A writer's notes on family
Grandma: Nora, what does Mom do all day at work?
Nora: Eats lunch. Goes to meetings. Plays with her friends. If she
needs to go potty, she goes potty. Goes to the water fountain if she
is thirsty.
Grandma: Nora, what does Daddy do all day at work?
Nora: Eats lunch. Digs holes. Dumps dirt and gets more dirt. Goes
in his lunch box and drinks a beer if he is really thirsty.
Most Saturdays I bring you a parenting mistake my husband and I have made. Please have a laugh or cry at our expense — we really are good parents, I swear.
Last night, for dessert, Nora wanted a chocolate dipped cookie. I let her have half, promising she could have a whole cookie today.
Guess who was up at four o’clock this morning demanding the aforementioned cookie.
I hate cookies right now.
Maybe summer will come in June.
Rain will stop. STOP. STOP. STOP.
The soil will dry for planting.
Nora will dig with little tools.
Chickens will not eat the seedlings.
Pathways and beds will be mulched.
Cucumbers will be turned into pickles.
Extra tomatoes will not be wasted.
Green beans frozen for the dog.
Snap peas eaten off the vine.
Potato harvest will be a blast.
For Nora loves to uncover spuds.
Crying out, “Potato! A big one!”
My husband’s parents are in town. (Hi Larry & Deb!) They live in Minnesota, we live in Oregon. If chewing off their own feet would mean they could see Nora more often, they would do it.
So far this week, they have read books, built towers, petted chickens, listened to every song in Nora’s repetoire, gone to the children’s museum and the swimming pool and snapped hundreds of photos — wearing blissed out expressions the entire time.
The extreme admiration is mutual. Nora keeps running up and grabbing Deb’s legs, then looking up and saying, “I like you, Grandma.” She climbs all over her Papa.
I can almost imagination what they must suffer being so far away from their only grandchild. My beautiful nephew lives very far from me, but it’s not really comparable, because I have Nora to snuggle and tend to — it doesn’t leave much time for longing.
As of this month, both my in-laws are now retired. That will leave a lot of time for longing. Perhaps I should get them a puppy?
For her third birthday, my sister and brother-in-law sent Nora a stuffed turtle nightlight with a hard shell that projects constellations on the walls and ceiling. It is so cool. I am completely jealous of Nora’s room. She has a white noise machine that plays ocean sounds and stars all over her walls. It’s like a sleep spa in there.
Except she won’t sleep. She has devised a stalling technique for each phase of her bedtime routine. She can’t decide whether to read stories or poems. Once she decides on poems, she pretends her copy of Where the Sidewalk Ends is her laptop, and I’m not allowed to touch it. She hems and haws about kissing her daddy goodnight. She claims she does not need to go potty. Or that she has to poop. She takes an inordinate amount of time applying toothpaste to her toothbrush. She keeps me in her room for snuggle time as long as possible. She needs water. Different socks. More blankets. One more hug. When I finally escape, she thrashes around, talking and singing songs. She calls to us at ten minute intervals. She wants underwear (she’s already wearing some), she has to go potty again, her socks fell off. Her stars turned off.
The turtle has a forty-five minute timer. This means, from the time she is tucked into bed to the time she yells, “The stars turned off!” she has fought sleep for forty-five minutes. On Saturday, there were two rounds of no stars. An hour and a half of bedtime shenanigans. I’m tired.