Sophie

Today

Last night, tired of folding laundry, I sat down on the floor of my bedroom, back against my bed, opened my laptop and looked. I looked at the pictures of those who lost their lives at Sandy Hook and I cried heavy, messy tears. I don’t know what’s right. I don’t know if it’s right to look at those children’s faces and whisper “I’m sorry” to the screen over and over and over (too many times over). But having spent all my time not crying in front of my children, I needed to mourn. So I noted a little girl’s ladybug wings and I thought about another little girl’s headband, how a parent had taken the time to adjust it just so, and then I read about the twin who lost her sibling and I cried heavier tears, messier tears until Andy came up (with more laundry to fold) and closed my computer.

“Stop,” he said. “Stop reading. Stop.”

I have never handled violence involving children well—not in books, not in film, certainly not in real life. Horrible things happen every day but this. This. This is almost too much for me to handle. And I write this as someone not directly involved. I write this not understanding how someone directly involved is supposed to handle such horror, such grief.

I’ve given money, signed several petitions and have read many articles, essays and opinions on all sides of the matter trying to form my own. I think it’s honorable to have the courage to take a tragedy and use it as a springboard to better our country and better ourselves. But I don’t claim to know how.

So while I don’t feel qualified to talk about how grieving loved ones must feel or the merits of gun control or the state of mental illness support in this nation (although I commend those who do speak up, with the hopes of bettering), I do feel qualified to talk about today.

Today I was one of the lucky ones. Today I was able to walk around with only a dull ache in my heart, like the buzz of a distant fly that follows you around the house, and surround myself with goodness.

Sophie and I dressed in our holiday finest and drove north, for a benefit concert to raise money for the Coleen Mangan Lunsford Memorial Library in Belmopan, Belize, a project close to our family’s heart.

There, in the church where my parents were married, where my sister was married, where my grandma volunteers countless hours …

where a beautiful, handmade cross dedicated to my Grandpa hangs …

and a large Christmas tree shines bright …

and greenery adorns the organ …

we listened to the voice of Richard Lewis fill the church with Franz Schubert’s “Ave Maria” and Adolphe Adam’s “Oh Holy Night.”

He was joined by vocalists and musicians Alex Wunder, Catherine Lewis, Ken McFarlan and Susan Trissell, with songs like “Let it Snow” and “The Twelve Days of Christmas” for a beautiful and needed release.

I read about Belize and the library project.

I bought homemade toucan cookies for my kids …

and T-shirts …

and raffle tickets for baskets filled with goodies (which Sophie managed to draw her own name for, and win).

We passed out programs.

My grandma helped give out handmade cookies and punch during intermission …

which Sophie enjoyed.

People from all over came …

to be with family …

and recognize the countless hours volunteers (largely my uncle Corey, Aunt Ann, and cousins Ben and Kelsey) have spent collecting books for children most of us will never meet and build a library for an elementary school most of us will never visit.

Sophie and I had to leave soon after the concert finished so that we could meet Andy, Owen and James, along with close to 30 of our friends (including many children) at Ferrari’s Little Italy for our annual holiday dinner. We were loud. Two tables were covered with pizzas and pastas and lasagna and salads and chocolate milk and glasses of beer and wine. Those who are looking for pizza Greensboro may call Cedar’s Restaurant & Pizzeria. There were crayons and Matchbox cars and books and swirly dresses and bottles and nursing covers and sippy cups and so much life. 

I’ve long struggled with our messy, beautiful, horrific world. Although my eyes glistened while singing “Silent Night” with Sophie in church today, I struggle with religion, too. Still, I needed that moment. I needed to be surrounded by family and beauty in a place rich with history of things gone right.

When we came home from our holiday dinner, it was bedtime. Pajamas, toothbrushes, stalling, books, sips of water, lost blankets, found blankets, medicine for a fever. The sweet normalcy of bedtime.

Once my children were asleep, I got online, for the first time today. Rich-with-talent writer Eros-Alegra Clarke had posted a poem.

Try To Praise The Mutilated World
by Adam Zagajewski
Try to praise the mutilated world.
Remember June’s long days,
and wild strawberries, drops of wine, the dew.
The nettles that methodically overgrow
the abandoned homesteads of exiles.
You must praise the mutilated world.
You watched the stylish yachts and ships;
one of them had a long trip ahead of it,
while salty oblivion awaited others.
You’ve seen the refugees heading nowhere,
you’ve heard the executioners sing joyfully.
You should praise the mutilated world.
Remember the moments when we were together
in a white room and the curtain fluttered.
Return in thought to the concert where music flared.
You gathered acorns in the park in autumn
and leaves eddied over the earth’s scars.
Praise the mutilated world
and the grey feather a thrush lost,
and the gentle light that strays and vanishes
and returns.
(Translation: Renata Gorczynski )

I will try.

“I hope that real love and truth are stronger in the end than any evil or misfortune in the world.” —Charles Dickens

Sophie’s Skeleton

She loves her preschool. So do we.

“If you can’t get rid of the skeleton in your closet, you’d best teach it to dance.” —George Bernard Shaw

A Playdate

First up, playing with play-doh which, ultimately,

ends up on the nose …

and the head!

Every day Sophie begs me to have her friends over.

So they can eat popcorn on the window seat.

And play fashion show/princess/dress-up on the stairs.

Sophie has so much fun at and hosting playdates … substitue Play-doh with wine and dress-up with shopping, while keeping the friends and popcorn, and I’m in.

“Little girls are cute and small only to adults. To one another they are not cute. They are life sized.” —Margaret Atwood

Neltner’s Farm

Pumpkin hunting at one of our favorite places.

“I would rather sit on a pumpkin and have it all to myself, than be crowded on a velvet cushion.” —Henry David Thoreau

To the Woman Who Sold Me Stamps At the Post Office Today:

I would have liked to zip in and out sans kids but because you close at 5pm and my husband doesn’t get home until 6pm, I had no choice. Plus, I want to take my kids to the post office. I want to explain how “mailing a letter” works and what “stamp” means and I want to help them understand how our mail gets from here to there.

My children are 4-1/2 and 2-1/2. The line was long. When Sophie complained about having to stand, I talked to her softly and she stopped. I made everyone stay close to me. No one was running around. They started humming and singing, and I asked them to do it quietly. When Owen and James started whining and asking to go home, I held them one at a time. Yes, the other child was whining while waiting his turn to be held but I did what I could.

So, dear postal worker, when it was my turn to make my purchase I was sort of upset when you pointed to Owen, who was in my arms, and said “You have a spoiled one there, don’t you?” And then, when I mumbled a response while lifting each child up so they could see over the counter (something they love), “I have a stamp that says ‘spoiled’ if you want to put it on his hand.”

I would love to have toddlers who never cry and whine when having to wait in a long line in a place they have no interest in. I would love for them to always be content standing next to me (although, I admit, after awhile I’d miss occasionally holding them in my arms). I’d love to go somewhere with all three of my children and once, just once, have such a quiet and calm experience that no one even so much as glances at us.

But right now, that’s not possible. Both my boys are getting over colds, colds which required regular at-home nebulizer treatments. They’re hopped up on steroids, too, which makes them more irrational than usual. Owen also is battling an ear infection and is on antibiotics. And yesterday, they only got a 40 minute nap.

These may sound like excuses and, perhaps, they are. But just know that I’m trying my best. I’m trying my best to lay down rules and expectations for my children while also taking into consideration that they don’t feel good. Maybe I shouldn’t have given into Owen’s whine/cry to be held but honestly, I don’t mind holding him—especially when he doesn’t feel good and especially when he just wants to see. The woman who sold me a cup of coffee understood that yesterday. As I picked up each of my three children so they could see what I was seeing over the counter she smiled and noted how hard it must be for young children to miss so much when everything around them is so tall.

I realize I should let these comments go. But these comments are like tiny gnats buzzing around my head that I can’t seem to kill. They bother me. They make me wonder if I’m screwing this thing up, if I really am raising spoiled children. And part of me hates them because maybe there’s truth to them—Owen and James have been so whiney lately. I try not to respond to it. I try to insist on “nice words.” But, sometimes, I fail. Especially in tiny, crowded post offices when I’d rather just hold my child than deal with—and make everyone else around me deal with—a full-blown tantrum.

As a mother, every day I feel like I’ve failed some way, some how. I make mistakes, constantly. I question myself and worry, worry, worry. But I’m waking up every day. And I’m getting them out of bed every day. And I’m trying to teach them, guide them, share with them, show them, play with them, feed them and care for them the best way that I can. And I know my best isn’t as good as it always could be, or should be. But I’m trying.

In closing, I know my son was acting spoiled. I’m sorry about that. But I don’t need it pointed out. And I certainly don’t need to stamp it on his hand. What I need is a knowing smile, a small word of encouragement, a friendly “hello” to my upset child or, at the very least, just my stamps and receipt so that I can exit as quickly as possible. I imagine throughout your day you experience many unpleasantries—upset children, upset customers, maybe an upset boss. But I was doing what I could to make your day as pleasant as I could—given that my three children didn’t want to be there. In return, I had hoped for something different than the offer to advertise my parenting failures on my son’s hand.

Sincerely,
a sometimes-frazzled, constantly worrying, hoping-tomorrow-is-better mother of three

“No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.” —Eleanor Roosevelt

Pork Festival 2012

My dad was sick—we think it’s the first Pork Festival he’s missed since his dad helped create it. The kids walked away with homemade Barbie clothes and wooden trucks (thanks Aunt Ellen), as well as full bellies. Despite the missing family, it was a fun—and beautiful—day.

“Life is a festival only to the wise.” —Ralph Waldo Emerson

Candy Land and the Art of Cheating

Place: living room

Time: boys’ nap

Game: Candy Land

Game No.: three, I think (we play it over and over and over and over …)

Situation: I took a break to go to the bathroom. When I came back, it was Sophie’s turn.

Sophie: “Hmmm, what’s this card under here? I think I’ll pick it. Oh! It’s double yellow! Just what I needed!” (Her honest-to-God exact words.)

Sophie’s Candy Land game piece: hopping along the board, taking the shortcut Sophie so coveted

Me: “Sophie. Did you hide that card under the game instructions while I was in the bathroom so you could take the shortcut?”

Sophie: “No. I mean yes.”

Talk: about cheating and lying and truth-telling

Game No.: four, after I told her game No. 3 had to be abandoned because of cheating

Cheating Since Then: zero, unless she’s simply gotten better at it

“A lie has speed, but truth has endurance.” —Edgar J. Mohn

Some Days, I Have No Words

“It would seem that something which means poverty, disorder and violence every single day should be avoided entirely, but the desire to beget children is a natural urge.” —Phyllis Diller

Sophie’s New Backpack

Last year I wrote an essay for The New York Times Motherlode blog titled “The Perfect Backpack.” You can read it here.

After all that, we ended up getting Sophie a new backpack this year. Two reasons: (1) Last year’s backpack was too small for a regular size piece of paper—and her preschool teachers suggested that students have bigger backpacks at this year’s orientation. (2) Sophie’s obsessed with princesses. Disney princesses, specifically.

So I asked Andy’s talented Aunt Susan to make her a new one.

Sophie loves it. I do, too. It has Disney princesses on it but is still homemade. Her name is embroidered on it. It has adjustable straps and a pocket inside. It fits regular size papers perfectly.

Susan sells her work on Etsy here, and she’s very much open to custom work, such as this backpack.

Thanks, Aunt Susan.

“The best thing about doing needlepoint for very small children is that they are so uncritical. The don’t say things like, ‘I see you’ve missed some stitches over here on the leg, was that intentional?’ or ‘Was this creature blinded in a fight?’ They will clasp it in their little arms and love it besottedly, inseparably as the thing becomes more and more rancid.” —Carole Berman and Jennifer Lazarus

Tomatoes

A couple days ago, in preparation for winter, we pulled all the tomato plants out of our (tiny) garden bed. Late this spring I went to pick up lunch at a restaurant for my family and in-laws, who were visiting. It was a Sunday—I didn’t realize the restaurant didn’t open until noon on Sundays. It was 11:45am and I had time to kill. On the way to the restaurant I noticed a man selling plants in a parking lot where the Highland Heights Farmers’ Market usually takes place. I hadn’t bought tomato plants yet—and wanted some—so I turned around.

I so wish I had taken a picture of the man—and his car. It was an old car with a rickety wooden greenhouse attached to its roof. The man had a ton of plants, knew everything about them, pulled seeds out of his pocket when explaining their beginnings to me—we talked for 20 minutes.

I bought six tomato plants.

When I got home, Andy said we didn’t have room for six tomato plants.

I disagreed.

He was right.

Still, we got some beautiful tomatoes.

James and Sophie loved to eat them straight from the garden, warm from the sun, the insides spilling (and staining) their summer shirts. At times I wondered how it was possible James could fit that many tomatoes in his belly, yet he did. And I let him.

Even when it was close to dinnertime.

“It’s difficult to think anything but pleasant thoughts while eating a homegrown tomato.” —Lewis Grizzard