Time's a ticking

It's 2:02pm and I just sat down to lunch. Other than a quick trip out to the doctor, I've spent today at home waiting for another FedEx package. It was a loud morning, and I have appreciated the peacefulness since.

The leaves on my sugar maple that have started to turn golden are falling like a lovely foliage rain. I'm watching them as I slowly chew hearty bites of massaged kale, walnuts, dried cherries and roasted potatoes. It's an interseason salad; it's fitting for today.

A pork and beef ragù is simmering on the stove, nestled by my old Staub's trustworthy walls. Sometimes I wonder what you can count on more than cast iron. I like that about my Staub, which is why I have several.

Although the sauce has been cooking for nearly an hour, it remains in the "vegetables melting into the meat fat" stage which is to say, it's still in the nascent stages of what will become a savory ragù. It's not there yet. But it smells so good in here, and this netherworld is nice. It smells like cool fall days which, in this interseason, isn't quite right, but it's close enough. 

Because of the FedEx uncertainty, the boys are getting a ride home from school. Tuesday is early dismissal day. They get off at 2 which I don't understand. Why not 3:15 like every other day? I love the extra 75 minutes that Mondays, Wednesdays, Thursdays and Fridays provide. On Tuesdays, I feel a bit cheated.

I cannot wait to see them, but I am also not ready for them to get home. I suspect I have roughly seven minutes left. Seven minutes more of quietly chewing and quietly stirring, quietly watching the leafy rain and quietly able to hear the pets snoring softly. Seven minutes more of quietly being with myself and my own thoughts.

I don't like saying goodbye to all that until tomorrow, even though I welcome warm, wriggly boys who adore me and whom I adore. I don't like feeling this countdown even though it also leads to laughter and kisses. But it's there, like leaves falling on a hot day and half-cooked ragù. And there is magic on the fulcrums in and around life. It's just harder to find on some days than others.

Morning Snuggle

The boys and I have a daily tradition we call Morning Snuggle. Morning Snuggle is exactly what it sounds like: we snuggle in the morning. 

It involves the boys making various amounts of noise before 6:30am -which is the time we have told them they may exit their rooms- and then barreling into our bed at 6:31am, Jack on one side of me, and Ol on the other. 

Last week, Oliver woke up at 6:10 or something, and soon after we heard him chanting, "Bad clock, too slow, bad clock, too slow..." Tom and I laughed in muted hysteria, and when it became clear that Oliver A) doesn't require breathing and thus B) was not going to stop anytime soon, Tom started timing him.

"Bad clock, too slow" went on for FIFTEEN minutes straight before we heard, "Good clock" and Ol's door open. He came to our bed as if nothing had happened. 

But I digress. In some form or fashion, the kids make noise and then pad in to find me cocooned in my sheets and fluffy comforter. They wriggle in with their icy feet and Tinkertoy arms and legs, burrowing close to me and I to them. 

Their hair is mussed, their cheeks are ever-so-slightly flushed with sleep and happiness. Tiny bits of nighttime crust might remain in the corners of their eyes. Rarely do they have morning breath, and for that, I am grateful.

Their matched-set jammies are soft and still make me see them as little ones who will wear such pjs: friendly pirates and penguins on a festive boat; red, white and blue stars; smiling sharks; all manner of motor vehicle.

Only recently do they seem keen on having different patterns on their pajamas; for years they've wanted to match. Shark Brothers, Bat Brothers...any team is possible when your sleepwear differs only by size. 

In our blanketed island, we hold each other close. I kiss them to excess and they tell me about dreams they had. They know that I know they are spinning the crazy tales as they tell them, but we all pretend otherwise. And then I kiss them some more.

"I love yous" are batted about like an Olympic ping pong ball; as if we have the whole night of silence to make up for. Morning snuggle is fairly ideal which is to say it's also somewhat ephemeral.

Before I know it, Oliver has started "mining" his way under the sheets to the foot of the bed. There, he will begin to terrorize our legs and bottoms because in those things he delights. Jack kicks which is his immediate, instinctive reaction to being tickled, and invariably, Oliver is, at some point, kicked. 

Soon after the tears are dried, Oliver will probably fart which will both stink us out and lead to a rapid fire discussion about butts. Someone begins to jump. I repeat the daily message about how much it hurts to bash one's head on the wooden headboard.

Morning snuggle's time in winding down. Rapidly. 

Finally I can take the mayhem no more and so get up to leave. "No, Mom, just a minute more. We'll calm down. SWEAR!" But they know that I know they won't, and anyhow, it's time for breakfast.

That denouement is an integral part of Morning Snuggle anyway. Something's got to give or we'd be in that bed forever. There's always tomorrow.

The days, years, weekends and Miette gingerbread

This rainy, Joaquin-the-hurricane-no-show weekend ran its course about six hours ago.

My nails are crusted with an aromatic blend of garden dirt and gingerbread batter, the house looks like a war-zone despite regular efforts (both willing and forced) by all of us to clean it, I have a zit on my forehead, and although I had grand plans for an epic beef stew dinner tonight, I managed to make the best-quality, most-average beef stew possible. 

It's a good thing I also made five precious little loaves of stellar gingerbread from the Miette cookbook I bought yesterday while on a date with Ol. Jack was at French and then heading to a sleepover, so Ol and I walked Percy in the slightly spitting rain and then decided to drop him off and walk to Starbucks and Crate & Barrel for hot chocolate and a look-see. 

I found this beautiful cookbook, from the eponymous San Francisco bakery, on the clearance rack and couldn't resist the scalloped-edge pages and photographs of perfect layer cakes. Even though it will likely join its neglected kin on my crammed and dusty étagère that charmingly holds all its spontaneously-bought and rarely used relatives, I don't regret buying it.

The gingerbread is superb. Why did the middle of each loaf sink?

People, do you know that pithy parental saying, "The days are long, but the years are short"? Yes, that often feels so fucking true, and I understand why the expression stuck. However, we need to acknowledge that sometimes, the weekend days are long and the weekends are long. 

As a phrase, it doesn't sound nearly as rosy, but I feel certain that 98% of parents would agree with it completely. 

Even when nice experiences are peppered throughout, weekends can compromise the most psychologically-stable of us. And when one of your kids freaks out and cries boulder tears because you refused to allow all the new modeling clay to be used for a "city" which in no way looks like anything more than mountainous boogers and mashed ones, then stomps up the stairs throwing a shit storm of shit behind him and then gifts you with these visuals of your lovelessness and badness, well, you get my drift. 

Tom and I nearly wet our pants.

Mom and Dad are no longer loved.

I think it was at that point that we turned on Jaws as a thrilling distraction. Because we are excellent parents. The children were utterly nonplussed.

When one of my chatterboxes asked if we could play a family game tonight AFTER having cleaned the yard, ridden bikes, made gingerbread, watched TV together, acknowledged that neither child had nearly enough sleep last night, kissed 800 different injuries largely stemming from said sleeplessness, and eaten average beef stew together, Tom and I could not bring ourselves to say yes.

I swear I saw sparks come out of Tom's ears, and I felt an irregular pulse through my largest aortas. 

We said no.

I read some of The Mysterious Benedict Society to us all, and then we ushered the children to bed with a fair amount of enthusiasm. 

Monday, you are coming, and I fucking love you.

On a positive note, Ol and I ate our way through the farmers market this morning and had such a blast. I think we bought all the food. 

the freshest Brussels sprouts