Our changing table, the very pretty antique green one we got that was new but appeared somewhat distressed by intention just before we had our first boy has moved (as of a couple of months) to the basement. A latch has been fixed; it’s ready to go to someone else’s home. I wanted to put a picture up on my personal Craigslist (that would be my Facebook page) and discovered I don’t have any (digital) photos of it.
I did glance through my photos and saw smaller Saskia and smaller brothers. She is five. Toddling for transportation and the wispy hair and the gummy mouth are squarely in the past. Kindergarten looms. I wanted to feel sad or wistful about it, but I can’t. Thank goodness. Sometimes, the best thing you can feel is relief for being where you are. I am.
Amongst the things that happened yesterday were the eldest being in rehearsal until forever o’clock (and coming home grumpy), the ninth grader loving the cooking class he went to (holiday gift from his grandma) and the fourth grader’s discovery of a benign tumor in Pip, his pet rat’s leg (operable—Thursday). The preschooler’s money quote yesterday evening, as she brushed her hair in front of the mirror: “I wish I could see the back of my head.” The eldest harrumphed and then got sweeter, for the record (and then maybe harrumphed again after I fell asleep to his papa, unsure).
This is the more outgoing Squeak, Pip's sister
The days I finish glad about where I am are the ones I cherish most. Those days are rarely entirely perfect. That’s the point; days are rarely perfect. Learning to love them for what they are is the only way I know to love life.
I have no idea how a changing table got me there.
Grateful this morning for the light’s earlier start, and the chance to watch the sky from bed way early but not in the pitch-blackness, and I’m also grateful for dolls and unicorns on the table and under the table and lastly I’m grateful for the way Grey’s Anatomy lets me think I don’t like it so much before it reels me right back in. I can’t help but be on team Shonda.
I’ll not so shamelessly give you three of mine: an essay at the brand-new Cleaver Magazine about being the oldest mom at Tumble and Play (and the parenting of adolescents at the same time), an essay on Brain Child about how a doll became an object to feel some feelings about adoption (for me), and an essay on Kveller about buying my daughter a bikini to my own surprise.
Here’s a new song (from my fave, Nashville). I can’t get enough of it.
And I have this on my calendar: I call it Punk Farm meets Hip-Hop Don’t Stop (well, it’s the Jarrett and Jef show) at the Carle Museum on Saturday.