I spent the morning working on a poem. One poem. All morning. Here is what I said when Kevin popped in to bring me lunch (yes, he pops in and brings me lunch! and it’s hot! can you see why I love having him in charge of childcare/domesticity for the morning?) — I said, “Why are poems so hard to edit?” Editing a poem is not like editing a story. Every move must be tiny, every word added or taken away a potentially ruinous disturbance to the whole. And so I lifted words with tweezers and tried to humble my way into a few miniature solutions.
And then my children invaded the office. Kevin had gone to work. And someone had pulled someone’s hair (I was apparently to judge this problem and demand a sorry from the proper person; an impossible situation as you no doubt appreciate). My “solution” was to grab a few photos to capture the moment. This is not patented parenting advice by any means, but it passes the time. (Can you spot our resident ham?)
And in the end, weirdly, both kids said Sorry. I’m not sure why.
The holiday continues apace.
And here is today’s post on The Afterword (my last; sigh): on the motherhood/perfection illusion.