A November Day

I walk home from the corner on this cool morning.  Brown leaves spin and twirl and float to the ground where they crunch delightfully under my feet.  Two of the kids are on the bus, on their way to school.  Ella is still in bed, and Henry has just run outside, in his jammies, yelling to me that he finished his homework and now he’s going to play his ds.  Alrighty then. 

It is unmistakably November here in Virginia.  The gray trees painted with lichen are nearly bare now, but for those few brown leaves yet to make their breaks on the wind.  The air is cool.  The clouds are gray and low and cover our little town in a cozy fluff.  Shades of gray.  I love November.

I spend the morning cooking spaghetti sauce and meatballs.  Ella dips her egg in ketchup (ew).  She watches Monsters inc.  She loves Mike.  I know most of the lines in that movie.  She thinks it’s funny when I imitate Roz (I’m watching you Wazowski…).  I have to agree.

After breakfast, we play Caribou and go fish.  We get dressed.  We brush teeth.  I clean up the kitchen.  Contentedness fills me up.  

After lunch, Henry is off to school and Ella and I return to play.  We do puzzles and sing abc’s.  She is tired. 

So the naptime routine begins.  Close the shutters, turn on the fan, and the nightlight.  Read two books.  Olivia is her favorite these days.  She calls her “ia.”  We rock for a few minutes, and she — true to form — fights any type of snuggle I try to provide.  I sigh, and tuck her in bed. 

She delays.  She names all of her dogs.  All of her cats.  All of her babies.  The lamb.  And the bear.  I must repeat the names after her or the fussing ensues.  I realize I am enabling the behavior to continue, thank you.  I covertly remove a few of the aforementioned beings from the bed, kiss night-night, and slip out. 

This is the time of the day that is (supposed to be) my own.  A brief 90 minutes of whatever-I-want.  That usually tends to be laundry or cleaning or something of that nature, but I can do it uninterrupted and in the quiet.  Today, I planned to sit and pay the bills with a hot cup of tea and a soft, fluffy blanket.  I wanted to look out the window and into the deep of those lichen-covered trees.  You can see the landscape clearly now that the leaves have fallen…the hills and the ravines and the fallen trees.  I wanted, today, to enjoy this beautiful gray. 

Ella, unfortunately, is not having any of the nap.  The third time I go in there, I finally understand. Her nose is running.  She is a prickly mess. 

And so I scoop her up.  She says “miss you, Mommy.”  She sweeps the hair from her face, and this time she relaxes in my arms.  She drifts off to sleep so quickly that I want it to slow down.  I hold her, and I watch her sleep.  I watch her eyelids flutter, and I hear her little snuffly breaths puff in and out.  

And I love her so deeply that I can hardly stand it.

Naptime.

“Night-night Ella.”

“Green.”

“Here’s your green blanket.  Time to sleep.”

“White.”

“Here’s the white blanket.  Stay in bed now, Ella.”

“Big.”

“Here’s the big blanket.  Night night.”

She rolls over, nose to nose with jellycat.  I steal one last little glimpse of her and I close the door.

And then, mere seconds after I leave her room, door closed, shutters closed, fan humming a soft, soothing hum meant to lull two year olds to sleep, I hear her on the floor.  She thumps around, playfully kicks the door and the wall in her little melodic way.  And then she drops off to sleep.  On the floor.  She sleeps on the floor, people.  Every nap.  Every night.

I don’t know.  Please enlighten me as to the why.

I used to think it was kind of sad and pathetic.  I imagined her lying there next to the door, staring out underneath the crack, just hoping for a glimpse of the parents she adores, the same ones that have caged her in her room for the night or the nap.  The Man thinks I am nuts for torturing myself that way.  Probably so. 

Every.single.night I go in there to check on her and there she is, sound asleep and curled up with jellycat, on the floor, behind the door.  I tuck her back in bed.  Under her white blanket.  And her green blanket.  And her big blanket. And then every morning she wakes up with a cheek full of carpet marks. 

It is amusing.  And cute, and quirky.  (And possibly slightly sad.)

However.

Every now and then, just for fun, she gets under the bed. 

You must tell me how to get her to stop getting under the bed. 

Because seriously, there is like 6 inches of clearance under there.  And she drags her lamb and her jellycat and her white bear under there with her.  And then she falls asleep.  Under there.  And then she wakes up.  Under there.  And then she screams.  And tries to army crawl outta there.  And her shirt gets stuck on a spring.  And that spring tears a big fat hole in her shirt.  Oh, and did I mention it is a new shirt?  Because of course it would be a new shirt.  Yeah. 

And also, the naps don’t last very long when they’re under the bed, as opposed to actually being in it.

And that, my friends, is a problem.

This is it?

There is a line in a song called Fifteen that says something like

“this is life before you know who you’re gonna be…” 

I heard this song today and I realized, heavily, that I am probably already “who I’m gonna be.”  I wondered if there was more. 

I wondered if there is more for me.  Am I going to do something considerable someday?  Something significant?  Or will I remain in this small corner of the world…in this small house…unknown as I am.   Is this it? 

And then I reflected upon my life as it is… 

Yesterday, I bought groceries. 

I did homework with a 5 year old boy. 

I diapered and clothed a two year old little girl.  Several times.

I fed children.  Many times. 

I cleaned up after children.  Many times.

I paid out allowances.

I worked on accounting.

I dusted.

I cleaned the shutters in the kids’ rooms.  (That was gross, and sorely overdue.)

I helped organize my daughter’s room.  (Also sorely overdue).

I trimmed the plants in the yard.

I helped my son and daughter with their homework after school. 

I filled and ran the dishwasher.

I cooked a warm, nourishing meal for their supper.

I read them books and tucked them in bed.

And then, exhausted, I too drifted off.

This is it for me? 

This is it.  I am their mom.

It is dirty at times, and it is mundane at times and it is thankless at times.  And it is nothing that millions of other women haven’t already done before me with their own children. 

The rewards are intangible, and they are known only to me.  I am paid with the feeling of a small hand clinging tightly to mine.  I am paid with red ringlets and wispy blonde locks. 

I am paid with the perfume of little boys that have been playing football outside….I am paid with their ruddy cheeks and their skinned knees and their freckles.  

I am paid with the drawings of a little girl.  Depictions, always, of her and me, together.  

I am paid with their laughter and with the breathtaking view of them as they sleep.  I am paid with the warmth of a child in my arms, his breath on my neck, the sound of his voice in my ears. 

I am paid with the smallest child, asking simply “Play…me?” 

Here in this little house, I am sculpting human beings. 

I am molding little hearts. 

I am forming little minds. 

I am responsible for the very lives of four small people. 

Is their truly anything bigger than this?

Kate

Nine years ago, I held you in my arms for the first time. 

I heard your tiny voice. 

I looked into your eyes.

I smelled your skin and held you to my heart.  

And I understood, profoundly, that my life would never, ever, be the same. 

It is ever so much better with you in it, Kate. 

Happy birthday baby girl.  I love you.

How do I love thee…

Let me count the ways…

One…

Two…

Three…

For more Wordless Wednesday photos, go here.

There is no classy name for this post.

I’m sitting here next to Ella.  Keep in mind she is two.  She actually leaned over, in order to lift her rear end(which I did not teach her), and (for lack of a better word) passed gas.  It was LOUD on that plastic seat and it totally cracked me up.  She says

“Big toot.”

“More.” 

So she leans over again.  She gets all red in the face, trying to force some gas again, in order to make me laugh.  I’m such a totally wonderful influence on her, am I not?

When nothing happens, she looks at me quizzically, as if wondering “where’d all the gas go?”

She tries again.  Again, nothing.

Then she says

“Oop…Poop.”

Classy. 

She’s gonna make a fine wife some day, yessiree.

The Sounds We Hear

They bound off the bus and over to me.  The boys still fall into me as I give them hugs and plant kisses on their tousled little boys heads.  When will that end?  I wonder when will they feel too big to hug me in front of their friends…

They run all the way home…can’t slow these boys down. 

I made brownies this afternoon…the boys cannot sit still while they eat them.  Wiggling.  Kicking their feet.  Bobbing their heads.  Giggling.  I don’t understand the need for constant motion.  But now and then I like it.  Right now, I like it. 

The house is quiet.  The normal sounds…

the washing machine…

the children playing football in the basement (even though they know they’re not allowed to)  Blue 42…

and someone crying because he was playing football in the basement (even though he’s not allowed to) and ran into a wall…

Ella, taking out all of our cups and spoons for tea…

footsteps thumping up and down the stairs and through the house on hardwood floors that echo more than I ever would have imagined possible…

Ella screeching because someone took away the DS (that she’s not allowed to play with)…

little boy whispers about spying…

and complaints from little girls about little boys who are spying on them…

and laughter.  There is a lot of laughter, too. 

Those normal sounds are hushed. 

I hear instead the dreams of a little boy.  Remember when we dreamed of what we would be? 

William says

Hey Mom…  This is what I’m going to do.  I’m going to retire from football when I’m 38 and then I’m gonna be a secret agent.

Then he slips on his secret agent sunglasses (which remind me strangely of a pair that I had when I was about 15), gives me a hug, and sits down to do his homework. 

So I write, while he writes.  And I answer questions like “Hey Mom, how do you spell nocturnal?”

I hear Henry in the basement playing with his friend.  Ella sleeps upstairs.  And Kate is at Art class. 

This is just how I thought it would be–motherhood.

My life.