but then I pause. There's something strange about the way her braids are coiled. "Snakes," I shudder, "a 'fair-cheeked Medusa'."

The braids seem to mock me. "What do you know about stress," they ask me. "What do you know about sorrow?"

"Nothing," I say with a shrug, and keep walking.

*This Way for the Gas, Ladies and Gentlemen Tadeusz Borowski

**Twelfth Pythian Ode, Pindar