Knock, knock

Just a few minutes ago I left Beatrix in her crib, happy and very sleepy. I lingered for a moment, looking at her sweet face with the covers pulled up to her chin. "Cookie," she said, "Morning."

"You're going to have cookies in the morning?" I asked.

"Imm, hmm."

"That's a funny joke."

On cue, Bea continued, "Knock, knock."

"Who's there?"

We went through a series of knock, knock jokes in which she listed many of our friends around here, who in a sense are family: Ben, E-tan, Berto, Cat-ine, Don [John], Nancy, Sa--ee [Sally]. . .She even included Rosie the dog, among others. She kept wanting to list them again and again, in a sort of delighted way that reminded me of a prayer.

I felt so happy listening to her spill out the richness of these names, and I am reminded to be grateful for the community in which we live. Elspeth had her preschool end-of-the-year concert tonight, and it was sweltering in the Catholic church, but there was a sense of "all-being-in-this-together" and people were happy though sweaty. Toward the end of the songs and the ceremony I felt a sudden flood of sadness that I had no family close by to see my children growing up. They often visit, of course, but I had no grandparents or aunties or uncles sitting around me, focused on Elspeth, on the celebration of her growing up. It is a sadness I suppose I thought I let go of in the face of the reality of my nomadic family, but it passes over me now and then, as it did tonight as I was surrounded by good people with their good families.

Thankfully, the legacy of my own childhood continues for my three daughters: the support and knit of community. There are people here who care and nurture and even tell off my own children; I complain, grieve, and share all the good things that come through my life. For this I am truly grateful. Elspeth and Merry and Bea call many women "aunt" and many men "uncle" and they are caught in many hands, accepting with the same love my own blood-family, as the girls and I say.

So today, there were new tomatoes planted and potted, manure spread, late johnny-jump-ups nestled into soil, strawberries from our garden shared among friends--and there was lots of love to go around. Practical love, like the love our dear friends showed us by taking our girls so Martin and I could go out, and constant, unsaid love--the river that flows around our ankles, reminding us that life is full of cool winds and goodness.

in nine minutes

So I've got nine minutes to tell you everything and I am weary, weary, weary of going all day.

But I'd like to bequeath the following story to my dear sister Heather, since she seems to take particular relish in disgusting or unusual stories--and this one is gross.

Saturday morning: bright, clear, lovely. Martin and I and the two younger girls are at the university's old historical building for a meeting--we climb up the circular staircases to a room lit with the filtered brilliance of stained glass. After the meeting concludes we let the girls frolic across the well-tended lawn on the way to the car. We laugh at the brazen squirrels and the way the girls chase them up trees. All in all, it is a very pastoral scene.

Martin notices that Bea has stopped to talk to something in the grass, and I note that as she walks away down the lawn toward the sidewalk, she seems to have a long piece of twine wrapped around her leg. I suppose it is landscape twine or some oddly overlooked piece of trash. She kicks her little sandaled foot to free herself. Again and again she tries to disentangle herself. At the same time Martin meanders up to where Bea was conversing with the something in the grass, and we see it at the same time: a matted mass of grey fur marked with blood. And the twine around Bea's ankle? Squirrel intestine!

AHHHHHHHHHHH!

Who knew squirrel entrails were so long? Great Scott!

After we sanitize Bea's foot and strip off her sandals, she asks from her car seat: "Squirrel?"

Martin says, "The squirrel was sleeping, honey."

There is a pause and then Martin turns to me. "Who wants a cookie?"

There's your nine-minute story, all I have time for this evening but certainly only one of the wild and woolly things that happened this weekend.

Over and out.

Artist Elspeth

This is the first in the EEC (Elspeth Evelyn Cockroft) Art Show.

Elspeth is four. To those of you who know her or keep up with her endless antics on Wazoo Farm, you might be surprised to know that Elspeth is the most concentrated artist of all our girls. She literally spends hours drawing, and she draws EVERYWHERE.

I do mean Elspeth draws everywhere. On the walls, on desks, on my computer, on herself, in gravel and woodchips when there is nothing else, even in the syrup at the bottom of her ice-cream bowl.

She creates totally bizarro compositions; sometimes she tells me what is going on in the pictures but sometimes she just shrugs as if that is unimportant. Once I asked, "What is that, Elspeth?" and she said right away, "It's ART, Mommy." So there you are. I am called a plebeian by my four-year old daughter.

Elspeth scribbles furiously through stacks and stacks of scratch paper and then shows us these wild color and shape combinations. She is almost compulsive in the way she works, and we have made sure she has drawing stations all over the house: by my desk, a whole counter downstairs, by her bed.

The other day, before we realized she needed paper and pencil by her bed, she covered the wall above her pillow with a totally wild pen sketch. Martin sighed and said, "If that girl does not become an artist, I will be really disappointed."

Right now, she is brushing her teeth and drawing a person with bubblefeet at the same time. Keep tuned for the three-eyed creature--it's my favorite.

today

Today I moved furniture all day.

I moved desks, lamps, books, bookcases, cords, couch and chairs, tables. . .Merry helped. And I moved a piano all by myself! Huzzah for me!

This tendency to move furniture on a regular basis runs in my family--apparently my grandmother was a regular rearranger. Perhaps it's the gypsy blood; now that we're finally settled somewhere, I at least have to play at moving.

I've done heavy furniture moving even while 8 months pregnant, under some sort of spell that drove me ever forward, around corners--bend those knees!--and up and down stairs. I started as a child--an old letter to my grandmother from Kenya promises her pictures of my new room arrangement as soon as I got it perfect, and a diagram is eventually attached to one of my missives. I moved furniture around in college even though my roommate, who was very mathy, told me my vision was faulty. But she grudgingly took an end of the bunk bed and we went at it for a couple hours until I realized that she was right. And then we put everything back exactly as it had been before we started and went to sleep. That was my one terrible failure at furniture moving. Since then I've done much better.

I think Merry's caught the bug, because when I mentioned a possible new arrangement for the downstairs rooms, she lit up like a firefly and got that crazy gleam in her eyes. She knows what's fun, my oldest daughter. I usually wait until Martin is out of the house, since the moving stresses him out (he didn't move much as a child--like our blind dog we had as a child he likes to memorize where things are), but the kids are pretty used to it now. Bea did glue herself to my hip for a little while there right after nap--she awakened at a bad time, when the couch was still on its end and the sun room was impassible. So we finished moving the couch into place with Bea holding onto my torso like a little monkey.

Martin came home from sitting all day in the sun at graduation, took one look around, and said, "I guess I should never get used to anything." As if he didn't know that already!

Back to the Garden!

My favorite blue flax. . . .

Today was the first day, since Martin's last grading session, that we spent the majority of the day in the garden. The rain was gone, the sky was huge and clear, and we were more than ready to whip the beloved beds into shape. We have so many more hours to spend there, but it did feel encouraging to see just how much we could accomplish in a day. The first two peonies are blooming; the roses are about to pop;

the clematis is showy and happy;

the lupines are towers of deep blue; the herbs are thick and lush. . .oh, dear, so many happinesses I can't list them all.

With a friend we ate an omelet loaded with chives, oregeno, and basil from our plants, and the girls spent almost all day in a secret place under the forsythia bush.

Glorious.

Out in the Wild Blue Yonder

Way out there, somewhere, is the order I crave. Order in my head, in the house, in my schedule, in dailiness, in the fabric of my life. Order in the Kim!

Truly, I am getting to the point again where enough is enough, and I long to fill big black garbage bags full of all our belongings, whip up the tops so no-one can see what they're losing, and pile the load in the old Texas pick-up. Bound for never-never-land. Then I will usher in a new order.

In this new pristine place there will be no furniture that is not in good condition and is not sat in regularly. There will be no discarded photos pressed with the fingerprints of children. I will have three candles which burn always. One vase full of flowers that are not stinking or crisping at the edges. Exactly the right number of plates and silverware. No mysterious file names on the computer. No bits and pieces (mismatched socks, notes, book pages, old toothbrushes, play food) under the girls' beds. Five plants which do not drop sap and are watered like clockwork by the invisible servant. No furry tupperware in the fridge.

No fifty or more mismatched socks. I am NOT joking, by the way. No lonely shoes without mates, no more dresses, purses, or curtains put together with safety pins, no more freezer half-full of ice-flow, no more unmarked items in the freezer, no more pants without buttons and without hope of ever receiving buttons.

My head will be well-filed. I will know how to drive back from the airport every time. I will not continually make wrong turns on the way to the Mennonites in Morgantown, West Virginia. I will be able to access faces and match them with names. I will not ask embarassing things, like if someone is pregnant when they "are just fat" (according to the person I asked), and I will not verbally mistake somebody's husband for somebody's son (yes, this also happened). I will know always when to shut up. I will remember events in my life, like when the children walked, when I went on trips and with whom, how old I am, when the children were born, and what was said on a specific subject. I will not ever spell pom-pilot, "palm-pilot," or get illnesses mixed up when asking for prayer (especially when the former is an STD and the latter is a gastrointestinal matter).

Ah, yes, order. I will have my ducks in a row. My Is dotted and my Ts crossed. I will always send you cards on your significant days. I will rename myself to celebrate this new stage of Kim. I will go by the name Greta, which sounds like the name of a well-ordered, in-control person.

I will be miserable, but I will always know where to find the tape and the dental floss. And isn't that a fine switch?

Too-Fast Visits

"It went so fast," I said to my friend Kara as I dropped her off at the airport at five-thirty this morning.

"It always does," she said, and that is true every time about a visit of a dear friend or family member--the days stretch out ahead of you and suddenly you're standing at the airport giving hugs and wondering when you'll see this dear one again.

Kara and I go way back--all the way back to sixth grade, Mr. Osborne's class, Nairobi, Kenya, when we became fast friends. She is the only friend from that period of my life (or college, for that matter--except Martin, who hangs around constantly) whom I have kept in contact with, but I can't imagine ever falling out of conversation with her.

We puzzle over the way life swings you in such wayward places and in such an unexpected manner. But when I am with her, I feel as though I am the sum of myself, truly still a kid and her best friend even though we've accrued the baggage particular to our own lives, picked up good people and carried them with us, been mapped by the places we have loved, the anger and loss we have encountered, all the efforts we've expended--since we were eleven or twelve and planning our lives under the branches of a favorite tree on a hill in Kenya. And then when I dwell with her again, the quintessential BEING together is the same--easy, natural, irreplaceable, full of grace.

"Look up!" we told Beatrix, and so she did.
--
By the way, Kara, I lost my way on the return trip from the airport, and after such adventures as being on a bizarre business loop with multiple cargo exits, I found my way back home--almost four hours after I had left. I told Martin, "If you ever become me, you will be so confused." But it was worth every wrong turn to spend the extra hour with you in the wee hours of the morning. Thank you for coming, dear friend!

Mother's Day

Brand-new Beatrix, two years ago

Dear Mothers,

I forgot that Mother's Day was this weekend. In fact, somebody called me two days ago and told me his family was going away for Mother's Day weekend; after some argument with him, I checked the calendar only to find that oh, indeed, blast and bomb!--I'd misplaced my mental date and had nothing in the mail.

My mother and mother-in-law, many apologies. To my mother, from whom I inherited my scatter-brained way with dates, I also send excuses hoping she will give a nod at the loins, etc., from which I sprang and understand. To my dear mother-in-law, who remembered me on Mother's Day, I send only apologies. To both I send all my love and gratitude. You both did a fantastic job with your children.
Mom C. and Elspeth, one year ago, Mother's Day.

Mom Cockroft, you molded a treasure of a man--I love him more every day. And I've loved having you in my life for twelve good years.

My Mother & Bea, two years ago

And Mama Mia, thanks to you, I enunciate words like "butter" well and know I should not speak with my mouth full. I never use bad grammar except on purpose. I know how to set a complicated table. I make good eye-contact upon introduction with strangers and clasp a hand without a hint of fish-fingers. I can prepare the house for thirty guests in only forty-five minutes. I can make a party out of a head of lettuce and a home out of little to no money. I hold my head high even when humiliated and know how to make a pretty apology when I book three things for the same time--another two traits you passed down to me. I can laugh uproariously while not under the influence of anything but daily life and enjoyment of a moment. I take action when stressed and mix up my metaphors and colloquialisms. I am closer to appreciating your freezing annual New Year's picnics than I was. I try not to pay too much attention to appearances. I try to dance in church at least a little. I love good people and demand respect from every person because I am innately worthwhile. I can let go. I can eat a whole box of Crunch and Munch in one sitting. I know I should not substitute safety pins for buttons. (Sorry, I still do.) For all these things, and more, I thank my good mother.
Elspeth, two years ago, interacting with her favorite medium

Merry, three years ago

Happy Mother's Day to all you women who nurture and treasure others!

Friday Wish List

I wish
plants and flowers were free
(and trees--they grow in such abundance in the wild but I have to pay for them in my yard)
dandelions vanished or at least stayed yellow
diapers changed themselves
plumbing always worked
good coffee made itself, poured itself, mixed in half/half by itself, and appeared every morning by my elbow
I wish
I had planted alliums all over my yard
sickness ended quickly with health every time
good deeds were rewarded by chocolate, ice-cream, or money
I had kept up with my letter-writing
I didn't ever feel guilty about not keeping up with my letter-writing
ficus trees did not drop sap all over the rug and my computer
good beloved people were always two steps away
stupid songs never got stuck in my head one annoying phrase at a time

I wish
Martin were done with work
and summer were beginning
PRESTO! Wish granted!
Ha!

Conversation Bit

At nap time today, Elspeth told me, "Mommy, when I am sleeping, I see angels."

"Really?"

"Why are angels in our lives?" she asked in a well-seasoned, grown-up voice.

"God sends them to take care of us."

I try to take the girls seriously when they tell me something, whether it sounds true or wildly imaginative--or both, Madeleine L'Engle would point out. So I continued, "What does the angel look like?"

"She wears a pink, ruffly dress," Elspeth said. "And has purple wings and high heels. And she wears pink lipstick."

"What does she say?"

"Abacadabra and stuff like that. And DO GOOD STUFF." At this point she began giggling and rolling around the bed, and after that it took much cajoling and threatening to get the goober-girl to sleep.

What a funny girl she is.

Goodnesses

It is almost eleven and I am squandering a perfect opportunity for an early turn-in. But I feel jumpy and weighted at the same time. I can't stop thinking about my dear friend--a sister, really, who is going in for surgery tomorrow. She has been ill for a long time now though her faith and spirits have kept her incredibly well. I just wrote her an e-mail and the words of Julian of Norwich came to me, words that often visit me in times of uncertainty: "All will be well, and all will be well, and all manner of things will be well." In accepting this truth, I am not shrugging my shoulders and saying, "Everything will be fine." I realized long ago that everything is sometimes not fine, and there is no promise of easiness. But J. of N.'s words hit me deeply and profoundly: let go; there is much you can't see; all, all will be well, child.

So then I browsed through some pictures of our most recent hike and remembered how wonderfully refreshing and magic it was to walk under rhodedendrons in the rain, over rocks grown with moss to the edge of a valley rolling in fog. It was almost too much to take in. Then I went back to a book I wrote a while ago and lifted a passage for tonight, about goodness and wellness and the promise of grace.

There are goodnesses that astound. My mother’s arms. A tree in autumn, lit up as if encased in fire. The smell of rain creeping up the pavement. My father’s soft white hair. My husband’s hands. A good glass of wine. Bach. A piece of art that makes you feel as if you have seen it before, a million times.
The tug at your nipple, your milk flowing into your child’s mouth. The turning of a hennaed, bangled hand, the flowers it paints in the air. Faces that sing the same words as I, though they are a different color and from a different place.

Chocolate cake! Your own bed at the end of the day. Warm water falling over you when you have been very cold. The end of winter. Home, wherever and whomever that is, the way it waits for you like a mother.

Big Bash at Cockrofts

The party was hopping downstairs. Upstairs,

this. I don't know why Merry looks so glum, especially since she's watching a fun movie about three girls who dance on the stage on the computer with her friend Catherine. Maybe it was getting a little tight two-to-a-desk-chair, or maybe Merry is bemoaning her humdrum life.

It's 9:39 and the kids are just in bed. If they call me one more time I swear I will pull all my hair out, strand by strand. Painful distraction may be the only way to keep my temper at this point. Elspeth just informed me "Mommy, it's just that I can't go to sleep when it's dark."

Downstairs we have had thirty or so students eating two dozen cupcakes, a chocolate cake, and three Mexican layer dips with chips, not to mention Martin's famous chai. As always, they packed into our relatively smallish kitchen until it got so hot and swarmy that they began to trickle into other parts of the house. We have an open house twice a year on the first night of exam week. While I have actually talked to the students in past years, my role has lately been more like this: bake, frantically clean the house at the last minute, then retreat upstairs with the kids, where I supervise them until bedtime. This time I had five girls upstairs--the two extra are good girls, mind you, and I love them both dearly--but all to say it was, at times, a mite challenging, especially since Merry and I did not sit down to her homework until after nine. And now I know I should go downstairs and be social, but dang-diddley-doo, if I'm not 'solutely tuckered out. I believe during one party I fell asleep upstairs while breastfeeding.

Listen, I need to share a bit more of the craziness with you now. Are you ready for this?

Friday. The sunroom. Elspeth with the scissors. I know the satisfying feeling of snipping and watching hair fall from the blades to the floor. I cut the girls' hair on a regular basis. So I can understand, but not excuse, the fact that Elspeth became intoxicated by the snip-snip sounds, since there was hair all over the room. Stuffed dog hair, doll hair, another doll's hair, and yet another perfectly coiled ringlet.

Even the picture of Martin's mother and her baby cousin was snipped in two and placed like an offering on top of the Fisher Price doll house.

Later I found that she had snipped her own shirt cuffs. Who would guess that a tiny pair of play scissors could be so efficient in such a short time? Any tool in the right hands. . .

But here's the coup de gras: Elspeth trailed Bea around the room, cutting off much of Beatrix's right locks. Earlier that same day, I was upstairs coming Bea's hair that morning and wondering Why is her hair so thin? Is she healthy? Is she eating enough veggies? --and at the same time my mother was walking into the sunroom and finding piles of hair. Everywhere.

Thankfully, Beatrix has a lot of hair, so you it's hard to detect the mangy look unless you look pretty carefully--then you can see how chunks of her hair are hacked off close to her scalp. And now I will state the obvious: at least hair grows back. And sanity? Does that grow back for a woman on Crazy Week who is hiding up her bedroom, wishing she had saved herself some dip?

Getting Out

Oh, my, when I am overwhelmed with the nitty-gritty and the bigger concerns of life--SOMEBODY LEFT THE TOPS OFF ALL THE SANDBOXES IN THE RAIN
or SOME CHILD POURED LIQUID MAKE-UP ALL OVER MY BEST SUMMER PANTS
or THERE'S WATER LEAKING THROUGH THE BASEMENT LIGHT FIXTURE
or THE CHILDREN ARE INSANE
or THE GARDEN LOOKS LIKE A VACANT LOT
or IT IS SO HUMID TODAY AND WE ARE DROWNING IN A SEA OF STINKING LAUNDRY
or SOMEBODY CUT BEA'S HAIR OFF (story comes later)

an excellent solution to the mounting stress is to fill up the water bottles and go for a hike!

We did take a lovely hike today with my parents--the rain was cool in our faces, the rhododendrons were high above our heads, and the fog was rolling through the valley. We said goodbye to my good parents who make life easier and good by their presences, and then we stuffed ourselves with Sonic food as we sat in the car feeling like happy slobs. Martin lost part of a hot dog in an unreachable space between his seat and the console, so as soon as the weather is blazing again, we'll be able to sniff and remember that happy outing.

If ONLY I were hiking now instead of listening to the two older, napless girls squawk at each other. If only. Everything feels damp today. Martin is pounding like mad in the basement. I think he may be taking off the ceiling or dismantling the entire bathroom down there. You think I'm kidding? I am not.