When the bells ring and the night seeps
into the sky, and the angels emerge
to keep watch over our homing
When we walk the streets back
to a crooked little house with windows
slanting downhill toward the next
crooked little house Then we know
we are returning to all that we have:
Bowls and spoons sliding off a table
into our hands, caught last-minute
The broth, thank god, still warm
And each other, at the seam of night
Where your face presses into my face
here in the dark, where we breathe in
each other’s prayers before sleeping
Do we live? Or do we only hover
over who we think we are, beckoning
to a man and a woman painted together
at the edge of a bed, an altar,
a deepening night, waiting
to see what happens next?
To see an image of The Dream by Marc Chagall click here.
11.20.2009
11.17.2009
Satisfied
A week or so ago, the minutiae of life were getting me down. You know: the two-foot-high pile of mail, mostly junk. The school papers that I didn't quite have the heart to throw away - oops! I mean recycle! - yet. The grocery list I was putting off day after day. Scheduling an eye doctor appointment. Ordering the family photos. Remembering, or not, Kindergarten snack schedules. Dirty towels. All those minutiae.
But for the last several days, I have felt oh-so-satisfied.
//satisfy [sat-is-fahy]
-verb
1. to fulfill the desires, expectations, needs, or demands of (a person, the mind, etc.); give full contentment to
2. to put an end to (a desire, want, need, etc.) but sufficient or ample provision
from the Latin (via French satisfier), satis "enough"//
I'm not sure what changed the tide of being overwhelmed by minutiae to a wave of contentment in small and (in the scheme of things) unimportant things. It's not like I sat myself down and gave myself a stern talking to about changing my attitude, or even that I devoted time to peaceful meditation. And truthfully, I didn't even deal with all the minutiae that were getting me down. But here are a few things that, over the last few days, have left me very satisfied:
* I made lunch for the Kindergarten teachers at the boys' school. They have conferences this week, and so are eating all their meals at school. What I made was nothing fancy: lemon-tarragon grilled chicken and an apples and greens salad. But it felt really good to be the person doing something nice for someone else, rather than the grateful recipient of a favor (as I so often am, given my illness).
*I wrote an unexpected poem. Most of my poems have a life before they ever become poems. A few words will come to me, or an intriguing idea, and I'll jot it down on a blue index card and file it away. Then I mull...... and I wait....... for days (rarely), months (often), or even years (sometimes) for the poem to be ready for writing (don't ask me how I know when this is...... I just do). So, I am almost always thinking and planning and waiting to write a poem for quite some time before it gets written; indeed, the poems-to-be begin to feel like old friends, or alternately, like old nags. But on Sunday, I just happened to glance at an image of a painting called "The Dream" by Marc Chagall, and heard the words do we live, or do we only hover? And right away the whole poem tumbled out onto paper.
*We bought a new lamp. I know, it sounds mundane. And it is, really. Just an inexpensive, non-descript lamp from a big box store nearby. But I am warmed - amazed, actually - by how just a lamp on a table can increase the coziness factor of a room, and by extension, can make a house feel more like a home.
*I sat in the sun yesterday afternoon, waiting for the boys to get off the bus. Oh, and it was luxuriant: warm, silver sunlight in November. I felt like I had all I ever needed right there: just a place to sit, and the sun on my face.
*I made several stout little piles of poems and grouped the ones that seemed to go together. I put them in a folder, and wrote on the front These go together. This was an unplanned activity, and it happened on Sunday when my computer was acting up. I had planned to write and revise poems, but without a computer, was at loose ends. Then, my hands and arms took over. There was no thinking involved. My hands and arms starting sorting poems into piles all over my bedroom floor. After ten or fifteen minutes, I did pause to ask myself, What am I doing here? The answer came: You are making stout little piles of poems that go together. Oh, okay, I said, and kept right on going. In the end I had 36 poems that seem to go together (3 of which are maybes, 5 of which are probablys), and placeholders for 8 to 10 more poems that I think I want to write and then group with the rest.
*I completed my to-do list yesterday. Now, I have an uneasy relationship with to-do lists, to the point where I don't usually make them because there's something really bothersome to me about never being able to cross anything off(!). But after forgetting the Kindergarten snack last week, there were a few things I needed to do that I really didn't want to forget. So I wrote them down. And yesterday, I crossed them all off!: "Conference meals (chicken, salad), get cash, poets (pay Tom), e-mail Mr. T." (Come to think of it, beyond being satisfying this also feels like a minor miracle).
I have truly enjoyed this feeling of full contentment in minor things, this feeling of being filled, of being amply provided for. This feeling that the smallest things in life -- a lamp, a poem, some sunshine, a few mundane tasks, crossed off a list -- are, indeed, enough.
May all your small things be enough for you today. May you be satisfied.
But for the last several days, I have felt oh-so-satisfied.
//satisfy [sat-is-fahy]
-verb
1. to fulfill the desires, expectations, needs, or demands of (a person, the mind, etc.); give full contentment to
2. to put an end to (a desire, want, need, etc.) but sufficient or ample provision
from the Latin (via French satisfier), satis "enough"//
I'm not sure what changed the tide of being overwhelmed by minutiae to a wave of contentment in small and (in the scheme of things) unimportant things. It's not like I sat myself down and gave myself a stern talking to about changing my attitude, or even that I devoted time to peaceful meditation. And truthfully, I didn't even deal with all the minutiae that were getting me down. But here are a few things that, over the last few days, have left me very satisfied:
* I made lunch for the Kindergarten teachers at the boys' school. They have conferences this week, and so are eating all their meals at school. What I made was nothing fancy: lemon-tarragon grilled chicken and an apples and greens salad. But it felt really good to be the person doing something nice for someone else, rather than the grateful recipient of a favor (as I so often am, given my illness).
*I wrote an unexpected poem. Most of my poems have a life before they ever become poems. A few words will come to me, or an intriguing idea, and I'll jot it down on a blue index card and file it away. Then I mull...... and I wait....... for days (rarely), months (often), or even years (sometimes) for the poem to be ready for writing (don't ask me how I know when this is...... I just do). So, I am almost always thinking and planning and waiting to write a poem for quite some time before it gets written; indeed, the poems-to-be begin to feel like old friends, or alternately, like old nags. But on Sunday, I just happened to glance at an image of a painting called "The Dream" by Marc Chagall, and heard the words do we live, or do we only hover? And right away the whole poem tumbled out onto paper.
*We bought a new lamp. I know, it sounds mundane. And it is, really. Just an inexpensive, non-descript lamp from a big box store nearby. But I am warmed - amazed, actually - by how just a lamp on a table can increase the coziness factor of a room, and by extension, can make a house feel more like a home.
*I sat in the sun yesterday afternoon, waiting for the boys to get off the bus. Oh, and it was luxuriant: warm, silver sunlight in November. I felt like I had all I ever needed right there: just a place to sit, and the sun on my face.
*I made several stout little piles of poems and grouped the ones that seemed to go together. I put them in a folder, and wrote on the front These go together. This was an unplanned activity, and it happened on Sunday when my computer was acting up. I had planned to write and revise poems, but without a computer, was at loose ends. Then, my hands and arms took over. There was no thinking involved. My hands and arms starting sorting poems into piles all over my bedroom floor. After ten or fifteen minutes, I did pause to ask myself, What am I doing here? The answer came: You are making stout little piles of poems that go together. Oh, okay, I said, and kept right on going. In the end I had 36 poems that seem to go together (3 of which are maybes, 5 of which are probablys), and placeholders for 8 to 10 more poems that I think I want to write and then group with the rest.
*I completed my to-do list yesterday. Now, I have an uneasy relationship with to-do lists, to the point where I don't usually make them because there's something really bothersome to me about never being able to cross anything off(!). But after forgetting the Kindergarten snack last week, there were a few things I needed to do that I really didn't want to forget. So I wrote them down. And yesterday, I crossed them all off!: "Conference meals (chicken, salad), get cash, poets (pay Tom), e-mail Mr. T." (Come to think of it, beyond being satisfying this also feels like a minor miracle).
I have truly enjoyed this feeling of full contentment in minor things, this feeling of being filled, of being amply provided for. This feeling that the smallest things in life -- a lamp, a poem, some sunshine, a few mundane tasks, crossed off a list -- are, indeed, enough.
May all your small things be enough for you today. May you be satisfied.
11.11.2009
On Faith
Last week, The Bean and I were hanging around right before bedtime (I’m so lucky that he still likes to cuddle from time to time, even though he is a Big Kid now). At one point, he looked at me and asked, “Mom do you think there really is a God?”
Oh, crap, I thought, I’m really not ready to have this conversation quite yet. Can't we wait until adolescence?
"Hmmm," I said, "That’s a pretty big question." I was trying to buy myself some time. The wheels were turnin’, believe me, trying to come up with an answer that was at once truthful and age-appropriate. Lucky for me, The Bean beat me to it, saying:
"I think you and I probably have similar brains about this. Sometimes we think there could be a God, and other times we really aren't sure."
Again, I didn’t say much in response. Just waited to see where the conversation would go.
"It makes me wonder," he continued, "I mean......., what is all this about anyway? And, if there is a God, why would he create us just to live for a little while and then die, and why would he make us only last until our extinction? Because we are going to become extinct, you know."
(I am quoting more or less directly here, at least as far as my admittedly spotty memory can manage).
Finally, I decided I’d better say something substantive. So I said,
“Well, I’m not always sure what I believe about God, Bean. But one thing I am sure I believe in is the presence and power of love in the world, and that it’s important to be kind and do good during our lives.”
"Yeah, and anyway, some people think God is love," he said.
"That's right," I said. And that seemed to satisfy him for the moment, and heaven knows I was exhausted just listening to his existential ponderings. So we wrapped up for the night and went to bed.
**
I have been thinking of this conversation a lot over the last week. There’s a part of me that wishes I could’ve given him an easier answer: Of course there’s a God, and God loves you, and cares for you, and watches out for you, and has a plan for your life. This is what I believed, once. It was a comforting belief. One that helped me to find my place in the world, the universe. One that grounded me and helped make sense of this often incomprehensible life.
But the longer I live, the more I see and experience, and the more I study sacred texts, the easy God of my youth doesn’t hold together anymore. When this development first began to unfold in my life, it was very uncomfortable for me, and I worked feverishly to develop an understanding of God that could work for me. I read lots of books, sacred texts, and commentaries on sacred texts; I put on my thinking cap and thought and thought and thought. The harder I worked, the more I read, the more I thought, the more despair I felt, because the puzzle just wasn’t coming together.
Then, quietly, came the understanding that whatever God is -- a creator and sustainer of life; the presence and power of love in the world; a kid with an ant farm; or nothing at all -- there is no such thing as puzzling it out. Faith, for me, is not an intellectual position to be proven and defended. It is not a list of truths that I must accept (or reject). It is not a group of people who have “figured it out” and found the one path to salvation.
Faith is a way of living. It is a way of stepping forth into every day, in gentleness and hope. It is a way of interacting with others: honoring them, valuing them, treating them as you would like to be treated. It is messing things up over and over again, but trying to do better next time. It is caring for those who need care. It is a way of finding peace despite life’s struggles, despite suffering, despite tragedy. It is a way of being in the world: awed at its precious beauty, grateful for each new day.
It is a way of living with the Mystery of it all.
And so the question of the existence of God (or, the existence of God as some would define God) no longer feels all that important to me. Because (a) I’m not going to be able to figure it out, and (b) proof of the existence (or not) of God is not going to change the way I live my life. I will live a faith-filled life, some might call it a godly life, either way.
At the end of the day, that may be the best that I can do for The Bean (and the other children), but I am hoping it will be enough. Enough so that they have something to cling to in the storm. Enough for them to find meaning in their lives. Enough to help them to be sturdy and cheerful folks bringing love and peace and forgiveness to a world where love, peace, and forgiveness are desperately needed. And enough that they will stop from time to time, and stand in awe of the beauty, the wondrous mystery, of it all.
Call that mystery “God,” if you like. Sometimes I do.
Oh, crap, I thought, I’m really not ready to have this conversation quite yet. Can't we wait until adolescence?
"Hmmm," I said, "That’s a pretty big question." I was trying to buy myself some time. The wheels were turnin’, believe me, trying to come up with an answer that was at once truthful and age-appropriate. Lucky for me, The Bean beat me to it, saying:
"I think you and I probably have similar brains about this. Sometimes we think there could be a God, and other times we really aren't sure."
Again, I didn’t say much in response. Just waited to see where the conversation would go.
"It makes me wonder," he continued, "I mean......., what is all this about anyway? And, if there is a God, why would he create us just to live for a little while and then die, and why would he make us only last until our extinction? Because we are going to become extinct, you know."
(I am quoting more or less directly here, at least as far as my admittedly spotty memory can manage).
Finally, I decided I’d better say something substantive. So I said,
“Well, I’m not always sure what I believe about God, Bean. But one thing I am sure I believe in is the presence and power of love in the world, and that it’s important to be kind and do good during our lives.”
"Yeah, and anyway, some people think God is love," he said.
"That's right," I said. And that seemed to satisfy him for the moment, and heaven knows I was exhausted just listening to his existential ponderings. So we wrapped up for the night and went to bed.
**
I have been thinking of this conversation a lot over the last week. There’s a part of me that wishes I could’ve given him an easier answer: Of course there’s a God, and God loves you, and cares for you, and watches out for you, and has a plan for your life. This is what I believed, once. It was a comforting belief. One that helped me to find my place in the world, the universe. One that grounded me and helped make sense of this often incomprehensible life.
But the longer I live, the more I see and experience, and the more I study sacred texts, the easy God of my youth doesn’t hold together anymore. When this development first began to unfold in my life, it was very uncomfortable for me, and I worked feverishly to develop an understanding of God that could work for me. I read lots of books, sacred texts, and commentaries on sacred texts; I put on my thinking cap and thought and thought and thought. The harder I worked, the more I read, the more I thought, the more despair I felt, because the puzzle just wasn’t coming together.
Then, quietly, came the understanding that whatever God is -- a creator and sustainer of life; the presence and power of love in the world; a kid with an ant farm; or nothing at all -- there is no such thing as puzzling it out. Faith, for me, is not an intellectual position to be proven and defended. It is not a list of truths that I must accept (or reject). It is not a group of people who have “figured it out” and found the one path to salvation.
Faith is a way of living. It is a way of stepping forth into every day, in gentleness and hope. It is a way of interacting with others: honoring them, valuing them, treating them as you would like to be treated. It is messing things up over and over again, but trying to do better next time. It is caring for those who need care. It is a way of finding peace despite life’s struggles, despite suffering, despite tragedy. It is a way of being in the world: awed at its precious beauty, grateful for each new day.
It is a way of living with the Mystery of it all.
And so the question of the existence of God (or, the existence of God as some would define God) no longer feels all that important to me. Because (a) I’m not going to be able to figure it out, and (b) proof of the existence (or not) of God is not going to change the way I live my life. I will live a faith-filled life, some might call it a godly life, either way.
At the end of the day, that may be the best that I can do for The Bean (and the other children), but I am hoping it will be enough. Enough so that they have something to cling to in the storm. Enough for them to find meaning in their lives. Enough to help them to be sturdy and cheerful folks bringing love and peace and forgiveness to a world where love, peace, and forgiveness are desperately needed. And enough that they will stop from time to time, and stand in awe of the beauty, the wondrous mystery, of it all.
Call that mystery “God,” if you like. Sometimes I do.
11.08.2009
Sunday Night Prayer
This prayer has been attributed both to Mary Stewart, as in Mary, Queen of Scots, and also to Mary Stewart, a woman living in Colorado in 1904. Honestly, I don't know how the two Mary Stewarts could ever be confused, one with the other (chalk it up to the Internet), but I haven't been able to verify the true source of the prayer, which I first came across several years ago. My favorite part is the last line; at my house, you can often hear me calling it out from my post in the kitchen during Sibling Moments.
Keep us, O God, from pettiness.
Let us be large in thought, in word, in deed.
May we put away all pretense and meet each other, face to face, without self-pity and without prejudice.
May we never be hasty in judgment and always generous.
Let us take time for all things; make us grow calm, serene, gentle.
Teach us to put in action our better impulses, straight-forward and unafraid.
Grant that we may realize it is the little things of life that create difficulties; that in the big things of life we are as one.
And, O Lord, let us not forget to be kind!
P.S. I am voting for the Mary Stewart, a woman living in Colorado in 1904, attribution. Something tells me the word choice and phraseology don't bear the stamp of a 16th century Latin prayer (which is probably how Mary, Queen of Scots would have prayed, since she was Catholic).
Keep us, O God, from pettiness.
Let us be large in thought, in word, in deed.
May we put away all pretense and meet each other, face to face, without self-pity and without prejudice.
May we never be hasty in judgment and always generous.
Let us take time for all things; make us grow calm, serene, gentle.
Teach us to put in action our better impulses, straight-forward and unafraid.
Grant that we may realize it is the little things of life that create difficulties; that in the big things of life we are as one.
And, O Lord, let us not forget to be kind!
P.S. I am voting for the Mary Stewart, a woman living in Colorado in 1904, attribution. Something tells me the word choice and phraseology don't bear the stamp of a 16th century Latin prayer (which is probably how Mary, Queen of Scots would have prayed, since she was Catholic).
11.07.2009
Confession Saturday
I confess:
--I have been avoiding an On My Nightstand post for several weeks, because, look at that scary pile (and it grew even taller and scarier after I took the photo)! I confess, I have purged my nightstand and am starting fresh, with the hope of doing one more On My Nightstand before the end of the year. In the meantime, if you are looking for a nice volume of poetry to enjoy as winter creeps toward us, try New Tracks, Night Falling by Jeanne Murray Walker. Her poems examine what she views as our current cultural darkness (fear, alienation, distance, suspicion), as well as the signs of hope, togetherness, faith, joy that we can find despite it.
--I forgot to send a snack for AJ's class on Tuesday, my assigned day on the kindergarten snack calendar. I remember looking at it and thinking, Oh, yes. Can't forget the snack on November third. After which, I never thought of it again. I confess, the worst part of it was not feeling like a bad mother (which I did); the worst part were the copious tears shed by AJ, who mourned the fact that the class didn't get to say "Thank you, AJ" like they would have if only I would have remembered. I confess, I briefly considered saying It was Dad's fault! But I didn't.
--It has been just over one year since we moved into our current house, from the city to the suburbs, from multiple levels and basement laundry, to one-level living and main floor laundry. I confess, it has worked out better than I ever could have imagined. Even though I miss my old neighbors, and even my little house, I am so glad we made the move. But, I confess, every time I drive past my old house I cry, and I grouse about how the new owners are obviously neglecting the gardens and why don't they open the shades up, anyway??
--I made Husband promise to do the cooking after he retires. I confess, I have every intention of holding him to it. By the time he reaches retirement, I will have cooked approximately 13,800 dinners during our married life, and I'll be ready for a change of pace.
--I am now a full three years behind on our family photo albums. I confess, I would rather, read, write, or nap than compile family photo albums. And don't even talk to me about scrapbooks for the kids. It's not happenin'. But I confess, I really admire the people who do keep up with family photo albums and scrapbooks for their kids.
--I don't know what to say about the recent shootings at Ft. Hood and in Orlando. These events, and others like them, are unfathomable to me.
--Every time I sit down to write a confession, I think I really don't have much to confess. Until I start writing. Then all the confessions start tumbling out. I confess, I wish I had as many poems tumbling out as small guilts and worries.
11.04.2009
Maybe
Maybe some of you are working on your novels this month for NaNoWriMo. Not I. No, I'm still trying to scratch out a poem whenever I get a chance. But even poets have a some daily writing motivation in November, courtesy of the Poetic Asides blog which posts a prompt every day during the month of November, with the goal of having the bare bones of a chapbook by month's end.
Today's prompt was: "Maybe (blank)"
Ugh, I thought, Maybe not.
But trying to be a good sport, I went over to my pile of index cards labeled with delicious words, and pulled out two. They read: (1) fence, (2) gate. Coincidence? Maybe.
At any rate, here's my effort for today (ohhhhh...... and maybe it's just about killing me to post a first draft here):
Maybe Fences, Maybe Gates
Maybe fences
Maybe walls and railings
and barriers and berms
Maybe stones clenched
together like teeth
Maybe tall, tall trees
planted in a row
and grafted
on to one another
Maybe obstacles
roadblocks ramparts
Maybe shoreline
and big, big water beyond
Maybe no boat
Maybe never
knowing
Maybe gates
Maybe passages
and doorways and openings
Maybe footpaths
worn smooth and silent
by ancestors villagers
shepherds children
Maybe thresholds
with horizons in their frames
Maybe feet and legs and elbows
crossing through them
Maybe trying
searching learning
Maybe a journey
P.S. Maybe you are wondering when NaPoWriMo is? It's in April.
Today's prompt was: "Maybe (blank)"
Ugh, I thought, Maybe not.
But trying to be a good sport, I went over to my pile of index cards labeled with delicious words, and pulled out two. They read: (1) fence, (2) gate. Coincidence? Maybe.
At any rate, here's my effort for today (ohhhhh...... and maybe it's just about killing me to post a first draft here):
Maybe Fences, Maybe Gates
Maybe fences
Maybe walls and railings
and barriers and berms
Maybe stones clenched
together like teeth
Maybe tall, tall trees
planted in a row
and grafted
on to one another
Maybe obstacles
roadblocks ramparts
Maybe shoreline
and big, big water beyond
Maybe no boat
Maybe never
knowing
Maybe gates
Maybe passages
and doorways and openings
Maybe footpaths
worn smooth and silent
by ancestors villagers
shepherds children
Maybe thresholds
with horizons in their frames
Maybe feet and legs and elbows
crossing through them
Maybe trying
searching learning
Maybe a journey
P.S. Maybe you are wondering when NaPoWriMo is? It's in April.
10.29.2009
Four Days Without Daddy: One Big, Long Confession
I confess, I am always amazed at how quickly my standards fall when I am temporarily called upon to be a single mother. (Wait -- did I say fall? I meant plunge). Prior to each of Husband's business trips I am all steadfastness and sunshine with myself and others. "No problem!" I say brightly to Husband, my mom, my friends. "I'll ask for help if I need it." I am smiling, smiling. I am saying things like, "We'll take it easy around here. Have a nice quiet week. Easy dinners. Early bedtimes. Y'know." Maybe I schedule an extra babysitter; maybe I ask someone to help with driving kids here and there. All in all, I think I have everyone (even me) convinced that we'll make it through with flying colors.
"Come back!" I always say as he kisses me goodbye. A joke, kind of. "We'll be fine. Don't worry about us."
**
Once he's gone, I can gauge my success at coping with temporary single parenting in five basic areas: Patience, Trash/Recycling Removal, Dinner, Basic Grooming and Bedtime.
Day 1:
Patience is flowing like a river! Dear, please remember to take your shoes off and hang up your school bag. What would you like for a snack? Yes, of course you may create a beaded, glitter-festooned "I Miss You Daddy" card for your father, let me just plug in the hot glue gun for you. Boys, please remember to be peacemakers with each other even when you disagree. Trash/Recycling Removal is promptly completed by me with thorough attention to sorting, rinsing, flattening, and removing from the living environment. Dinner is something everybody likes. Spaghetti, maybe tacos. "Oh, Mom," they gush, "you are the best mom in the world," I know, I think to myself and smile, I know. Basic Grooming is attended to lovingly with caring, maternal hands and warm washcloths. Baths for everyone! Fresh towels! Two passes at the teeth: your turn, then my turn. At bedtime, an extra book, an extra-long cuddle. Everyone gets a turn with the prayer book to read, or "read" (depending on age and skill level), a favorite passage. They're all tucked in tidy and sweet at 7:45 - and yes, you may read for fifteen minutes before you turn the lights out. After they're all in bed, I luxuriate in a warm bath so I'll be one step ahead in the morning. Clever girl.
Day 2:
Patience is hangin' right in there. Did you put your library books in your bag? Well, put 'em in. Do you have your lunch? Well, get it. Yes, you have to wear a jacket. No you may not watch TV before the bus comes. No you may not play Legos. Stop arguing. Please. Put away your laundry. Now, please. Please stop arguing, boys; find a nicer way to say it. I don't want to ask you again to put away your laundry. Please. Trash and recycling removal is done by The Bean. Dinner is passable: tunafish sandwiches and tomato soup. Sliced apples. Glass of milk. Cookies for dessert. Basic Grooming is covered at the, well, basic level. We can skip baths tonight, but let's wash faces and brush teeth. Here, I'll help. One book tonight, and I'll sing a prayer. Bedtime is moved up to 7:30.
Day 3:
Patience is wearing thin, and the threats begin. If you don't pick up your Legos now, no TV later. Everyone to the bathroom for teeth brushing now or it's straight to bed with no book! Quit arguing! Right now! Popcorn for snack, no you may not have an apple to go with it. Boys, cut.it.out. Trash and recycling are stacked together in the trash bin, which is beginning to overflow. I gingerly step inside the trash bin to push it all down..... maybe we can squeeze in one more day. Dinner is hot dogs and a fruit cup. And a glass of milk. On paper plates. Basic grooming consists of me calling out down the hallway, "Make sure you brush your teeth and wash your faces!" At bedtime, there is one book, one mumbled Our Father, and all are tucked in by 7:15.
Day 4:
Patience: Whatever you're going to ask me, the answer is no. Can I -- NO! Could you help me --? NO! But, Mom --? NO! What? Your finger's stuck in a toy otoscope? Here. Here's a bar of soap. See if you can get it unstuck yourself. Trash and recycling are overflowing and occasionally falling out of the trash bin, but at this point I decide to wait until Husband comes home and let him deal with it. Dinner is a fruit cup. Basic grooming: "Did you guys brush your teeth today? Did you brush them yesterday? Well, at least make sure you brush them tomorrow." Tonight, no book, you may read in your beds. Prayer is me muttering under my breath I hope to God your father's flight is on time tomorrow. All tucked in at 7:00
**
Tomorrow finally comes. By the end of four days I am exhausted, drained, impatient, and utterly unconvinced that I am cut out for this line of work. But still, still trying to smile. Every five minutes for hours one of the children asks me, "When will Daddy be home?" Soon, darling, soon, I say in a dazed kind of way from my perch on the couch. And finally, just in time for dinner, the murmur of the garage door lifting, the clunk of his car door, the jingle of keys. "Hello, dear," I say as he walks through the door to a cacophony of shrieks and cartwheels from the children, "We're so glad you're home. We missed you, but we were fine, fine." I plop a pot of soup on the table for dinner. A can of mandarin oranges as a side dish. A definite step-up from last night. You know, to celebrate. We gather at the table, a family again. Yes, I'm tired and frazzled but all feels right in the world. That wasn't so bad after all, I think to myself, and I start looking forward to a cup of tea and a hot bath.
And then, I confess, I start crying when he tells me he has a conference call in a hour.
Happy Halloween, everyone!
"Come back!" I always say as he kisses me goodbye. A joke, kind of. "We'll be fine. Don't worry about us."
**
Once he's gone, I can gauge my success at coping with temporary single parenting in five basic areas: Patience, Trash/Recycling Removal, Dinner, Basic Grooming and Bedtime.
Day 1:
Patience is flowing like a river! Dear, please remember to take your shoes off and hang up your school bag. What would you like for a snack? Yes, of course you may create a beaded, glitter-festooned "I Miss You Daddy" card for your father, let me just plug in the hot glue gun for you. Boys, please remember to be peacemakers with each other even when you disagree. Trash/Recycling Removal is promptly completed by me with thorough attention to sorting, rinsing, flattening, and removing from the living environment. Dinner is something everybody likes. Spaghetti, maybe tacos. "Oh, Mom," they gush, "you are the best mom in the world," I know, I think to myself and smile, I know. Basic Grooming is attended to lovingly with caring, maternal hands and warm washcloths. Baths for everyone! Fresh towels! Two passes at the teeth: your turn, then my turn. At bedtime, an extra book, an extra-long cuddle. Everyone gets a turn with the prayer book to read, or "read" (depending on age and skill level), a favorite passage. They're all tucked in tidy and sweet at 7:45 - and yes, you may read for fifteen minutes before you turn the lights out. After they're all in bed, I luxuriate in a warm bath so I'll be one step ahead in the morning. Clever girl.
Day 2:
Patience is hangin' right in there. Did you put your library books in your bag? Well, put 'em in. Do you have your lunch? Well, get it. Yes, you have to wear a jacket. No you may not watch TV before the bus comes. No you may not play Legos. Stop arguing. Please. Put away your laundry. Now, please. Please stop arguing, boys; find a nicer way to say it. I don't want to ask you again to put away your laundry. Please. Trash and recycling removal is done by The Bean. Dinner is passable: tunafish sandwiches and tomato soup. Sliced apples. Glass of milk. Cookies for dessert. Basic Grooming is covered at the, well, basic level. We can skip baths tonight, but let's wash faces and brush teeth. Here, I'll help. One book tonight, and I'll sing a prayer. Bedtime is moved up to 7:30.
Day 3:
Patience is wearing thin, and the threats begin. If you don't pick up your Legos now, no TV later. Everyone to the bathroom for teeth brushing now or it's straight to bed with no book! Quit arguing! Right now! Popcorn for snack, no you may not have an apple to go with it. Boys, cut.it.out. Trash and recycling are stacked together in the trash bin, which is beginning to overflow. I gingerly step inside the trash bin to push it all down..... maybe we can squeeze in one more day. Dinner is hot dogs and a fruit cup. And a glass of milk. On paper plates. Basic grooming consists of me calling out down the hallway, "Make sure you brush your teeth and wash your faces!" At bedtime, there is one book, one mumbled Our Father, and all are tucked in by 7:15.
Day 4:
Patience: Whatever you're going to ask me, the answer is no. Can I -- NO! Could you help me --? NO! But, Mom --? NO! What? Your finger's stuck in a toy otoscope? Here. Here's a bar of soap. See if you can get it unstuck yourself. Trash and recycling are overflowing and occasionally falling out of the trash bin, but at this point I decide to wait until Husband comes home and let him deal with it. Dinner is a fruit cup. Basic grooming: "Did you guys brush your teeth today? Did you brush them yesterday? Well, at least make sure you brush them tomorrow." Tonight, no book, you may read in your beds. Prayer is me muttering under my breath I hope to God your father's flight is on time tomorrow. All tucked in at 7:00
**
Tomorrow finally comes. By the end of four days I am exhausted, drained, impatient, and utterly unconvinced that I am cut out for this line of work. But still, still trying to smile. Every five minutes for hours one of the children asks me, "When will Daddy be home?" Soon, darling, soon, I say in a dazed kind of way from my perch on the couch. And finally, just in time for dinner, the murmur of the garage door lifting, the clunk of his car door, the jingle of keys. "Hello, dear," I say as he walks through the door to a cacophony of shrieks and cartwheels from the children, "We're so glad you're home. We missed you, but we were fine, fine." I plop a pot of soup on the table for dinner. A can of mandarin oranges as a side dish. A definite step-up from last night. You know, to celebrate. We gather at the table, a family again. Yes, I'm tired and frazzled but all feels right in the world. That wasn't so bad after all, I think to myself, and I start looking forward to a cup of tea and a hot bath.
And then, I confess, I start crying when he tells me he has a conference call in a hour.
Happy Halloween, everyone!
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