Merry is Laura, I'm Ma, Daddy's Pa

And Elspeth is Carrie. Merry fussed about over Elspeth at the table, rolling her eyes in an exaggerated fashion, waggling her finger at Elspeth's button nose. "No, no, no!" Merry admonished, as Elspeth flung her mashed-potato covered spoon to the floor for the third time.

I've realized, now that we're in the thick of "The Long Winter," that calling Merry "Laura" occasionally as she requests works to my advantage. Laura immedately obeys, even when an internal battle rages; she's courageous; she lives to help. This afternoon Merry piled miscellany in the back of her tricycle and pushed herself across the grass, scouting for a good place to camp for the night. I was digging holes for the notorious Poplar trees with Elspeth--sorry, Carrie--strapped to my back. "Laura!" I'd call, and Merry would go running cheerfully upon some noble errand--fetching me the phone or carrying trees. Like a true Laura-Pioneer (as Merry calls her), Merry held the trunks for me on the steep slope while I tamped them in. Elspeth swung happily on my back, watching us.

Outdoors. Imm. . .I finished digging up the turf to make a bed for mint today (thinking Song of Solomon's "Many waters cannot quench mint. . ." stopped here and did not go on to "We have a little sister and she has no. . .") Also planted my hydrangea tree in the front of the house, a scrawny little snowman arm that contains somewhere the energy to explode into balloons of flowers. I'll believe it when I see it.

When I finally detached Elspeth from my back and we went inside, Merry was happy as a little duck and energetically washed the supper dishes with lots of soap and cold water.

Tonight we read three chapters of "The Long Winter." When we were finished, Merry sighed deeply. "I wish I could be Laura," she said. "I wish I could live back in those days."

I began to list all the things she might miss if she lived then: electricity, indoor plumbing, videos. . .Merry piped up. "Well, I wouldn't miss videos," she said, and agreed that books were much better than TV. Then she leaned over and gave me a big hug. "But you're better than a book!" she cried.

Well, that is high praise, and enough to get me through the next few days while Martin will be away in Deleware at a prof.'s conference. Poor chap--a hotel room all to himself. Two or three years ago the thought of being alone for days on end with two children would have made me blanch. But now I realize that much of life is about choice (the rest is grace=two easy children) and whether or not I will have a rollicking fine time is up to me. I have in my possession a lemon pound cake, and this I will consume tomorrow evening with friends. Also I am tossing around several options (all indoors, alas, because of spring rain): painting a wall, removing a kitchen cabinet, writing a poem series, knocking out a wall with a sledgehammer. Staying up all night watching BBC Netflix? Driving to Montana? What would Laura-Pioneer do?