The characters (and I mean that sincerely): Young Son- age 10, Maddy the neighbor- age 11, Middle Daughter- 11, Oldest Daughter- 15,  Tired Mother

Young Son comes into the kitchen, scrounging for more food.

“I want some of that banana bread!”

I slap his hand away, lightly.  “Nope.  Dinner’s done.  Scram-jamble, McGee!”

“But I didn’t know we had banana breaaaaaaaad!”

“Child!  I had it on the table!  Maddy and…”  I rub my forehead, but the words evade me, ” And that other girl had it.”

-pause while Oldest Daughter stares at me in mock horror-

“Erm, Mom?  Are you talking about your own daughter as ‘that other girl?!’ Did you just NAME her friend and forget your own middle daughter’s name?!”

-pause-

We dissolve into hysterical laughter.  The others come running, but I’ve sworn Oldest Daughter to secrecy.  It is finished.  I need more sleep.

I awoke today to this in my inbox from The Writer’s Almanac. What a gift.

Proposals

by Cecilia Woloch

Mistaking me for someone else, he asked me to marry him. This has
happened more than once. The first time, I was eighteen and the boy had
a diamond ring in a box. It was the Fourth of July, it was dark, he said, Happy

Independence Day. Of course, the ring was too large and slipped right off
my finger into the grass. (It belonged to someone else: the woman he
married, eventually.) And when I was twenty-one, that redhead, sloe-eyed
and slinking out of his grief, said he’d imagined I’d be his wife. But he was
mistaken. It wasn’t me. Then a drunk who drove too fast, who threw the
proposal over his shoulder like some glittering, tattered scarf. I staggered
out of his car, saying, No thanks, No thanks, No thanks. And the man over

eggs one morning, in the midst of an argument, saying he planned to wait
for spring to ask for my hand, then he never asked. (So of course, I married
that one for a while; spent years convincing him I was not his cup of coffee,
not his girl.) And in Prague, on a bridge called the Karlův Most, a stranger,
a refugee, who mistook the way I stared at the river for thinking of suicide.
Who mistook my American passport for his ticket out of there. And
others-the man whose children grabbed the food off my plate, called me
her; the man in Chartres Cathedral humming the wedding march into my
ear. And tonight, at dinner with friends, happy, discussing their wedding
plans, a man I’ve known for a couple of hours turning to ask me to marry
him. I don’t know who they think I am. Do I look like a bride in these rags
of wind? Do I look like the angel of home and hearth with this strange green
fire in my hands?

“Proposals” by Cecilia Woloch, from Late.

Last winter I had the chance to stop by Tye River Pottery, in Lovingston, VA.  Kevin Crowe is an amazing potter, and has a wonderful space on the planet.  Things like this buddha hang around; he looks as though he sprung from the earth in this spot, no?

“Childhood is a strange country.  It’s a place you come from or go to – at least in your mind.  For me it has an endless, spellbound something in it that feels remote.  It’s like a little sealed-vault country of cake breath and grass stains where what you do instead of work is spin until you’re dizzy.”

Lyall Bush  (Executive director of Richard Hugo House, a center for writers and readers)

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

This comment on a Starbuck’s paper cup left me breathless.  Just the first sentence is good writing, and I’m sure it was first spoken aloud.  “Childhood is a strange country.”  Like the first sentence of a novel I want to devour, and that’s leaving off the “little sealed-vault country of cake breath and grass stains!”  It’s inspired me, of late, to do more spinning ’til I’m dizzy writing.  And in January, I launch my website- prostituting my skills to those who need any kind of writing, from copy and commercial to internet dating ads and techie editing.  Blondie said it first, but I’m saying it now, and loudly:  Call Me!

Locals:  Watch this space for info about my new January thang:  A Night of Cheap Wine and Literature!  Everyone is invited- you merely bring a slice of writing to share (your work or another’s) aloud or to pin to the wall…      We’re overdue for a shindig, methinks.

Lastly- but not leastly- Darth said recently in an email that he can’t wait ’til I remarry or change my name back to “_” (my maiden name).  (Wait- does he think I’d change my last name if I remarry again?  Identity crisis…)  I pointed out that I’ve only kept “his” name because of the kids (ironically, I’ve had “his” name more years as a single woman now than I did as a married one), but now that he mentions it, I’ve never really felt like a “_” (his last name).  So let’s have a contest.  Who can come up with the best last name suggestion?  Heck, if you’ve got a great first name/last name combo- throw it out there!  I may consider changing both! 

Being with you- it’s all

love this

hate that.

Weigh bearables against un-.

It’s all

I-love-orange-juice-but-not-the-pulp.

It’s

sports-page-versus-style-magazine.

It’s also things like

Led-Zeppelin-when-I-want-James-Taylor.

And

texting-instead-of-a-phone-call.

It’s the

coffee-hold-the-cream.

It’s the span of so much history

against Be Here Now.

It’s

the-eyeroll-then-the-kiss.

Then the kiss.

After Our Daughter’s Wedding

by Ellen Bass

While the remnants of cake
and half-empty champagne glasses
lay on the lawn like sunbathers lingering
in the slanting light, we left the house guests
and drove to Antonelli’s pond.
On a log by the bank I sat in my flowered dress and cried.
A lone fisherman drifted by, casting his ribbon of light.
“Do you feel like you’ve given her away?” you asked.
But no, it was that she made it
to here, that she didn’t
drown in a well or die
of pneumonia or take the pills.
She wasn’t crushed
under the mammoth wheels of a semi
on highway 17, wasn’t found
lying in the alley
that night after rehearsal
when I got the time wrong.
It’s animal. The egg
not eaten by a weasel. Turtles
crossing the beach, exposed
in the moonlight. And we
have so few to start with.
And that long gestation—
like carrying your soul out in front of you.
All those years of feeding
and watching. The vulnerable hollow
at the back of the neck. Never knowing
what could pick them off—a seagull
swooping down for a clam.
Our most basic imperative:
for them to survive.
And there’s never been a moment
we could count on it.

“Do not follow where the path may lead.
Go instead where there is no path and create a trail.”
– Ralph Waldo Emerson

when we are looking for someone, or more aptly- The One:
“Will you adore me? Will you adore me?”
We run around blurting like Tourette’s victims

only we blurt in our heads and our mouths

move only with lines like
“What is your relationship history?” as we
casually sip from a glass of wine and try
to not appear
so needy.

My warm-and-sleepy ten-year-old curls up in my lap this morning as I sit at the computer, paying some bills. “Hey, baby- what’s up?” I query. “Nothin’… just sayin’ hi… I love you, Mom.” “I love you, too, baby.”

We hug. He lays back a bit. We hug more. “Is something on your mind?” “Nope. Just hugging.” “OK… I just love you the most!” “Mom, you’re so reliable.” “What do you mean, Luke?” “I mean, you’re reliable. You can be counted on. You are a person I can trust.  You’re reliable.”

I hold the tears in, barely.

_____

This afternoon I am standing behind him as he fidgets on a stool at the counter, trying to get the laptop to do something.  I am reaching around him, typing and moving the mouse.  He keeps sliding down off the stool, then popping back up onto it, hitting my foot as he goes down and my chin as he comes up.  “Stop it, Luke!”  He does it again.  And again.  Finally, as he slips down again and lands on my big toe, I sputter loudly, “WHAT makes you keep DOING THAT?”  He doesn’t miss a beat as he pops back up and whacks my chin with his head, “Gravity, Mom!”

I collapse with laughter.

(A special shout-out to C., one of the most amazing wordsmiths I know, for verbalizing some great phrases that I simply scribbled down on a scrap of paper and copied down here. Woman, your brain awes me.)

Back to School nights~

I do them all. None are yours. Well, they are… but you don’t take them.

_____

I go to the first and smile in a forced, cheesy, stuck way at seven teachers in succession, conveying quite well I’m sure my real feeling of “I-want-to-be-at-home-with-hot-tea-and-a-good-book-and-butter-cookies, especially-because-it’s-raining-outside.” (I should add, as a former teacher, “And-I-know-you-do-too!”) But I’m not. I’m here because I need to meet my high schooler’s teachers, understand what she means when she says “Mr. So-and-So never makes eye contact, Mom, it’s creepy,” and “Mrs. Thus-and-Such said six cuss words in class today to seem cool- blech.” I go because I chose to give birth to a now-high-schooler 15.5 years ago, and in that committed to shepherding her through her first 18 years with a maximum of investment, and interest. I go, along with all the other parents who appear my age or older, and look as tired as I feel after the opening weeks of school.

Then it’s middle school- eighth grade open house Tuesday and sixth grade open house Thursday of the same week, a glaringly Machiavellian plan for even a two-parent household. I go to both. I arrive a few minutes late the second time to miss the PTA meeting and from 6:45 until 9:00pm I’m answering to bells and sitting in desks that make me feel Brobdingnagian. As it was in my time, some teachers are dry like the Sahara and others make me want to drop in weekly to try to re-learn Algebra or finally get the dates right in western history. I notice the other parents more here- some older, but some noticeably younger. I think about my children in a classroom with her son, or his daughter. I wonder how it’s going, where my baby sits. I roll my eyes at the graffiti in the bathrooms. I leave smelling of number 2 pencil lead, old textbooks, stale ketchup (cafeteria odor pervades everything, still).

The next week, it’s elementary school. Two elementary schools. In going to the first back to school night of the year, I missed my third-grader’s magnet school open house. I had to make a choice, I could not clone myself- I went to meet the seven people who would influence my high schooler this year. I emailed the two magnet school teachers. They understood- they enjoy having my daughter in class, everything is fine, we’ll meet in November at the first conference. I attend approximately 15 minutes of the PTA presentation at the local elementary school, and listen to about 5 minutes of my son’s teacher’s presentation. She is lovely. She cares about the kids. She started law school- but switched to teaching. Here, at least two parents are likely a full decade younger than I am. I surreptitiously slip out to rush to a meeting at the high school. My daughter does a sport. I have to attend this meeting. I go. I carry in my hot tea in a travel mug. I abstain from carrying in cookies. I’ll be away from my home three-and-a-half-hours this evening. I know my kids are having a heyday- won’t have eaten their good dinners, won’t have kept the TV and XBox off, won’t be ready for bed with the table at least cleared and the bathwater mopped up off the floor.

______

I do the Back to School Nights, don’t worry. I do them- don’t fret, don’t feel badly that you are not here to participate in your children’s education. Don’t worry that you haven’t met a single teacher any one of them has had since our oldest was in second grade, even when you lived five miles away. Don’t give a moment’s thought to the fact that five children in four schools is quite astonishing, and just knowing the teacher’s names and who-has-whom requires a file folder marked “School 2008″ in the already-bulging cabinets of my cerebral cortex.

Just lie back tonight after the preschooler and the baby go to bed and wrap your arms around your [current] wife’s shoulders and watch the latest Blockbuster rental on your flatscreen with nary a care in the world. Warm and cozy in your new family room, have a sip of that hot tea and think about how God has blessed you with all the wonderful things in your life- your five kids who don’t live with you (but oh, you wish they could!), your stepchild, your new baby, your job, your new cars. I know your thought process- you shake your head in amazement that He could bestow so much on a sinner like yourself. You send up a silent prayer of thanksgiving as you hear the baby boy you love through the baby monitor, ahhzzz-ing his little tattoo of snores.

Don’t you worry your pretty little head, because just like always- I got it. I have a house, a yard, and our five people who walk in everyday with papers, projects, dirt, hunger, problems, and on some special days, even the most horrible stuff from the dark side of the fairy tales. They bring it all in, every single day. And I file, feed, mop it up, listen, give feedback, give advice, give rides, take phone calls, organize carpools, and take the screaming 10 year old outside for a race around the block when it’s just too damn dark in his head to handle it on his own in his room. I make sure everyone has a good book to read, that the Friday night movie is returned to the rental store on time, we all get a fruit and vegetable every single day, the youngest ones get their toenails trimmed regularly, I have Clearasil in the bathroom for the older ones’ zits, the 15 year old isn’t slipping into emo or goth-dom (or depression), the 13 year old isn’t building a bomb in the shed, the cats have food and litter, the plants are watered, the shower isn’t growing scary mold (as opposed to the non-scary, non-MRSA-inducing kind), the rotting wood on the back of the house will be taken care of before the next rain, I have the carpool organized for Monday night when I have three kids who have to be in three places at the same time, that we have enough toilet paper, printer ink, poster board, socks and underwear, strawberry jelly, bandaids, clean towels, milk, bread, dish soap, motrin, plastic spoons and detangler spray for 8 year old’s Rapunzel hair.

So, really it’s easy. Don’t give it any thought. Just enjoy the occasional overnights the kids spend with you. Be sure to weigh in after these on how you think I’m not focusing on table manners enough, or making them pick up after themselves. Be certain to let it be known that you would like to see them in a Godly Church on Sunday mornings. By all means blame me for the 15 year old’s use of [annoying but perhaps true] logic in Arguments With Her Father 101 (and remember why she’s stayed in 101- no possibility of advancement with the infrequency of class meetings). Don’t worry that you’ve never bought any of them a stitch of clothing save a tee shirt apiece that said CANCUN, after your honeymoon last year, but be certain to point out that the boys don’t have dress slacks and the girls are lacking Mary Janes.

Be sure to remain detached from the fact that my life while running this show is Alice in Wonderland sometimes, and I have to shake my head to clear out the zombie potion, and pull up my mucky boots by broken straps and keep sloshing on through the fray of Learner’s Permits, rodents for pets, the std-teen pregnancy-drugs-alcohol talks, broken bones at inopportune times, the Sturm und Drang of middle schoolers, et al. Five back-to-school nights in September? No problem. Kettle’s boiled- tea’s brewing. Kids, don’t burn down the house, I’ll be back soon.

Here I go.