Tranquility settles in

Aah. We all slept well last night and until 6:40a this morning! I'm amazed by the difference an hour more of sleep can make; I'm bright-eyed, calm, steady.

It's a stunning day out, breezy and blue; the kind during which any relic of sadness, frustration, blase, negativity seems to blow out on the wind's coat-tails. You're left just exhaling deeply, a small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth even if you're unaware of this minuscule muscular motion.

The boys are happily at school: Jack, dressed as Tex, was eagerly anticipating the Community field trip on which he was headed; Oliver, clad in his bat pajamas, thrilled by the arrival of PJ Day. I went to Pilates, delighted as always to be surrounded by the wonderful group of women who comprise the Thursday morning class, grateful for the ones who've become so much more than mere acquaintances.

Since I returned home, I have, not surprisingly, been cooking. A double batch of leek confit, done. A gorgeous vat of strawberry sauce to dress two cheesecakes, check. The beets are trimmed, the potatoes sorted, and aren't they lovely? It's such a treat to be able to take photographs outside again; I've missed the warm daytime light that winter seems to keep staunchly at bay.

These are the sorts of days during which I see more clearly what my life might be like as the boys leave babyhood assertively in the past. I've not bought diapers in weeks now- do you know it's been nearly seven years since I could say that? Yesterday, Jack took enormous pride in independently fetching a bowl and the cinnamon from their respective cabinet and an apple from the fruit bowl. He washed the apple, cut the slices, sprinkled them with cinnamon and proceeded to snack. His sense of accomplishment was so darling to witness, and I beamed right alongside him. Every day now, it seems, I notice more of these attempts at independence coalescing into practiced ability. And I celebrate this growth; it's time for them, and it's time for me.

Certainly there are days when I plead with the boys to stop growing, to promise they'll always hold my hand and love me in the unabashed way that children love. They won't stop growing, will surely stop holding my hand at some point -at least in public- and the ways in which they love me will probably become more private, more grown-up. And though those thoughts tug, rip, at my heart, it's also as if another door is opening.

Just this morning, on the way to school, Jack recalled that in PK, "we couldn't go to the salad bar by ourselves! Can you believe that? Now we can. Without asking." I could hear his eyes widening as he expressed disbelief over both and simply replied, "isn't it neat the way growing up brings with it new opportunities and responsibilities?" I wouldn't for the world have given up these years at home with my boys but in small slices of time, like this morning, I feel equally grateful that I've worked so hard to maintain a sense of self distinct from them, from being their mom. It has and will serve us all well I think.

Terrific->Tired Tuesday

Y'all, my sons can really talk. They could win any sort of narrative award. They would make any Republican want to veto the filibuster option. Their stories often head into inane land, and I think to myself or simply say aloud, "what are you talking about? why? and can you please stop soon?" I love those buddies more than anything, but good grief, people, sometimes enough is enough. It's both better and worse that they regularly mind-meld in pretend world. Oliver will say, "Jack, heretoba beebee" and Jack will immediately respond, "right, Oliver, but not now." WTF? I'm left scratching my head while they laugh like hyenas (and probably scratch their butts). I'm so happy they have each other, and I am beyond grateful that they get along so well, but sometimes, I'm like, "wow, what is going on and why must you have me as an active ear during all this nonsensical banter?" It does make my head spin at times. I'm glad for wine. We took full advantage of today's warmth and played outside for much of the afternoon. They were filthy when we came in and so I sent them to wash their hands with soap and water. They came back with shiny palms and dirt-encrusted hand-tops. Really? Isn't it more work to wash just the bottoms of your hands than washing each in its entirety? Good god, people, I sent them back, and Oliver returned naked. At this point, I simply sighed. Until I found him mashing cheese pops into his private areas. Seriously.

Fast forward an hour or two and it appears dinnertime is nigh. I'd bought some lovely chicken today so decided to throw those in a cast-iron pan with white wine, prunes, cinnamon, marjoram and nicoise olives. Couscous and sauteed spinach rounded things out swimmingly. And for a final touch, strawberry cheesecake. Aah!

Seriously? cardamom crumb cake

Say what? An animal or child woke me up roughly every two hours last night: a nightmare; downstairs scuffling that sounded entirely too mischievous for my liking; coughing in a too-hacky sort of way; scratching and mewing at the door. Something was in bed with me at least 50% of the night and as T is in Boston, it surely wasn't him. I'd finally fallen back asleep when I heard Oliver saying, "Mommy, I can't get out of my bed because my bottom hurts but my sun is up so you should come in." Now I've never been bed-ridden because of bottom pains so I did go to investigate, and it was 6:14 or thereabout. As far as I could tell, there was some minimal diaper rash -maybe- so I put him in bed with me. Then Nutmeg arrived, then Percy. Jack awoke last and, keep this in mind because it'll haunt him later, thanked Oliver for "not waking me up for the first time in a while." We head downstairs, I get breakfast for everyone and start making a crumb cake as a few girlfriends were coming over later. I'd been wanting to try this recipe, a Dorie Greenspan confection, for quite some time because as you may now know, I adore cardamom. Things were going rather swimmingly, and we even had time for a quick game of Operation before carpool arrived for J. He suddenly went ape and had some bizarre meltdown before being belted in my friend's car. Said Oliver had woken him up early (oh really) and it was all Ol's fault. Never a fun spectacle. I got the cake out of the oven, got Oliver dressed for school and went to drop him off. On the way home, I started feeling insanely dizzy, like I'd played dizzy-bat in a room full of fun-house mirrors. Chalking it up to not yet having eaten breakfast and being ridiculously tired, I made it home to brew a pot of tea.

Not a second after one pal knocked on my door, J's school called. He was in the nurse's office feeling ill and I needed to come get him. I was so dizzy that my friend made me sit down and eat some cake which, tragically, I really didn't love but forced down anyway. At that moment I realized what had happened: instead of taking my thyroid supplement earlier, I'd swallowed a whole Ambien. On an empty stomach.  After being up all night. Terrific. I went to get Jack and on the way home started having a more-than-sneaking suspicion that while he may have had a momentary pang of something, he was not sick.

Folks, I was beyond irritated. After lunch, I sent him into his room for a reading-only lockdown. He could neither play nor come out until the time at which, were he in school, he'd hear the bell ring. If you don't think we've since had the mother of all conversations about respect, responsibility, honesty and so forth, you're wrong. We've had it twice. This is so unlike him. I get that kids test boundaries, or perhaps he was anxious about something- I get that too, but damnation was it a trying morning and early afternoon. It is always something. Something that might embarrass, anger, disappoint, sadden you, or some fun-time combo of any/all of the above.

Was I just in Charleston all relaxed and zen?