this is a page for

Browsing Tag: parenthood

Grief, and When Our Children Show Us the Way Out

As I type this, there is an estate sale company in my mother’s house, sorting through her belongings. The estate manager called me from where she stood in my parents’ dining room this morning to ask me some questions, and when she looked outside, she paused our conversation. “It’s just beautiful here!” she said. “This is a lovely home.” I hung up and cried. I need to tell you about this past weekend. We’d decided to do some sort of Fun Family Fall Activity, and Quinlan really wanted to go to a place with a corn maze, so after we finished cleaning the house Saturday morning (Cian: “Why do we hafta keep cleaning the house all the time? It’s just going to have to get cleaned AGAIN.”), we drove to an apple orchard about thirty minutes south of us. We handed over the bonkers-expensive entrance fee, donned our masks, and made our way to the corn maze after dodging a small handful of social media influencers in their Instagram Hats as they teetered out of a pumpkin patch. All Quinlan wanted to do was…

This is Seven Years Old, but at 6:15 a.m.

I shared this to my personal Facebook page on a whim the other day, but this is something I want to remember, so here we go, blogged for all posterity (er, or just for my archives): The other morning, I woke Cian up for school, as usual, at 6:15. He opened one eye. “What’s for breakfast?” he asked. I told him, and he nodded with approval. Then: “What’s for lunch?” I told him, and he nodded again. There was a final follow-up question: “What’s for dinner?” I told him, and this time I got a smile in return. He opened the other eye and motioned me off his bed. “Okay,” he said, this time with a sigh. “I’ll get up.” I’m still wondering what would’ve happened if he hadn’t liked what he heard…

Quinlan Says Quarantine is Fun and We’re Just Going to Roll with it

Quinlan had to write a letter Monday for her language arts class, in which she described to an imaginary other student her first month under stay-at-home orders. “MOM. Mommy. MOM.” Quinn said this as she walked from the dining room, where she’d set up her dad’s old laptop as a work station, to where I was in the family room, writing on my own laptop. “Mom. Mommy? Mom. I need help.” I love my children. I really, really, like having them around. But sometimes? Quinlan draped herself over the arm of the couch so that her face was inches from my computer. “Mom? Mom. In this letter I have to tell the other student what I’ve been doing all month. How do I start it? What do I say? Mom. What’s my first sentence going to be?” I sighed. This was Quinn’s thirty-seventh request for help in the last hour and a half. I’m usually pretty proud of my patience with the kids, but that patience depends largely on whether my anxiety has taken the morning off (hahaha NOT…