That’s what I was thinking last night as my kids darted around the neighbor’s house, alternating between watching the electoral map, eating hot dogs and playing tag with their friends.

They were feeling the excitement as the returns came in, as McCain gave his gracious concession speech and then as the Obama and Biden families took the stage. I wanted to freeze the moment so they’d never forget, but then realized that I didn’t need to. The historic night would help to shape their view of politics and of the world itself. Never again would it be strange and foreign for an African-American – or a woman or any other sort of person – to be elected president.

As we headed down the street in the quiet darkness, I felt like running to find a rally or some other form of celebration. But we went inside to bed instead, excited and content. The boys fell into bed and immediate slumber. I lay awake and savored the feeling, knowing that friends in Canada and France were celebrating too. And confident that whatever troubles might lie ahead, this moment would never be taken away and would have a lasting impact on everything in the future – a future that belongs, after all, to the kids.

Wow. I just googled “Sarah Palin and mommy wars” and came back with over 2 million results. If there is any good news from this horrendous political development, it is that the militant “moms shouldn’t work outside of the house” faction has been silenced, at least for the moment. Ellen Goodman says it all in this essay.

The more disturbing development for many working moms, and working parents in general, is this new message that it’s not that hard to give birth and then report back to work in three days and that the questions surrounding the juggle involved in raising a family and building a successful career are meaningless. Of course you can raise a family and succeed in your professional life. But please don’t tell me it’s easy and that the questions and struggles are “meaningless.”

Michelle Obama, another working mom, gives a contrasting view, emphasizing that working parenthood isn’t always a walk in the park. Like Michelle, I rely on my mother, sisters, friends and yes, husband, to make it through each week. More like a walk on a glacier, involving rope teams and crampons.

The trip was great. We’ve been back less than a week and I’m still reliving each day, each place we visitied, the sounds, smells and sensations. The boys were great travelers and loved Paris, Normandy and Switzerland. Sam remembered everything and Tommy pretended to remember. It’s hard to resume the daily grind.

A few photos:

It’s the day before we leave on our long-planned vacation, home-coming, epic journey to Paris. The suitcases are out, nothing’s packed, I’m still at work. Our heads are abuzz with excitement and craziness of this last-minute scramble to get ready.

Tommy has relearned two key words: “bonjour” and “merci.” He’s working on “Je m’appelle Thomas.”

Sam is remembering the Luxembourg Gardens, unaware that the Merry-go-round is far too small for his 11-year-old body and that many things change in four years.

Chris and I are feeling strange. We’ve done this trip many times, but it was usually a move rather than a two-week vacation. Our kids aren’t babies any more. We set up home there two times, left two times. A lot of memories from different stages of our lives.

Au revoir et a bientot!

Note to self: Working parents should not sign their kids up for multiple sports and activities and expect to remain sane.

Chris calls me at work today: “I’m feeling overwhelmed,” he says. Tommy has soccer practice at 4:30 in Berkeley, Sam has soccer practice at 5 in Richmond. Jackie (one of our three babysitters) is picking up Sam at school at 1:45 (early release day for 5th graders), Jackie has to leave to go to a class, Rachel (another of our babysitters) will pick up Tommy at 3:10 and help him dress for soccer practice. Can I pick up Tommy at 5:30? “It’s a deal,” I reply, if you can take the kids to school tomorrow while I try to make an early work meeting. Deal.

It’s only Wednseday and I’m already making mental plans for Saturday, when Tommy has T-Ball and soccer, Sam has soccer, we have a mock earthquate drill on our block, I am invited to a “literary ladies lunch,” driving my nephew to an appointment and having people over for dinner. To make this work, we need a spread sheet. It’s really a shame that neither of us are “spreadsheet people.”

One day, someone will do a research study on the effect of this type of mental multitasking on the brain. It will not be pretty.

I’m not a morning person. And to tell you the truth, I’m not a huge fan of Valentine’s Day. I hate the way the holiday has been turned into a frenzy of card making and candy distribution.

That’s why I’m particularly proud of the heart-shaped French toast I made this morning for Sam and Tommy. I don’t know what came over me. They were overjoyed.

toast

Chris wrote a while back about how much our boys love computer games, and how much this bothers me. They’re both very active most of the time and so we don’t fear that inactivity will lead to obesity. They both have other interests and do pretty well in school.

 Yet, I can’t get over the fact that my five-year-old loves computer games so much. What to do? We let him play, but not during the week. We set the timer. We monitor which games he plays and for how long. I wring my hands as I watch him blow things up on screen. “Don’t worry, it’s not real, Mommy,” he says, reassuringly.

We’re a computer society so I know that both boys have to learn their way around online and with the gadgets and electronics that pervade their lives. Still, I’m not willing to give in altogether. They’re still young enough to think a caterpillar turning into a butterfly is “really cool” and that climbing a tree is a worthy endeavor. I cling to these last vestiges of old-fashioned childhood and hope that they’ll never get completely sucked away into the screen.

We’re still looking for that perfect balance. But I’m not sure it exists.

For most people, certain places hold special significance because we spent time there as children. I wonder what those places will be for my kids, who have moved around quite a bit. Tommy doesn’t remember Paris and Normandy, but we talk about those places so often that he imagines them as if they are real memories.

For me, that place is Steep Ravine, a cluster of cabins perched along the coast just north of San Francisco. My family rented a cabin there from the state for 14 years, until local politicians decided that it was unfair, given that it sits on public land. Now, the cabins are bare and must be reserved seven months in advance.

A group of extended family hiked down there the day after Thanksgiving. It was a spectacularly warm and clear day. For my mom, dad, sisters and I, the sights and smells brought back all the memories of the late 60s and 70s when we spent days there exploring the meadows and beaches, communing with friends and waking to the crashing of the surf against the rocks.

A poster in Tommy’s classroom displayed a list of items that he and his classmates were thankful for. They ranged from “my mom and dad, to “my dog Randy,” to “my vacation in Mexico.” I quickly scanned the names to see what Tommy had to offer.

Here is what he said he is thankful for: Money and my body.

Wow – that really stood out from the rest. I laughed and told everyone about it. I remembered a New Yorker story by Adam Gopnik in which an older friend advises him: You should have children. You will be amused by the things they say. (Or something like that).

Money and my body. It’s so interesting to mull over the five-year-old mind, and what could be going on in there to produce those two thoughts. I think the money part stems from a conversation we had last week about how sad it is that some families don’t have enough money to pay for food. But I really can’t be sure. Maybe he really just loves money. My body – I think that one comes from his recent trips to the emergency room to fix a badly cut thumb and then a broken arm.

As the Thanksgiving weekend draws to a close, I’m thankful that my boys are peacefully asleep in their beds just a few feet away, that our extended family is well, and also, of course, for money and my body.

I think Chris and I agree that the past two months have been tough. The game of “balancing” started to get downright unpleasant for us as we scrambled from work to school to soccer practice to home, only to begin again after a brief period of unconsciousnesss. It was beginning to feel like the life of our poor departed hamster, Sophie, who somewhat symbolically chose this fall to collapse from old age.

One Saturday morning not long ago, I found myself at home alone with Tommy, who was in a particularly whiny mood. Negativity reigned. I suggested a bike ride, a treasure hunt, a game of cards – nothing appealed. In a fit of desperation, I offered a trip to Target to buy a Halloween costume. His face brightened. Happiness! This boy likes to shop. I then proceeded to let him choose his costume – Star Wars Storm Trooper, although I refused the gun. I did, however, let him buy a light saber and a large plastic sword. Until now, I had resisted toy weapons. But somehow, at age 5, he seemed ready to handle it. Cringe.

Which brings me to the sugar part. I dragged Tommy to Sam’s soccer game the other afternoon. For some reason, he hates this and I’m told that younger siblings generally dislike watching their older brothers and sisters kick the ball around. The ice cream truck rolled by. Tommy begged and pleaded. I let him buy a large popsicle – a gaudy blend of sugar and chemicals on a stick. Two other mothers looked over disapprovingly. “My kids never ask because I always say no to that,” one commented.

What could I say? I had no excuse, except for something like “nobody’s perfect.” I shop at farmer’s markets and talk to my kids about the importance of fruits and vegetables – especially those grown locally. We talk about war and how sad it is for moms and dads when their kids get hurt.

And yet! Halloween’s coming. Time to prepare the toy swords and candy corn.