The Not-Ever-Still Life

On the morrow

noreply@blogger.com (Robin noteverstill) — Thu, 26 Jan 2012 04:22:00 +0000

My beautiful Booshkie,

You'll turn six as the sun rises tomorrow. What a thing to contemplate, this Six.

You were bald forever, you know, do you remember? From pictures, Love-love, do you remember how long you were bald? And now your hair reaches to your waist. Sometimes, I wish you'd want to keep it short, like your sister, because oh.my.goodness the knots and the brushing and the braiding and the one pony tail or two, the side-pony and the half-up and the did you put the purple band on the left side or the right?

But you're so proud; you feel fancy. And then we see someone who's known you forever and they say, every time, "look at all that hair!" because they remember when you hadn't any, and when you told everyone you'd grow it until it could tuck into your shoes. Now you only want to grow it to your knees, and that's because you're a little bit turning into a rational creature, and no wonder, since you're almost Six.

There is a boy at school who wants to marry you. Every time I see him he tells me that I have ten hours to get ready for the wedding. He points to my Nikon, puts his arm around you, and says, "take a picture of me with my wife!" And you giggle, and pose for a picture, one I now must take.

Maybe you giggle because of the pride in his voice as he hugs you. Maybe your giggle is for this boy. Maybe it's just because it feels good to be so comfortable at your new school after Five and all the changes Five brought.

You're not thinking about boys, really, except to tell me that you're not getting married. But if you do, you have the whole wedding planned out, and don't worry, Mama, because you're never leaving me. He can just move into the house with us because I'm staying with you forever.

And you say that and I squeeze your shoulder, much like that boy does, and I say "you might have other ideas one day, you know, but you will always have a place here with us for as long as you need one." And you hear what you need to hear from that and I've said what I need to say in that. I don't know what you dream when we hug. I dream that when Then happens, which is, don't worry, many years past Six, you'll mostly want to go meet the world and leave your mama.

It will always be okay if part of you wants to stay a little bit. But be a dream chaser, Booshk. One day. When you're ready.

I will tell you this: I will never tease you about your dreams. And I will never tease you about boys, either, not even cute-goofy ones who think a girl as fancy as you could throw together a wedding in ten hours.

Although, for what it's worth (which is just a sliver above nothing), for the record-for posterity-for cementing that new key of giggle in my mind: this boy is cute. And I have the pictures for you to prove it, although now you're old enough to remember things in your own mind, now that you're Six.

Last year, when we talked about how Five is a bridge between big-little kid and small-big kid, we could only imagine the you of today. Let me point out, Love-love, the you of today is one awesome chick. The hardest thing of this year was leaving your preschool home and moving to kindergarten but girl, you've conquered that transition. Your teachers love you. You have a whole crew of sweet new friends. You're learning and reading and spelling and speaking in a second language. You rock the kindergarten house, sweet girl. You can see yourself in a new context, asking questions about first grade and middle school and driving. You understand that you're at the beginning of a new long road, and that it will challenge you and fascinate you and take you many wonderful places.

You lost your first baby teeth this year. You started to try new foods after years of refusing new anything. (You still haven't liked any new foods, but I'm so delighted you'll try things again.) You've explored forming your own worldly opinions and drawing independent conclusions. You are a thinker.

Last week you said to me:

you know why we need our eyes? Because our brains are filled with little boxes. And every box holds another idea. We have so many ideas that we could never organize them all without a system. So we draw pictures on the boxes. Those pictures are the things we see with our eyes that remind us of the ideas. I need to see because I have so many ideas and I never want to lose any of them!

Reach, baby. We spent so long planning for the end of Five. Tomorrow you say goodbye to all of that. Six is a new story for you to write. You can do anything. You and your many ideas and your compassionate, colorful, sensitive, broad-thinking viewpoints: you are going to change the world.

I don't know how you're going to do that, Love-love, and I know it frustrates you to hear open-ended positive thoughts without the foundational hows underpinning them. But you've left behind the little-kid world of questions that come with straight answers. And why stick to straight lines when you can frame your world in curclicues and smiling hearts and rainbow curves and fairytale ribbons?

You're the luckiest person in the world tomorrow, because you're Six and can mold the whole world to your touch. But I'm the second-luckiest, because I get the pleasure of watching you do it.

Happy birthday, Booshkin Boo. I love you all the way to forever.

Love,
Mama
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Lactation consultant

noreply@blogger.com (Robin noteverstill) — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 04:47:00 +0000

To be honest, it's all nipples, all the time, here in the noteverstill house.
L is a skinny girl and she has this funny habit of taking her shirt off by pulling her arms up through the neck hole and scrunching the whole shirt down around her waist. She twirls, letting the sleeves that now stem from her hips move like helicopter rotors. Tonight was not the first night that she took advantage of her newly-exposed nipples. She covered each one with a sticker. Of a red fire hydrant: her favorite. You say pasties, she says firefighter uniform badges. Either way, she's very cognizant of her nipples.

I have five invisible kids now, Mama.

"You do?" I was surprised. Her sister has had invisible children, but L hasn't really ever explored this kind of thinking before.

Yeah. Their names are Nick, Sally, Junior, Mimi, and Chichi Isabella. So I'm going to need more nipples. How can I grow more nipples?

There has been a lot of nipple talk lately, between a few glimpses of breastfeeding and the newfound knowledge that breasts are going to grow under their own nipples one day. That, let me tell you, has generated a lot of conversation. Breasts are implausible things, but so are non-invisible offspring.

Two women I know had babies last week: one for the second time, one for the first. I keep thinking about them, about that body-redefining change. I keep thinking about how we teach girls so much about what not to do with their bodies: don't have unsafe sex. Don't dress too trashy. Don't let your body be used or objectified or shamed. Buy skinny jeans hip huggers pencil skirts. Push-up bras strapless bras bikini bottoms.

We never seem to say: make your body feel pretty any way you want as long as you remember what your body is for. We strip biology from anatomy and strut image over substance. We don't do ourselves any good. So my girls, I trace their skin. I say, "the milk will come from all over here. You will feel it as high as your collar bone. I swear I felt it in my shoulder blades. Your whole body will work to feed your babies. If you want." Because if we're going naked-honest about biology, I will also go naked-honest about choice and circumstance. And I won't raise them to assume they'll have kids, or that they'll birth those kids, or that they'll want kids at all. But I will raise them to know what their bodies are capable of -- if that's how they want to use them.

Bras are pretty and fire hydrant stickers are great and some people squirm when we openly talk nipples, but that Chichi Isabella will teach you when she eats just how powerful and mighty and nurturing and humble and mortal and ordinary and love-capable you are.

You know I love this photograph.
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He is the keymaster, and I am the ineffective gatekeeper

noreply@blogger.com (Robin noteverstill) — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 04:53:00 +0000

Were we discussing the terrible twos? Ah, yes..

Winter came late to Maryland, and just as it became urgent (in my mind) to get in the car quickly each evening, it became urgent in little G's mind that he hold my car keys. So imagine, if you will, a typical evening as we leave daycare: on my mind are dinner, and getting home to E and her nanny within a reasonable window of when I said to expect us home; the 20-degree cold front and blustery winds; keeping L's attention so that she doesn't wander off; and my hands undoubtedly filled with art projects, half-eaten food, and G's chubby little wrist.

So that's when he decided that he needs to unlock the car.

In a way, it's gentlemanly and sweet, like when the valet opens the door for you and inclines his head with a broad smile and doesn't at all mention the empty snack bags, ground cheerios, and discarded socks that cover the floor of your car. Now let's be honest, the only valets I see with any regularity are urban garage parking attendants from those lots that triple park the cars all day long and move them around like puzzle pieces, your car coming back eight miles more driven than when you left it to park a few hours earlier. But we can pretend a parking attendant is a valet, right? It's my glamorous life.

Now G, brutely strong though he is, he cannot actually open a car door. But he can point the key toward the door and push the button to unlock it. And so he does, and it is chivalrous. He always goes to the front passenger door first, and points and pushes. Mama, he indicates. And I open the door and dump all day's worldly possessions from my arms onto the seat. I close the door. He waits patiently for me, and proceeds to the next door.

Ya-ya, he indicates as he points the key and pushes the button, and as that is how he pronounces L's name, she opens her door and climbs in the back seat.

"Whose door is next?" I ask, and he raises his hand and grins. We hold hands and walk around the back of the car to his door. I wait as he points, pushes. I lift him in and buckle his straps.

He holds out his hand expectantly. Mama. Eeys. He expects the keys one more time. I place them in his hands and from inside the car, he points the keys to my door. He locates the button, pushes. In exchange for a high-five I get my keys back, crawl backwards out of the back seat and open my own door and sit down in the driver's seat. Only then can we drive, and do not even think of any scenario in which he doesn't unlock each door individually.

And now, a confession:

all those button pushes are on the wrong key.

G loves the fat VW key fob. But I drive a Dodge.

Every evening while I juggle art projects and backpacks and afternoon snacks half-eaten and hats refused for heads and the hands of my children, I have to quickly and subtly unlock my car before turning over my keys to the key tyrant. He can push buttons to his heart's content but they actually have no effect on my already-unlocked car.

It's the only way to keep the peace.

Which is fine enough, I guess, except last week the rest of us were in the basement and G got hold of my keys and started pushing his favorite buttons and set off the panic alarm on the lovely husband's car, which was not muffled in the garage but parked on the driveway for all the neighborhood to hear. We came upstairs to hear it blaring, but we don't know how long it had been going. Oops.

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Tworrific

noreply@blogger.com (Robin noteverstill) — Fri, 20 Jan 2012 04:51:00 +0000

I have a very clear memory of being in my parents' house for a visit in 2008. L was but a wee baby and E was two and being her twoiest. My parents had some kind of open house so some of their friends could meet the grandkids, and I found myself smack in that awkward moment where you're surrounded by people who knew you when you were fourteen, and whom you suspect don't fully recognize your adulthood or any growth past your awkward-awful fourteen-ness.

Which, of course, was a perfect moment for Little Miss Twoiest to pitch a screaming fit, yes?

Indeed. And deeeelightful.

So I scoop her up / ha ha mumble mumble / so what if you're all staring at me, at least I don't have that perm anymore, what? / make some excuse involving that umbrella phrase "terrible twos" and a woman who's known me since before I was fourteen, since eleven, I think, which we all know is even worse, stops me with a hand on my arm and altogether too much sunshine in her voice:

"No, no, dear. We call those the Terrific Twos!"

And I do not even know how to respond, and all I can think is: spoken like a woman who hasn't had a two-year-old in a long, long time.

image by Silvia Ortega via Terrible Yellow Eyes

And now every once-a-year or so that I see her, she may look at me like my eleven-ness is showing, but I look at her like the lady who clear done lost her mind.

Now, listen. You know I believe in the power of words. You will never hear me refer to L as our middle child, even though she is chronologically in the middle, because I neither want to assign her a stigma nor unwittingly encourage her to live up to a stereotype. You will hear me call her our second daughter or second child or our four-year-old or our ladybug firefighter crazy monkey, but there's no stigma there. I call all three of them my crazy monkeys, and she's just the ladybug firefighter flavor of that species.

But the Twos. You guys are with me, right? I'm all for language-based wizardry. But the Twos can be Terrible and lying to ourselves about it does not help.

This is a peptalk for me, and this is a preamble for you. Because Mister Man G is revving up, and at this campfire we're going to be telling some Twos stories. Hold me.

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be Quiet

noreply@blogger.com (Robin noteverstill) — Thu, 19 Jan 2012 05:01:00 +0000

You will stay the whole time. She squeezed my hand. Her words fell in the muck between command and plea. She was scared. I squeezed back.

It was just a birthday party.

'It was just a birthday party,' I tell you, and that's a sentence that would work just fine for our other daughter, and probably for your kid, too. But sweet E -- she trips in the sticky muck. So I stayed.

This is getting harder. Now that the school year isn't brand new and the kids all know each other and the parents all recognize each other, there are no longer any other parents who linger at these birthday parties. I'm surrounded by quick kisses and "I'll be here straight at 4" and "don't eat too much sugar" and "say thank you!" and a flurry of departing adults, off, I imagine, to 90 minutes of carefree lonely bliss. It's probably not true; they're probably leaving this party to pick up another kid at a different party, or running to the grocery store or the gas station or dropping books in the library drop slot or checking in on an elderly parent, or home quickly to let out the dog. They all have responsibilities, I remind myself, and mine is right here, to stand in the corner and walk the balance between unobtrusive and immediately visible at all times.

But I envy the parents who walk out the door and I envy the kids who light up at the entrance, the ones who don't cower or sidle slowly, appraising the room, the ones who rush in and begin exploring and don't even care who that grownup is who tries to help them remove their jackets. I envy the ease with which they embrace the day; E isn't able to embrace and in truth, neither am I, but I stand in the corner, pretending to her I don't mind, so that she can figure out how to do a new thing without cowering first.

Introverts, I read, risk growing into adults who lack confidence in navigating the world. If they're too apprehensive and don't feel supported, they avoid risk and can feel very unsettled in a risk-rewarding world. But: if they are supported, if they are raised to respect the length of time they need to grow comfortable, if they are not unduly pushed or rushed or told to ignore their feelings, they can grow up to be very confident. Introverts spend so much time observing that they may grow up to be very adept in social settings, since they've spent their lives studying human interaction. Their quiet needs can grow to be their biggest assets -- if they're supported. So I smile and wave, and play on my phone looking consciously unconcerned but not bored, and E looks up every other minute or so.

Sometimes she smiles. Sometimes she grimaces. In a tough transition, when the party activity breaks up so kids can find places at the table for cupcakes, she looks over longingly. I follow her eyes from me to two friends. She wants to sit with them, I can see, but they're not sitting. They're chatting with a third girl she doesn't know, and she doesn't know what to do. I say nothing. I smile encouragingly. I watch.

She approaches the three girls and stands peripherally, cautiously. They're giggling, and she's being so timid. They don't notice her. She turns away, looks at me. I smile. I watch her decide not to wait for them to notice her. She finds another friend, not one of her favorites but a sweet girl, and she sits down beside her. I watch her glance at the girls still giggling. She looks strained for just a moment, and then relief fills her face. She starts talking with the other girl at the table.

The tricky moment passed, and the solution she found wasn't exactly the one she wanted but it wasn't a bad one, either. Later, when we leave the party, I ask her if she had fun. I don't point out that this is the first party with her new kindergarten friends where she hasn't cried at all, but it is, and I silently mark that in my head. It was pretty fun, she says, and squeezes my hand. She's proud of herself. It wasn't smooth sailing but we'll just keep trying, together, until the things that aren't scary for other kids aren't scary for her, either. I'm already the last parent, so I'll just keep being the last parent. This is what we do.

:::::::::

This post was inspired by a book I read for book club. I don't accept every book that I'm offered through our book club, and try only to select books that will teach me something or be enjoyable. This book hit a little too close to home to be enjoyable, but it taught me a lot about myself and our introverted eldest child. Once I understood the clinical terms (i.e., learning that by definition I'm introverted but not shy anymore, although I was very shy as a child; the lovely husband is even more introverted than I am but was never shy; E is shy-introverted and L is straight-up extrovert and who knows yet about G, but I'm curious to find out) and the science behind how those personality traits are mapped in the chemical and electrical functions of our brains, I've been able to understand E's reactions to certain kinds of social situations, as well as my own. This book has been really helpful in anticipating from an objective standpoint what I can do to prepare her for the kinds of upcoming moments that leave introverts feeling uncertain. Like, just say for example, loud unstructured crowded sugar-fueled birthday parties. And may I just say how grateful I am that the next book we'll be writing about is a novel. All it did to me was make me cry, but I didn't have to navel-gaze for it.
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Are you an introvert or extrovert? Author Susan Cain explores how introverts can be powerful in a world where being an extrovert is highly valued. Join From Left to Write on January 19 as we discuss Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking by Susan Cain. We'll also be chatting live with Susan Cain at 9PM Eastern on January 26. As a member of From Left to Write, I received a copy of the book. All opinions are my own.
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A memoir, written in advance

noreply@blogger.com (Robin noteverstill) — Wed, 18 Jan 2012 17:00:00 +0000

We attended several weddings in 2011, and ever since E has been captivated with two thoughts:

1) convincing her aunt to get married so that E can be the flower girl

and

2) planning her own wedding.

She has so many ideas and talks about them so frequently that she's begun fretting that she'll forget them all before she is old enough to marry anybody. So I suggested she write them down. Writing is new enough to her to be an exciting proposition, and she's recently set her career ambition on being a Writer and Illustrator (please imagine the flourish in her voice and fingertips).

This isn't a new idea. E has been making books for years. But lately she's been on a creative rampage. She keeps a file folder now of works in progress, and you should hear her, all busy and important, when she asks (a touch imperially): has anyone seen my file folder? There's her own version a world atlas, each page a different city: Purpleville, Pinkville, Rainbowville, Fairyville. There's her Holiday Book, which begins with New Year's Day, Marthin Luther King Day, My Birthday. And there's My Book of Wedding Book, a current favorite of mine:

She dated her work. This will help you when she's world famous and you have to edit her anthology of collected works.

This is her wedding gown. She is so confident in my as-yet-unlearned sewing skills that those are real live roses, and you can sew them on for me, Mama.

Her flower girl is her sister, she's already announced. And her sister is delighted.

This is my favorite page: the faceless husband. Why faceless, you ask? Because I don't know who he is yet, silly! But he'll be dapper in his top hat and tie and two pocket squares.

Her bouquet. Elegant, yes?

And she's thoughtfully made arrangements for what all her friends will wear, too.

You know words are my first love. Maybe they're E's, as well. (What that says about the faceless husband, I'm not sure.) Or maybe they're a passing phase, but I love encouraging my little Author and Illustrator in Training.

I have a post up today at Simple Kids on this very topic...

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Little adventures

noreply@blogger.com (Robin noteverstill) — Wed, 18 Jan 2012 04:30:00 +0000

Third floor wall at America Eats Tavern, quoting my very favorite food writer.

I took a few hours of leave in the middle of the day today to ride the shuttle downtown and meet the lovely husband for lunch at a fantastic pop-up restaurant that might be closing shortly. We had a decadent meal, especially for a Tuesday lunch.

Maybe that it was a Tuesday lunch was what made it so decadent.

Sometimes we plan day-dates like this, figuring the kids' school and daycare already-paid-for balance a no-babysitter-needed cost against a few hours of vacation time. Sometimes we try monthly to meet for lunch or a movie, and sometimes life gets too busy, or meetings and business trips get too booked, and we forget. It had been a little while, and it was nice to be back.

This is our season: we don't have room in our {bank accounts | childrens' sense of security | work schedules | community responsibilities | quotidian tasks} lives for many big adventures away, the two of us. So we have little ones, when we can, and share pie and dream about the bigger ones and when they'll happen, and also smile on the everydays we have now, the ones that are so glorious in their mundane everydayness.

It's not that we don't talk every day; it's that too much talk happens across a laundry pile or a skype line or half-packed lunches. Too little talk happens across linen tablecloths {that someone else laundered and pressed}. Too little happens across pie.

And the pie: it was that good.

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Beyond our vision

noreply@blogger.com (Robin noteverstill) — Tue, 17 Jan 2012 04:46:00 +0000

Unicorns aren't real, you know, she says
not to challenge me and not to question and not to be daring with her assertion
just matter-of-fact, as she makes a play about fairies
who are very
very
real.
And I ask, "how can you be so sure?"
and she says just because I know
and I can see that she does
but not about the fairies
so I say only
"you might be right, but I think they still might be"
because maybe they are.

And she told me all weekend about
back of the bus and
You should fight with your heart, not with your fists
and attributed the quote to MarTHin LuTHer King
and I didn't correct her, because she was proud to know
but when she and her sister had trouble playing nicely because of too many little squabbles
I asked "are you fighting with your heart?" and they played nicely again.

L has this thing
when you give an instruction
(that she doesn't want to receive)
where she stares at you blankly
vacant
unblinking
and it's unnerving, waiting,
wondering
-did she hear me?
or
-is she about to scream?
and
-how loudly?
and exactly half the time she screams
(and flails)
and throws herself dramatically to the ground
(or bolts)
(always in public, that option)
and exactly half the time
she looks reproached,
and changes tactic.
And in four years of knowing her
the lovely husband and I, neither one of us
can read her when she does the thing
and we think
there's something we're not giving her
in word or warning or head's up: here comes change
but we don't know what it is and she won't tell us
because she's unblinking.

And the little one
he pulled the terrible twos out of his pocket
last month sometime, we think
though his birthday isn't until next month and if he starts early
he better damn well end early, we think
and we say to each other
"I can't do Two again"
and we sigh
because we will
even as he stomps and shrieks
and points to the thing and you give him the thing and he says No.
Mama. And I ask, "should I get it?" and he says, Yes. and I get it and he yells
No. and I ask "should you get it?" and he says NO! and I look at him
unblinking.
And he says Gee
which means, we think, "me" and also "G" and
he speaks of himself in the first-third person
we think.

On Friday a transformer blew
(outside)
and our house grew dark and cold
and we ditched all our Friday rituals
and took the kids to Noodles,
and brought pajamas
and stopped for flashlight batteries
and I bought electric tea lights,
red and shaped like hearts in the Valentine's aisle
and I handed each girl a heart and said
climb in my bed together, girls, so you'll be warm
and they fell asleep holding hearts and holding hands.
And the lovely husband and the tantrummy boy
fell asleep together
and they were warm
and I couldn't sleep,
remembering the last time we sat in a winter house without power
so I practiced my night photography and watched cold men
hoist a crane
on my quiet little street
and drop in a new transformer
to the magical underground.

I found a fork with the construction paper and
the vitamin bottle tenting up under the fitted bedsheet and
a child's toothbrush in my underwear drawer.
Which kid's, I couldn't tell you, because G chews on all three and
the girls, we think, just reach for the nearest brush because
what does it matter if your brother licked all three and stuffed one
in Mama's underwear drawer?

I gave a box of baby toys away
so big I could have laid all my babies
in it
(with a toothbrush).

Today we saw a movie
and yesterday I took E to a birthday party
while the lovely husband took L to a birthday party
while Terrible Two napped at home with a babysitter,
whom we paid so he could miss all the fun.

On Saturday E cried because she asked if someone that she knew was sick is dying
and I couldn't lie
I told her he died months ago, at the beginning of summer
and she asked if God takes care of all the souls,
even the ones not Jewish
and I said I think so, baby
there are things I don't know for sure but I think so

and she asked
like the unicorns?
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Week in review

noreply@blogger.com (Robin noteverstill) — Fri, 13 Jan 2012 16:50:00 +0000

image credit: The Traveling Blues by Anthony Zinonos

Also known as: if a blogger falls in a forest...

If you recall that last week the lovely husband took a trip to Texas just as mister G got sick, you will not be surprised, given the speed of contagion and timing of business trips, that sweet L fell ill just as the lovely husband hopped a plane to Florida.

It's been a week of juggling and fever-checking and schedule-rearranging, but none of it is actually that interesting. Here are the blog posts I never got to write:

How to rock a presentation on four hours' sleep

Don't get dressed in your nice clothes too early, for surely your son will open his packed lunch bag, eat avocado with his hands, and hug you around your knees
Only one cup of coffee, then switch to green tea -- you get jittery when you pile too much caffeine on too little sleep
Navy mascara makes the whites of your eyes look brighter, and as a result you look more awake
Baby wipes stolen from your son's stash at daycare drop-off will remove most of the avocado stains you hadn't noticed while you were still home
For the rest, you can keep your right knee tucked behind the podium, and you'll be fine

Why sick toddlers are better than sick preschoolers

The toddler wants comfort by being held -- he can fall asleep on you and you can watch TV that interests you
The preschooler wants comfort by talking to you nonstop -- she wants her questions answered all day and then wants to sit on your lap while she watched Caillou
There is nothing worse than a Caillou lockdown
The toddler doesn't argue about a nap
The toddler confines his vomit to his bedsheets

Why the lovely husband isn't traveling next week

~~Because it's a short week and he almost never travels on short weeks since everyone's business schedules are already compressed and complicated~~
Because we have one more child, and the speed of contagion is constant
Because my remaining hours of sick leave can be counted on one hand
Because we all need him home for a while

Daycare was closed today for a professional development day, and it was time to visit E's school for her Star of the Week celebration. So the lovely husband and I had both already arranged to take today off from work. We took L and G in to kindergarten for an hour, where E shone in the attention of the class ritual. And now we're at the top of a four-day weekend, so listen up, weekend: I'm expecting you to be a lot of fun, I'm expecting you to pick up your toys, and I'm expecting you to be germ-free.
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Maximizing our real estate

noreply@blogger.com (Robin noteverstill) — Tue, 10 Jan 2012 04:54:00 +0000

I've been a madwoman of organization.

It might be a New Year's cliche, and if you pointed that out to me, musing on resolutions, you wouldn't be wrong, exactly. But the timing is less a factor of the new year and more a factor of our family calendar: we're four weeks past L's birthday and two weeks past Chanukah and two weeks before E's birthday and four weeks before G's. You might think of this season as winter but I think of it as intake.

We've been working on organizing the toys and dolls and dress-up clothes and firefighter accessories and puzzles and manipulatives and books and the girls, they've seen it happen. They've helped to a degree, they've rediscovered lost treasures, and they understand that mama means business. There's an enormous new Ikea shelf in the basement, y'all, and color-coded baskets.

Both girls came with me to the store when we went to pick up the printed photos for E's school project. L spied a doll she fancied and asked if she could have it. She didn't whine or plead; truly she asked very kindly and reasonably. But I made a spur-of-the-moment decision and announced, "Girliciousses," (sometimes I call them each 'girlicious') "we are not buying any more toys until we finish organizing all the ones we already have at home." L looked at her feet. She didn't object, but her whole body turned sad.

"Hey, you," I said, rubbing her neck lightly. She looked up reluctantly.

"It's not a punishment, loves. It's just that we need to get the house under control. But you didn't do anything wrong. It's not a punishment. I don't mind buying you something -- I just don't want it to be another piece of clutter on the floor. Should we go get a piece of chocolate from the counter?"

Okay, she readily agreed, her spirit revived. We found the posterboard we needed, and some cleaning supplies we needed to replenish, and we headed to the front to find chocolate and pay. L's eyes darted back.

Mama, she said pointedly, what if I have an idea that's not chocolate? Can I have a balloon? That only clutters the ceiling.

I giggled. Both girls got balloons. Everyone was happy.

_________________________

Life in review, and a question

noreply@blogger.com (Robin noteverstill) — Mon, 09 Jan 2012 01:41:00 +0000

Tomorrow begins E's turn to be honored by her class as "Star of the Week." It's a sweet tradition where each child is feted in turn. The week begins with E's presentation of her life story via poster board, and ends with a little party that the other four of us will attend on Friday morning.

So last night I stayed up for many, many hours to go through photos and find a nice range to print for her project. I think we're pretty average in our use of the digital camera, and I learned this week that I've saved 19,000 family photos since E was born, dutifully cataloged month by month. I probably looked at 18,000 of them, not wanting to miss the flattering light that made her hair look red or when her cheeks were still so chubby she almost had dimples. I realized just how often we go to the aquarium, I saw her grow bigger in consecutive trips to the same beach, I watched her smile in Michigan and Manhattan and downtown.

July 2007. E's first trip to Niagara Falls. I grew up about two miles from that spot.

It was heartwarming and heartwrenching, and if I was a slow-down-time kind of gal (though you know I'm not), this would have been heart-stopping. I watched her grow with a flick of the cursor. It was, you know what?, a lot of fun. And after I clicked 'send' on my curated version of her entire existence and we drove to pick up the prints this morning, she loved flipping through them, too.

My question is this: how do you organize your photos? Do you take the time to tag them? Do you keep them on your computer? On Flickr or Photobucket or Picasa or something similar? What do you do?

(Ours are saved in folders by month and live on the computer and are backed up on an external hard drive. I felt good about this until I started flipping through 19,000 of them to find 45 or so from which E glued only about 20 of them to her poster. Thoughts?)

_________________________

A room of my own

noreply@blogger.com (Robin noteverstill) — Fri, 06 Jan 2012 21:33:00 +0000

If your happy corners of the internet overlap at all with my happy corners, then you've already seen The Obliteration Room several times, this amazing installation where artist Yayoi Kusama created an all-white room (floor, furniture, ceiling, accessories) and then gave children gazbillions of stickers and permission to place them anywhere in the white room.

This and all images in this post from Colossal.

This installation has been capturing my attention all week since the moment when I first saw images of it. I love the finished product. I want to daydream in there. I want to sit on the stickered couch with my laptop and write all night. I want to sit with my smartest friends and a pot of tea in there and talk until dawn. And when we rise, I want you not to worry about the stickers that may cling to your clothes and hair like snowflakes. There are more, here, and nothing is too precious. The colors will always roll thick like fog. The stickers [colors / shapes / ideas / comforts] will flutter like ticker tape in a parade. They will blow like cherry blossom petals in spring, dancing [what you need] on the currents of our ideas.

I like to cover bare walls with color. I like to soothe naked feelings with warm words. I like to take blank paper and cover it with scrawl.

I can't stop thinking about this installation because part of its appeal, I'm sure, is the shock of it -- that something pristine was defiled, that the defilement ended (in this room, in this one instance) in beauty.

That's the common thought, right?

I find the white room suffocating. It steals the air and makes me unable to breathe. I want the teeming color, the welcoming freedom, the embrace of creativity. I want to know that my coffee stains or wine stains on my notebook pages won't offend; that I can be wild and brave and bold, that if you're with me, you'll be so, too. That you never expect from me perfection, but you'll always encourage ideas unfettered.

I want all the rooms of my life covered in rainbow dots, and I want to hand you a sticker book every time you say to me hello.

_________________________

Come morning

noreply@blogger.com (Robin noteverstill) — Thu, 05 Jan 2012 14:32:00 +0000

He clutched a glow stick in one hand and my ear in the other. All night he labored to breathe, pulled my nose against his, and cast a neon green pallor against his wan skin and fluttering eyelids. All night I barely slept as he tugged my ear, breathed on me, and whimpered by the light of the pale green glow stick.

Last night when G's fever was worst and I couldn't get him to sleep away from my body, the girls patiently entertained themselves by holding a glow-in-the-dark party. I wanted to put him quickly in his bed and tend to their nighttime routine, but G never agreed to my absence. He awoke five minutes after I left him, again and again and again. The girls bent glow sticks into bracelets and arranged them in each room of the house, shutting off lights and admiring their art and reilluminating the house to move their traveling show a room over. I was helping to bend a stick when G screamed for me. Being sick is awful. Being sick and alone in the dark is worse. I shushed him and patted him and handed him a glow stick and he slept, just long enough for me to shush girls into brushed teeth and 'jamas, but not long enough for stories.

This is the worst of alone-parenting. When they were littler (say, just-four and two-and-a-quarter and newborn), the mere thought of managing all three alone terrified me. It has never gotten easy, but it's gotten manageable. I can head into one of the lovely husband's business trips with some advance work and a pep talk (and maybe daily permission for afternoon coffee) and we will all be fine.

But when things fall apart, it's still awful. The girls went to bed last night with no nighttime stories, and cry me a river, right? but that last tender measure of love to close out the day, that individualized attention, each in her bed, in my arms, and telling me about the precious thoughts that filled her day, I hate that. They feel unsettled, they cry for their Daddy, I feel inadequate, and G felt...screamy, hot and alone.

So I tucked him into *my* bed, because if we were cosleeping again we need to do so near the alarm clock so his sweet biggest sister wouldn't miss her ride to kindergarten. I escaped long enough to whisper to one, "I'll be back if I can, but let me turn out the light and you rest;" and to the other, who had been crying, a quick hug and murmur of reassurance. "I love you, okay? Please remember that even though you're sad right now. I'm trying. I'm trying to take care of everybody.

"I'm only one mommy."

She looked at me, considering, and surprised me by drying her tears. I know, she said, and threw her arms around me. I'm sorry this is so hard for you. Good luck with G, she said with an encouraging smile. And that's when I began to cry.

In those pools of blue eyes, in those squeezing thin arms: so much grace.

In the minutes of night, my mind thought of how it seems someone gets sick every time their daddy travels; or of how his absence dries up all of my confidence; or how it encourages my self-pity. I thought of my neighbor, widowed at the beginning of her 40s and parenting forever alone, as I do every time I mama-wallow. I made myself remember the dozens of the lovely husband's business trips during which everything didn't fall apart. I thought of my boy, sickly but not tragically so, and how, if morning ever comes, this too shall pass. I counted his breaths instead of sheep and watched the clock unfold hours and let him sleep with his finger in my ear and his nose against mine, even as that meant he breathed his germs, CPR-style, right into my own breaths; so that he might find a few minutes of comfort against the ragged work of inhale-exhale-inhale again. As long as you inhale again, my sad-sweet boy.

This morning, there is a spent glow stick in my bed. There's a flushed toddler with snot running down to his belly. There are glow bracelets hung all around the first floor of the house. There is sunlight, and with it the reminder that everything (a fever, a cough, loneliness, self-doubt, the length of a minute, the pause between a baby's breaths) is bigger in the dark.

And there is, praise be, a lovely husband crossing clouds to come home.

_________________________

In with the new (out with the old)

noreply@blogger.com (Robin noteverstill) — Tue, 03 Jan 2012 03:59:00 +0000

A long time ago, so begins the story, an English expat settled in the town I would one day call home. It was just after Prohibition was repealed, and sensing an opportunity, our young protagonist opened a bar. It was a classy joint. He named it Ruby's. Maybe for his mom, maybe because it sounded like a romantic name or an honorable one. It wasn't for his wife, because I knew her and she was a Lillian. He served his customers their libations in crystal stemware, ruby-colored, of course, at the foot, and etched in intricate art-deco Rs.

Sixty years later, when he was gone and she was dying and the children they never had couldn't claim an inheritance, she gave me the last remnants of Ruby's, the etched stemware. It's an uneven and well-loved set: seven shot glasses, five cordials, eight wine glasses and six champagne flutes -- the hollow-stemmed kind that fill right from their ruby feet. For my first initial, she said. For my dowry, she told me.

The girls begged to stay up until midnight. How do they even know about that? we wondered, and then we lay down some terms. Mandatory long naps. Healthy dinner. Pajamas and books and vitamins and brush teeth at 8:00, not 12:00. No bickering or whining or all privileges would be revoked. They were so enthusiastic.

We watched an early movie and said goodnight to their brother and the girls played while I tried to organize toys. At about 11:50 we turned on the television and I poured a fine 2011 sparkling apple juice.

The girls loved to toast, loved the ball drop, loved the glamour of drinking from crystal and staying awake far past bedtime. And we slept and awoke: a new year.

::::::::::

A mid-century building I've long admired housed a business that recently closed. At first that only added to its grandeur; for once it was emptied of contents I could enjoy the glass walls of the wedge-shaped structure so much more, and every evening as I drove home I'd glance left, admiring the lights of the plaza behind it through two walls and an angle of glass.

One day, I always thought, I want to stop and take pictures of that building. And complacently I repeated that thought five nights a week, for about a year.

You know what I hate about the photo above?

The chain-link fence. That only appeared within the past two or three weeks. I hate it because I worry that this building might be demolished; and selfishly I hate it more because in a year of complacency I never stopped to get pre-fence photographs.

So on January 1st, at the dawn of a new year, I twisted in my telephoto lens and went for a short drive.

Sometimes issues are big and complex and sometimes they're startlingly simple. I know we can't save everything. But I'm prized-possession glad my Ruby's stemware was thoughtfully saved long after a bar closed, and I wish someone would save this building even though Marvel Cleaners has closed. All-or-nothings are easy, though, so I just trigger the shutter and ponder. It's balance, I think, that's always most elusive.

If 2010 was the year in which we had our third kid and I realized I can't be the control freak I want to be, then 2011 was the year in which I ceded too much control to the entropy of life with three small kids and grew numb to any desire to plan for anything. I keep thinking about the cortisol in people who experience stress a lot -- how their bodies are accustomed to stress and therefore experience stress quickly and easily; or adrenaline junkies who have to maintain adrenaline. I was the stasis junkie of 2011, not thinking big or saying yes or joining spontaneously or making time for socializing with friends or any anything outside the nucleus of our family and the laundry, school needs, meal plans and other ordinary detritus of its orbit.

Running a five-person ship is hard, y'all. (It's 2012; I decided to go for it.) And I convinced myself that because it was hard, it was all I could do. So 2012 is the year of pushing back that complacency, and finding the corners of time where I can take photographs, or sew, or figure out my next career aspiration.

I have some ideas about 2012. I'm pretty excited. I hope your 2012 is making you feel excited, too.
_________________________

Heartfelt felicitations from our home to yours

noreply@blogger.com (Robin noteverstill) — Sat, 31 Dec 2011 23:15:00 +0000

It's the last night of the year. That might feel weighty and symbolic or it might feel like an arbitrary designation overimbued with frivolous emotion. It might feel like a night for sparkly clothes and sparkly drinks or it might feel like every other night, which is to say that I can't really envision how I'll spend my night until I get my three littles to go to sleep.

When I walk into sweet L's room each night to read to her, whisper dreams in her ear, kiss her good night and rub her belly and send her tenderly into dreamland, this is where I find her:

Rainbow Girl's rainbow bed.

She's a vivid child and her room matches her personality. I originally designed it with bold colors against a soft yellow so that its background feel would always be soothing, but the individual elements would all compile a visual cacophany. What's been the most interesting about her space, though, is that of the three kids she is the one who most needs to make her individual mark. She is endlessly curating, and rearranges her favorite objects in a slow, thoughtful, constant stream.

Here you can see the current soft friends who join her on her bed, the baby afghan my mom made her and immediately accidentally felted into a rug, her anteater, and, up on the shelf, Daddy Peanuts' feet are sticking out. You know Daddy Peanuts, don't you? L acquired and named him shortly after her baby brother was born. It's New Year's Eve, you're pouring champagne and feeling jovial; why don't I introduce you?

L has decided that she likes Daddy Peanuts up on that shelf. He is king of the room. She can call good night! to him from her bed, and he can wave his regards to her in return.

The view from L's pillow: he sees you when you're sleeping. He knows when you're awake.

Daddy P is really kind of a lech, don't you think? But my sweet girl has an open heart and doesn't judge her friends for their failings.

Still, it's a new year. Time to set new goals toward self-improvement, and a time to feel joyous. So I thought I'd help Daddy Peanuts join our family in celebration:

Don't his blue eyes look so sincere? (Now that they're the focus of your attention, that is.) Daddy Peanuts really believes that this will be a great new year. And so do I.

Wishing you a 2012 of abundant playfulness and moderate dignity,
Happy New Year from the whole noteverstill circus.

_________________________

The dots

noreply@blogger.com (Robin noteverstill) — Fri, 30 Dec 2011 04:26:00 +0000

image via cknara

It's possible that the person who had the greatest influence on my life in 2011 is Steve Jobs, and it has nothing to do with how much I love my iPad or my iPhone (though I love those very, very much). It's because I had paid utterly no attention to him until he died, and then he did, and his words were everywhere, and I kept reading them, and now they rattle in my head like prophecy, like admonition, like a soothsayer reading the stars:

Source: icanread.tumblr.com via Monica on Pinterest

Source: google.com via Jessica on Pinterest

Source: icecreamisbetterwithafork.tumblr.com via Michelle on Pinterest

Source: quote-book.tumblr.com via Laura on Pinterest

Those all, together. Those. Those carry a lot of responsibility. (And they make me think I should just go buy his biography, already.) Those make me wonder at my life, and how I've always daydreamed along and mostly, that has always worked well.

So you (I) think about those words, and you (I) mull them over, and you (I) wonder if daydreaming along is the best plan, really, or if you (I) should be more prescriptive about this one chance to live. And then Steve said this in a thousand soundbytes from a thousand Stanford commencement reruns:

Source: lemonandraspberry.com via Rachel on Pinterest

I've felt something shift this year. Maybe it's because the career I'm in is one I fell into by accident. Maybe it's because it came easily to me, and when things come easily to me I have trouble distinguishing "ease" from "pleasure." Maybe it's because with E leaving our daycare-housed-in-my-work for a kindergarten away from us, my sense of working-mom two-in-one identity faced a geographic schism. And in this past month, when there has been an uproar in nomenclature in our profession, it took me by surprise, leading me to realize that I've never internalized our profession as part of my identity.

That's a strange thing to learn, nine years in.

Or, maybe the core-me was always more separate from the working-me than I'd ever acknowledged.

This is not to say I'm necessarily making any changes; this is just to say that in the past six months I've stopped thinking of my life reflexively in automatic definitions. It's a big shift in mindset. I don't know where the dots are leading me or if now that I see them, they'll take me anywhere different than when I was floating along daydreamingly. But I know that for the first time ever, I'm noticing every dot. I'm wondering where they plan to connect, and how.

2011 will close as the year of dot awareness. And 2012? I don't know. But I'm walking in with eyes wide open.
_________________________

State of the Robin

noreply@blogger.com (Robin noteverstill) — Mon, 26 Dec 2011 21:25:00 +0000

Today is my birthday. I'm 35 now.

I started a new project today, something I've wanted to begin for a while. I have plans to become a self-taught quilter, and on a day when I knew I could do what I wanted with my time, I set out my new self-healing mat and my new rotary cutter and the jelly roll of pretty fabric I've had since summer. In a life busy as this, where it seems like I'm always catching my breath or running until I'm out of breath, it can take a little while to make room for additional dreams.

On my very first cut of the fabric with my new rotary cutter, I sliced into my finger. Let that not be an omen, I thought.

It didn't bleed. I had sliced right into a thick writing callous. The intersection of art and letters: just where I always want to live.

I cut fabric at the kitchen table while my lovelies worked around me. The gift of today was that I could say with impunity: "ask your daddy to help you" and "see if Daddy can fix that." I cut fabric. They baked me cakes.

Erin McMorris's "Somersault" line in multiple colorways, for all you fabric junkies.

What kind of cake do you want, Mama? they asked and I, knowing they'd do best with something from a mix, and I, being neither a "yellow" nor a chocolate cake kind of girl, asked for one of those blueberry crumb cakes. The lovely husband took all three kids to the grocery store and they picked out the blueberry mix, then they saw a pretty pink strawberry mix, and then, because it's so good, they selected a pre-made pound cake, too.

We had an in-the-house kind of day, where I cut fabric and snuggled my lovelies and did the gratifying parts of parenting and my sweet birthday-honoring husband did the hard parts, and then we went out for an early dinner, and as soon as we sat at the booth E blurted to the waitress: it's my Mommy's birthday! her smile audible in her voice.

We came home to dessert: three cakes with singing, and as many candles as could be cut down and salvaged from the hulk-smashed toddler-destroyed Chanukah candles we've been lighting all week.

This is how we live: celebrations among the child-broken things, three cakes to make everyone happy (and also because we believe in cake), and ideas that slow-germinate in my mind before we make space for more of anything.

Just in the past two months or so, once we got through the experience of getting E settled into her new kindergarten life, I've begun to notice that life isn't quite so frazzled as the infrared vibrations to which we've become accustomed. We were so used to living on the adrenaline until the very moment when we collapsed; we kept managing each day as if it relied on adrenaline. We still have three kids, two careers, travel and exasperating needs like nourishment and clean underpants. But G is nearly two; we're past the hardest of the tinies stage. I have begun to realize that we're not quite the pure chaos we've been; we're what a new friend calls "normal-crazy" and I can, in fact, make room for new challenges.

You all might plan your life on New Year's next week, but I like to take it all in on my birthday. My workplace had its "State of the Agency" meeting earlier this month and the President will give his "State of the Union Speech" late next month and this is my own evaluation, my State of the Robin:

I'm 35 now. I'm mom to three sweet kids who are just big enough to occupy just less than all of my time. I work and I'm married and he works, but those don't need add up to quite everything. We've made it to the other side. Maybe we'll even sleep some more. The last time I started a challenging new learning project was to start this blog, close to four years ago. And this blog isn't going anywhere, but like my family, its found its rhythm, and I'm ready to challenge myself again.

I don't know what most people do when they turn 35. I need something new-hard, new-fun, and I'm going to teach myself to sew and quilt. And I'm going to go eat another piece of cake.

Luminaries

noreply@blogger.com (Robin noteverstill) — Sun, 25 Dec 2011 15:20:00 +0000

Last night after Havdalah, we lit the Chanukah candles, opened gifts, and switched three kids into new pajamas. We had plans for an evening drive. "Get the kids in the car," I said to the lovely husband. "I'll come out as soon as the candles burn out."

Each of the five of us have our own Chanukah menorah, and this year E made one in school, too.

So we've been lighting six menorahs each night, and last night was the fifth night of Chanukah. That meant we lit 36 candles last night.

They're not large candles, but I didn't want to leave the house with so many flames burning.

The house emptied of people and sound and I was alone in the dim, caretaking for those tiny wicks. I watched them, feeling tender toward those sweet lights over which my kids have meticulously learned to sing the blessings, transfer flame, watch in wonder.

The Chanukah lights are tenacious. We've lit them for thousands of years against the time we were unable to light a flame. These fulfilled their legacy admirably. They were reluctant to extinguish.

Our plans were for something we do every year. We hit a drive-thru for a very rare and special treat of french fries and vanilla milkshakes, and we drive through a huge Christmas lights display.

But our lights wouldn't give up, so I stayed. Waited.

One of my favorite concepts in Judaism is hiddur mitzvah, that when we do something ritual or religious, we do it beautifully. Judaism places a lot of emphasis on this and I don't see it as much in Christianity, but when it comes to Christmas...good job, my friends.

We love your Christmas lights, and so every year my sweet Jewish family spends a night oohing and ahhing at your resplendent Christmas displays.

Merry Christmas, by the way. I know you're not here just now. I'm writing for myself, this morning, but sometimes one has to do that, even on a public blog.

So I waited for the tiny little flames, feeling more and more responsible for their final breaths of air. My worldview lives solidly on the side of ooh, pretty! in the art/logic brain divide, but I remember just enough of science to think about how the candles were disappearing before my eyes, turning energy into heat, burning wax, leaving nothing behind but a few drips and an afterimage in my eyes.

And when there was nothing left, we enjoyed a night of spectacle and french fries.

I love tiny lights.

_________________________

Merry Christmas to me, too

noreply@blogger.com (Robin noteverstill) — Fri, 23 Dec 2011 03:25:00 +0000

image via ~K~

Three or four people wished me a Merry Christmas today. As you know, I don't celebrate Christmas, and this is where some people get sticky.

I think it's lovely. I always respond in kind: "Merry Christmas!"

You know that question you see sometimes: if you could have one superpower, what would you choose? Sometimes I think that I would choose the power to zap melodrama. I know that some non-celebrators bristle at the greeting of "Merry Christmas" because of the assumption or presumption that everyone celebrates or should celebrate Christmas. And I know some celebrants feel strongly about saying specifically "Merry Christmas" instead of a more generic "Happy Holidays" because of the opportunity it gives to emphasize the 'Christ' in Christmas.

Here's my take on this scene: you're in a good mood. Good enough, in fact, that you take the time to share some of your happy feeling with me. That's what it boils down to, right? It does if you let it. I don't care that you forgot for a moment that I'm Jewish, or that you never knew. I'm glad to see you happy, and appreciative that you want to share your happiness with me. I still won't be celebrating your holiday, but thank you for including me in the spirit of your season.

Or we could go with L's take on the season. She walked into the kitchen yesterday as I was warming traditional latkes for our dinner, and offered the following little nugget of wisdom:

Well, we don't need to 'better be good for goodness' sake,' because we celebrate Chanukah.

Merry Christmas, friends (if you want, that is).
_________________________

Just another Monday night

noreply@blogger.com (Robin noteverstill) — Tue, 20 Dec 2011 04:08:00 +0000

I couldn't help but fail them.

I knew it was likely. We do this sometimes, fail them, lie to their faces so they hope and wait patiently. The lovely husband is in Atlanta tonight and the girls, so well behaved tonight my sweet girls, they got their pajamas and ate their vitamins and brushed their teeth and brushed each other's hair. When their brother threw a kazallion silly bands out of L's purple bucket they worked together to clean her room and when he pulled all the tissues out of E's wastebasket they squealed together as they cleaned up the mess and I diapered him, I changed his clothes and I knew, I knew, he was too awake. I knew he'd take too long to fall asleep and both girls would themselves fall asleep, waiting for me. Still I told them each, "pick out two books and wait in bed. I'll come read as soon as your brother is asleep."

And there I found them, each in her room, one in the glow of a purple lamp and one in the glow of a pink, each with lips softly parted, lashes closed like shutters, each clutching a book like a teddy bear. Each waiting for the mama who didn't come. And I knew it would happen.

The saddest part, if you want to draw out my melancholy, is we had our fantastic nanny babysit last night, and it was the first time she'd put any of the kids to bed, and G messed with her, bad. So last night both girls fell asleep holding books and tonight they fell asleep holding books and I always wonder if they know: Mama isn't coming. I'll wait patiently and be a good girl like she told me to, but she's isn't coming. I wonder if they fight sleep, I'll just keep my eyes open and maybe she'll be here soon or if they are content, daydreaming into slumber, truly patient or resigned to my lateness. They never say, the next day, Mama, where were you? or why didn't you come? but L asks only will you read that book to me tonight? because I fell asleep and I lie "yes, baby, yes," even knowing that my odds of success will be no greater; and E asks did you kiss and snuggle me? and I answer half-truth: "yes, baby, yes" because I kissed her, I kiss each girl when I tiptoe in to turn off reading lamps whose purposes went another night unfulfilled. I kiss her and gaze with lament on her sweet face, innocent and trusting and sweetly not angry come morning, and I wonder every time why.

The lovely husband is in Atlanta and I don't like being the sole proprietor of feelings when he's gone. G fell asleep in my face, really, in my breath our noses almost touching as he grabbed one ear of mine and the other, hugging them with his fingers, my cartilage his lovey tonight in his daddy's absence. There were sirens tonight in our quiet neighborhood, probably nothing, of course, but there I lay in the dark, custodian of so much love in this curly-haired boy that he trusts my breath to bathe him into slumber, and two earnest girls waiting the gifts of words and quiet attention, and I'm alone and have to worry for all of them at once. I worry that the boy won't fall asleep, or that I will, or that the sirens mean something on our block and if I have to evacuate three kids by myself do I have enough arms and where did I drop my keys? and these are the sadnesses I feel when I'm alone: that these three wards of mine place their trust in me, that he'll fall asleep on my heartbeat and I feel so vulnerable, so alone and charged with too much.

That's the unbearable sadness of the lovely husband's absences: I can pack lunches and kiss boo-boos and set out school clothes and work harder, next time, to get us all upstairs earlier and maybe we'll all read all our stories in mama's bed before G goes to his room. The mechanics of parenting, I got that. It's the tender faith they have and I'm the only one to carry it, and because they need to believe and I need them to believe it, I will lie to them: I will say "yes, baby, yes, I"ll be there"

even when I know I won't.

::::::::::

Before you get ahead of yourself rolling your eyes at my vapors, allow me this: it's the longest night of the year. Tomorrow night we'll light the Chanukah candles and fill our house with light. Tomorrow night the lovely husband will be back, having cut short his planned trip to be home so we can celebrate together. Tomorrow night the nights stop their lengthening and reverse course. Tomorrow night the lovely husband will tell me the order of the coming trips: Dallas just after New Year's, Florida the week after, a quickie up to New York, maybe Atlanta again. Cloudy with a chance of Utah just into February. Week after week, there will be a night or two there, a night over where, and I'll be here, kissing our kids and trying not to lie to them or break their faith in me.

This is what we do; this is our partnership. But I hate when he's gone.
_________________________

The thing about the circular floor plan

noreply@blogger.com (Robin noteverstill) — Fri, 16 Dec 2011 21:15:00 +0000

image via nic0

I grew up in an old house, a front-to-back house. The lovely husband grew up in a mid-century house, a split-level down-left up-left house. And then we bought an ‘80s suburban house, and when we contemplated offering a contract I thought, the kids we’ll have can run circles here. And sometimes I say: go run three laps and come back. And sometimes I say: go gallop two circles right away. And sometimes I say nothing, because they chase each other and I just have to yell: someone make sure the gate at the bottom of the stairs is tucked in so your brother still has two eyes at the end of this game!

They have driven ladybug toys and riding firetrucks around that circle. They have slithered jump ropes like imaginary snakes around that circle. They have pushed each other in laundry baskets around that circle and convinced their grandfather to be ridden like a horsie.

Front hall. Side hall. Kitchen. Dining room. Living room. (Watch out for the gate on the bottom of the stairs.) Front hall.

The problem began, as I’m convinced all problems do, with a craft kit. Craft kits by nature are an affront. If you’re going to craft, you should have crafting supplies, really, not a kit, you know? Like if you’re going to bake a delicious cake, you should have flour and eggs and sugar. You shouldn’t have a rectangular box.

Craft kits affect my self-esteem, and actually, this is the real problem. I want to hate them because I think they limit true creativity. But I rely on them for projects because I don’t have enough innate creativity.

(But at least I know how to bake a real cake.)

So the craft kit in question was a beading kit. Make some pretty bracelets, blah blah blah. Except the supplies ratio was terribly composed, and we had beads long after we’d run out of the stretchy beading string. And anyway the beading string was terrible. It was slippery and wouldn’t hold a knot and broke easily, spraying beads all over the floor for little G to try to eat, completely undermining my encouragement of crafting disciplines: at the table, girls. Do this project at the table.

And then beads spray everywhere, AGAIN, because the cheap kit string snapped for fun, AGAIN, and now I have to sweep, only you know what the problem with sweeping is? 1) You realize how much gross food stuff accumulates really fast under the table, and 2) G wants to sweep. G LOVES to sweep. G will fight you for that broom, and now he’s sweeping like a self-satisfied little maniac, only he just hit one sister in the head with the broom handle and poked the other one in the arm and now they’re both yelling, ouch, G, stop! and they’re both clamoring for ice packs, which in the end will be the daycare’s longest-lasting legacy on the childhoods of my children: behold, the all-great and all-knowing panacea, the ice pack.

Dun dun DUN. I just solved all your problems: hold this ice pack.

So now G sees ice packs and yells ELMO! ELMO! while pointing nebulously at his head like a very short drunkard with a speech impediment, because G has a passionate love for Elmo (the character) and ice packs (the panacea) and knows that there’s an Elmo ice pack in the freezer, the character-branded cure-all being obviously THE GREATEST THING EVER IN THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD, and invents an injury. It’s patently fake, of course, so he switches off between hands with the pointing and the broom-clutching, since it doesn’t matter where the injury is so long as he gets his AAAAAAH! ELMO!!!

the joy of which sends him into spasms of double-fisting Elmo-having dancing, and so he drops the broom, always, every time, on my foot. And there are no more ice packs available for use.

So I thought I had them all outsmarted. I clickety-clicked and for $6, ordered two 50-yard rolls of elastic thread, one in gold and one in silver. Because everything’s better in sparkle, you know, and how did anyone ever parent before Amazon Prime? Two days later, ta-da! Mama should be a bead-crafting hero.

Except, no.

Because E took one look at all. that. string. and decided that the thing to do, the only thing, the thing that must be done, was to wrap things like presents. Starting with: the whole house. Front hall. Side hall. Kitchen. Dining room. Living room. (Watch out for the gate on the bottom of the stairs.) Front hall.

And this is the thing now. This is what they do. They wrap up the whole house, and then they respool the string. Then they wrap up the whole house, then they respool the string. So I’ve still been foiled by the supplies ratio, because what am I supposed to do with all those beads? And this is why I hate craft kits.

Did you follow all that? Then you, my friend, have earned your weekend.

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Five coughing monkeys sitting in a tree

noreply@blogger.com (Robin noteverstill) — Fri, 16 Dec 2011 02:10:00 +0000

image via steveleenow

Five coughing monkeys sitting in a tree

One says "I have meetings tonight, you’ll parent without me!"

So along came a fancy dinner reception, scheduled as can be, and snatched the sick daddy away from the tree.

Four coughing monkeys sitting in a tree

One says mama, my throat hurts, pay attention to me!

So along comes the weary mama, patient as can be, and tucks in her sad monkey:

"Shh. In your dreams you’ll be pain-free."

Three coughing monkeys sitting in a tree

*cough cough* I’m not sick *cough cough* my friend is turning three!

There’s a pizza party for her tomorrow *cough cough* don’t make me miss it, pleeeeease?

So along comes the hacking mama, too rundown to disagree:

“Go to sleep, we’ll decide in the morning. I can’t promise you a thing.”

Two coughing monkeys sitting in a tree

No mama! Mama go! Daddy? *cough* DaddYYYYY?

So along comes the bleary mama, dragging as can be:

“Daddy’s not home. You only get me. Sleep-- you sound dismally croupy.”

One coughing monkey mama sitting in a tree

Wishing for sleep, dreading to wake, knowing there’ll soon be a need

For a new drink or a hug or some pats on a back or three

Resigned, she reaches for a mug and brews herself some fresh tea.

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Cutbacks

noreply@blogger.com (Robin noteverstill) — Thu, 15 Dec 2011 04:17:00 +0000

Today was my agency's annual holiday party, and unlike in years past, this one was rather small. I don't know if it's a money-saving concern or a security one or something else, but the festivities were moved from the lobby with the 30' tree and 60' ceilings to the basement lecture rooms, which look just like basement lecture rooms.

Santa still came for the daycare kids, and he was a dud. He didn't invite any kids to sit on his lap; rather he just tossed little toys to all the kids and then sat there, alone. Halfway through the party his belt buckle popped off. The man in the suit was too big for the costume. The whole thing was very disappointing to me, because you know how I love my annual photos of my Jewish kids on Santa's lap. I love their small moment of exposure to big Christmas.

All was not lost, though, because we still got to cause a typical noteverstill-style workplace commotion. L got sugar-fueled upset that the candy canes were blue instead of red, and then that I tried to take a few pictures of her brother when she wanted me to take a few of her new bear. So she threw herself to the floor and rolled over the shoes of two of the agency's highest ranking executives. They both, each of them just having recently learned my name in the past two months, made sure to say "Hi, Robin." They both have kids, you'd point out to me if you knew them, but what are the odds their kids ever rolled over the toes of their supervisors' supervisors' supervisors' supervisors?

Jewish kids don't know to remove the clear wrapper. Or maybe eat-anything toddlers just don't care.

Fa la la, suckers.

It's because I told you she almost never has any tantrums any more, isn't it?
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My dear darling

noreply@blogger.com (Robin noteverstill) — Tue, 13 Dec 2011 04:04:00 +0000

Ladybug,

You turned four years old yesterday. Well, I thought you did, or would, but after having celebrated your birthday for most of a week already, you awoke yesterday and declared that you were done with four, and would turn four-and-a-half.

So may I be the first to say: happy four-and-a-half, my beautiful December baby. 'New math,' indeed.

That story exemplifies you well: you are creatively original, comfortably defiant, and conform only if doing so happens to interest you. Most of us, I think, live our lives inadvertently comparing ourselves against others. You dare others to measure their differences against you.

And lest that smack of hubris, next you tilt your head and smile sideways and yes, we see. You are the gold standard. And-a-half. You charmed us to return a smile and there you are, just-a-girl-not-yet-a-mogul, my sweet, funny kid with the wind-chime laugh.

I'm smitten with you, Ladybug.

You are naturally theatrical, sometimes wiggling so that we wonder about your movements. I just have the dance inside of me right now, you'll tell me. Often you rise on your toes, squint your eyes, and deepen your voice. It's then that you'll call me My dear darling! or sometimes My darling dear! while waving your hands majestically. You may just be swinging your arms for dramatic effect, but it always looks as if you are conducting an invisible orchestra. I get it: a life like yours needs its own soundtrack.

(Kiss my on my hair cut, you say. "Okay," I say.)

Here's the best part about you, sweet girl: you are tough and you are tender. You are our Ladybug and a firefighter -- a good-luck, swooping jewel in the sunlight and a hero in the night. You are obstinate and you are generous. You share so easily and with such grace. You think of your sister's happiness. You offer your brother your ear. You pounce on any of the four of us with a hug, just to scream, I LOVE YOU!

Of course, you'll also yell for JUSTIN BEAVER!! If the Bievs ever learns of you, he better recognize how lucky he is to be in your graces.

You are loud and spontaneous. You are clever and silly. You are confident and daring and loyal and you share your big heart easily and bring out the best of everyone you meet. You are a delight, and in the past year you've come so far away from tantrums and so far forward to insights and observations and questions that make me feel like a mama of very little brain. Keep challenging me with your questions, you beautiful smart thing. Keep growing and sharing your love and perspective and your hugs, oh, those knock me down and tickle my neck hugs.

You are going to do very great things, although I have no idea what they'll be. With you, there are a million rainbow versions of the future. I'm just so glad I'll watch you write your story. I'm so glad I'm your mama.

I love you, as you say, all the way to the last part of outer space. But really, I love you far further than that. But, no, Mama! you object, because I love you the most. You can't love me more than I love you. But I believe I can, my dear darling, and do, but because it's your birthday I won't argue with you. Instead, let's swing among those stars together. Let me dip you without gravity, and spin. Carry me along the dance currents inside you because I want to see where you'll take me.

Love,
Mama
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Glowing

noreply@blogger.com (Robin noteverstill) — Sun, 11 Dec 2011 04:55:00 +0000

Yesterday the lovely husband and I had a milestone moment. We went to our first parent-teacher conference in E's kindergarten. It's nothing less than pure fun to hear her teachers talk about her, and it was 25 minutes of straight compliments. She's reading ahead of standards and she's transitioning her handwriting to lower-case letters of her own initiative and she's well-liked by everybody and she's attentive and answers questions and they have some little signal with her for when they know that she knows the answer but they feel they have to give another kid a turn.

Sweet E talks about kindergarten every waking minute, she loves it so much. I asked her about a week ago if she remembered when it scared her and she looked at me like I had three heads. Internet, you remember, don't you? That first month of school...I don't know what. I can't finish that sentence. The scars are still too tender.

I mentioned that to her teachers yesterday, that she doesn't remember not liking kindergarten and her absence of such a memory fascinates me. Her teachers are charming and gracious and they truly adore her, and one of them immediately responded, "Well, good! That's just what you want, right? She should only love it here and she does. So we won't remember it, either," she concluded, wiping her hands as if she could wash the memory away.

And then she bit her lip. "Well, I do remember when she hit me. That I haven't forgotten." Luckily she laughed, and so did we.

I do not miss those panicky flailing days when she had to be dragged into the class against her will. And I remind myself of that every single evening, when I wonder when she might stop talking.

E and class performing their kindergarten Thanksgiving program a few weeks ago. I love these teachers and I love this school and I love feeling happy that she's happy and now I love parent-teacher conferences, too.

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Edited to add: this post made the front page of DC Blogs.
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