Do you know?

Do you know that some of my days are the happiest I've lived? That after twelve years, my favorite date night is one spent laughing in bed with my husband?

Do you know that when I awake to the gentle nudge of a little hand attached to a young voice saying "Mama! Mom! Mommy! Are you up?", I shrug in the weighty haze of sleep, open my covers instinctively, and eagerly welcome into my nest one or both of my small offspring?

Do you know that I never tire of seeing my sons' faces as they first see mine in the pick-up line after school? Do you know that on the day they stay until 4:30pm because one loves chess and the other loves science, I miss them and dare the hours to pass more slowly?

Do you know that my boys saying, "I love you" is some of the sweetest music ever sung? That the notes they write me in awkward handwriting are perhaps the best love letters I've ever received? That I still smile when I hear my husband's key in the lock?

Do you know that in the moments I allow myself to consider what life would be like were something to happen to one of them, both of them, all of them, I can't stand it? Can't fathom it? Panic?

***

Do you know that I am sometimes crippled by tremendous anxiety? And that it is sometimes, or even often, brought on or exacerbated by my darling children and their love for me? 

Do you know what it feels like to need a good deal of alone time but to push that need away daily? As if you're running a marathon in the summer sun but must eschew the rehydration stations along the way.

Do you know what it's like to have almost nothing left for your partner when finally he or she returns home?

Do you know about the challenge of finding good child care and of affording it?

Do you know about counting on the minimum sleep/days at school/you name it and being cheated of that? Do you know what that does to you? To your friends? To those you don't know?

Do you know the feelings of failure and shame all of that knowledge elicits in women who want to do best by their children? And who feel that the smallest slips set them back dramatically? Mar their children beyond what's "normal"?

Do you know the feelings of failure and shame and worry that knowledge elicits in me?

***

Do you know that each time someone like Sarah Silverman or Hayden Panettiere or Brooke Shields or Gwyneth Paltrow or Catherine Zeta-Jones publicly admits to depression or anxiety or postpartum depression, so many women breathe a collective sigh of relief and are saved by knowing they are not alone?

Do you know that this is all hard? That life is hard? That motherhood is hard? That unearthing and living as our truest selves is hard? That gilding those lilies is a profound disservice to individual struggle? That honesty would make individual struggles less solitary?

Do you know that in unabashed truth there is not only relief but joy? Connection? Empowerment?

***

I know all of these things now. I know them even when they're hard to accept. When they're difficult to say aloud. When loved ones frown or shrink away from what I know and say aloud.

I know that my friends know these things. That readers know these things. That strangers do.

I want to own them and share them with you because when others have done so in the past, I am strengthened and made more brave. I am comforted. I am normed. As are you. 

And what better to know?

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.