And then there was Sunday.

5:15 a.m.: Riley's up. He wakes me up. He wakes Maddie up. I try to sleep a bit more, but he and Maddie proceed to argue about anything and everything until I give up, give in, get up, and lecture them both about being respectful of people who are sleeping.
6:15 a.m.: I take a shower.
6:30 a.m.: I lecture M&R more.
7 a.m.: Breakfast. More lecturing. I can't stand to listen to myself even as the words come out of my mouth, yet I seem unable to stop myself. The kids excuse themselves and I actually fall asleep with my head on the table.
8:15 a.m.: Riley does something so minor that I can't even recall what it was, but it's enough to cause me to have a Total Parenting Meltdown that includes yelling. I close myself in my room for a bit.
8:30 a.m.: We do some chores, get ready to go to church. I apologize for my behavior and we agree to restart our day. I warn the kids that I'm exhausted and having a hard time today. I think they've already noticed that.
9 a.m.: We head for church. Riley runs around in the sanctuary, nearly knocking over a few elderly members of the congregation. Then it turns out the kids have chosen seats that had been reserved by someone else, so we had to shuffle around a bit to make things work. Not a big deal except on a day when everything felt like a Big Deal to me.
9:30 a.m.: Church turns out to be just what I needed. The sermon is awesome, about Ralph Waldo Emerson and our place in the world and what we learn from loss and about being true to ourselves. I feel more in control of a decision to be positive about things, more open to yes instead of no, etc. etc. etc.
11:15 a.m.: We head out for a few glorious hours of fun. We see Phantom Meanace in 3D, we eat frozen yogurt, we play at a park. This part of the day is truly great.
5 p.m.: I decide to stop for sushi on the way home. Uh-oh: restaurant's closed. We go to Mexican across the street instead where Riley knocks over a display of soda cans at the register ("Riley, please don't touch those. Riley, please keep your hands off the soda cans. Riley, I've asked you twice now to please not touch those cans." [as I study the menu: CRASH! Sigh.]), Maddie spills a huge glass of water and nearly topples our entire table, and both children complain bitterly about the food. I feel myself getting progressively more annoyed.
5:45 p.m.: We get in the car. I've lectured them the whole way from the restaurant to the car about good restaurant behavior (again, cringing the whole time but yet NOT STOPPING.) Once we're in the car, I yell again for good measure.
5:50 p.m.: I have closed myself in my room to blog and calm down.

I suppose if you average the goodness of yesterday with the mix of good and not-so-good from today, we're still ahead, but the bad of today has just been so very bad that I'm having a hard time not letting it drag me down.

Deep breath. Time to go hug and apologize. Time to read some Harry Potter 4. Time to think back on church this morning and the good things I heard there. I don't like to think the lecturing and the yelling are my true self. Time to go be true.

This, my friends, is a Saturday.

4 a.m.: Still somewhat-sick (since Thursday) Maddie gets in bed with me. She's sick enough to want some comfort, but not so sick that I'm overly worried about her or that she can't sleep. We're both glad for the excuse to snuggle.
5:45 a.m.: Riley joins us. Maddie continues to sleep. I doze.
6:15 a.m.: I kick Riley out because he's clearly not going back to sleep and he's keeping me up. He ambles off and I hear him start in on the LEGOs.
6:50 a.m.: Maddie's up. We all get up. We poke around.
7:15 a.m.: We're downstairs. Coffee's brewing. Maddie and I make cranberry/orange/pecan scones.
8:15 a.m.: Breakfast! Scones, eggs, fruit.
8:45 a.m.: Let Reading Day begin! We are on a mission to finish Harry Potter, book 3.
10-ish: Bathtime for the kids.
11-ish: More reading.
12-ish: Lunch.
1-ish: Bike trip to the park.
3-ish: Home from the park. Cookies and milk. More Harry Potter. Book 3: complete.
5-ish: Movie time: My Neighbor Totoro. So cute.
6:30 p.m.: Dinner. Totally random. Dumplings and fruit for Maddie, PB&J and fruit for Riley.
7:30 p.m.: First chapter of HP4.
8 p.m.: Sleeping twins.

And the last step will be . . .
10 p.m.: Sleeping mama.

We rarely have days like this, that are totally unstructured and involve no one but the three of us. I remember times not too long ago when such unstructured time overwhelmed and intimidated me. Now these are all of our favorite days.

Pent-up

Maddie and Riley are no different from most kids in many ways, one of them being the way they store up negative emotions for release with a safe person: ME. This means that while yes, they were very happy to see me this morning when they got up from school and yes, we had a lovely time telling each other about all the great things we'd done while we were apart, the proverbial shit hit the fan tonight.

It was the perfect storm:

• Saving up of lots of big emotions during our time apart.
• The arrival of a package from John's parents, which is super fun, but which always contains toys the kids want to play with Right Then when there's no time for much of that in the evenings.
• Exhausted kids, exhausted mama.

We opened the package before dinner (dumb move #1). Riley got this totally awesome LEGO kit from which you can build all kinds of Star Wars stuff. He got settled working on that while I got the delayed dinner ready (dumb move #1a, consequence of dumb move #1). Riley quickly got frustrated (tired child = child who has difficulty with LEGO directions). I advised him to wait for help after dinner. He plowed ahead. We had dinner. After dinner, I cleaned up and he plowed ahead some more. Then he waited for some help, but when I got there to help, things had become, uh, rather interpretive in the LEGO department and attaching the cool robotic arm was not really going to happen in a satisfactory way without some backtracking and redoing.

The world pretty much stopped turning for Riley at that point.

He proceeded to rail at me, rail at Maddie, rail at the universe. I told him that I was happy to help when he was in a state in which he could receive help. He railed some more. I repeated my offer of help, to either continue in the interpretive vein and figure something out, or backtrack and redo. More railing. I advised that it was getting into story time and perhaps it would be wise to put the LEGO decision off until morning, opting for some fun! Harry! Potter! instead.

More railing.

Finally, after much sitting and waiting (and a lot of patience from Maddie), offers for snuggles, and reiterations of help, I let Riley know that it was time to head upstairs for pajamas and bed and that there was time neither for finishing the LEGO project nor for stories.

Not really the first night home I wanted. It ended with brushed teeth and pajamas and two quick songs and big, big hugs and reassurances of love, but it was still a very rough evening.

I hate to see Maddie or Riley frustrated. I hate knowing that the frustration is from tiredness and other overwraught emotions, but knowing that such an explanation seems hollow to the frustrated child. I am proud of myself for not getting upset in this situation, but still feel like I wasn't much help. Would it have been better to just calmly go upstairs and let Riley know I'd be reading with Maddie and that he could join us when he calmed down? I feel like she suffered unjustly. I wanted nothing more than to just wrap Riley in a huge hug, but he wasn't ready for that until the very end of it all.

Oh, poor sweet baby. I missed them so much. I am grateful that the vacation gave me the grace to handle that situation kindly if imperfectly, but wish that it didn't feel like the vacation was indirectly responsible for the behavior in the first place.

Contentment

I've been in Mexico since last Friday afternoon. I'm headed home today. I went on the same trip last year. I'm lucky enough to have a friend who owns a townhouse on Baja, and she is generous enough to invite a small group of us to come down and stay here for a kid-free rest/recharge/getaway. We had so much fun last year that we decided to make it an annual thing, and lo, here we are again.

Last year, I really felt like I *needed* this trip. I was in the midst of finalizing the purchase of my house (we went in April last year) and work was stressful (that hasn't changed). I'd never had a true vacation from parenting; I'd had nights here and there and longer stretches away from the kids, but always when I needed to be attending to my real life. Being down here in Mexico is a true escape. The weather is perfect, and there is nothing to do but read, eat, sleep, walk along the beach, chat, sit by the pool . . . in short, there is nothing to do but be on vacation, and it is glorious.

I realize how privileged I am go get this experience. Many people don't have the resources I do to be able to afford the plane ticket down, the kinds of job where they can get away (or a job at all), a way to make arrangements for their kids to be taken care of in their absence, a free place to stay even if everything else fell into place. I am very lucky.

I think about this a lot. I think about how grateful I am for what I have in my life, and I think about how much of it is luck and how much of it is what I've made. Much has been handed to me along to the way, to be sure. I grew up solidly middle class and had access to educational opportunities that not everyone gets. You can't choose the family you're born into, and I got a good one. I grew up somewhere safe, in a place where children were valued and encouraged and where there was time and space for me to be supported in the things I wanted to do and learn, even if those were things that didn't really resonate with my parents. As an adult, I had help paying for my first house, and I've had help making downpayments on cars and such. I've had emotional support from family and friends.

There's been bad luck, too. My parents divorced when I was five. We moved quite a bit when I was little. My dad is a recovering alcoholic who went through treatment when I was in college. My spouse died.

All of these things are things I can't control, and are things that have fundamentally shaped my life. So much of the framework seems like a crapshoot to me: your family of origin, the big events that you can see coming, plan for, or avoid. But what of the choices I have made? The hard work I have done? The papers I wrote in college, the years I spent in the Peace Corps, the jobs I applied for, the hours I spent practicing the oboe, the friendships I have nurtured, the children I have whose creation I actively pursued, the house I looked for and bought?

In the end, it doesn't matter. I like to think that I've taken the opportunities that have come to me in my life and I've made the most of them, most of the time. When John got his diagnosis and during the years of his illness and death, my mindset shifted and I had an extremely difficult time feeling grateful for what I had and finding the good in my life. I felt victimized for a few years, and while I recognized the support I was receiving and the goodness that was there (the twins, my friends and family, my job, etc.) there was an undercurrent of thanklessness that I look back on with distaste and embarrassment.

It's been almost five years since John died. I don't think there's anything magical about that date or that amount of time passing or that I'm supposed to feel one way or another now that five years have gone by. But the decidedly nonlinear trajectory of grief has had an upward trend for me and I like where I am at this moment, both this specific moment and this general point in my life. The sun is shining, I went running this morning and drank a cappuccino on the beach, I'm rested and have that delightful feeling of being ready to reconnect with reality after a nice break. Maddie and Riley are healthy and thriving, our home is just right for us, we have the best au pair in the world, I have an amazing and fantastic boyfriend (I hate that word, ack), and a stable job.

I'm just gloating, really. I should stop. I'll stop. It's nice to be happy.

Ah, the romance.

Hot (and unsurprising) news just in time for Valentine's Day: Maddie and Riley seem to have no understanding of what a romantic relationship is.

I have not consulted The Literature to see what five year olds typically understand about the different kinds of love people have for each other, but Maddie and Riley are particularly and charmingly clueless about romantic love. They know I love them, and they could probably articulate some of the ways I express that: through direct speech (we are a big "I love you"-saying family), through physical contact (we are also big huggers, kissers, and general snugglers), through actions (although this might be too abstract for them to articulate even if they feel it, this notion of taking care of one another). M&R also see how I act much the same with other people I love: members of our extended family, close friends. But Maddie and Riley have never seen the day-to-day interaction of a partnered couple, which for many children is their first resource for understanding a romantic partnership.

This leads to some funny conversations. We've had plenty of talks about who you can and can't marry and why you'd want to or not want to marry any given person. To be sure, this comes up for all children, not just single-parent kids. Maddie and Riley have both expressed a desire to marry me, to marry their grandparents, to marry each other, to marry their friends, to marry their teacher. They've also expressed the feeling that it would be great for me to marry my dad (who is, admittedly, awesome). I've asked Maddie and Riley about why they want to marry certain people; they don't have a very clear answer on that, but it certainly relates to how much they care about the person in question. I've asked them what they think it means to be married to someone, and that's a mystery to them, but their explanations come back to an understanding that many—nay, most—of their classmates and friends have two parents at home, and that those people are, by and large (when the law allows and when then choose that option) married and that it's a thing for parents and grown-ups. For them, the notion of marriage seems to be grounded in a decision to want to spend a lot of time with someone, rendering age, sex, and bloodline insignificant. For now, I've told them that getting married is for grown-ups who love each other so much that they want to be a part of each others' families; that explanation seems to satisfy them and also helps them in some way to understand why they can't marry people who are already a part of their family of origin (no need to get into the genetics just yet, methinks).

Where Maddie and Riley's charming ignorance about romance intersects with our family life is clear: what does it mean for the twins that I am dating someone whose presence in my life—our lives—is slowly become more significant? When, why, and how do I explain that to them?

We are blessed to have many, many friends. We have people over to our house a lot, and we spend a lot of time visiting others. Maddie and Riley have had the good fortune to meet and love many people already in their first five years of life, and they've dealt many times already with the effects of moving, transitioning from one caregiver to another, death. Perhaps because of all this, perhaps because of their general nature, both Maddie and Riley are fairly quick to form friendships and are quite open to meeting new people and welcoming them to their lives. They also at this age seem quite adept at understanding that some friends come, and some friends go. They express that they miss people we don't see as much as we once did (hi, Boston friends!) but they have at every turn seemed less broken up about such transitions than I would have expected. There's a resilience to their dealings with the comings and goings of people in their lives that surprises me.

All of this leaves me at a loss when it comes to how to represent T to the kids. To them, he's a friend like any other friend, and I've just been rolling with that. They have said a number of things that clearly indicate to me that they have no clue that my relationship with him is quantitatively different than any other close friendship that I have, and I'm not sure what I'd say to them to explain the difference that would have any meaning to them whatsoever. The potential for that relationship to have significance in M&R's lives that transcends that of our other friends' is great, but for the moment, their rudimentary—if accurate—understanding of the situation is perfectly adequate. I don't want to make a big deal out of something that for M&R is not a big deal at all, but I don't want them wondering what's going on or feeling confused.

As I write this, I'm thinking, "Who am I kidding?!" Anyone who has met Maddie and Riley would laugh to think that those two wouldn't just ask me what was going on if they were curious about something. I can't quite put my finger on why I'm feeling somewhat of a need for M&R to have a deeper understanding of the situation. I think part of it is seeing their nascent attachment to T develop and knowing that there is a potential for the twins so experience loss there—and knowing that the same potential exists for me. Part of it is logistical: T and I are talking about taking a vacation with all the kids—how will that feel to M&R? We've vacationed with friends before, so maybe it's not a big deal, but T's kids are older and have a more nuanced understanding of our relationship. Will M&R sense that or pick up on that? What will that mean to them? What would they think if I told them T was going to spend the night at our house?

I tend to give information about Big Emotional/Adult Concepts to Maddie and Riley on a need-to-know basis. I answer their questions truthfully and completely, but when it comes to these types of constructs, I try to keep things as simple as possible. They aren't pushing me on this, and it's my instinct not to push them. But I want to be ready when and if they ask.

In their charming innocence of societal constructs around love, M&R are thrilled by the idea of Valentine's Day. They are looking forward to exchanging cards with their classmates tomorrow, and have somehow figured out that Valentine's Day and chocolate go together. They each picked out a box of cards at the store yesterday (Star Wars themed for Riley, puppies and kittens for Maddie) and painstakingly write "to my friend" and "from Maddie/Riley" on each of them. So sweet. I'm planning to make them heart-shaped toast with strawberry jam for breakfast, and I have a card for each of them. T and I aren't doing anything tomorrow, but are going out for a nice dinner on Wednesday. You don't have to know me very well at all to know that I'm not much of a celebrant of Big Days. But I confess that it's nice to be in a relationship that gives me a reason to enjoy the parts of this Hallmark holiday that appeal to me, like the excuse to go out for a nice meal and spend time with someone I care about. Not that I need a reason to do that, but if one presents itself, seems a shame not to take it.

Life. No fast lane.

I've been wanting to write lately, but feeling blocked by the usual: too much to catch up on, not sure where to start, only egocentric and nongeneralizable things to say. That feeling of wanting to write, though, is quantitatively different than the feeling I've had for most of my two months of silence. Most of that time, through the holidays and into the new year, I felt a pretty deep desire to partially hibernate from the digital world. I've been less active on Facebook, again silent (after a brief period of activity) on Twitter, making an effort to leave the computer untouched in the evenings at home. I'm as aware of and conflicted about my online presence and the ramifications of "screen time" as any thinking adult in Our Moderne Times, and I think my hiatus of sorts is a manifestation of the leery side of my digital identity.

A parallel, if equally esoteric and equally unoriginal, analysis is that happiness has rendered me mute. Blogging has historically been for me a way to work things out, a means to find a way to handle the negative, see a problem from a different perspective, reason my way out of a challenge. In the space I'm in now, blogging to share that I'm here, I'm happy, I'm doing stuff, feels self-indulgent and dull. I understand how to frame a post about a problem. It's not clear to me how to frame a post that's an update or an observation. I'm not the person who can in that Seinfeldian way make nothing into something.

I've written this post before, though, and I keep coming back to write it again because I do miss the frequent practice of writing. I'd like to try to find the point of interest in the mundane, or at least find a way to make it seem as though the broader point of interest is there because life is not actually mundane for me, it just seems to me that my life has become mundane as observed by others.

I offer for now, the cop-out, a bulleted list of the past couple of months of happenings, things that have been all manner of things to me—interesting, exciting, scary, fun, productive, creative, sad, happy. All those things that make a life:

• Best Christmas to date with Maddie and Riley, including instructions to Santa to have the reindeer enter through the back door.
• A cat! We have a cat! His name is Hubble, he's six years old, he's black with yellow eyes, and he adores Maddie.
• Trees! We have trees! We had a pear tree and an apple tree planted in our front yard. Someday, we'll even have pears and apples.
• Work. I have the same job. It has ups and downs. Lately, it has more downs than ups. I can't really say more.
• My birthday! I turned 40. I had a huge, crazy party that was ridiculously fun. So far, 40 is freakin' awesome. I think my use of the phrase "freakin' awesome" is an indicator of my advancing age.
• The beach. I went to the beach for a couple of kid-free nights. Fires, reading, hiking, eating, games, pajamas, amazing.
• Las Vegas. I went to Las Vegas for a few kid-free nights. Cirque du Soleil, Red Rock Canyon, Hoover Dam, jogging on the strip, zip-lining, hot-tubbing, amazing.
• Joshua Bell. I saw him in concert again. He's the real deal. Perfect seats, unreal performance.
• Running. I've been running up a storm. I've got my sights on a half marathon at the end of May, and maybe even one as soon as mid-April.
• Skiing. The kids are in ski lessons for the second year in a row. We're one weekend into four Saturdays of this. Riley is more enthusiastic than Maddie, but both had fun last weekend and seem ready for more tomorrow.
• Piano. Maddie and Riley are four weeks into their first round of piano lessons. No one seems overly wowed by playing the piano, but I'm glad they are getting the exposure.
• Harry Potter. M&R are officially obsessed with Harry Potter. We're halfway through book three. It's a real joy to read them books that I love and find they they love them, too.
• My Kindle. I got a Kindle for Christmas. Much to my surprise, I am completely devoted to it. I [heart] my Kindle.
• Mexico. I'm gearing up for a trip to Mexico, a repeat of the trip I took to Mexico around this time last year. CANNOT WAIT.
• Au pair. Having an au pair is the best thing I've ever done for our family. It's a huge gift to me, and a huge gift to Maddie and Riley. Anyone who is interested in getting an au pair, I'd be happy to tell you what it is about the experience that's so fantastically great. Life-changing, truly.
• Our house. I continue to love our house and feel fine about being a homeowner again. We are all capable of change.
  

That list does not include one item that seems worthy of more than a bullet point, although I do not know how to talk about it. I am still dating the same guy. It's totally great. He's totally great. Greatness! The only negative about our relationship is that we don't see each other nearly enough. We're working on that, but it's a long, slow process. We both have jobs, we both have kids, and we don't want to force things where it comes to the family blending process. But we're starting to test those waters and look for ways to spend family time—not just dating time—together. It's a very easy, affirming relationship we have. There are no hidden agendas or crazy emotional upheavals. We're two very busy adults with a lot of logistical complications and the willingness to talk about stuff and figure it out as best we can. We just wish we had the chance to do that more.

I realize that my description of our relationship sounds rather passionless, and that's what I mean about not knowing how to talk about it. The easiest way to explain it is that he makes me feel the way I felt when I was with John. Maybe that seems creepy or weird, which is why I hesitate to describe it that way, but it's true. I said to him (Must come up with nickname! Will go with T for now.) the other day that I could remember so clearly how I felt when John and I moved in together. I felt like I'd won the lottery; I was so excited to go home every day and find John! There! In our apartment! EVERY DAY!!! That thrill never wore off. I get the same thrill now, just not daily. More like twice a week in a good week. But I'll take the thrill when I can get it.

So that is the briefest of views into life right now. It's Friday night, I'm going to head home for a movie and quesadillas with the kids, then pack up an epic amount of stuff to take up the mountain for skiing tomorrow. May the rest of you be enjoying such unremarkable times.

"Let's go out for Korean next Wednesday."

That's what he suggested.

I'd been talking about Korean food a lot since my return from visiting John's family. One of my favorite things about taking the kids to Michigan is eating lots and lots of Korean food, both home-cooked and in restaurants. John was the Korean chef in our house and I never picked up his skills, so I use our time with the in-laws to get my fill.

And so, either tired of or inspired by my gochujang-laced sighs and daydreaming, the suggestion was made and it was decided. Next Wednesday, what is settling in to be our usual mid-week date night, we'd go out for Korean food. Who was I to argue? Most people I know--myself included--need more Korean food in their lives, and his interest in trying new restaurants and new cuisines is one of the many things I find endearing and appealing about him.

What I neglected to note is that tomorrow, the appointed day for the Korean food outing, is John's birthday. My Korean chef would be 39 tomorrow. And now it happens that I will find myself eating Korean food with another man, one who reminds me in many wonderful and meaningful ways of John.

In fact, in the important ways he could not be more like John. He is the embodiment of kindness. He is thoughtful and generous. He brings out in me the things I like most about myself, and being around him encourages me to be the person I want to be.

He's not Korean, not by a mile. Not by a million miles. But there's a bittersweet, unintended symbolism to the fact that he'll have his introduction to Korean cuisine tomorrow. And even better, that tomorrow, as the banchan arrive, I can explain to him the significance of the day and he will appreciate it and value it and understand it.

***************************

John's birthday has since his death been one of the hardest days of the year for me. Much harder than the day of his death. The day of his death seems more of a celebration to me, the end of a struggle whose time had come, even if was not welcome. His birthday, though, marks the days he didn't get to have. Birthdays are for thinking about the year that has passed and the year that's to come, reflections that in this case are hollow.

I'm not very New Age-y or metaphysical, but coincidences around dates and events don't seem entirely random to me, either. I feel John with me this year in comforting ways. I was shopping over the weekend and one of the stores I was in was giving away Charms Sweet & Sour lollipops, a favorite of John's before he had cancer and a help during his treatments as they kept the nausea at bay. I would buy those things by the case and stash them in his briefcase, coat pockets, and car so that he'd have them at hand if he felt queasy. I don't think I'd had one since he was sick, and then there one was, days before his birthday. Last Friday, I learned that a neighborhood friend shares John's birthday. Then I made the realization about the Korean food date. I don't take any of these things as a sign of any type, per se, but as . . . something.

I ate my lollipop today, I'll eat Korean food tomorrow. Maddie and Riley asked about baking John a cake, but he didn't really like cake, so we're not going to do that. I'm going to take Maddie and Riley to school, go running, go to work late. He valued time; I will give some to our children, take some for myself.

Happy 39th, Goose.