We go to swim lessons. Lily goes first, clinging to Vic’s neck, the kickboard, whatever her little hands can find, she is alert to the understanding that the water seems to want something from her, and she resists. She resists a lot of things these days — vegetables, sleep, diaper changes, our requests to please don’t climb up that rock pile Lily, please don’t jump off that slide, please come back down here where it is safe, please — all muscle and tumble. When Mira cries Lily pats her on the back with a chubby palm, thump thump, like she’s trying to dislodge the sadness by force.
Mira’s next, and she has learned exactly zero swimming skills in our 2+ years of lessons but seems to have fun? So much of raising kids is worrying they haven’t yet learned the things they need to learn and then suddenly they are doing all of it on their own and you realize how superfluous you actually are. Time bends and snaps or goes woolly and strange. I think a lot about that scene in Atonement, the buzz of the bee at the window, the slow honey of an afternoon. On Sunday I’ll be sorting Mira’s old clothes to see what will fit Lily and time will accordion in on itself. Mira wore this playsuit when she took her first steps. I box up the clothes now too small for either of them. I turned 40 in March, and time seems to have shoved me over some invisible line, too. I am no longer on the cusp of anything but irrelevancy. I am no longer of interest to the world. My children’s bodies grow longer and the distance between us is taffy-like, elastic. I have to learn how to care less. I have to learn myself again, reclaim my own body. Teach myself a new (old) skill.
After swim we take them to the child watch room at the Y and Lily draws all over her face with a purple marker. When we pick them up, she is wailing because the caregiver has taken the marker away, and so she has wrapped herself around Mira, who is gently patting her and kissing her on the head. They are good kids.
They are good kids, is what we repeat to ourselves all (long) weekend. Good kids, when Mira claims she has forgotten how to put on her shoes and throws herself to the ground in frustration. Good kids, when Lily wakes up at 11, at 1, at 3, at 5. Good kids. We cycle between playgrounds and playdates and playtime over the next three days. Three days are so many days. At my current gig the average age of my coworkers seems to be about 21, and those kids love a long weekend. Three days, I thought, as we waited until 4:59pm on Friday to get the kids from daycare. Three days.
And then, of course, it is over and they have gone back to school and I miss them. I pore over photos from the weekend — the kids standing with Vic at the BU campus, the kids puppy-piled on a swing with their friends — and the news filters in from Rafah and I think, three days. What those parents wouldn’t give for three more days.
The children are on fire. Cease the fucking fire.
Self Soothing
Donating to Operation Olive Branch.
When the world feels out of control (always), I end up doing dumb things to exert control over my corner of it. These days, that includes cutting my own hair. I recommend it! I have no advice other than not to use kitchen shears. Hair grows back.
Vic and I watched Challengers this weekend. Josh O’Connor’s thighs were absolutely worth the $15 we paid to rent it. It was campy and sexy and fun and I loved the attention to bodies. I did not for one second believe Zendaya as a mother.
You've said all the things I feel. I love this: "I have to learn how to care less. I have to learn myself again, reclaim my own body. Teach myself a new (old) skill". I too wonder about thus feeling coming up on the horizon.