parenthood

Work

Sophie knows that Andy goes to work every day. And that he works on a computer every day. And that his work earns our family money every day.

She attends a Montessori preschool and the word “work” is used often. So she also understands work as an activity she pulls off of a shelf and takes to a small rug to complete.

But I don’t think she quite understands my work. She certainly doesn’t consider the stay-at-home-mom work I do every day as work. And I don’t want her to think of my taking care of her as “work,” even though every once in awhile I secretly would like her to know that the reason she has food every day and clean clothes every day and a bath (most) days is because of the “work” Andy and I do.

But I also have other work, freelance editing and writing work. I’ve tried to explain this work to her. But she simply thinks (and tells people) that my job is playing on the computer. Lately, however, my editing work has been a bit more old-fashioned—I’ve been editing on paper, with a red pen. And having grown tired of all-nighters (something I was able to do quite easily in college, but has become increasingly hard for me the older I get), I’ve been trying to do more of this work during the day, while the boys nap. Sophie is intrigued by this work. And after hearing me say “no” for the 10th time to her request to “help” me with my work (which invariably involves drawing a flower on the pages I’m editing, something I’m sure my editors love) she gets out her own work.

We have never pushed workbooks or flashcards or the like on Sophie, thinking that she will have enough of that in her lifetime. But we’ve also discovered that she loves workbooks. Loves them. She loves tracing letters and doing simple addition and subtraction and finding opposites and differentiating between big and small. Of course, she loves playing with her plastic princess figurines and wooden castle and ponies and dolls much more. But when she sees me doing my work, she insists on doing her work. Hence the picture above (and yes, she’s wearing her bathing suit and sporting a train tattoo on her arm).

She concentrates so hard on this work. And she zips through workbooks so quickly. Grandma and Paw Paw brought her two this weekend, and she’s almost through both of them.

I love that she loves her work. I love that she’s eager to learn. I love the way she wrinkles her brow and purses her lip when she’s trying to think something through. But I also worry. I got As and Bs (and some Cs) in school, but unlike some people, I had to work for the grades—really work for them. And I stressed over my work. This was not my parents’ doing. In fact, they once approached a parent-teacher conference with concern over the amount of time I was spending, worrying about homework. As such, for the rest of the year, my teacher would put a time limit on the top of all my homework assignments, big, red, circled. Once the time limit was up, I had to stop, no matter how unfinished, how imperfect. At first, this additional hurtle worried me to no end. But in the end, it was one of the greatest gifts ever given to me.

I think the best kind of work is work that doesn’t feel like work. I feel those who live that life are lucky. I try to live that life, with caring for my children and my other work, my writing and editing. (But trust me, when it’s 2am and I still have hours of editing left, I often don’t feel lucky.) I also admire those who find joy in work I love to hate—laundry, scrubbing bathrooms, weeding, even cooking. I strive to find joy, fulfillment and contentment in these everyday chores. Some days I do, some days I don’t—even when I remind myself to be grateful that I have a yard to weed, bathrooms to scrub, clothes to wash and good food to cook.

But for now, it’s clear Sophie finds great joy in her work, tracing letters, X’ing big stars and circling little stars, matching. So I let her be. Let her grow. Let her learn. And I hope that passion for work stays with her always, not in an every-day always, but in a big-picture always. And perhaps most, I hope her grownup work is work she loves just as much as her childhood work. Work she looks forward to doing, enjoys doing, loves having done. I realize this requires a combination of skill, luck and attitude, but it’s something I so desperately want for her, for all my children, for everyone.

“Nothing is really work unless you would rather be doing something else.” —James Matthew Barrie

Water and Lavender

A couple weeks ago, Sophie’s room was a mess. (Actually, Sophie’s room always seems to be a mess as of late but I’m talking about one particular day in which it was a mess, a couple weeks ago.) I had to shower. So I asked her to clean her room while I showered.

Halfway through my shower she came into the bathroom (little people coming into the bathroom while I shower is perfectly normal to me now), climbed up on the stool and filled a plastic spray bottle with water. I remembered seeing that spray bottle already full, only five minutes before.

I stuck my head outside the plastic shower curtain, soap still in my hair.

“Sophie, what are you doing?” I asked.

“Cleaning my room,” she said.

“Why do you need water in a spray bottle to clean your room? And what happened to all the water that was in the spray bottle before?” I asked.

“I told you! I’m cleaning my room!” she said.

I really wanted to finish my shower. I hate having to grab a towel, get out, figure out why someone is crying/yelling/not making any noise mid-shower. I hate that water gets everywhere when I do that, I hate how shampoo drips in my eyes when I do that and I hate feeling hot and then cold and then hot again when I do that.

So I (foolishly) ignored the situation.

When I was done with my shower and properly dried off, I walked into Sophie’s room. I felt my bare feet squish into carpet soaked with water. Nothing had been picked up. And sprigs of dried lavender were scattered all over the floor.

“Why is the carpet wet?” I asked (clearly she had sprayed every inch of it with her spray bottle, but I wanted to know why). “And why is there lavender everywhere? And why haven’t you cleaned at all?”

“I have been cleaning!” she said. “The whole time! I cleaned the carpet with my spray bottle. And spread lavender everywhere to make it smell good. That’s cleaning.”

I thought of all my lavender-scented cleaning products, and how she loves to sniff them when I’m using them. I sighed. The carpet eventually dried. I helped her pick up her toys. And I’m still, occasionally, finding little sprigs for lavender in her room.

“Love is the thing that enables a woman to sing while she mops up the floor after her husband has walked across it in his barn boots.” —Hoosier Farmer

What the Girl at the Park Has Taught Me

Last summer I wrote about a girl I met at a park, here. Today the essay is featured on The Huffington Post, here.

Softball has started up again, and a couple weeks ago I took the children to one of Andy’s early games. As usual, we spent more time at the playground than we did on the bleachers, watching the game (thankfully, Andy is understanding about this). The girl at the park was there again, a little taller, a little wiser—just like Sophie. I believe she’s often there. She and Sophie played again, raced again, played tag again, had fun again.

That night I decided to straight-up ask Sophie about the girl’s missing arm. I felt like last summer I sort of glossed over it and I have long wondered if that was the appropriate thing to do. So I asked her about the girl at the park. I asked her about the girl’s missing arm.

Sophie didn’t believe me. She said it wasn’t missing. “She was hiding it,” Sophie said, “behind her back.”

My heart broke a little bit when she said this. It was as if she couldn’t accept the fact that someone might be missing something as important as an arm.

“No, Sophie.” I said. “She wasn’t hiding it behind her back. She only has one arm. But that’s OK. It doesn’t hurt her. And did you see all the things she was doing on the playground? She climbed everything you climbed. She ran just like all the other kids ran. When you hugged her, she hugged you back. She’s just like you and me, except she doesn’t have an arm. And some people only have one arm.”

Sophie shook her head. “That’s not true!” she said. “She was just hiding it!”

I so wanted to tell her she was right. I so wanted to keep her in the bubble of innocence she—we—had built around her. But I knew I couldn’t. That I shouldn’t.

“No, Sophie,” I said. “I’m telling the truth. She wasn’t hiding her arm. She only had one arm.”

And then, I kept going.

“Some people,” I said, “don’t have any arms at all. And some people are missing a leg. Or both legs.”

Sophie, on the verge of tears asked, “Then how do they walk?”

I told her about legs that doctors can make. I told her about wheelchairs. I told her about all the wonderful things medicine and society has done to help people.

And still, I kept going. I told her that some people don’t have an eye, or they’re missing fingers or maybe some toes.

I kept going, not noticing Sophie’s quivering lip, not paying attention to the little voice in my brain saying, STOP! YOU ARE TOTALLY FREAKING HER OUT!, not realizing that in her mind, she was probably picturing one single person without arms, legs, ears, eyes and a nose.

She burst into tears.

“It’s not true, Mommy! That doesn’t really happen! Stop saying that!”

Andy just looked at me, wide eyed, wondering what in the world I was doing to our daughter.

I then wondered why mandatory parenting classes for these types of conversations don’t exist.

I calmed Sophie down. I reminded her all the wonderful things the girl at the park was able to do. I assured her that most people who are missing something are missing only one thing—not all the things I listed. But I kept pushing. I wanted to make sure she believed that, for some people, this was their reality. And that missing these parts didn’t make them less of a person—rather more times than not people living life missing something on the outside gained a lot more on the inside—courage, determination, compassion. I felt like it was time she wasn’t so oblivious. I wanted her to know that if she saw things she had questions about, that she could talk to us. I needed her to know that there are hardships in life, hardships beyond me saying “no” to dessert after a poorly eaten dinner.

But it was past her bedtime. She was visibly shaken, her cheeks tear-stained. Andy insisted I stop. We put her to bed. I so wanted to bring it up again, to talk about it some more, but I bit my tongue. Another time, I thought.

I still don’t know what she thinks. Does she still really believe the girl was hiding her arm behind her back? Or did my words get through to her? To find out, I know I need to bring it up again. I think this, with a heavy sigh.

The few comments I’ve received on The Huffington Post have made me realize something else about myself and my family: I don’t do enough. I write. I remember. I’m grateful. I donate. I give money. But I don’t do enough. You can read readers’ comments to my essay here. (And I should note that I don’t associate the girl’s missing arm to poverty and I, honestly, don’t pretend to be privy to her economic situation—only that I simply wrote about what I saw.)

Here is the response I posted on the HuffPo site:

Thank you for your comments. You are so very right in action being as important as remembrance. We were given so many baby-related things when our children were born (and we still benefit from hand-me-downs from many people as our children grow). I’m thankful for that and continually try to pay that forward, as my children outgrow what’s been given to us. I used to volunteer as a mentor but gave that up once I had children, thinking I didn’t have enough time. But do I really not have enough time? I certainly have time to watch a TV show in the evening. I had time to write this. Your words have reminded me that awareness and donated items isn’t enough—more action is what equals more change. And now that my children are getting older (my daughter just turned 4) I love the idea about getting them involved, in hopes that throughout their lives they, too, won’t just remember the girl at the park but be inspired by the girl at the park—DO something about the girl at the park. So thank you.

So this is where I ask your help. What do you do? What organizations are you a part of that address poverty, specifically? How do you get your entire family involved so that the innocence bubble is not just replaced with sometimes-sad reality, but the idea that yes, this is the reality but we can change that reality. Because I want to help change it. I want my children to help change it. I think we have a responsibility to help change it.

The girl at the park has taught me so much. About me. About how my children view the world. About our world. And I think doing something is the best way I can thank her. For it is good to be grateful, yes. But it’s much better to give someone else something to be grateful about.

“Seldom do people discern
Eloquence under a threadbare cloak.” —Juvenal

We Are All OK

Recently Sophie has enjoyed playing upstairs in her bedroom or our teeny tiny playroom, by herself. This is both weird and wonderful for me, although I admit, when she’s up there for a couple hours, I find myself missing her. But I know I need to respect her alone time.

When I’m downstairs with the boys, I’ll often yell up, “Sophie! Are you OK?” And she’ll yell back “Yes!” If I do this too often, her “Yes!” becomes “Yes, Mom! I’m OK!” (in a completely different tone).

Owen has picked up on this. His favorite thing to do this week is stand at the bottom of the stairs and yell, as loud as he can, “Sophie! Are you OK?” Sophie humors him the first five times, by answering politely. Once tired of it, she yells, “Owen! I’m OK! Stop asking me if I’m OK!” A minute later Owen is yelling up the stairs, “Sophie, are you OK?”

I tell Sophie to ignore him. I reassure Owen that Sophie is, indeed, OK. Still, Sophie responds every time, more and more exasperated.

I know. This is my fault.

But I sort of love it.

“Always end the name of your child with a vowel, so that when you yell the name will carry.” —Bill Cosby

Green vs. Pink

Sophie still loves the jolly old man with the long white beard and red velvet coat (what 4-year-old doesn’t?) but she has some questions for him—well, as of late, one question in particular. I thought we were long over this. Turns out, we’re not. A few weeks ago Sophie and my mom were talking about Sophie’s scooter, the one big gift she wanted for Christmas. She told my mom how much she liked riding it but added, “I don’t know why he got me a green one, though, when I asked for pink.”

And she did ask for pink. We were well aware she wanted pink. Pink, pink, pink. Andy spent a lot of time researching scooters and, honestly, we blew her Christmas budget getting her a nice one, a safe one, one that could be passed down to her brothers when she was through with it. And yes, of course, her brothers could ride a pink scooter. I have no problem with that. But would they want to? And what’s more, almost everything Sophie owns is pink. Everything else she was getting for Christmas was pink. So Santa put a green scooter under the Christmas tree.

Sophie hasn’t always been obsessed with pink. The first time we let her pick out her own shoes we ended up in the boy section because she wanted dark navy light-up Buzz Lightyear shoes. And she loved them.

She had baby dolls and a pink stroller when she was younger, yes, but she also had a wooden train set and a play kitchen painted primary white, red and blue. I dressed her in jeans all the time. She refused to wear accessories in her hair. Up until about six months ago, we didn’t own a single Disney princess movie. Instead, she preferred “Finding Nemo” and “Cars.”

And then pink happened. And by happened, I mean happened. She wanted everything to be pink—her clothes, her toys, her room, her cup, her plate. She took notice of when the Sundance Catalog arrived in the mail and she’d spend 20 minutes pointing out jewelry, saying big words like “beautiful” and “gorgeous.” She played “princess” and “wedding” and threw lavish parties for queens. The worst? She started qualifying things. “Those are girl toys,” she’d say, walking past an aisle exploding with all things glitter and pink in Target. Or, even worse, “That’s a boy book,” she’d say, pointing to a book about insects.

Cue me totally freaking out.

This, of course, led to to me spending several hours online one night, with a glass of wine in hand, researching the matter and stumbling across books like Peggy Orenstein’s Cinderella Ate My Daughter: Dispatches from the Front Lines of the New Girlie-Girl Culture, Jennifer L. Hartstein’s Princess Recovery: A How-to Guide to Raising Strong, Empowered Girls Who Can Create Their Own Happily Ever Afters and Cordelia Fine’s Delusions of Gender: How Our Minds, Society, and Neurosexism Create Difference.

Now, to be fair, I should note that I didn’t actually read any of these books (which is honestly how I usually treat parenting books—I freak out, I spend hours researching them, I buy them, and they collect dust on my bedside table while I lament that I never have any time to read anything, usually while doing something like watching “Downton Abbey”). I did, however, read the descriptions and reviews on Amazon, which was enough to convince me that Cinderella is, indeed, eating my daughter and somehow, somewhere along the way we totally screwed up (if I had to pinpoint an exact moment, it was probably the evening I ordered her a chandelier for her bedroom—although, I admit, I love that chandelier).

And now our child has issues with the Big Man who lives in the North Pole because green “isn’t a pretty color.”

But here’s what I struggle with: Sophie loves pink. She loves flowers and rainbows and glitter and sparkle and jewelry and dresses. Right or wrong, it’s part of who she is. And by denying her some of that, by guiding her away from that, by implying that what she likes is somehow wrong, isn’t that just as stifling to her individuality than if I told her she couldn’t wear boy Buzz Lightyear shoes because they’re dark blue?

I think, like most things, there has to be balance. For Christmas she received a princess dress. And a princess castle. Her brothers got her a Fancy Nancy board game. She got lots of pink. But she also got a green scooter. A nice, well-made scooter that will last her several years and when she’s through with it, will be (hopefully) in fine enough condition for the boys to use, too. The choice was economical. But not purely. Even at 4, I think it’s good and appropriate that she not always receives everything she asks for, exactly as she wants it—even when it’s the thing she wants most for Christmas. And honestly, Andy and I were simply becoming overwhelmed with all the pink. We worried about the culture of pink. We worried that more pink would create more division of “boy things” and “girl things,” when, in reality, things are just things.

Come Christmas morning Sophie was quiet about the scooter. She was happy to receive it, yes, but there was no jumping up and down. It was a reserved happiness. We worried. She insisted on keeping the long, red satin ribbon tied on it so that “it would be pretty.” I couldn’t decide if we had made a good parenting decision or a a terrible one. I was torn.

Fast forward to warmer weather, to spring:

She loves her scooter. The satin ribbon has long been taken off. Every day I put the boys in the wagon and we follow her, a blur of pink and green, as she navigates the sidewalk on our street. (I should note Owen loves these wagon rides but in this picture I had just put on his TOT collar—for his torticollis—which usually he doesn’t mind, but for whatever reason on this particular day he was crazy upset about it.) She laughs and every day tries to go faster and faster and faster—and it’s been weeks since she’s lamented about her now-favorite toy’s color.

I believe we made the right decision. I believe it’s OK to let her choose her own clothes and I believe it’s OK that almost everything is pink—it’s what she wants, it’s what she likes. I believe it’s OK if she watches Disney princess movies and wears tiaras around the house and has pretend weddings. But I also believe that it’s my job as a parent to correct her when she claims some things are for boys while others are for girls. That I need to expose her to books and television shoes and movies and board games and toys that are all colors of the rainbow, that cover many different subjects … activities that require fine china, tiaras and pretty dresses, and activities that require dirty knees, dump trucks and bug boxes. I believe that somehow we have to acknowledge who she is and what she likes while also exposing her to the world at large—because with exposure comes new interests, new likes and, most importantly, new ways of thinking.

I’d love to hear your thoughts on the matter. One of which, I’m sure will be, “read those books.” In the meantime I plan to let her dig in the dirt while wearing tutus, play superhero while wearing a (pink) cape and have as many pretend weddings as she wants (even if she’s marrying my husband over and over). And although I can pretty much guarantee she’ll be wearing pink, I expect her to ride her scooter daily—even if it is, green.

“We’ve begun to raise daughters more like sons … but few have the courage to raise our sons more like our daughters.” —Gloria Steinem

Crème Brûlée for Dinner

For this I am either a terrible parent or a fantastic parent—I suppose the answer lies in who you ask.

Sophie ran errands with me all afternoon. We dropped off clothes I’ve been meaning to have dry cleaned for more than a year (I don’t have occasion to wear dry-clean-only clothes often) at Atlas Cleaners. We went to a gorgeous old Victorian way up in Hamilton so I could pick up a lot of milk glass I won on an estate sale auction site (I blame you, Danielle, for this). We had a nice, long visit with my parents. Next up, the mall. I had a birthday present to buy and an item to return, and Sophie and I were hungry. I had every intention of going to the food court. Instead we ended up at Maggiano’s. We sat on high, leather chairs at a high-top table next to a glossy black grand piano. I ordered us both crème brûlées (not knowing how big they were), white milk for Sophie and coffee for me—dinner.

Sophie was thrilled. She cracked into the crème brûlée and said how much she liked it. She carefully wiped her lips with a white cloth napkin. When she was stuffed from the richness of the dessert, she started scraping off the caramelized sugar and eating it alone. And then, the prom goers showed up. Sophie was beside herself, with the tall cup of white milk, the huge dessert (for dinner!) and the dozens of young women surrounding her in beautiful dresses (at one point I had to tell her to stop pointing and saying “gorgeous!” every time another prom goer walked through the front doors).

“This is like a princess world,” she said.

And, for a 4-year-old, it was.

We finished our dessert dinner, left the restaurant and purchased the birthday gift. We tried on sparkly, deeply discounted jewelry and laughed at ourselves in a floor-length mirror. We went to the Disney store and Sophie held every single princess gown in front of her, swirling in front of the triple mirror in the princess castle, waving wands and trying on tiaras. We left the Disney store and walked to the indoor fountain. She was so giddy. On sugar. On trying on sparkly jewelry. On pretending to be a princess.

She asked for a coin so that she could make a wish. As usual, I had none (they always go straight to my Paris Fund jar). I told her to simply close her eyes and make a wish—that it would still count.

And then, my stomach hurt. Maybe it was all that crème brûlée on an otherwise empty stomach. Maybe it was the number of shoppers swarming around us, arms filled with luxury goods from high-end stores. Maybe it was all the glitter in the Disney store. But I feared about what she was going to wish for. I feared about the decadence of the evening. That it was simply too much—allowing a 4-year-old to have dessert for dinner (and crème brûlée at that!). Trying on sparkly jewelry with her. Letting her spend 20 minutes in the Disney store pretending to be a princess. I feared she was going to wish for crème brûlée for dinner every night, or sparkly jewelry, or a princess gown, or anything from the Disney store for that matter.

But she didn’t.

She closed her eyes tightly, breathed in and opened her eyes.

“What did you wish for?” I asked.

“That a rainbow would appear,” she said.

And then she was off, skipping, taking care to follow the lines made by the fancy mall’s tile floor.

I immediately calmed.

We returned the item we needed to return and then walked through Nordstrom. I tried on some Coco Chanel parfum. She wanted to, too. I debated, and then remembered her wish for the rainbow. I spritzed some on her wrist. She inhaled, deeply, and smiled. “Now what?” she asked. I showed her how to rub her wrists together. She did. She inhaled again. She was deliriously happy.

We took a wrong turn when leaving the mall. It was chilly so I had her put on the Red Riding Hood-esque cape my mom made for her for her birthday. I had no idea where the van was. Sophie took charge of the situation, claiming her cape was magic and that it would find the car. We ran around the outside of Nordstrom, past entrance after entrance (seriously, how many entrances does a store need?), hoping to outrun the goblins that were after us, and the darkness that was upon us.

We eventually found the van (for which I was secretly extremely thankful for, as I have a terrible sense of direction and we could have very well wandered around the parking lot a good 20 more minutes before we found it) and she climbed in, exhausted, happy. Despite the decadence of the evening, I hadn’t bought her a thing, except the crème brûlée and milk that filled her belly. No princess dress. No tiara. No Coco Chanel parfum (which she did ask for, and which I immediately said no to, for many, many reasons).

I know some (most) of the evening was ridiculous in its extravagance. But I hope, when she thinks back to this evening (if she ever does) that it’s not the sparkly jewelry or the princess dresses or the expensive parfum she remembers. Rather it’s that we had crème brûlée for dinner, an unheard of treat. That she wished for a rainbow. That we outran goblins while trying to find our van (and that we did so, smelling awfully good).

“You live but once; you might as well be amusing.” —Coco Chanel

The Middle-of-the-Night Cold

Sophie is:

wide awake at 10:53pm

watching the all-hours Sprouts channel (so this is why they play children’s shows so late at night)

in our bed

sweaty but cold

rubbing her always-watering eyes endlessly

making awful sounds when she breathes.

She calms, for a few moments, then sits up, a sobbing mess.

She says:

“My eyes! They just keep watering every time I try to settle down!”

“This medicine [children’s Claritin, we thought it was allergies due to the fact that we were outside all day and her eyes were so watery] isn’t doing anything!”

“I can’t stop crying!”

“My nose! I need a tissue! My nose!”

“Mommy, I just don’t want to be sick!”

I scratch her back. Revisit her favorite lullaby. Listen to her snore softly, during the few minutes she’s asleep, before the next coughing fit starts. Wonder what it would be like to have all three kids like this, in the middle of the night, at once. Knock on wood (literally) after thinking such thoughts. Wonder where Andy is going to sleep tonight. Wonder how parents do this with children who are sick often or sick always. Wonder what tomorrow will bring. Wonder what the next hour will bring. Wonder if I will get sick. Wonder why we, as a species, get sick period. Wonder who wrote “The Nightly Clean-up Song,” which is on Sprout right now. Wonder why I’m watching Sprout and not something else given that Sophie is, thankfully, sleeping, clutching her tissue as she would a doll.

If the last hour has taught me anything, though, she’ll be up again soon. With a raspy cough. Or tear-soaked cheeks. Or the basic discomfort that comes with every common cold and the realization, now that she’s older, that there’s little to be done. It happens to everyone. That it’s not fun.

I try to remember everything my mom did, and my dad did, when I was little and sick. There was Sprite. And Saltines. Rare one-on-one time with the parent who stayed home from work. Board games. A thermometer that beeped. Medicine in a plastic alligator spoon. All-day PJs. All-day TV. A fitted sheet on the couch. A brass bell. Back scratches. Lots of back scratches.

I won’t tell her it changes. That childhood sickness, while much dramatized (she’s 4), is way better than adult sickness—if only because you’re the child, not the adult. I imagine I’m not alone when I admit to wishing I was 7, when it’s the middle of the night and I’m in the throes of a terrible—yet minor—cold. Because no matter how helpful a spouse is during sickness, it’s not the same as a parent. It’s just not.

I may no longer receive, in the same way I did as a child, but I can give, in the same way I was given as a child.

And so I will.

I didn’t know it would be like this, before children—the up all night listening to the soft, little moans that make my chest hurt. My dad often said, whenever I was sick, that he wished he could take it for me.

At the time, I thought he was crazy.

I understand that now.

“From the bitterness of disease man learns the sweetness of health.” —Catalan Proverb

 

Morning

I imagine—know—some people spend 20 minutes on a yoga mat doing sun salutations every morning. Somewhere someone is drinking hot coffee while sitting in a rocking chair on a front porch while watching chickens peck about their yard. A crew team simultaneously dips their oars in water that reflects the newly risen sun. A commuter is lost in a book of fiction while riding the subway to work. Dogs everywhere relish their morning walks with their owners.

This was my morning, which is like every morning:

Freshly washed (OK, not folded but still) laundry flung all over the living room in the time it took me to feed Tucker and let him out.

People often talk about the things they’ll miss when their children are older. I do it all.the.time. Mostly here. But I know—I know—I will relish my quiet mornings. I’m not a morning person. I don’t like having to share my cereal like a mother bird to two hungry toddlers (who just finished off two bowls of oatmeal, a banana, a cereal bar and a glass full of whole milk each) who, literally, stand in front of my like starving baby birds, mouths open saying “me! me! me!” I don’t like drinking my coffee while watching Super Why. (I know, I know I could not turn Super Why on but as much as I’d rather have the news on in the morning, or classical music playing in the morning, or the simple quiet of open windows in the morning, Super Why allows me 20 minutes to drink my coffee in peace so it’s simply the lesser of two evils.) I don’t like the mad rush of mornings (which I know, once everyone is in school, will only get worse). I like slow mornings. Leisurely mornings. Like this:

My mom bought this cloth calendar for me for Christmas. Designed by Heather Ross, it is my morning ideal—listening to Andy play his guitar while reading The New York Times, Tucker curled up next to me, a hot cup of coffee (on the floor!) simply waiting for sips. I hung the calendar on my pantry door and every morning I see it, I admit, I sigh. It’s coming, I know. But some mornings, my ideal morning just seems so darn far away.

In the meantime, my coffee continues to cool as I deal with a laundry situation—which, as I type this, Tucker has turned into a luxurious dog bed made up of tank tops, tutus and underwear and that smells of dryer sheets. At least someone in this house is experiencing his morning ideal.

“The average, healthy, well-adjusted adult gets up at seven-thirty in the morning feeling just plain terrible.” —Jean Kerr

A Hurting Heart

Sophie was whining this morning. I handle crying, screaming, tantrums, arguments, flung food, coloring on things other than paper and about a bazillion other things better than I do whining. I can’t stand whining. I ignored her (but not for long—I can never ignore whining for long, a fault, I know). I told her to stop. And then, I pulled out the big guns. I told her that if she didn’t stop, we weren’t going to go on the play date we were actively getting ready for—something I knew she’d hate to lose. She then gave me the most pitiful look and said, “Mommy, you’re making my heart hurt.”

Ugh.

How does she know such words are the exact thing I need to hear to crumble into someone who totally takes back everything she said, someone who doesn’t follow through, someone who Supernanny would spend an hour chiding on national TV, someone who pulls her whining, not-listening child into her arms and says, equally pitifully, “I’m so sorry! The last thing I want to do is make your heart hurt!”

I’m in so much trouble come her teenage years.

For what’s it worth, we went to our friends’ house (and had a wonderful time). She stopped whining (after hugging her and apologizing to her I did remind her that she was too old to whine but I said it in a much nicer tone). We’ve had a good day.

Still.

“Through the blur, I wondered if I was alone or if other parents felt the same way I did—that everything involving our children was painful in some way. The emotions, whether they were joy, sorrow, love or pride, were so deep and sharp that in the end they left you raw, exposed and yes, in pain. The human heart was not designed to beat outside the human body and yet, each child represented just that—a parent’s heart bared, beating forever outside its chest.” —Debra Ginsberg

 

Days Like This

Maybe it was the four shots at her 4-year well-child checkup.

Maybe it was the understanding that we couldn’t go to the big park today.

Maybe it was the fact that James, with his ladybug ride-on toy, accidentally ran over her pink stick-to-the-wall-when-you-fling-it starfish that she picked out from the pediatrician’s treasure box after her four shots. And now the starfish, tragically, is missing an arm (and won’t be growing it back anytime soon, I’m afraid).

But everything is upsetting Sophie today.

Like, the sudden realization that she still can’t whistle. There was pitiful blowing and then sobbing as she said, “Mommy! I still can’t whistle! Why? Why can’t I whistle?”

And now the arrangement of the leaves on the tops of her strawberries just set her off. (I’m not making this up.)

“Sophie, why are you having such a bad day?” I ask.

“Because my toy broke and I got shots and it hurts when I walk,” she says. “Can we go to the park after dinner?”

And so it continues.

“Mama said there’ll be days like this,
There’ll be days like this Mama said.” —Willie Denson