Original art by my mom. Tissue paper collage with ink. Check her out on Instagram.
Day 154
When my kids were younger I would occasionally jot down something they had said. A particular phrasing. A mispronunciation that was funny or poignant in the way that a toddler in the early stages of mastering language can be. I wasn’t organized about when and how I jotted things down. I don’t have a master document, sorted by kid, or by date. I have scraps of paper, notes on my phone, old blog posts that at the time I was writing them felt like the laying down of a memory in a safe place. And then the blog came to an end, and the posts, while archived in my own personal digital space, went dark.
I regret now, sometimes, that I haven’t been a better, a more consistent, a predictable, measured record keeper of more moments of parenthood and family. But then, I am not particularly consistent, predictable, or measured in many of my habits. I have spent most of my adult life trying to become some way of being that I felt I should be, that would make me better. That would afford me better follow through, leave me less dependent on lists, lead me to make better choices — financial especially — that would result in more flexibility, happiness, a thriving existence, maybe.
Just a few minutes ago I overheard my youngest daughter say, “I look forward to looking forward to Saturdays again.” She and her sister were playing Dabble, a word game given to us by my sister-in-law years ago that makes not frequent but enthusiastic appearances during impromptu board game moments. I was in the other room. I am in the other room. On my bed, texting my mom and my sister. We have a “Chickies” thread that is a running conversation. And I immediately typed in my daughter’s quote, while at the time she had already moved on to building her words with tiles, thinking out loud: “Is jut a word?” “Is bob?”
“And there it is in a nutshell.,” my mom responded.
“How right she is,” said Sarah.
I’ll take Accidental Pandemic Philosophy for 200, Alex, I think to myself. Clearly, I have been watching too much Jeopardy!
Maybe the kids will continue to say things I wish I had written down.
Maybe this post will become a second life to one that came before, years ago, when I would record the early sentences of my first child, my already-talking 17-month-old: “Too tight the mama,” describing not fitting comfortably beside me, at nearly 9 months pregnant, in a small chair during bedtime reading. That this moment was nearly 15 years ago and I can hear his squeaky toddler voice in my head, loud and clear, makes me pause and question my own regrets and desires to be someone other than who I am.
Maybe I will remember the things that I am meant to remember.
Maybe the things I write down are to form the writing around the memories, not (just) to help me form the memories.
Last night, when I got home from my walk, my girls were in the driveway, pacing, it looked like to me. “Hi,” I said, adding a “how are you,” or something equally innocuous and unmemorable.
“I’m starving,” said the 14 year old. “Can I make dinner?”
In that moment, as I said, “Yes. Make dinner. It’s taco night,” I thought, when did the moment arrive that a child is not asking me WHAT is for dinner but CAN I make it? (And no, I’m not going there with the May I lesson. In this case, for a child who hadn’t ever made tacos, can seemed just fine.)
The tacos were delicious. The taco meal, made for the family, with beans and rice and homemade guacamole, too, was the third meal this child had made for me in two days.
People are dying. The real numbers are an estimate. The estimates are growing. Kids are back in school and getting sick in some parts of the country. Kids are staying home in others, not seeing peers for going on six months now. The weather has been summery. Warm, sunny. The days in the neighborhood quiet, almost sleepy. My walking route has been nearly desolate this week. Are people tired? Traveling? Changing their routines just as I feel so settled into mine that I wonder if I will be able to keep it when we do get out of this pandemic time. When we are able to look forward to Saturdays again.
The reality is too much. The stressors are so unfamiliar. The unknown is always there. Writing those three short sentences feels dramatic. But that’s just it. Everything feels dramatic, even as there is so much nothing right now. Nothing to do. Nothing to plan for. Nothing to celebrate.
I can write and I can find grace and I can record a few things here and there. And I can try to just be, without thinking too much, even though I know, as do my Chickies as they are reading that line, that me not thinking is me trying too hard to be something other than me.
Stay safe, everyone.