If memory serves (a phrase I bet I end up using more before I use it less in the coming years), potty training—save for the force-it-for-preschool-deadline with the first—was a far less emotionally fraught experience for my middle two guys.
This is to say the shriek-y, must-control-everything gal continues to careen along with manic fervor: “I’m a baby! I’m a big girl!” depending when you find her (and where—she’s spending a lot of time in the portable crib we took on vacation, mostly being a baby, often baby Millie, herself a toddler about to become a big sister and experience her own mood swings about growing up).
When the papa and the second brother returned from soccer and karate with takeaway food at seven-thirty, I reported that the good news was the girl—she who refused to nap—was asleep and the bad news was the girl wore no diaper… yet. The next brother witnessed her screeches at sitting on the potty, at not brushing teeth, and well, at everything we might have asked of her, including not to hit or kick. She ended up lying down of her own volition (eventually): seriously tangled hair, no shirt, and no diaper. She refused any songs. I think she’d so exhausted herself that sleep was the only answer. Youngest brother would back me up on all this. He had my back.
After we left her room, we just rolled our eyes at each other.
Anyhoo… what happened next was that the five of us, the mama, papa, and three lovely, chatty boys sat down to eat. You know, all family dinner-ish. It was like a family dinner you read about on a blog about perfect family dinners, except it was nearly eight and we hadn’t made the food.
No matter, later that evening after the second grader fell asleep reading in our bed and the elder two were holed away watching something together, the papa and I said aloud, “Our guys are so cool.” I wish I could tell you what exactly we discussed at dinner that made this so apparent. Trust me, though, they are seriously awesome and it was so nice just to enjoy them. We talked about the Saveur sandwich issue, a student advisory position the eldest is intrigued by, charter schools versus magnet schools, and the sad, surreal moment the youngest boy and I happened to walk past the neighbor’s house in the afternoon as a body covered by a quilt was being transported from house to Hearse.
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This week has a patched together, seat of our pants quality to it. Next week, the dear husband goes to peddle his wares (early printed books) at the New York Antiquarian Book Fair so he’s frazzled, as is always the case before this fair (he’s already done Boston and California is why). Spring’s officially here yet hasn’t quite arrived, and that’s not helping anyone’s mood.
Next week, when that antiquarian bookseller is doing his thing in the Big Apple, I’ll be trying to attend at least some of the big Reproductive Justice conference at Hampshire College (yeah, click, be blown away). I wrote a piece for Civil Liberties and Public Policy Program at Hampshire College’s (CLPP) blog about access to abortion, in which I spoke to people on the ground in Philadelphia about whether it really is harder now than thirty years ago to get an abortion if you are 17. Short answer: your kids (well, mine at least) won’t have it nearly as easy as I did. I think this is bad news, because your child—or someone’s—could be one unsympathetic parent away from not having the freedom of choice in the matter (or not enough money to pay up front or transportation to the judge or clinic not in the same county she lives in or…). Researching the piece was sobering. I hope a lot of people read it, so read and spread it, too (thank you).
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For that matter, I’m bowling—well, “bowling” so far—for abortion access by participating in the National Network of Abortion Funds’ Virtual Bowl-a-Thon. I raised my “team” (that’s you, readers) goal so if you are motivated to give to abortion access (the heart of the right, finally; otherwise, it doesn’t count does it?), please help our team out!
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Finally, because I am so very scattered here, thanks for your comments on my hipsterfail parenting confession. If you have no idea what I’m talking about, click here. Then, toss in your comment, too, because it’s so silly a thing to chime in about and we all need some silly to offset the rest.
