Carbon Guilt; Six Years
Deep breath. Confession. I just drove the kids to school. Okay, and worse. It made my morning so much easier. Baby CJ slept in, so I didn’t rush to wake him and feed him and change him so he could endure a half hour in the stroller. I just let him sleep. Popped him, pajamas and all, into the car seat. The big kids are big enough that I don’t need to walk them to the school doors and see them inside. I just hopped out and helped them cross the street, and kissed them goodbye (not Albus; he’s too big for kisses–in public, at least). Then we drove home. It was still early. No one was cranky and complaining about being stuck in the stroller.
Oh dear. It was so darn luxurious that I’m actually glad we only have one vehicle so that I will be forced to keep walking the kids to school in the morning (afternoons are different–it actually seems easier to walk than to join the crowd of vehicles being irresponsibly driven and parked on the snowy sidestreets surrounding the school). I wonder why I feel better about my life when I’m doing things the hard way, and guilty when I’m taking shortcuts. Balance, balance. It’s a kind of comfort to know there’s never perfect equilibrium, and therefore always something more to strive for.
Here are my excuses for carbon-burning this morning. One, Kevin is in Ottawa and I am all on my own today, and seeking ways to make the day that much more survivable. Two, CJ was up most of the night, off and on, with a terrible croupy cough, and wide awake at 5am for a good hour. He needed that extra sleep. Three. Umm, apparently I don’t have a third excuse. I wanted to drink my cup of coffee while it was still hot? I wanted a few extra minutes to Blog? In any case, we have a pile-up of other errands to run this morning, all within walking distance (long walks, but nevertheless) … and I’m considering, maybe, just this once … driving. (Something tells me that “just this once” could become my winter phrase, as long as a vehicle is available to me. Slippery, slippery slopes.)
Durn snow.
On another subject: boy are we partied out. We had such a blast with Apple-Apple’s butterfly birthday on Sunday, and another good family party last night; but there’s been enough cake eaten and enough thoughtfully chosen gifts opened and enough candles whooshed out to thoroughly mark the (truly significant) occasion. Six years old. From precocious baby who walked early and talked early (how fascinating to hear what was on the mind of a 14-month-old; she looked up while nursing one afternoon and said, “Daughter”), to determined toddler, insisting on potty-training herself at 20 months, through the process of learning to be a kind and helpful big sister (not easy!), to becoming a schoolgirl and revelling in her independence, in learning, and in being a helpful and thoughtful group participant. My equal parts serious and silly child. My French-language-delighting, yearning-to-play-piano-and-learn-to-knit, Little-House-loving-girl. Six years old.
Minus the Infant Clothes
Writing day, and I’ve promised never to blog on writing day, but have reached the natural end of how far I can go on this particular chunk of story or novel or whatever the heck it is, and yet don’t want to stop writing. Quite yet.
Fairy-Tale Snowstorm
So much to write about, so little time. Mostly, want to write about the amazing snowstorm that started yesterday sometime between supper and dessert, as the miserably chilly rain that had been falling steadily all day turned to luscious heavy wet snowflakes, and the world was transformed. I had to go out in it. If I’d been a child, I would have romped and made snowballs, but walking in it was pretty sweet too. Sweet. Uh-oh. I am using my eldest son’s vocab. You know what I mean. What drew me was the habit of this past winter’s nightly walk–when I was pregnant and our house was under renovation and that walk grounded me. What a difference a little snow makes on a November world. The bare trees were clothed again in fairy-tale fluff. And just like last winter, though I started the walk wondering what it could possibly bring me beyond simple exercise, by the end I felt renewed, calmed, my mind wide open. There is something about the body being in motion that allows the mind to wander at ease, to seek and to find, to be soothed.
All of this was made possible by Kevin doing the supper dishes, and CJ going to sleep relatively early, and the big kids playing quietly in their rooms. Thanks, all.
Right now I’m baking cookies for Apple-Apple’s birthday party, which will be upon us in mere hours. The butterfly theme has been easy to work with, and Apple-Apple decorated her own cake with candies and frosting–she made a beautiful butterfly and flower scene that I seriously couldn’t have come close to creating. We’re going to decorate butterfly wings, have a scavenger hunt, attempt to make butter, have a butterfly play, and who knows what else. It’s been a solid family effort to plan and organize, and only a little bit of sibling jealousy flaring now and again.
Okay, buzzer’s buzzed. Time’s up.
Getting Dumber
I should say that the life cycle of a butterfly is actually a really amazing thing. Boy I sounded grumpy in that earlier post. Guess it wasn’t just the kids that day. I like to think I’m immune from bad moods, just riding the wave of the day, up and down, without too many fluctuations … you know, calm mama, serene mama. With a little bit of creative editing and amnesia, this is true.
But this is also true: I am trying to drink a cup of coffee, while listening to the radio, while CJ climbs my leg, while Fooey shouts from the living-room that it is time for her mommy to read her a book, NOW! While blogging. There was an article somewhere (Globe? Maclean’s?) recently about how we are training our brains to lose the ability to concentrate deeply by multi-tasking on our electronic devices. This bodes ill for writers of novels, et cetera. But I still enjoy reading, and would confess to being a ridiculous multi-tasker; though maybe I’ve dumbed myself down and don’t even realize it.
Except this is also true: I can still write a story. I can sit for six or seven hours straight, and focus entirely on an imaginary place and imaginary people, and write a story. And yesterday that task brought me great pleasure because the story was good, and it twisted and turned in ways unanticipated. In the world, and out of the world. A bit of both.
Way too rambling. Turn off the radio, maybe! And go read that Fooey some butterfly books, marvelling at the life cycle of these fragile (seemingly fragile) creatures.
P.S.
Fooey’s demanding phrase of the day (standing naked in her bedroom after bathtime, holding her pajamas, throwing them on the floor): “What are you going to do for me next, Daddy?”
Kevin broke out laughing. And then Fooey did too. “That made me feel funny, too, Daddy.”