A Tall Girl's Adventures in a Tiny World

 Since March 13, 2020, our family has been together, 24/7, in our 1200-square-foot home. Yes, of course, we take walks and run occasional errands to get out of the house...but we all work and school here now. I feel somewhat guilty saying it, but I will miss this phase when it's over. All the togetherness can be intense, but I love having my children close by all the time, hearing their funny conversations and ridiculous dinner table banter. I love Chris cooking dinner most evenings and sharing all the household responsibilities; in fact, I think he's doing more of the household stuff now than I am.  With full awareness that in a few months life will go back to a more normal pace, I hope, now that two vaccines are available, I am trying to catalog all these good moments and special days. Happy is 15 now and will be driving in less than a year. He wants to get a job. I know soon he will be living on his own and I'll see him so much less. I wonder if he's tired or annoyed...

I was really great at school as a kid...but I'm really lousy at school as a parent. And I was reminded once again of this while sitting at my son's conference yesterday. Seventh grade has been hard on all of us. Beyond the obvious physical changes -- Happy has grown at least 5" since this summer and now looks me in the eye (yeah, remember I'm super tall!), his voice is weird, he can't get out of his own way -- we're all trying to navigate his ever-changing need for independence. His teachers want him to take more responsibility for his learning, which in theory sounds like a great plan for all kids at this age; they have to not only learn how to learn but also learn how to advocate for their learning. In reality, though, when you're the world's most laid-back 12-almost-13-year-old who really only wants to listen to music, play drums, video games, and action figures, taking responsibility and advocating for your learning is not highest priority. In f...

"Mommy," he asks, reaching for my hand as we walk out of the grocery store, "wouldn't it be cool if we had some kind of a hat that when you put it on your head, you start to speak all of your thoughts?" His eyes are wide, hair fringing the blue. He's letting it grow until spring (exactly 21 days away, as he explained this morning) and he looks shaggy and wild. Like one of Peter Pan's lost boys in sweatpants and a Star Wars t-shirt. We've just ordered a cake for his birthday party - celebrating 8 years at a trampoline park this weekend. "Can you imagine it?" he asks, "if everyone could hear your thoughts all the time? Ha!" I love ideas like this. They pop out of his mouth in unexpected moments, little gems that generally begin with what if? or wanna know something? I hope his mind always asks those questions. But wow...can you imagine it? A hat that turns off that brain-to-mouth filter? What would he hear from me, right in thi...

I’d have more time for writing* if I didn’t love the evening read-and-huggle routine with Zippy. If he didn’t smell like toothpaste and sunshine, if he didn’t curl up perfectly in the C of my body, simply a larger version of the infant he was when he came out of me. I’d have more time for writing if I didn’t know he’d only be 7 and cuddly for another blink, hands that fit perfectly inside mine, pink cheeks and long dark eyelashes. This is the only time of the day when he is still. I’d have more time for writing if I didn’t long to cuddle his big brother like this, also. I’d have more time for writing if I didn’t cook actual food for my family -- and serve it at an actual table -- or if we didn’t hold hands when we recite the simple grace rhyme the kids learned in preschool. I’d have more time for writing if this wasn’t my favorite moment of every day, having all four of us in one spot for just 15 minutes, Zippy's hand in my left, Happy's in my right, Honey's eyes loc...

"I wonder if she can slam dunk." "That mom is gonna hit her head on the door." "She's taller than my dad!" These are things often overheard when I drop my kids at school. Kids don't whisper quietly. None of these comments are new, mind you. I've heard these (and worse) since I was, oh, 9 years old, when I stood next to my 4th-grade teacher and one of my classmates noticed that I was as tall as Mrs. Schneider. No, I cannot slam dunk and I've never hit my head on a door jamb, but yeah, I'm taller than most dads. (And I've only met one mom in Portland who looks me in the eye; her kids go to a different school.) I've borne the loud-whispered tall comments my whole life. Usually they're muttered behind my back, but often to my face as well. People say silly things. Period. Words sting, even if they're not intentionally harsh or teasing, and I wish people would realize that I can hear their gasps and whispers; my ears ar...

They tell us it's spring now, as of Monday morning, these experts who know about seasons and time and things. There are signs of spring, of course -- the sun certainly shines brighter and longer into the evening, the birds sing more confidently, and faces I pass on the street show a glimmer of hopefulness, a new willingness to smile or say hello -- but this is Maine, and spring in Maine is not like spring in other places. We still have 5-foot piles of snow at the back of our driveway, and the 20-foot snow tower in the Target parking lot will likely be there until June. We are still wearing our Big Coats because it's wicked cold...and boots because it's wicked muddy. We won't see a daffodil or crocus for at least another month, and we won't plant seedlings in our backyard gardens until Memorial Day. The arrival of spring, even if in name only, means we've made it through winter, officially. And that's a pretty big deal. It's a long exhale, a softening i...

“Mommy, where will we move to after Donald Trump drops the big atomic bomb to start World War 3? I don’t want to have to move again. And when will Zahir be sent back to Somalia? I don’t want him to go because he just got here and he gives really good hugs.” These are the words Zippy spoke on Wednesday evening, after spending post-election day in school with a bunch of other 6-year-olds who have huge, scary questions on their minds. Their teacher, whom I adore, shut down all the post-election conversation. I wish she hadn’t done that. I wish she’d taken the opportunity to tell those kids the simple truth: You are safe here, our country is strong and the Constitution will hold, we adults will protect you. But maybe Zippy’s teacher, like me, doesn’t truly feel that way right now. Maybe she is uncertain about our safety - or our ability to keep our loved ones safe. And maybe she, too, wonders if our country, this great American experiment, truly is strong enough to weather the mon...

“Imagine this, buddy, in the middle of summer, especially near the Fourth of July. Wall to wall people, just sort of moving in and out of each other. Flashing lights. Loud music. Screams from Morey’s Pier, laughter on the swirly rides. Oh...and the food...ice cream, funnel cake, fudge, cheese steaks, pizza, fries...the smells alone would drive you nuts!”  Our empty, rainy October boardwalk It’s 5:00 on the evening before his Nana’s funeral, and we’re standing in a windy drizzle on an empty Wildwood boardwalk. My mind has flashed back to the summer of 1991, when I spent a week here with my best friend. Wicked sunburn. Tandem bike adventures. Water slides. Thrill rides. A ground-shaking thunderstorm. Friendship bracelets. College guys taking showers outside. Ice cream and VCR movies every night. Back in the here-and-now I’m trying to explain to Zippy what this place is like when it’s not October. He’s been to Rehoboth and Ocean City and Old Orchard Beach, but none of those...

Tank tops by day, hoodies by night  Air so rich with strawberry smells that you stop smack in the middle of the Monument Square farmers market and giggle; the "tomato bar" in late August elicits the same response Arms stained tie-dye red-purple-orange from the popcicles you slurp on the front porch; the house won't cool down until the sun sets  Slow weekend mornings -- cold brew coffee, a book, a blanket, a patch of grass overlooking the sailboat-dotted harbor Gigantic 10-story cruise ships, teeming streets, no parking spaces, buskers on every corner, impossibly long restaurant waits, a people-watching bonanza Seagulls brazenly eyeing your fries as you pick apart lobsters the rocks at Two Lights Lobster Shark, laughing as the butter and salt water ooze down our forearms Clouds that build and blow through a deep blue sky, mirrored in the lake we're floating on; reach your head back far enough, and it's easy to lose the distinction between water and sky. ...

I completely lost my shiz this morning. I'm not proud of it, but shiz got lost. The morning started casually enough. "Hey guys! " I smiled as I walked down the stairs on this gorgeous August-in-Maine Saturday, "We're going blueberry picking today! And to a new lake!" Both children, sitting on the sofa with overflowing bowls of Cheerios, sighed and rolled their eyes. They stomped around the house. The little one even started crying. WTF? They actually got mad at me about the prospect of doing fun things. This happens often, in fact, and I shouldn't have been surprised. But that made me even madder. I was so pissed, I couldn't find adult words -- just yelled my own childish nonsense like "I just want to do fun things with you! Is that too much?" and "fine, then I'll pick blueberries alone!" -- and I sent Happy to his room because I didn't know what else to do. I fumed and fussed. I even said the F-word (and the image of...

I've had a hard time collecting my thoughts this summer. Writing has been harder than usual. The world has been harder than usual. I don't have to recap every instance of violence, hatred, and anger that's taken place this summer...this year...by now it's part of our wounded national psyche.  In the midst of it, my husband's mother died. She has been my mother for 20 years, my children's grandmother. And she has been my friend, someone I often turned to when things didn't make sense. For two weeks I walked through this very hard world wondering why it just didn't stop for a few days. Just stop! I needed to sit still and grieve, I needed time to remember happier moments with her and time to talk with my kids about very big concepts like hospice care, death, heaven.  Yet even in those weeks, more instances of violence, hatred, anger filled the news, cycled endlessly through social media, office conversation, personal correspondence. Just stop, wor...

"I have never heard anyone say 'vagina' so many times in one hour!" So begins my 5th-grade son's dinner-table recount of his first Family Living class. (By the way, since I was a 5th grader I have giggled at this colloquialism for sex ed lite. What the heck does it mean, really ?) "And we talked about arm pit hair and how boys get all...um, excited... easier," he continues. I don't even know what he means by that last bit nor where to take the conversation from there, so I just keep spooning rice pilaf  into my mouth and let him continue. "It was mostly vagina, vagina, vagina. She said BABIES come out of vaginas, Mom... but I know I didn't." Such confidence!  It's true that neither of my kids came out of a vagina -- they were C-section births -- but I'm not entirely sure if his statement is motivated by personal history or denial of the entire how-babies-come-out story. But mostly I'm giggling and fighting the u...

Zippy meets me at the cafeteria door at 4:20, wide eyes and pale face. I told him I'd be there at 4:00 today but got delayed; he'd been staring at the clock for 20 minutes, waiting, worrying. When I hugged him, I could feel his little heart pounding in his chest. The phone rings and the Rec director is talking excitedly. All I can discern is the word "thunderstorm" and my son crying in the background. He's inconsolable because he overheard an adult mention that there might be thunderstorms in the forecast. It takes me 5 minutes of me repeating "You are safe. Hear my voice. You are safe..." until he stops crying...but I know I'd better hurry from work to get to him, because he doesn't believe he is safe. He is beyond reason right now. And sure enough, when I arrive, he's sitting on a log near the door, next to a blessed 4th grader who is holding his hand and trying to soothe him. When I hug him, he melts into tears. His body shivers despite ...