It is cold here on the tundra, er, I mean, the prairie.
Schools here were closed yesterday due to the “mass of arctic air” hanging over this part of the Midwest, and when the local schools close, so does The Poo’s preschool.
When her teacher called the night before (and got a befuddled Mr. C on the phone), I was totally bummed that I wouldn’t have my morning alone to run all the errands I put off this week. I need to get some damn food in this house, there is a birthday gift to procure, and I need to free my sewing machine from the tyranny of the local quilt store, which has been holding it hostage repairing it since early December.
Instead yesterday morning found us still in our PJs in front of the fire at 10:30. I made homemade sour cream and banana muffins in the hopes that The Poo would eat one, and instead I ate four.
It was simply too cold to leave the house. We puttered all day, doing a bit of this and a bit of that, before settling into our nightly routine.
Ever since December, our routine has been off. We’re late for everything, I can’t keep the house clean, making dinner exhausts me, and we just can’t get moving in the mornings.
Most school days see me showing up for drop-off in sweats and a ball cap, unshowered and with barely an ounce of coffee in my system. The Poo is equally somnolent, waking late and protesting mightily when I dress her for the day.
It was making me feel a little crazy, these lazy hours. Up until the holidays, we had a great little routine in place and I was up and ready to meet the day with zeal, dressed and cleaning or writing by 9 a.m.
But yesterday I took a moment to savor the slowness. There was a popular song when I was a college senior, a Natalie Merchant tune called “These Are Days.” I know you remember it – how could you not? That song collided with the waning moments of our childhoods, when college was ending and our “real lives” were about to begin.
Sitting close to my pajama-clad daughter on the sofa, reading The Cat In The Hat and ignoring the full dishwasher and sink brimming with dirty pots and pans, I realized that these are the days.
These are the days that will make up the fabric of The Poo’s memories. Romping with her father when he comes home at night, cuddling with me as the thin, early-morning sun streams into our small and cluttered family room in a house that is only a stop on our road.
The Poo will be close to five when we leave Chambana, and I know she will always think of this place as home. However strange that is to me, it feels like her truth.
I’ve been restless, anxious to get back to the daily grind after two months of Sunday mornings. Suddenly, I’m not so sure that’s what I really want.
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It’s funny-I always say “no premourning”, but in some way, I’ve already mourned the loss of my daughters early childhood. Not loss, but ending. They are no longer the small creatures who need me so desperately-now they push back, and ask for space. Those tiny quiet moments are fewer and fewer. I build the moments they’ll rely on forever.
And I always hated Nathalie Merchant, and now I’ll have that song in my head all.day.long.
This post really stirred me. These are the days I squeeze my eyes shut and try to burn memories into my mind. I smell my boys freshly washed hair as I hold them and try to translate it into something I can hold onto forever. And I think sadly that the memory will slip from memory in days, but then I remember that there are those moments when I look at them and my heart bursts with what feels like pride, love, hope, and joy, and those moments are all of those “memories” bubbling up at once, exploding into the present.
That song was my senior prom theme song.
We have all the fun of rousing children from their beds each morning to come. Thankfully their ages are such that we don’t have to fight all of them towards school immediately.
Yesterday my son was singing along to that very song (from the That Baby CD). Except his lyrics were “June remember BUTT!”
I know that wasn’t in keeping with your lovely post, but I couldn’t resist.
I’m hearing ya, sistah! Especially from where I sit in life.
Home for the Poo will always be where you and her father are.
Where ever you live.
Loved this post. It’s damn cold here too.
What a lovely post. It seemed very cozy to me. And I remember that song! I love Natalie Merchant and have seen her in concert from 10,000 Maniacs to her solo career.
Ah that question, that matter of want after needs are met. It’s necessary to know though, don’t you think?
It sounds like a complicated feeling for you. You want the time to savor her, but you also are restless in the inertia.
I think you just cured my Alice Cooper/Beatie Boys ear worm with the sublime 10,000 Maniacs. Thank you!
“Never before and never since, I promise, will the whole world be warm as this. And as you feel it, you’ll know it’s true that you are blessed and lucky.”
In a few months you’ll be up to your ears again in diapers, so savor these days – each blessed one of them. Trust me. I’ve been there, 3 times.
Yes, these are the days for sure. I still listen to that song all the time. It was on the radio when Matt and I started dating. I feel like these are the days all over again, and they’re even sweeter this time around.
Mmmmm. Smooch will be five when we are done here, too, and I wonder – how will I be able to leave this house? I’m so place-sentimental, probably because I didn’t have that ONE special place as a kid, that I want to take a million pictures and videos and not lose a second of what makes this place our home. Of course, I ended up with great memories of several homes (and I can still close my eyes and “walk through” the layout of each of them), so maybe that’s not so bad either.