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Browsing Tag: the things they say

She’s Right, You Know

It was 4:30 p.m..  I was sinking into the cushions of our family room chair.  Saoirse was perched on the ottoman in front of me, Quinn lay curled against my potruding belly like a yin around a yang.  I was supposed to be putting laundry away, or starting prep for dinner, or finishing paying the stack of bills that had arrived while we were away.  But I’d hit the wall.  Quinn had just gotten up from a late nap, and frankly, I just wanted to sit for a little while.  You understand, don’t you?  Even when you don’t have a growing baby doing jumping jacks and burpees inside your uterus all day (ALL. DAY.), sometimes you just need to sit.  There is no true break in the day anymore–Saoirse used to be a much more independent child when she was our only child.  That, and she napped.  Oh, how she napped.  Now I get her to watch a DVD during an hour after lunch (David just asked me yesterday, “Does she watch TV every day?”  Yes, David.  Yes.  That rule got broken the instant she said “Mom…

Maybe She’s Right

We were driving home the other day, down a winding, narrow road called “the shortcut.” Shortcuts are what happens when developers rip out the woods and meadow across the street from your cute little house to pile in a bunch of new homes made out of matchsticks and Elmer’s glue on lots the size of gum wrappers. The view certainly changes, but it sure does take a lot less time to get to Target. Spotty thunderstorms were just starting to roll into our little section of the world, making the sky look like one of Saoirse’s post-sugary-snack watercolor paintings. We were wondering out loud if it would rain over our house, and she looked out the window. “Mom, one side of the sky is blue and the other is gray. That’s weird. It’s kind of boo-full. Maybe the clouds and the sun are playing games with each other. Maybe the sun is practicing for nighttime. “Oh, I know. The sun wants to show the clouds the moon.” Sometimes I just want to disappear into this kid’s imagination and stay there for awhile…

Huh

I tucked Saoirse into bed last night. “Mommy, I love you,” she said, smiling.  Then she grabbed my hand. “When I’m with you…”  She paused.  Took a deep breath.  Looked around the room, as if the cars on her nightstand or the little plastic snow globes on her dresser could finish her sentence.  She squeezed my hand with both of hers then, earnest. “When I’m with you…” she paused again, thinking, “you’ll be with me.” Satisfied, she smiled, raised her eyebrows at me, then released my hand and settled back onto the pillow.  I was now cleared to say good night. When I’m with you, you’ll be with me, she said.  Was that a request?  An assumption?  A promise?  Or just something the red snow globe on her dresser somehow conveyed to her?  I don’t know, but that sentence is sticking with me.  It could be a marriage vow.  A promise to a sick parent.  A laughing comment thrown to a friend as you both jump into the air, skydiving for the first (but hopefully not the last…