Thank you

Who knew that a self-indulgent whine would garner even more supportive comments than the birth of a baby? My humble thanks to all the kind folks out there who offered their cyber-encouragement, suggestions and hugs in response to the last post. I appreciate it; as far as we are from most close friends, it's good to hear from you across the miles. And if a post like the last one brings C. out of the woodwork for the first time, along with Holly and Malcolm and others reading along relatively quietly, maybe I should do it more often!

As for your many wise suggestions, thank you for those, too. Crystal, I'd love to see if I could make 30 minutes of mom-only time a reality around here in the transition from work to home each day; it would make a big difference, even if it meant simply that I got to read the mail, unpack the lunch bags, and check the voice mail in peace. A., night weaning would unquestionably improve our quality of life, and it's on the agenda for the summer. Alice was nightweaned once upon a time, and then as so often happens, sickness or some other shake-up this winter upset the routine. We tried re-training her, but her fierce 3-4 hour crying stints were waking up Edith and making her a mess in the morning, so we resolved to wait until E's schoolyear was over. School is done now, and renewed night training is coming.

As for the rest of it, I've had a few more catch-up sleep-ins, thanks in part to New Teach and Hobokener, who delivered on their posted offer to [fly in from 2,000 miles away and] babysit. They also were here every evening last week when I got home from work (I'd signed up for a stint evaluating student writing portfolios, for the good of the bottom line and out of a continued nerdy love of thinking about the teaching of writing), and it was a lovely lift to have four adults around to make dinner and tend the children...who meanwhile tended themselves that much better for having friends around.

We also had a couple of days this past weekend of family time without an agenda (other than getting Tom packed and prepared for a trip to Haiti), and that made it feel like summer indeed. Just doing errands together, all of us with time to spare for such mundane things, felt wonderful.

Finally, last night before Tom's departure, we hit the Holy Grail of sleep. Alice merits another post soon, about all the things she's telling us she's going to be big enough to do "tomorrow later" or as she also says, "when I'm a three year old grader." But last night she insisted that she was "so big now to sleep in Edie's bed." In other words, she deemed herself suddenly old enough to join Edith in the bunk bed, rather than sleep in her own room in the crib. We do anticipate the girls sharing a room at some point, but we've tried several preliminary experiments in this vein this past winter (at Alice's suggestion), only to abort after 10 or 15 minutes when it became clear Alice couldn't/wouldn't yet sleep/lie-down/be-quiet/stay-in-bed  in Edith's room. We expected another round of the same last night.

Instead, Alice asked us to close the door as the two of them snuggled a bit on the bottom bunk after hearing a chapter of Harry Potter. That was the last we heard of them. Forty minutes later we dared to peek in, and there they were sound asleep, head-to-head on the pillow. Alice had fallen asleep without nursing or lullabies. Edith had fallen asleep in a dark room with the door closed and without restless tossing. It was a minor miracle.

It was a major miracle that they stayed asleep all night. We awaited a small person crying out in the wee hours as usual, or two kids crying out as one woke the other, or the thump of a little body rolling onto the floor. Nothing.

They're trying the experiment again tonight. I'm not declaring a new household order yet, but it's extraordinary enough for what already has transpired.

More posts to come--our scheming toddler, further photos from the Hoboken buddies' visit, and "pony camp."

Tired

Meh. Things feel a bit off. This blog isn't funny anymore, and I'm not sure anyone reads it except a few doting grandparents. I actually don't know who traverses which parts of cyberspace. I've never joined Facebook, and as a result, I have the feeling that I am slowly losing friendships with people who used to communicate in other ways but now no longer do. Precious as friendships are to me (as most of you know), I'm still not willing to join Facebook. A conundrum.

I find myself getting home from work and having a hard time being mentally present for the kids. I need some space-out time, and I'm not good at jumping right into the most energy-demanding part of the day. I can't fool them by just being near them--watching a movie together, or taking a walk together, or going to the playground. I can't knit on the couch while they dance to Fantasia. They know my mind is still elsewhere, and that's the part they want. It's not enough, either, to ask them questions about their days at school while they have a snack. They don't want the third degree--they want to live in the moment by launching fun and games with mom. I hate the feeling that I'm putting off their "come look at this!" with "in a minute" or their ideas with "we'll have to do that this weekend--there's not enough time tonight," but truth be told, I just can't snap into gear. Only at the dinner table or later when we read at bedtime do I feel like I'm wholly theirs.

Edith's room is a disaster, but I don't know what to do about it. I can't put all the blame on her for not putting her things away, because there's just nowhere to put them. Major reorganization and weeding out is needed. When and how to do that without inciting tears and protests, I don't know.

School will soon be coming to an end, and we don't have Edith registered for any camps yet. I feel ambivalent about them, to be honest. Tom and I absolutely need work time this summer. But none of our work will be paid, making the time-money tradeoff not so good. More to the point, I believe in some downtime over the summer. And while I want Edith to have some enrichment opportunities that are truly enriching, I don't want her to feel shuttled off to a variety of randomly selected camps, bounced from new group to new group each week. That wouldn't feel congenial to me--indeed, I disliked most daycamps when I was a kid--and I think it will feel even less so to my shyer daughter. As for the specialty camps, carefully designed by credentialed people around particular skills or themes, I find I am resisting what feels like the frantic, enroll-them-in-everything bandwagon, as parents start fashioning their well-rounded, pre-packaged college applicants--or maybe just divining their children's hidden genius. The people rushing from lesson to practice to game just don't look happy, and I don't want that for our family. But yes, I do want Edith to have a rich, meaningful childhood. (And I do want her to get into college someday.) Baffled by it all, I've done nothing yet.

Blah. Perhaps the problem in all these cases is the same: I'm just tired. I finished the academic year yesterday (or at least, the classwork portion of it--there are just 16 research projects to grade standing between me and my own summer research), and perhaps all this is post-game letdown. Our last classes let out at noon, and about half an hour later, as I stood in line at the deli for a sandwich, my body almost literally seemed to be melting into the floor. The seniors were gathered on the quad cheering and downing a bottle of champagne each, but the faculty hardly broke a smile, we all were so weary. (Plus, we had just two hours after class ended to get in senior grades, at this crazy place where classes end Wednesday and graduation is the same weekend.)

My body actually began shutting down a bit early. This past Monday morning, when my students were completing final research projects, I put Edith on the schoolbus and waved goodbye to Tom and Alice, then went back into the house to get dressed for work...and woke up only when Tom and Alice were coming back through the door.

It has been a wonderful year, and I'm very proud of what I managed at my job. I feel it was important work, and all in all, I feel it was work done well. I learned a ton, and I look forward to continuing to learn, to refine, and to deepen what I can do as a teacher, in conjunction with these students and these colleagues.

But even the happy marathoner isn't dancing in the street to express her pride at the finish line. She's sitting on the curb, or lying in the recovery tent.

It has been a year of 65-75-hour work-weeks. That's the paid work, of course, not the parenting. I started the fall going to bed each night at 3 or 4 am, or, when I couldn't manage, going to bed at 10 pm and getting up at 2 am to resume class prep. By the end of the year things had gotten a bit more sane, but still, a typical day this spring has been

5-8am parenting
8am-5pm at work
5-8:30pm parenting
9pm-1am working
1:30, (sometimes 3), and 5am waking with Alice

Each weekend includes at least one day of work. It's pretty brutal-looking, written out like that. In fact, it's amazing I love it as much as I do, really.

But yes, I could use a vacation. If only to be able to come back and give my children the full attention they deserve.

Never mind the summer research...

Go ask Alice

She'll tell you, whatever the question.

Some of my favorite current Alicisms:

When she wants you to stay put for a second: "I right come back!"

When you propose something that she likes: "That sounds a good deal."

Recently heard from the backseat of the car: "Mommy, when I get bigger, tomorrow, I will go to Finland with you." (Note: Our neighbor recently took a trip to Finland.) When our neighbor returned yesterday and was seen outside, Alice walked right up and asked, "How was your trip to Finland?" To the neighbor's delight, of course.

Pondering another neighbor, a mother of two boys, as we waited for the schoolbus in the afternoon: "Does Mark's mommy need a girl?" I said I didn't know. So Alice approached Mark's mommy and asked outright, "Do you need a girl in your family?" (I'm still not sure if she was offering herself for adoption or simply commenting on the gender imbalance in their existing domestic situation.)

Alice has recently told me and Tom, several times over, "I was an elephant when I was born. When I was brand new. And I was an ostrich. And a turtle." She seems definite about this. The list of animals never changes. Edith finally asked if it was true.

Another recent plan, concocted in the backseat on the way home from preschool: "Mommy, I want to have a dance party. I will invite all my friends from school. Carter's daddy will bring him to my house, and when he gets there I will give him a hug. And I will give Logan a hug. And I will give Henry a hug. And I will give Asher a hug. And I will give Gabby and Marie a hug. They will all come over to my house, and we will dance. Okay? Yeah, that sounds a plan."

Life in a three-dimensional climate

Well, everyone lives in three dimensions, of course. But not everyone thinks about their weather in three dimensions. Weather.com certainly doesn't. When I log on to find weather conditions for my area, there is no way to get the system to distinguish between weather at the airport versus at our house, 400 feet higher. Or on the incline, 2000 feet higher. Never mind atop Pike's Peak, just a few miles west but over 1.5 miles above us.

In this ever-changing, between-seasons month of May, these differences have been striking. Coworkers come to work from homes at slightly different elevations and report different degrees of difficulty (ice-scraping to none) getting out of their driveways. The differences are sometimes visible on the surface of the mountains themselves, as on a couple of days when the snow line was not on the peak but much lower, right across the hills above our heads, a stark difference evident between the dark green-black and the sudden white that cuts across hiking trails we frequent or across neighborhood street patterns.

I'll have to start getting some photo documentation of all this. But whatever my day is like, whatever I'm facing, I can count on a moment of joy as I round the curve to the west headed out of our neighborhood and am presented with that morning's particular combination of temperature, air quality, precipitation, and light as it plays out on our gorgeous mountain view.

Birthday recap

Edith had just opened her presents from me and Tom on the morning of her birthday and asked if there was anything else. We said no, not immediately, and then the doorbell rang. I thought it was a bit early for UPS--but I should have known it was never too early for the surprise arrival of Mor-mor! Edith's partner in May birthday-dom, she has managed to celebrate with Edith on every birthday except in 2007. It was a great joy to have her here for the birthday proper, the birthday party, and Mother's Day. We were particularly grateful for her sacrifice to be here when it turned out that she was apart from my dad when his mother passed away--my last grandparent, and the girls' last great-grandparent but one (Tom's grandfather, who I think still hasn't gotten the memo that he's a senior citizen).

Hamming it up as she got on the bus on her birthday

Tom, Mor-mor and Alice brought in cupcakes to Edith's class at the end of the day. Edith and I had made the cupcakes the night before, after she told me that the carrot-zucchini muffins we've brought to daycare every year for her birthday are "really dull."

At her 6th birthday dinner--black bean burritos. What else? She and Alice would eat them every night of the week if we'd capitulate. We're trying to hold steady at no more than 50% of the time.

On Saturday we held a birthday party that capitalized on the date and Edith's continued interest in horses:

We hit the jackpot weatherwise--no small feat in Colorado in spring, we're quickly learning. Of course, I'd overplanned the games and activities and underestimated the kids' preference for running around. It was a bit harried, what with two of the obligatory birthday-kid meltdowns, little sister trying to stay in the thick of it all, one guest losing her car keys, and one child dragged over reluctantly by his mother, who tried once to run away and when thwarted by Tom, didn't fail to inform us throughout that he was having a terrible time. Over half the guests couldn't come, but in the end, the smaller number was probably a good thing. In retrospect, Edith declared that she'd had a great time.

Designing their jockey silks

We took the easy route and ordered pizza. I even ordered the cake for the first time, fearing my  rudimentary cake-decorating skills might not be up to the scrutiny of a six-year-old equine-lover.

His idleness a tune

Overwhelmed by the number of recent photos I need to get up, the clunkiness of Blogger as a tool for so doing, and the limits on our free time, I'm going to take it bit by bit.

Here, a short video taken through our bedroom window last Sunday morning. I heard something in the backyard and looked out, just as someone was coming to the front door to explain:

Now that she's six...

...and clever as clever

I hope she'll stay six

Forever and ever.

(With apologies to A.A. Milne)

Until recently, I felt those older people who told us, nodding their heads knowingly, that "it goes fast" and that we needed to enjoy every minute with our babies were suffering serious amnesia. I didn't, and still don't, think the early years went fast. The incredible newness and wonder of the first year made it telescope, every moment counting for ten of ordinary life. Then the toddler years hit, and the intense physical and emotional exertion needed to parent a willful, energetic little person who required routine, discipline, explanation, and physical assistance with every basic task made those years plenty long in a different way.

It's just recently that Edith's childhood has started to speed up. Today she turned six...while I mentally have her lodged somewhere around four. I certainly wasn't used to her being five years old yet. And now five is behind us.

For her part Edith says she's ready to be a first grader. She's tall and (well), lanky, and as she'll tell you, she runs fast--especially when chasing boys on the playground. She stables a full complement of imaginary horses on the playground, too. She's still our story-lover, but she's quieter and dreamier than she once was, relishing some of those stories in her head rather than always demanding that they be told to her by an external party. She is usually master of her emotions when tired or disappointed...not perfectly in control, of course, but cognizant of how acting out her frustrations can impact those around her and able to rein it in. She can get things out of the freezer by herself by standing on tiptoe. She can open and shut the sliding car door and buckle her own seatbelt, meaning we have nothing to do with getting her in and out of the car (other than launching the family out the house door in the first place). She can converse pleasantly and thoughtfully with family and strangers alike and often sees the same humor in a situation that an adult would see. She likes to work through the steps in a new project. She throws all her pajamas out of the drawer when looking for her favorite nightgown--but she usually puts them back without being asked. She still eats only three different dinners, but she tried sprouts on her ice cream sundae tonight. 

I suspect that the things that make Edith such a good companion now, an interesting person to talk to, to laugh with, and to love, are the same things that make the years go faster. She doesn't demand our every attention to her diapers, her toddling, her feeding, or her tears. She can make herself understood to the world without our translation. She's starting to understand, as younger children do not, that she's one among many people with perspectives and claims on the universe...and she's comfortable with that. She can articulate how she's feeling. She has relationships of her own of which we aren't a part. In short, all the things that make a child more mature also make her less intensively the every-minute charge of her parents. In those moments when we are no longer required to provide the mommy milk, sing the bedtime songs, wrestle the clothes on, or negotiate the tantrums, we're living easier. In the moments that we're laughing, reading, gardening, or hiking with Edith, we're having ever more fun and admiring ever more the person she is now and is still becoming. But the very things that make the relationship more lovely are the ones that make it not as constantly the insistent focus of our every hour and every creative energy. And so the interstitial minutes--the ones in which she's becoming her own person, doing things for herself, relating to others--slip away uncounted. And we look up and wonder where our five year old went.

Happy birthday, Edith. We love you.

Addendum, 6 May: She's a perfect square! Annual physical says...46 pounds, 46 inches.

I'm dreaming of a white Easter

...and May Day, too. Snow falling as I post.

  

The food the children gathered and loaded on a truck for an Easter food drive