Teacher Face

Today I feel bad.

It is Thursday and I am overwhelmed. I walk into the classroom and I try to focus on preparing for the day.

Really, I have a headache and I do not feel like teaching anyone anything.

But the third graders will be here soon and I am going to put on my best art teacher face and teach them.

Godammit.

I deliver the lesson. I do not feel good about it. I feel fuzzy and I think my modeling was fuzzy. “G” is in front, in the purple row.  She asks, “Ms. V, are you ok? You look sad.”

“I am ok.” I say. Because one thing you for sure cannot do when you are teaching elementary school children is burden the children with your adult whining.

“G” stands and looks at me for a minute. I can tell she does not believe me.

There is nothing to say so I say nothing. I am tired and my momentum is dragging and I am questioning my decisions and my reasoning. So I smile and walk over to circulate and help students who need help. They are loud and active and engaged. This is good.

“Ms V!” “L” calls, “Is it ok if I make stripes like this?”

We are making our own custom papers with oil pastel designs on them.

“Yes.” I say. “You can make them anyway you want to make them.”

Soon I ring the chime.

When the chime rings you have to be quiet to listen for instruction.

Frequently, this achievement of quiet requires several rings of the chime.

I ring once.

Mostly nothing.

I ring again.

“G” looks around the room. Then back at me. She says, “Hey! Everyone be quiet! Ms V. has a headache!”

Everyone gets quiet.

She is looking right at me.

I know I did not tell her I have a headache.

Later I go over to her.

“Thank you for your help, “G” I say.

She smiles.

“You’re welcome, Ms. V.”

And she walks out.

Just like that.

One more tiny day and one more tiny gift given from the 8-year-olds.

Morning Moments

 

The other day I had a daughter morning moment.

 

It is the night before the daughter morning moment and daughter is on the iPhone. I say, “It is almost 11pm. You get up at 5:30am. You are going to be tired.”

 

“Mmmm.” she says.

 

“You are always tired.” I say. “In fact, you are chronically under slept.”

 

“Mmmm.” she says again, with iPhone face.

 

“As a matter of fact, I would say you are EXHAUSTED.”

 

Silence.

 

“GO TO BED.” I say.

 

Daughter gets up off the purple couch like I have just asked her to clean the whole house instead of just to put herself to bed for GOD’S sake.

 

I go to sleep.

 

I wake up and it is 6:15am. I see no light on in the living room. No light on in the living room means daughter is not up, which means daughter is oversleeping since she gets up at 5:30am.

 

I go marching into the daughter cave. I say, “Daughter. It is 6:15!”

 

Daughter pops up in alarm, like she always does. “What? What? Really?”

 

“Do NOT lay your head back down on that pillow.” I say. Because at least 50% of the time this is exactly what she does. Pops up, and lays right back down again.

 

She gets up. I go about my morning yoga business and coffee consumption.

 

I walk into her room. The room looks like someone took an entire pile of laundry and threw it way up in the air just for fun. I walk out.

 

By now it is almost 7:30am and daughter is just standing in front of the mirror staring at herself.

 

Did I mention school starts at 8am? And that it is a 45-minute subway ride away?

 

“I have nothing to wear.” she says.

 

Really, I don’t know what to say to this since we have had this conversation about a zillion times.

 

“Just put some clothes on your body and walk out the goddamn door. It is 7:30!” I say.

 

Yes, I really say that.

 

She stomps off.

I don’t care. I let it go.

I am used to the stomp off. The stomp off happens on a pretty regular basis now that she is almost 15.

 

“You are going to be late again.” I say. “You know when we move to Philadelphia you are just going to have to leave the house however you are at that moment. Pants or no pants. Shoe or no shoe.”

 

I hear her mumble some teenage mish-mash but I don’t even ask what it is. I tire of these daughter morning moments.

 

I just walk out the door.

Because I have to go to work.

On time.

 

Teenagers.

They really help you to let go.

Delivery

Tonight son came home for dinner.

 

Daughter and I are lying around on the purple couch. I am trying to figure out whether or not I am going to go to this Valentine’s Day shindig with the ladies from the rooms or staying home with daughter and eating the pizza she ordered.

 

I hear the key in the lock. “Who is that?” I say.

Daughter gives me the it-can-really-be-only-one-other-person-mom look.

I look back.

“Listen.” I say, “Son was not supposed to be home early.”

 

But it is in fact son. “Hi son!” I say. All happy like.

 

But then I remember we ordered the pizza and no food for son. And THEN I remember I texted son in the middle of the day about when he was going to be home and if he was going to be home for dinner and he did not answer. Because he NEVER answers. It is a terrible horrible habit he has, this squirreling away and hiding. I have to have all the horrible mother thoughts that one has when one cannot reach one’s child and does not know where one’s child is.

 

So then I say, “You did not text me back. I have no idea what you are doing or when and now there is no food for you.”

 

“It’s ok.” he says. “I can make myself something.”

 

“That’s not really the point.” I say. “I don’t know where you are and this little habit is very, VERY discourteous and unbecoming. Disrespectful of other people’s time even.”

 

Son goes off on some rant about how he was in class or some crap. I don’t pay attention because he does this ALL the time so there is no situational excuse I would ever believe.

 

He sits down on the couch next to the daughter. I am on the red chair and I look over at the two of them, the son and the daughter. Daughter has her headphones on. Someone in this house ALWAYS has his or her headphones on. She has one ear peeking out.

 

I say, “You know. You two are really going to miss each other when we move.”

 

Son says, “I’ll be all right.”

Just like that.

 

So I say, “Well of course you will. You barely have any feelings.”

 

Daughter chimes in, “Yeah.”

 

Then I say, “You are like an ice cube.”

 

Yes I really say that. Ok, I am still mad at him for not texting back, EVER.

 

“Mom.” he says. “You are a jerk.”

 

!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

He says, “You just compared me to H2O. Nothing more, nothing less. Just H2O.”

 

“See mom, you are a jerk.” he says.

 

Daughter gets up and shows me a disgusting thing her friends do to illustrate “V” day. Somehow this leads to a talk about THE V.

 

Which leads to daughter telling son he almost broke me with his big head staying in my body for 16 extra days.

 

Son says, “I might have been late but when I came out I was all chill. Not like you. When you came out you were all like, “AHHHHH! Holy crap! Life! Life!”

 

Hahahaha! Who is this new son anyway?

 

Daughter turns around and says something I cannot repeat here, but if I told you, you would not believe it. No, you would not.

 

The pizza comes. Daughter starts jumping up and down for son to go meet the delivery guy. Son is actually mad now. Son yells at daughter, “Why does son have to do everything? Son do this. Son do that. Son, son, son.”

 

Yes, he really talks about himself in the third person. He has done that since he was like 3.

 

And he walks out to go fetch the pizza.

 

“Daughter,” I say, “Go with him and learn how to sign the credit card receipt and leave a tip.”

 

Daughter begrudgingly follows.

 

When they come up daughter and I dig into the pizza. After a while I need water. I ask the room, “Who wants to get mom water?’

 

I see son look at daughter. Who has on headphones.

 

“She can’t even hear you.” he says. And he gets up and gets me water.

 

Soon we need a napkin. “Son, would you get me a napkin?” Really I WOULD get it myself but I am back behind the purple couch crammed in between the bicycle and the table. It would be much, MUCH easier for him to just get it.

 

Daughter says, ‘Yeah. I really need a napkin too.”

 

Son jumps up. Son says, “You know what you are going to get? I’ll get you this!” And he goes into the bathroom and gets daughter a teeny tiny piece of toilet paper.

 

“And you can have this!” he says and he walks into the kitchen and comes back out with a piece of saran wrap and hands it to me.

 

I look over at daughter. We shrug.

 

Son sits back down. I think I hear him mumble, “I don’t like you. You are all jerks.”

 

Huh. I think: That son. College sure is turning him into a man.

Courage to Change

Yesterday I spoke to son about THE MOVE.

 

Son is standing in the kitchen doing son things. He is an even better son now. He cleans up and cooks and everything.

 

I look at him and I feel suddenly over run with 18 years of raising this child, now a man.

 

Son.” I say. “I don’t know if I can really leave here. I don’t think I can leave you.”

 

When I say this all the pictures of son as a young son and daughter as a young daughter come rushing at me in a flurry of mama memories.

 

I look around. I say, “You grew up here really.”

 

“I know.” he says.

 

“We have been here for almost 10 years, daughter you and me.” I say. “It’s a long time. Almost the longest I have been anywhere.”

 

“Yes.” he says.

 

“A lot of stuff has happened here.” I say. “Remember the time daughter jumped through the glass table?”

 

“I do.” he says.

 

“And the time we drove upstate to the country house and went swimming in the lake? Or what about when the wall outside came crashing down?”

 

“Yes mom.” he says.

 

“Remember how you used to sleep in the bed but then you go too big for it? Remember we had to divide the room when you and daughter got too big to share the room in bunk beds? Remember?”

 

He is looking at me. He walks over. “Mom.” he says. “It is going to be ok. I am ready.”

 

“But maybe I am not!” I say.

 

“And what about your food allergies? Huh? These roommates better keep you safe. Do you hear me? We have to teach them all about cross-contamination. You cannot make assumptions!”

 

Then I say, “I want to meet with their parents.”

 

“Mom!” he says.

 

“Sorry.” I say. “The whole life and death thing you know. Kind of a big deal.”

 

I walk back into my room. My room with the painted closet door and with the blue curtains. My big expansive memoried room. Soon it will be son’s room.

 

A lot has happened in this room too.

 

I just sit there for a minute, breathing in the watery blue stillness. I cry a little let-go tear of gratitude for all I have learned here in this room and in this apartment with the son and the daughter on a corner in Brooklyn, NY.

 

I cry another tear for son.

 

How will I ever let him go? After all these years our little team is shifting.

The son, the daughter and I.

In a new configuration.

 

A moment at a time.

 

A moment at a time I look into his green eyes with the dark dark eyelashes all the way around and I try to loosen my grasp.

 

It is not easy, this loosening. I try to find the courage to change.

 

I think the thought that all mothers think everywhere: Please. Please. Just let him be safe.

Daughter pizza lunch surprise

Today I had lunch with daughter.

 

I am in the art room with the 4^th graders.

 

Can I say it is really loud in here?

 

It is REALLY loud in here.

 

This is the second 4^th grade class of the day. I don’t know if it is the cold weather or Wednesday or what. But we are obviously having a voice and body control issue in the 4^th grade.

 

I need a break. I walk over to my computer and sneak a peek at the Blackberry. I see a text from daughter who is home on Regents week break: Mom! Where is the money? I am going shopping!

 

CRAP! I forgot to leave the $50 I have of daughter’s Christmas money.

 

I text: You will have to come by and get it. Sorry!

 

I cannot afford to stand here and text back and forth with the 4^th graders in this kinesthetic state. I duck down and make a sneak phone call. “Listen.” I say. “You have to come by, ok?”

 

“Ok.” she says. “In a while.”

 

I go back to the 4^th graders, soon to be leaving as the 5^th graders come in.

 

A little later and I have forgotten about the daughter money drop by.

 

I am standing in my classroom with my back to the door, shaking my head as the 5^th graders are even MORE of a management problem than the 4^th graders are today.

 

I get a TAP TAP TAP on the shoulder.

 

I whip around to see who is out of their seat with my eyes cast slightly downward to 5^th grade level. But when I turn around my eyes meet the shoulders of a whole grown up person.

 

It’s daughter!

 

“Daughter!” I say. And I flash her my best mama smile.

“Yes mom.” she says.

 

Really, she seems so big in this room now. Once upon a time she attended this school. When I was teaching in the classroom, her 3^rd grade classroom was right next to mine.

 

The 5^th graders gather around. “Is that your daughter, Ms V?”

“Duh. They look just like each other!!”

“Shut up!”

“No, you shut up!”

 

Yeah. It’s that kind of day.

 

Daughter asks if she can stay awhile. “Sure.” I say. And we sit down in the teacher chairs at the front of the classroom.

 

“It’s funny sitting here with you there.”

 

She smiles.

 

“So how are you mama?” she asks.

 

It has been A DAY. I tell her what one can reasonably tell their daughter about their grown up day feelings.

 

She listens. Daughter is a GREAT listener.

 

I ask her how she is doing. She tells me of the saga of going to the mall with her friend. And how it is too cold to go to Kings Plaza mall.

 

I ask, “Why don’t you just go to Atlantic?”

 

“I don’t know.” she says. “I am trying to stick to the plan we already made.”

 

That daughter. So honorable.

 

“Well, maybe you could just ask her about going to Atlantic?”

 

Daughter texts Friend. Friend texts back that Friend Mother is not comfortable with her traveling that far on the subway.

 

When this happens it always kind of blows my mind. How can you live in NYC and not be comfortable with your teenage kid traveling on the subway? Or maybe that is just me. Being a FT working single mom, what choice did I really have, anyway?

 

“Maybe I can meet her on the train?” daughter asks.

 

“Maybe.” I say.

 

She texts. Still Friend Mother is uncomfortable. I am thinking Friend Mother must have a car and do a lot of driving. I am also thinking Friend does not live in Brownstone Brooklyn.

 

“Where does she live?”

 

“Mill Basin.” daughter answers.

 

AH-HA! I knew it.

 

“Maybe you should just stick to the plan you originally made.” I say. I feel a little bad that I seemed to introduce confusion.

 

“Yeah.” she says.

 

Then she asks, “What do you have next?”

 

“Lunch!” I say. “Then the 2^nd graders. Then 3^rd graders.”

 

I think a minute. “Want to get pizza?” I ask.

 

“Sure.” she says.

 

WOO! Daughter pizza lunch surprise! I call the 5^th graders to the rug and dismiss them. “Let’s go!” I say. And we grab all our 17-degree gear and bundle on out of there.

 

As we are leaving we pass several in-awe teachers who have not seen daughter since she was in 5^th grade. One of them stops us and beholds the daughter.

 

“Whoa.” he says. And he grabs my shoulder. “Whoa.”

 

I smile a HUGE mama smile. “I KNOW.” I say.

Because really, she is breathtaking.

 

Daughter is a little embarrassed but I hope inside she feels good about this attention she is getting from these people. These people who have known the girl and now see the young woman.

 

We get to the pizza place and order two cheese slices. Daughter says, “This is really good pizza.”

 

I say, “This is 3^rd avenue in Brooklyn.”

 

She laughs.

 

As we finish she gets up before me. I look up at her and I tell her, “You really are beautiful.”

 

“Thanks mama.” she says.

 

We get to the front of the school and I have to go in and take care of more teacher business.

 

“Thanks for coming by!” I say. “Text me when you get to Kings Plaza.”

 

“Ok!” she says, walking away. “Love you!”

 

“Love you too daughter!” I say.

 

Love you. Oh yes I do.

Just a reminder

Today I texted with son.

 

I am going away from home for a few days. I leave son a list. I don’t actually think son is going to take care of the items on the list but I leave the list anyway.

 

I make a plan for reminders.

 

It is Saturday. I text son: What’s going on?

Silence.

 

I wait a few hours. I text: Hello?

Still nothing.

 

Then I text: ANSWER!

 

Finally I get the cavalier: What’s up?

 

I call him. I say, “ What’s up? What’s up? I have been texting you. Why is it that every time I leave I have to say, “Make sure you keep your phone near you and that you text me back. And YOU say: OK. But then you NEVER ever ever never actually do it!”

 

Son says, “Look mom, it’s a problem, ok? I am away from my phone then I forget.”

 

I say, “It’s really solvable. When you get back to your phone you check your texts and you ANSWER them.”

 

GOD!

 

We hang up.

 

Later I text: Don’t forget about the FedEx.

Son is supposed to FedEx something. He was supposed to Fed Ex it yesterday, but that never happened.

 

He texts: I have been very busy. I will do it.

I text: WHEN?

He texts: Soon.

I call him. “Soon?” I say. “Soon? Soon is not ok. I need an actual date and time.”

“Ok!” he says. “I will try to do it tomorrow.”

“Don’t try.” I say. “DO.”

I hang up.

 

Tomorrow comes and nothing from son. At night I text him: So?

He texts: What?

I text: Seriously?”

Ok, I call him. AGAIN. “Hello? You were supposed to FedEx the package today.”

Son says, “It got late. I will do it tomorrow.”

 

Really, I am losing my patience.

 

“It HAS to be tomorrow son.” I say.

He YELLS at me, (can you believe it?) “I will mom. It will get done!”

“Don’t yell at me. “I say. “You are the one who is breaking promises.”

“I am going to do it!” he says.

And we hang up.

 

I am thinking: I am tired of being the reminder person now. Then I am thinking: Can’t anything ever just GET DONE without me being the goddamn momentum? Huh?

 

Sunday comes. I text son: Food coop.

Food coop was one of the things on the list.

He texts: Tomorrow.

 

Tomorrow comes and he texts: Food coop tomorrow, not today.

I text: Ok.

And I think: Wow. A proactive informative text. Huh.

 

Later, I am sitting in the Philly living room and I see a picture of a Christmas tree. Taking down the Christmas tree was also one of the things on the son list.

I text son: Tree?

 

He texts: Done.

 

!!!!!!!!

 

Done.

With NO Reminder.

Just like that.

 

Hmmm.

 

I smile and I think: I wonder what else can get done with no reminder.

 

Maybe I should find out.

Teenage Morning

Yesterday daughter bought a scale.

 

I have not really needed or wanted a scale in this house but daughter being a 14-year-old daughter enjoys examining herself almost every single day.

 

Daughter say, Mom, don’t forget to give me money for the scale.”

“Ok.” I say.

 

Really I don’t know where we are going to fit this scale in our tiny little bathroom and also anyway, who needs s scale? Either my clothes fit or they don’t. And if they don’t I have to exercise more.

 

Whatevs. She gets the scale, anyway.

 

Really, I don’t think if the scale will solve our teenage daughter body image issues. If you have a teenage daughter you might be familiar with some of these statements, which tend to occur daily, but most especially in the morning:

 

“I feel fat.”

“Look, my stomach is sticking out.”

“My thighs are touching. Why don’t I have a thigh gap?”

“I hate my hair, nose, chin, eyes, ears, etc.”

“Does this look ok?”

“I don’t like the way this looks.”

“See how my hips stick out? I want them to be straight.”

 

Some mornings a mother can just listen. Sometimes a mother can nod and reassure. And affirm the daughter. And some mornings a mom is overwhelmed and cannot listen to the self-loathing that seems to come with teenage girlhood, which by the way the mother remembers quite well.

 

I try to say more but all I can eek out is, “You look beautiful. Look at your curvy hips. And your little waist. And your thick shiny hair. I wish you could see the you that I see.”

 

Daughter smiles a little.

 

And says, “I hate my clothes.”

 

Inside my heart sinks a little. It sinks a little because I want so much to give her everything she wants and I cannot. No, I cannot.

 

It is hard to take this kind of commentary in the morning. But I am the mom and she is the daughter and so I say, ‘I know honey. Soon we will go shopping.”

 

She walks away and finishes her morning routine.

 

Both of us have no more time to indulge in our wants and wishes.

 

“Bus is three stops away. Got to go mama.” she says.

 

“Ok.” I say. “Me too. Off to teach the kiddies.”

 

“Love you.” she says.

 

“Love you too.” I say.

 

For today, this is enough.

 

Yes, it is.

Documented.

The other day daughter and I had a dance party.

 

I walk into the house and daughter is in the daughter cave with the cave door closed. I go back and knock on the door.

 

“Can I come in?” I say.

“Yes.” daughter says.

 

I have not seen daughter for a few days as she was visiting Wuzzy. I open the door. Daughter is sitting on the rocking chair.

 

“Are you coming out?” I ask.

“I don’t think so.” she says.

“Ok.” I say.

 

Then I say, “Why?” even though I KNOW why. Daughter is ALWAYS cranky in the transition back from Wuzzy’s house.

 

She spits out some teenage mish-mash which is not the real reason but I accept it anyway.

 

“Ok.” I say.

 

I walk back into the living room and sit down. Philadelphia is there. Philadelphia asks, “Is everything ok?”

“Yeah.” I say.

 

Later daughter decides to emerge from the cave.

“Daughter!” I say.

 

She smiles.

 

She has her laptop and comes over to join in the laptopping circle. While we are sitting there, laptopping, I say, “We need music. You should go get music.”

 

Nothing happens.

 

I say it again, “I really wish I had some music.”

 

Magically, this actually works. Daughter gets up and sets up the music. Soon we are bathing in sound.

 

I think: Ahhhh.

 

I am not sure how it happens but somehow she gets the idea to put on MY MILKSHAKE.

 

I say, “You are not putting on MY MILKSHAKE are you?”

 

“Shhh!” she says. “You will ruin it!”

 

A few seconds later and we are listening to MY MILKSHAKE. Soon after that and we are dancing to it. Philadelphia is just looking at us. I can’t really tell if he is amused or he thinks we are totally cracked.

 

We dance, daughter and I. We dance to MY MILKSHAKE, then to some NIRVANA and some WHO and even KISS. It’s a rockin’ dance party. I wish son were here, but son is WORKING.

 

“I am sweating!” I say.

“Me too!” daughter says.

 

Philadelphia gets up and goes to get his camera, which is one expensive piece of equipment let me tell you. He begins to document the mom-and-daughter-sweaty dance party.

 

“Whew!” I say.

I think I am running out of steam.

But then I keep going anyway.

 

We are shaking and grooving. We are dipping and diving. We’ve got jazz moves. We got belly dance. We are even doing a little Lindy!

 

“Come on!” I say to Philly. “Dance!”

 

“Nah. he says. “I’ll just do this.” And he keeps right on taking pictures.

I think he must take like 200 of them.

 

He is up on a chair; he is down on the floor. He is everywhere with that camera.

 

Daughter puts on WE ARE YOUNG, which reminds me of son’s graduation. After that HOME, which I love and makes me want to cry because son and daughter always sing it to each other.

 

And you know how I love that.

 

While we are doing the HOME thing, son comes in. By now it is late. Son looks at us and turns back towards the door. I think: Oh, see. He also thinks we are cracked.

 

Turns out he was just locking the door.

 

Daughter tries to get son to dance but he is having none of it. “No.” he says. “I have important work to do.”

 

And he goes walking through into the kitchen and sits down with all his horrible calculus stuff.

 

“Come ON!” I say.

“No. MOM!” he says, “I am busy.”

“Boo.” I say.

 

And I go back to dancing.

 

Now I really am running out of steam. Daughter is too. I plop down on the purple couch. Daughter plops down next to me.

 

“Mama.” she says.

“Daughter.” I say.

 

“That was fun.”

 

“Yeah.” I say. “That was fun.”

 

And we have it all documented.

For reals.

Laundry Love

Tonight we had family laundry night.

 

I usually do not enjoy this night.

 

I text son: When will you be home?

Son texts: After 5.

I text: Ok. Laundry.

 

5 comes and no son appears.

I text: Where are you?

 

Nothing.

 

6 comes and son walks in.

 

“YAY!” I say, “You are here. Laundry!”

“Oh yay.” son says.

 

“I can tell you are excited.” I say.

Son gives me the son laundry look.

 

“If we start now, we will be done by 8pm!” I say.

 

I know son hates THE LAUNDRY, but really he is so good at it. And I am so grateful he has taken on this household responsibility.

 

“I will even help.” I say.

“Great.” he says.

 

Daughter is on the purple couch. I look at daughter. I say, “She will help too.”

Daughter nods.

 

“Give me ten minutes.” son says and he disappears into the cave.

 

“Ok.” I say. “Meanwhile I will start gathering the laundry.”

 

I go to my room. I drag out the laundry hamper. I dump it on the living room floor.

 

“Oh my GOD.” I say. “Look at how much laundry there is and this is just mine.”

 

I turn to daughter. I say, “When is the last time we did laundry around here anyway?”

 

Daughter shrugs.

 

I go into son’s room. I get the son laundry.

 

“You have as much as me!” I say.

 

I tell daughter, “Go get your laundry.”

 

She goes.

 

Now we have a MOUNTAIN of laundry on the floor. Son says, “We are going to need more quarters.”

 

Everyone trots off to forage for quarters. I find three. Son finds one. Daughter finds none but reminds us that we stole all her quarters last time and still have not paid her back.

 

“Now we have enough for four loads.” son says.

 

We separate the colors from the whites. I tell son, “I don’t want dingy whites. You have to use the bleach.”

 

Sometimes son skips the bleach part. Sometimes he tries to lie about it. But I can tell he is lying. The whites don’t lie.

 

“I’ll help.” I say.

 

We stuff everything into the big laundry bag with the broken tie and haul it downstairs and outside, through the courtyard and into the laundry room that has 2 washers and 2 dryers to service 36 units.

 

Luckily, we get both machines.

 

“Score!” I say. And I start loading the machine.

Son stops me. “Not like that mom. That is not how I do it.”

 

!!!!!!!!!!

 

“Well, it’s how I do it.” I say.

 

Still, he stops me. He says, “I am the household here. This is MY laundry room.”

 

“Fine.” I say. And I leave him to his laundry process.

 

Half an hour later and I have to REMIND him to get on it and go switch the laundry.

 

I walk into the kitchen. “Time.” I say.

 

Son stretches and dawdles. Ever so slowly he rises to go switch the laundry. I believe he inherited this little passive-aggressive-momentum move from his father.

 

Yes I do.

 

But he goes to switch the laundry. And then he goes again when I remind him. And then one last time.

 

We dump all the clean laundry in the same spot it originated from and dive into the warmie goodness and start folding.

 

I am watching daughter very carefully because daughter likes to take my stuff and then claim it is hers. Her rationale is, “Well, it was in MY drawer.”

 

I pick through HER pile piece by piece. I find my yoga pants.

 

“AHA!” I say.

“I thought they were my leggings!” she says.

 

Soon we are done. I put all my stuff away. A few stray universal items are left in the middle of the floor, orphaned: Towel, sock, sheet.

 

“Someone put those away.” I say.

 

“Yeah. Yeah.” son says.

 

I go in my room to put away all my new clean laundry. I close the door but still I can hear the son and the daughter through the door, chatting and teasing and brother and sistering as they put away the rest of the laundry.

 

And I think: Maybe I like laundry day.

 

Maybe I do.

Sharing Sleep

The other night daughter slept in the big bed.

 

It is almost bedtime. Daughter asks, “Mama, when are you getting up?”

What this question really means is: Can I sleep in the bed?

 

I say, “Well, probably 6:20. But you have off tomorrow.”

Daughter thinks.

Daughter brushes her teeth.

 

Daughter says, “I still want to sleep in the bed.”

 

We go into the room and turn down the bed. Comforter and quilt, purple sheets and extra pillows. Daughter climbs in next to the window. She puts her water bottle on the table next to her side.

 

Every time we do this I remember when she was three days old and not sleeping at all. I was so tired I was walking around the house in circles. And my friend the doula came over and swaddled daughter and walked us both to this very same bed and put us in it.

 

Doula Friend put daughter right up against my body and said, “There. She will be just fine right there.”

 

Many, many days and nights daughter and I slept like this. Sometimes I would try to get away to do things around the house, but daughter would always wake up and cry. I even devised this trick system “fake mommy” of getting a milky soaked t-shirt from nursing and wrapping it around one of those rice pillows you heat up in the microwave. After daughter fell asleep I would sneak the fake-warm-mommy-milky pillow in between she and I and slowly, slowly, try to back out of the bed and out of the room.

 

It worked.

Like twice.

After that I would get to the door and she would open her eyes and cry.

 

But that was then and this is now. And now daughter is a champion sleeper. Daughter can sleep for 14 hours straight even.

 

So we get in between the purple sheets and we lie on our backs to do our lie down meditation. We do it together and when we are done we both turn on our sides. This time daughter turns towards the window and so I just get to look at her outline, how her shoulders go and her hair falls about her neck.

 

Ok, yes, I sniff her.

But you knew that.

 

She falls asleep very fast in the big bed. I am lying awake and thinking how weird it is she is now bigger than me in this bed.

 

Finally, I fall asleep.

 

Sharing sleep is a precious, precious thing. When I wake up on this post-election morning she is facing me. She is a young woman now, the daughter. But very new. I touch her face and I feel her breathing and I cannot believe I am getting to be her mom.

 

I think of what I wish for: Happiness. Peace. Contentment. This is what I really want for my children. Beyond wealth or success, this elusive thing. Satiation.

 

I look at her and I know there is generational progress. My children are growing beyond me. Despite me and my shortcomings. Discovered in the laughter and the running of our lives in this crazy city is that in the giving of all the things I so desperately wanted to have, I am healing. In the receiving the son and the daughter are able to do it differently.

 

These are the moments that make up the body of work that are our lives.

 

It could be anyone’s story. I am one witness to the future. We are all making progress.