On Neatening-After They're Asleep

When I see icy sidewalks outside, I dread scraping the car but I want to remember is that shimmery-icy night on Bartlett St. when Geoff proposed.

When I see wet boots in the front hall I think of what we paid to have the floors redone but I want to remember how much the kids trusted me and came caroling with me for the first time tonight.

When I wipe down the kitchen, I clench my teeth at wasted food when I want to remember how dextrously the baby used her spoon at dinner.

When I see the double-layer of coats pooled on the closet floor, I need to remember it's because they can't reach the hangers yet.

How ephemeral life is, may I live in this moment.

A Modern Day Footloose Tale

Instead of rural Iowa, our tale takes place in Philadelphia. The scene takes place in our family kitchen: I am at the stove chatting with the kids while making dinner. I can't even remember what the topic was but I started dancing. Not the hip-hop moves from my middle school days as a fan of Kid n Play. But not the ska-esque pogo that Clara's friends are fond of. I think it was a little dance of joy in response to their news from school. I guess my dance was more of the "raise the roof" ilk. Both of my feet were firmly planted. And yet, Manny burst, "Mom, stop. Mom, stop!"

This is not the first instance of him being embarassed of me. The first instance was at a friend's birthday party and I was serving cake and I said, "Mmmm, yum-arrific-a!" I guess it was a little to Rachel Ray for him or something because he hissed at me and locked his jaw, "Mom!" I think it's okay, though. Part of the individuation process. I so clearly remember him as a toddler in that phase where he thought we were the same person, one indivisible unit-- together to the park, nursing together in the chair, never apart. Even reading back in this blog's archives, this is evident. So naturally now, I invite the individuation process. I can see he is evaluating me, how the home tone is distinct from his classroom tone. How what his peers say would or wouldn't be said here at home. His parsing of the two worlds is how he will define himself.

I said, "Manny, what's wrong with my dancing?" He looked squarely at me, not even needing to find his words, "I don't like that dance because it's boastive." Geoff and I looked at eachother in a paralysis borne of cuteness and utter disbelief: Where did he get that word? Who is this child? How did we get so fortunate to have this child who just assembled that thought in his head? All of us, even Benicio and Clara and for God's sake even Calliope, knew that was hilarious. Since that incident, I have tried to isolate what exactly about that dance qualifies as "boastive." I think it has to do with the raising of the arms and my persistence in doing it. I have tried everything but basically, he seems to have a strong aversion to all moves boastive.

So for the record, it's not that dancing is forbidden to Manny. It's that a certain attitude that could be construed as "boastive" that he opposes. At our evening Advent prayer service, I had planned to read the passage from Ecclesiastes just as Kevin Bacon did but more on that in a minute. It turns out that Manny cut a veritable rug since the boastive-dancing fury took place. If you want to know what moves he does sanction, you can look to Benicio who has the side-step of Nadal at the baseline. He has the energy and concentration of a Fame dancer but the machismo of a beat boy. Although, Manny's moves are more subdued, he has some break-dancing spins and can definitely shuffle along with G-love.

We lit the pink candle on the Advent wreath yesterday. But tonight, I went to an evening yoga class. When I got home, Geoff had fed and bathed the kids, as well as held our evening Advent prayers. When I ascended the stairs, I found my Clara in her PJ's and robe (so like my Mom) sitting in her chair, "You missed lunch (meaning to say dinner) and Advent!" That is the most bizarre feeling, having roles reversed like that. With a three-year old. I explained that I needed to exercise, to be alone, and that I was here now. In that moment, I had this flashback to my adolescence, standing there confronted, searching to articulate my own defense.

As Ren McCormack stood with his friends and read that passage, "To everything there is a season, and
a time to every purpose under heaven: . . . .A time to weep, and
a time to laugh;
a time to mourn, and
a time to dance;

And I would add: a time for Mom to go to Produce Junction by herself, a time to take a yoga class, and by God's grace, a time for her, if she wishes, to dance boastively, should she so choose.

Recent Dialogues

Me to Manny at 9pm last night when he wandered downstairs, unable to sleep: Hey, Manny. Would you like to sit here while I type? Would you like a back rub, a song, some steamy vanilla milk?
Manny: I'll just take the milk.


Clara to Calliope: Here, you be the Mom. I'll be the Sweetie.

Me to Calliope in Target today: Baby, you have to sit down in the carriage.
Calliope: I wont. Because-- I have poop.

Benicio to us after school: Someone from the PCA came in to speak to our class about animals. My favorite was the therapy dog. Therapy dogs don't realize they're dogs. They think they're people.

On that same trip to Target, a woman with a huge fur coat stopped to admire Calliope, who sat suspicious, silent, a little stunned. After the woman walked away, Calliope said, wide-eyed and alarmed, "Bear. Bear."

Me to the boys: What are some important things to look for in a Christmas tree?
BTB: Is it high enough? Is it big enough?
MDB: It can't be too cheap.
BDB: It can't be too prickly. We want it to be cheap, it won't cost so much money.
MDB: I want it to be a cheap case, would you just let me say cheap case?

Clara drawing with me: Mom, do you want to be next to me?
Me: Yes, right next to you.
Clara: Do you want freckles like me or dimples?
Me: I want what you have there, those dimples.
Clara: Yes, but you get scribble-dibble hair.

See Mama Run

A friend writes beautifully about how she has used exercise to "exorcise" some of her emotional road blocks. On Thanksgiving morning, I ran a 5k and may have glacially nudged myself nearer to peace with the fact that we are done having kids. Geoff and I ran together, he, not the least bit winded keeping conversation about his grad class. Me huffing and steaming, my thoughts scattered and restless. I had found the race online, thinking it would be inspring along the Susquehanna or something. It turned out we ran through this 1940's neighborhood, making a loop. There were a few pilgrims and turkeys to try to keep up the morale, but it being central PA, they wore nonplussed expressions of boredom and dread. I ran to throw off my sadness that my bod now has recreational needs not just procreational needs. I ran to celebrate that I wasn't pushing a jogger. I ran to honor my good ol' gams that have brought me so far. I ran to inspire my daughters to try and compete atheletically, cumbersome and slow as I was.

Here are photos of our post-dinner Talent Show.