Mia

It’s difficult to tell the story of Mia without telling the story of us. Her years marked so many of our big moments, which, I guess, any 14-year chunk of time will do.

Mia came into our lives in 2001. Andy was taking classes at OSU and living with friends. I had just started a new job at Popular Woodworking Magazine, and was living with a friend in a small townhouse in Mariemont. A man my dad worked with had a daughter who had a cat—Mia. This daughter and her husband had a child, and Mia, turns out, bit. They needed to find a new home for their cat. If your cat needs to socialize more with other cats, you may bring her to a cattery Melbourne.

Andy took her. We had no children. We weren’t even engaged. The idea of owning a cat was charming. She was maybe 2 or 3 years old when Andy took her to OSU, to live on Stadium Drive in University Village, in his messy, college room.

Turns out Mia didn’t just bite children—she bit adults, too. Upon graduation Andy moved to an apartment in Cincinnati. The market was tough and he was working the night shift at Target. One late afternoon, after showering in preparation for his shift at work, Mia attacked him. She charged at him and clamped onto the skin behind his knee, drawing blood.

Still, he kept her.

Andy proposed. We got married. My roommate moved out and Andy moved in. Mia came, too.

Andy got a job in his field. We bought a 104-year-old Dutch Colonial with a shifting stone foundation. We thought we had lost Mia when so many of our friends helped us move from Mariemont to Fort Thomas on a cold and rainy day. Turns out she was so frightened she had hidden herself in the rafters of our basement.

Everything frightened Mia. The Dutch Colonial had a sunroom and in it we had a glass-top table, the back edge of it lined with potted plants. One night, in the middle of the night, I heard the sound of glass, breaking. It was loud enough to wake me up and I saw Mia in our closet, shaking. I woke up Andy to investigate (which he did, curiously, with a rolled-up bath towel as his weapon of choice). Turns out Mia had, we assume, been spooked by her reflection in the sunroom’s windows. She had scattered off the table with such hurry and force she turned over a potted plant, causing the clay to break on the glass-top table. There was no burglar, only our very own scaredy-cat.

Mia hated other cats. Although we could leave her for a few days without intervention, for longer trips we had to rely on family and friends. A trip to a kennel, or vet, or anyone’s house who owned another pet, put her in a panic. She had a heart murmur. Her heart didn’t need any additional distress.

Still, we decided to buy a black lab, Tucker. (That’s Mia in the picture above, glaring at Tucker the day we brought him home.) They had a love/hate relationship. Mostly hate. Mia would get annoyed with Tucker, raise her paw and hiss. Tucker, always the gentleman, would just walk away. And when he did, Mia would go to his bowl and paw out all the water, flooding the kitchen—daily.

We had Sophie. Mia bit Sophie, hard enough to draw blood. This resulted in a trip to the pediatrician’s office and a prescription for an antibiotic. We tried to find a new home for Mia after that. Turns out it’s difficult to find a home for a cat who bites and hates all other cats.

So, we kept her. We taught Sophie, and later the boys, to not talk, touch or look at Mia. That’s probably a bit dramatic but true enough that, for a while, our children were terrified of all cats. And eagerly approached all large dogs. Which is backwards, I know.

Mia moved with us to a 100-year-old foursquare, also in Fort Thomas, five years ago—the same house we’re in today. That move was hard. The boys were three months old. For months I unpacked a box, pumped milk, gave the boys a bottle, changed their diapers, put them down, and unpacked another box. On repeat. I truly have no memory of how Mia fared during that time.

Once the boys became mobile, the basement became Mia’s castle. We never saw her during the day. Often, while taking laundry down to the basement, I would find her sitting on the top basement step, listening, waiting. Once she determined every child was in bed she was upstairs, purring and rubbing up against our legs, desperate for the attention she had missed out on during the day. And I gave it to her.

And that’s the thing about cats. And dogs. And even people, sometimes. Mia, often, was awful. I know. But, like all living, breathing things, you simply had to get to know her. And, in her case, really, really get to know her. But once you did, she was a joy—until a switch buried deep inside her would flip. And then she would bite.

Through the years I learned her triggers. Even the kids knew to never, ever touch her when her ears were back. When on my lap, purring, I would wait for her body to tense. That was her way of saying, “Stop.” A particular twitch slightly behind her shoulders also indicated she was about to draw blood. In all the years of living with her, she only bit me once.

Still, we had to warn everybody. “Don’t touch the cat. She bites,” was spoken in between hellos and welcome hugs. Babysitters were warned. Grandmas were given Band-Aids and apologized to, over and over again. Mia was banned to the basement during playdates.

Mia was a huntress, which was apparent in the number of mice she caught in her lifetime—even near the end of her life. We’re a live-mouse-trap kind of family, so her particular skill caused us (me, mostly) distress. Mia liked to play with her mice before killing them. I remember one particular evening when such awfulness was happening and Andy wasn’t home—and I was in tears. Like all other cats, she left the mice for us, in places she knew we would see them. One early morning I walked downstairs to find Sophie, probably 3, sitting on the couch, watching a show. “Mia killed a mouse,” she said, nonchalantly. “Where is it?” I asked. “Here,” she said. Sophie was sitting next to it. It was on the couch.

Near the end of her life, Mia’s demeanor changed completely. Always a thin cat, she started eating a lot. She gained so much weight that we took her to the vet for tests. We feared the worst, given her age—14 plus 2 or 3 years. Her diagnosis? “She’s just fat,” the vet said.

Mia began living upstairs during the day, even when the kids were wild. She stopped biting. She let the children pet her. She sat on my lap in the middle of the day. Every morning while I poured Tucker dog food, she would saunter over and drink water from his water bowl. Tucker would patiently wait until she finished, and then would drink after her. (But she still splashed water.)

I’ve since researched “end of life” in cats. Her change in disposition was clue No. 1. This lasted several months. A few days before she died, she seemed off—more so than usual. The day before she died, we knew it was coming. We knew in the way she sat, staring but not seeing. The way she walked the perimeter of rooms, over and over again. We knew in the way you just know these things, without really knowing why you know.

We considered calling the vet. But she didn’t seem in pain. And she wasn’t showing any signs of being in pain. We agreed that if she was in pain, we’d take her. A home death, we thought, is preferable—for anyone.

That evening she perked up a bit. But then she began hiding—under the couch, under the kitchen table, under the leather chair. While reading John Grogan’s Marley & Me years ago I learned that pets do this—they find a quiet, hidden place to die, away from predators, as their ancestors did.

Mia settled on underneath the leather chair, in front of the bookcase, in the living room.

I couldn’t stand the thought of her dying alone. So I curled up on the living room rug next to her, one hand under the chair, on her back. I stayed like that for an hour.

Andy had gone downstairs to play video games. Pet losses are hard on him. In grade school he faked a reason to leave the classroom so that he wouldn’t have to watch the end of “Where the Red Fern Grows.” When it comes to hard things, we excel, differently. I can rock a baby for hours, singing “You Are My Sunshine” again and again and again. And again. And while Andy lacks such patience he, on the other hand, can cradle the head of a child who is getting sick, not once dry heaving at the smell. And then he can bathe said child and clean up said mess with nary a complaint or sigh. I fail at this.

We’ve learned to let go, hand over, pick up, take over. It works.

After about an hour, Mia stopped moving completely, and her breathing grew shallow. Perhaps it was selfish of me but I needed to hold her. So in one quick motion I pulled her out from under the chair. She perked up again, and fought me for a moment. I sat on the couch and threw a cream and gray-striped wool blanket over her, covering her completely—even her head. I held her tight against my stomach. The effect, for her, was the same. She felt hidden, but I felt better.

Andy found me like that, on the couch, around 2am. He convinced me to go to bed. So I did, but I took Mia. Like a brand-new mother in charge of a newborn solo for the first time I rested my hand on her, lightly, counting breaths until the sun came up.

With morning we had the children come in to say their goodbyes. The boys had many questions. “Will her body be frozen?” “How long will she stay underground?” “Is she still breathing?” “How will she dig herself out?” The questions were honest, heartbreaking and tiring.

Sophie, older, wiser, but still 7, cried deep tears that made Andy and I cry, too.

The boys and Andy left, but Sophie stayed. So much of what Mia was doing was instinctual. She was dying in the same way her mother died, her mother’s mother died, and so on. I couldn’t help but think that Sophie’s actions were instinctual, too. Woman, girl. Mother, someday mother (perhaps). Sophie stayed. And all three females curled up together on the bed, mother, child, cat.

We stayed like that for a long time. And then, Mia started convulsing. This, I knew I didn’t want Sophie to see. And this, I knew I didn’t want to see. I scooped Sophie up and took her to her room, yelling for Andy. Let go, hand over, pick up, take over. Andy came.

Mia had gotten sick. (I should have thought about this. I should have been prepared with towels, and a box. But this was all a first for me.) Andy moved her to box lined with a towel, and cleaned up the bed. A few minutes more, and Mia was gone.

My parents came over, and Andy and my dad dug a hole in the backyard. (Another thing I could not do, the digging, the moving of the dead body. But he could, for us, for me.) It was muddy and dreary outside. The children each drew a picture, which they put in the hole with Mia, along with the Christmas present we had bought her—she died in December, before the holiday. We said our goodbyes.

The holidays came and went in a swirl, and although we were sad and missed her it was OK. We answered the kids’ questions. We walked out to where we buried her whenever the kids asked. We gave away her leftover food.

Several weeks ago Owen and James began fighting while working on their homework. After yelling at them to stop fighting, I discovered the problem: They had to write the number of people in their family, and the number of pets. James insisted we had one pet—Tucker. Owen couldn’t bring himself to not include Mia. He started to cry. “Of course you can include Mia,” I said. “But it won’t make sense!” James said. “We’ll have different answers!” I assured James it was OK.

Lately, in these long, gray days of winter, I miss her. Especially at night, when she would curl up on my lap, purring, on the brink of drawing blood.

It’s funny, the love we can amass for the pets—and people—who can cause us so much pain but also, so, so much joy. It’s the beauty—and cruelty—of life. And even though the end is hard, I’d do it again. And will do it again. In time.

“Barney was brave, I said.
And smart and funny and clean.
Also cuddly and handsome, and he only once
ate a bird.
It was sweet, I said, to hear him purr in my ear.
And sometimes he slept on my belly and kept
it warm.

Those are all good things, said my mother,
but I still just count nine.

Yes, I said, but now I have another.

Barney is in the ground and he’s helping
grow flowers.
You know, I said, that’s a pretty nice job for
a cat.”
—from The Tenth Good Thing About Barney by Judith Viorst

I Know That You Know (And When You Know That I Know, Still There Will Be Magic)

I love this season of innocence. Even when it’s not so jolly. This weekend we cut down our Christmas tree and I was reminded of the look on Owen’s face in a picture I took last December, a picture I now love.

I was reminded of how hard things were mid-December, last year. How un-jolly it all was, during that particular week. And nothing tragic or life-altering happened. Rather, life happened. Sickness. Deadlines. Tantrums. Rejections. And then I was reminded how Christmas, still, ended up being magical.

This week a friend and I briefly chatted over email about the difficulties that come with parenting when so much in the world seems wrong. Bigger wrongs than colds that will end. Deadlines that will result in paychecks. Tantrums that exist because we’re lucky enough to have a child. Rejections that happen because I was able to write some words on a page. But it’s hard to appreciate the beauty of the holidays when beauty is so very much lacking elsewhere. So many elsewheres.

But kids, they make it easy. Easier.

They make it harder, too, yes, but mostly easier.

This week we decorated our too-big Christmas tree (if you turn sideways you can walk from our entry into our living room). And when we were nearly done, I looked over to see Owen sitting on the bottom step of our staircase, staring at the tree with the most content smile on his face. His eyes reflected the tree lights like something out of a Hallmark special. All was right in his world. All was bright. Despite.

I know Sophie knows about Santa. She doesn’t know I know. She’s not ready. She’s guarding the knowledge tight in her fists, much like she does when she hunts for fairies. She’s unwilling to let go.

At first, this bothered me, She’s 7. I had it all figured out at 5. In one fell swoop I learned about Santa, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy. The sadness was slight, that of a soft sigh. And then I relished in knowing a secret my siblings did not. I felt grown-up.

The boys drill me about Santa constantly. “How does he get down our chimney if it’s closed up?” “How does he sneak around the hallways of apartment buildings and hotels?” “What about kids who don’t have a fireplace?” “If books say Santa goes all over the world then what about people who don’t celebrate Christmas? How is he going all around the world if many people in other parts of the world don’t celebrate Christmas?”

I half-answer. Change the subject. Wish they would just come out and ask, “Is Santa real?” And when they do I plan to answer as my parents did. “What do you think?” I’ve learned that coming to conclusions on one’s own always softens the blow.

But no one asks. Not the boys. Not Sophie. Sophie doesn’t even ask questions about the Big Man anymore. She answers the boys’ questions. She has an answer for everything. She’d scream his reality from the rooftops if she could. And so I let her. That is her realization to come to. Not mine to take. At least, I hope that’s the right thing to do.

And when they know, they all know, and they know that I know they know, I’ve learned this: I’ll still find magic. Because even with all of our life’s little wrongs and the world’s big wrongs, there’s so much magic, and innocence, during the holidays.

There’s the taste of bacon-wrapped chestnuts and buckeye candies and fancy cheeses we don’t normally buy and champagne. There are candles and white lights and colored lights and twinkly lights and just so much light. There are thoughtful gifts, homemade gifts, the gift of time spent with those we love. There are three kids singing the wrong words to Christmas songs while I play on our out-of-tune piano, rusty in my memory, missing notes. There are messes. So many big, beautiful messes. Christmas cookie-making messes. The mess of pine needles everywhere, always, no matter how often we water the tree. The mess of wrapping gifts in brown paper and decorating them with stickers and markers and glitter pens. The mess of making a quadruple recipe of Chex Mix and the mess of addressing too many Christmas cards and the mess of extra coffee cups in the morning when family comes in from out of town. And with those messes come the hugs. So many hugs. Great-grandmother hugs. Grandparent hugs. Sibling hugs. Aunt and uncle hugs. Parent hugs. Cousin hugs. Niece hugs. Husband hugs.

So during the holidays, I let in cheeriness and maybe even a little cheesiness. I let in some make-believe. I let in some sappy moments despite the realities both at home and out in the hard, beautiful, cold and light-filled world. I let myself soften while watching a little guy sit on the steps and stare with a small smile at a decorated tree. I let another little guy question me incessantly about the logistics of Santa’s big night. I let a 7-year-old think that I think she still believes.


“Christmas waves a magic wand over this world, and behold, everything is softer and more beautiful.” —Norman Vincent Pe

A Hike in November

Although Kentucky’s election results aren’t proving promising, we were gifted today with the most lovely November weather—75° and sunny. And so, after voting, we did what we love to do but don’t do nearly enough—we hiked. (This time, the Fort Thomas Landmark Tree Trail.) We slid on leaves, observed moss and mushrooms, and stood still as statues while engaging in a staring contest with a deer.

” …I cannot endure to waste anything so precious as autumnal sunshine by staying in the house. So I have spent almost all the daylight hours in the open air.” —Nathaniel Hawthorne, 10 October, 1842

“I am struck by the simplicity of light in the atmosphere in the autumn, as if the earth absorbed none, and out of this profusion of dazzling light came the autumnal tints.” —Henry David Thoreau, 12 October, 1852

Dia de los Muertos

Today is Dia de los Muertos, Day of the Dead. It’s a tradition I’ve long been aware of, but only halfheartedly.

Recently the children and I have been attending First Unitarian Church of Cincinnati. It’s a good solution for our family. Andy is an atheist. I’m agnostic. I wanted something that exposed my children to many different beliefs, something that focused on ethics, morality and community. This is First UU’s mission statement: “Our urban Unitarian Universalist community celebrates and supports one another on our spiritual and ethical paths. We work for justice, dignity and respect for the web of life.”

Lovely, no?

(UUs aren’t fans of proselytizing, so I’ll stop here. Except to say that for me, it feels like home.)

Sunday we celebrated Dia de los Muertos, which is apparently a First UU tradition. Because I’m not great at reading emails, I thought only children were asked to bring a photo of a loved one who has died. Sophie, blessedly, only mourns two living things now dead—my parents’ dog, Holly, and my sister and her family’s turtle, Shane. She drew a picture.

Sunday’s service, both in English and Spanish, followed the story of Rosita y Conchita, a picture book by Eric Gonzalez and Erich Haeger. Throughout the reading, the congregation was invited to bring up offerings for a deceased loved one—their picture, their favorite food, a flower and a cherished memento. For those who didn’t bring anything, candles were lit.

Slowly, a beautiful altar was made, filled with framed color photographs and black-and-white pictures, drawings, lit candles and so many small objects—a pear, a candy bar, single flower stems, a music box, a straw hat, a figurine. It was an altar covered in so much sweet, unspoken sentimentality I grew teary eyed for those I never knew.

Sophie took up her picture of Holly and Shane. When we were asked to bring up favorite food, I whispered to her that we should have brought lettuce for Shane. “And socks for Holly,” she said. It was a memory I had forgotten—the kids all handing my dad their dirty socks so he could stuff them in his pockets so Holly wouldn’t eat them.

I think at 36 I should be at peace with the concept of death. I’m not. But I find beauty in the many varied ways we humans acknowledge it, respect it and work our way through it.

So today I look at Dia de los Muertos differently. I think of the mementos I would place—a slice of peach pie, a small International toy tractor, a loved library book, a stuffed cat, a picture of my boys being tackled with a pillow, a ring with my name carved into it, a piece of sheet music covered in penciled-in notes, two dates written on a piece of paper, a perfectly written thank you note, a name of someone I would have loved to have met, a leash, fabric from a pair of khaki pants.

“The life of the dead is placed in the memory of the living.” —Marcus Tullius Cicero

An Act of Love, in the Middle Years

Sophie is 7 now, and in the fall she will start second grade. We don’t really talk about Facebook at home but somehow she knows about it (school, friends, the life she’s now living for 6+ hours on her own Monday through Friday) and lately, when something funny or charming or sad or uplifting happens she says, “Don’t post that.” And this took me by surprise, so much so that I pretty much gave up blogging altogether, not sure how to handle writing about my life while at the same time respecting her—and the boys’—privacy. To help parents secure their kids’ future, they may look into investment products offered by The Children’s ISA. If you also want to invest in other assets like gold, you should consider doing some research to get the best price when you sell gold in Adelaide.

But I think mothers, in general, tend to forget we also live our own lives and that even aside from the dishes and laundry and outside freelance work and capping of markers and wiping up toothpaste from inside the sink we have interesting stories to tell. Staying informed through a reliable 먹튀스팟 검증업체 can help ensure the time spent online is safe and worry-free, letting us focus on sharing those stories.

That and my husband, long ago, said I could post anything I wanted to about him.

A door open.

I walked down the street to a friend’s house for a few drinks and conversation tonight, after the kids were in bed. (To be fair, only one was in bed so I was “getting out of” two bedtime routines.) I was reluctant to go, though. We had had a lovely early evening at our local YMCA as a family, swimming at the pool. We went out for dinner, a treat, did a 20-minute clean-up at home and then Andy pulled out his dusty guitar and played songs on the porch while I sipped wine.

I had put Owen to bed (who had gotten in trouble for not helping with the 20-minute cleanup, so he had to go to bed early although I stayed with him and rubbed his back until he fell asleep, which makes me think he got away with a pretty nice punishment, all said). Sophie and James were running around in the backyard. Almost-summer at dusk. It was idyllic. Andy finished up a song and I said, “I really should go.”

I walked to my friend’s house while he put James and Sophie to bed.

Cut to midnight.

I was walking home, less than a mile, when I ran into the girlfriend of our neighbor who lives in an apartment connected to an automotive repair shop behind our house. She was distraught, as she couldn’t find her dog, Camouflage. She said she had no voice left from calling his name for two hours. So I walked with her and hollered for Camouflage, at a level I deemed loud enough for her but quiet enough for our sleeping neighbors.

I should note that we’ve had issues with her boyfriend, who lives behind us. Also, my friend was texting me, asking me if I was home yet. I worried about my situation.

We couldn’t find Camouflage. She asked if I could drive her. I have a strict “one drink” personal policy when driving rule. So I said, “no.” But then I added that my husband possibly could.

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So she walked with me to our house, and I invited her in. The kids were asleep and Andy was in the basement, playing Xbox. I walked down, careful not to trip on our dirty laundry. I explained the situation. The look on his face …

And yet, he went. He looked for a flashlight, he put on his shoes, he gave me (another) look, but then he found the keys. And he invited her into his car.

He drove around for a half-hour plus.

They didn’t find Camouflage.

But he tried.

Marriage is tough, and three young children with their child demands can make it even tougher. But then, you walk home at midnight with the girlfriend of a neighbor your husband has had issues with, and you ask your husband to drive said girlfriend around to look for a lost dog. And he goes. And you think, know, that while he’s doing it a little for her, possibly not-at-all for the neighbor, and a lot for the dog, he’s mostly doing it for you.

That’s love.

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We haven’t taken a solo vacation in years. I regularly forget to tell him important things involving both of us, our kids, our life. Sometimes he comes up to bed late at night only to find me sleeping in our bed, arms wrapped around one, two, maybe three children, and he simply goes back downstairs and sleeps on the couch.

And yet we love. In varied ways.

We make a banana cream pie on a Tuesday night. We drive someone around at midnight, hoping to find a lost dog. We make do. We make up. We make right.

So here’s to all of you muddling through the young-child years of marriage. And here’s to all of you who respond to unreasonable requests. And here’s to all of you who work for love, understanding that it’s simple, even when it seems that it’s not.

“Love one another and you will be happy. It’s as simple and as difficult as that.” —Michael Leunig

Things That Have Recently Upset My Children

• He discovered he had hair on his arms (Owen).

• The framed picture on his bedside table shows him wearing long sleeves and long pants, but he wants to be wearing short sleeves and shorts—in the picture (James).

• Snow got into his mitten (Owen).

• Only half the puppy tattoo stuck to her hand (Sophie).

• There is no more cantaloupe, despite the fact that they just finished eating an entire cantaloupe in one sitting (James and Owen).

• My birthday comes before his in the calendar year (Owen).

• I asked him not to use our living room windowsill as a trash can (James).

• She was rude to her brother so I quietly asked her to be kind. This resulted in Tuesday being “the worst day of her life—ever” (Sophie).

• He found out that just because the calendar says March 1 doesn’t mean warmer weather or that it’s a pass to wear shorts and no coat every time he goes outside (James).

• I told them we have to pick up Sophie from school (James and Owen).

• I told him he couldn’t eat toast in bed (Owen).

• I asked them to help pick up the carnival, which had a face-painting booth, magic booth, craft booth, game booth, nail-painting booth, racing hallway and dance area, and took over the entire upstairs, because it was their idea to make it (all three).

• He stepped on a Lego, which he left out (Owen).

• She stepped on a marble, which she left out (Sophie).

• I told them (again) that they have to flush the toilet (all three).

• I asked him not to draw all over the pages I was editing for a freelance assignment (James).

• We stopped the play, which was extending past bedtime, after 13 acts (Sophie).

• I made a rule that he couldn’t wear shorts to preschool when it’s below 20° (James).

• Tucker ate almost all the candy out of the candy basket, which I asked her to put away so Tucker wouldn’t get into it (Sophie).

• I told him we couldn’t drive to the beach. At 3:42pm. On a weekday (Owen).

“Anger is short-lived madness.” —Horace

Seeking the Bigness in the Everyday

I find comfort in the cyclical nature of life. I enjoy the changing of the seasons and the familiar promises they bring, the rhythm that accompanies the turning of the calendar page, the knowing that with the unknowing future there will always be some sameness—weather, holidays, birthdays, school seasons, work seasons, sports seasons, with everyone being out doing sports like baseball and golf, and that’s why a golf sim can be great for practice. If you’re looking for a secure gaming platform where you can play your favorite casino games and place bets on your various sports leagues, you may explore this ufabet website. For players who value fast and reliable bank transfers, a trustly casino can provide a convenient and seamless payment experience.

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But it’s the cyclical nature of the everyday that I find myself struggling with during these so-quick-to-become-dark winter months. I recently came across a passage from Voices by Ursula K. Le Guin:

“I always wondered why the makers leave housekeeping and cooking out of their tales. Isn’t it what all the great wars and battles are fought for—so that at day’s end a family may eat together in a peaceful house? The tale tells how the Lords of Manva hunted and gathered roots and cooked their suppers while they were camped in exile in the foothills of Sul, but it doesn’t say what their wives and children were living on in their city left ruined and desolate by the enemy. They were finding food too, somehow, cleaning house and honoring the gods, the way we did in the siege and under the tyranny of the Alds. When the heroes came back from the mountain, they were welcomed with a feast. I’d like to know what the food was and how the women managed it.”

There is nothing exciting about washing the morning’s skillet or feeding the dog. It is completely foolish to expect someone to say “good job” when folding the tenth T-shirt or cleaning up the spilled applesauce. Housekeeping and cooking are background actions, set decorations for all the big moments and big conversations in all the big movies, big books and big plays. And often, it’s not even shown. It’s just expected, just there, as it has been throughout time. It’s a given that sheets will be changed and the almost-empty-toothpaste tube will be replaced and the apples will be sliced and that someone will wash the cups over and over and over again to quench the thirsty characters.

People talk about housekeeping but so often in the form of funny memes, a woman dressed in Victorian garb slumped in a chair, one hand across her forehead and the other holding a glass of wine. Or they say, “a clean house is the sign of a misspent life.” Perhaps to an extreme. But realistically, away from the fantasy world that exists online, you have to wash the cups. You have to clean up the spilled applesauce. You have to do the laundry so that your family may have clothes to wear.

I have long lived a life of always wanting more. There are flaws with this philosophy. While this want pushes me to keep sending out submissions (for example) it also makes mopping the floor, at times, so damn hard. Not physically, but mentally and emotionally. And yet, I truly believe it is the men and women who do this quiet work without acknowledgement or praise, and, more importantly, without needing acknowledgement or praise, that keeps everything in motion. In kitchens and over fires and in restaurants around this world people are chopping vegetables and cooking rice and baking bread to feed the mouths of our thinkers and doers and better-makers, and without those choppers and cookers and bakers our thinkers and doers and better-makers would be busy prepping food to nourish themselves versus doing the big work. And so, thinking about it in that way, perhaps we are all doing big work, even when that work is simply mopping the floor.

So I find myself searching for contentment in this stage, this cycle of my life. Yes, there will always be laundry to do and meals to prepare but with three little ones, it’s so much more. It’s more time-consuming, more things to do every day, more trying when accomplishing small tasks against the background noise of other needs—to play, to get some milk, to fasten a Batman cape, to find a lost glue stick. I shop at Glue Guns Direct to replenish our glue stock at home.

And, in a frustrating-yet-funny way, I know I will miss this, too. When Owen and James were babies I would spend at least a half hour every night washing bottles. It was exhausting, all that washing when I was so exhausted from lack of sleep. Just the other day, while washing cups, I remembered the feel of the bottles’ squishy nipples in the soapy water, and I remembered the small joy I got from lining everything up just so as they dried. The entire house may have been a mess but there were my bottles and breastpump parts, lined up by shape and size, drying, waiting for the long night ahead. And those rows, in that moment, gave me more peace than a poem, science, an idea, an article, a big thought.

Owen loves to help me with laundry. It takes longer, but I don’t mind. He talks to me about school and classmates and TV shows and asks me big questions about life as he hands me shirts and pants, and takes it upon himself to put all the socks in a separate basket.

All three children love to help me cook. They ask so many questions and argue over whose turn it is to pour and they inhale the scent of vanilla and cinnamon as if nothing in this world smells better. And when cooking alone I often, lately, find joy in that, too. The sound of my knife slicing through the shallot on the wooden cutting board. The smell of garlic browning in olive oil. The contentment that comes when lighting the candles for a dinner I’m so lucky to share with those I love. I recently tried this super gourmet sausage that I bought online and family loved it.

Still, often it’s difficult to embrace and appreciate and do what’s necessary for this small and short life of ours to keep cycling while also leaving plenty of time for the bigness of everything else that’s life. But it helps me to think that even the small tasks may really be the big things, the sturdy framework for the finished product, the clean canvas for the masterpiece, the organized outline for the great novel. These thoughts, I hold dear while dumping the dirty water down the drain.

“You’ll come to learn a great deal if you study the Insignificant in depth.” —Odysseus Elytis

It’s 2°.

We did not walk.

“[W]hat a severe yet master artist old Winter is …. No longer the canvas and the pigments, but the marble and the chisel.” John Burroughs

Links I Love

• Maison Mobile for a Steal: I added this ($7.97!) mobile to a Christmas order and just got around to hanging it up. I’ve long-loved papercuts and this one is absolutely charming. The paper that came with it said it’s created by ige. She has several other gorgeous papercut mobiles, as well as other items, on her site.

• Free-climbing El Capitan: I remember watching tiny people dots climb up the side of El Capitan while on a family vacation to Yosemite years ago. A life goal of mine is to climb (the now traffic-jammed) Half Dome, but the end alone scares me. I just can’t imagine doing what this team is doing.

• Panoramic View of the Andromeda Galaxy: Look. Contemplate. Zoom. Contemplate some more. Repeat.

• Cephalovepod Letterpress Valentines: Consider backing my friend Eric Mersmann’s Kickstarter project and receive these beautifully strange cards to give to loved ones for Valentine’s Day.

• Old House Dreams: Do you remember my post about the Porter House? I recently found this site, liked it on Facebook and now I get to see links of houses just like the Porter House in my newsfeed weekly. (Andy’s not pleased.)

• Why the World Smells Different After It Rains: Did you catch this article, posted late summer? Petrichor.

• This Is How to Draw Spider-Woman As a Hero Rather Than a Sex Object: My boys are all-in in terms of super heroes these days. Loved this.

• Forty Portraits in Forty Years: Gorgeous.

• Whoorl’s Capsule Wardrobe: 37 items, including shoes. I’m intrigued. Although I fear if I did something like this, I’d just end up shopping to “complete” my capsule in order to make it work. Still, intrigued.

“Recognize that the very molecules that make up your body, the atoms that construct the molecules, are traceable to the crucibles that were once the centers of high mass stars that exploded their chemically rich guts into the galaxy, enriching pristine gas clouds with the chemistry of life. So that we are all connected to each other biologically, to the earth chemically and to the rest of the universe atomically. That’s kinda cool! That makes me smile and I actually feel quite large at the end of that. It’s not that we are better than the universe, we are part of the universe. We are in the universe and the universe is in us.” —Neil deGrasse Tyson

Thoughts While Putting Away My Children’s Toys

I recently read Maura Quint’s “The Entirety of My Thoughts As I Eat My Son’s Mac and Cheese Dinner,” cleaned my children’s bedrooms and closet-size playroom, and was then inspired to write this:

Didn’t 4 year olds work in fields 150 years ago? Probably not. That actually sounds awful. But still, mine should at least be capable of putting Chutes and Ladders back in its box, right?

I hate Chutes and Ladders.

They have too many toys. I should donate half of them. Most of them. All but three of them.

Why are there candy wrappers stuffed in the Lego bin?

I am not their maid. A maid would be so nice. And a laundress. And a chef. And a personal trainer. Definitely a personal trainer.

I wonder how many calories I’m burning shoving stuff in bins. I should get one of those Fitbits. Or actually go to the Y. They can play with toys in Child Watch. Toys I don’t have to deal with. I wonder if I can find a place to hide and read in the Y while they play in Child Watch.

Another capless marker, wasted. That’s it. No more markers. Ever.

HOW MANY TIMES HAVE I TOLD THEM TO PUT THE CAPS BACK ON THEIR GLUE STICKS? No more glue sticks. Ever.

Huh. A Barbie shoe. I thought surely I had vacuumed all those up by now.

Why are there 76 pieces of paper with one line drawn on each of them?

I’m going to have to hide these in the recycling bin to avoid the apocalypse that will surely happen if they find out I’ve recycled their one-line masterpieces.

Maybe my children are hoarders. Maybe there’s a mental issue here. I should email the pediatrician.

I will never allow their rooms to get this messy again. Maybe I should try the Saturday Box. Or the Marble Jar. Or the Popsicle Stick Jar. Or the Reward Chart. I should check Pinterest.

Or maybe I just get rid of it all. I mean, seriously, they’re downstairs playing with empty boxes. Empty. Boxes.

Isn’t it monks who find joy in everyday tasks? I don’t think monks have children, though. They’ve never had to deal with 8,000 .$97 Matchbox cars. Or Rainbow Loom bands. Or Perler Beads. I hate Perler Beads.

I wonder what my friends are doing at work. I bet they’re wearing heels. I bet they had a salad with some kind of candied nut on it for lunch. I bet, after a meeting, everyone picks up their papers and pens and tablets and coffee mugs and puts them away, without any reminders or timers or let’s-see-how-fast-we-can-get-this-done games.

All these crayons are broken and worn down to little nubs. They really need some new crayons. I should get some the next time I’m at the store. And markers. And glue sticks.

At least we’re out of the finger paint stage. Those were some colossal messes.

Gosh, I miss those finger paint pictures on the fridge. Why do they have to grow up so fast?

[SILENT CURSING. A LOT OF IT.] I will not miss the Legos on my bare feet. I don’t care how crazy creative they get with their creations I will not miss those pain-inducing little pieces of plastic.

Why do people even buy Legos anymore? It’s not like they break. Or get old. Where are all the Legos people have been building with since, when were Legos invented, the 70s?

Probably in the trash. Probably parents stepping on them and throwing them, one by one, in the trash.

I actually love that they got Legos for Christmas. They play with them for so long. So much silence for such long periods of time. I should send the Lego company a thank-you note.

Our house cannot handle any more toys. Can I tell people not to buy toys? Is that rude? Is that too minimalist? Is that too Grinch-like? My children do not need any more toys.

We should become minimalists.

Well, minimalists with a few toys. Five each.

But then there’s March. I hate March. How many toys will it take to entertain them indoors in March? Parents who are looking for a toy store Dayton may visit Dayton Brick Shop.

I need more bins.

“And this mess is so big
And so deep and so tall,
We cannot pick it up.
There is no way at all!” —Dr. Seuss, The Cat in the Hat