J-E-L-L-O, etc.

I'm not a big jello person. But when my mother was here, the girls grabbed a box off of the grocery shelf with such hope that I didn't say no. Later, after we mixed the bright green powder into boiling water, I even talked over my mother's explanation of gelatin to save them from the Big Jello Truth, the one that has stopped me from putting the jiggly stuff in my mouth for years. MADE OUT OF CRUSHED ANIMAL BONES. That did it for me, my friends. All those 1950's jello molds, all the old dusty cookbooks with gorgeous fruit-marshmallow-jello creations in the shape of bunnies and buildings--none of these have a place in my house. But jello makes innocent kids happy, and I'm all for encouraging a little bliss now and then.

So. . .this is what I emptied into the sink tonight: a mass of smashed emerald-colored jello mixed with smushed tomatoes and raspberries--the delicious concoction of Elspeth dearest who smuggled a jello cup upstairs where she began mixing a little of this and a little of that on her dresser, dumping a bit into a fabric block mixed with other non-food objects, like a bead necklace. At bedtime I also found a fork, a patty-pan of supersweet cherry tomatoes harvested from the garden, and a small collection of rocks. Did I mention that I spent a precious bit of my weekend cleaning the girls' room, a job that brings astonishment and disgust even to this most experienced and hardened parent?

Also, Bea had procured a pen and scribbled on a wall, a two-year old's masterpiece that may have looked like something to her but appears chaotic, blue, scribbly, to the rest of us. This futile attempt at tidying a room ends in the sort of frustration that brings me to emote thusly against my better judgement:

IF YOU GIRLS DON'T START PICKING UP I'M GOING TO THROW ALL THIS STUFF AWAY!
IF YOU WANT TO LIVE LIKE ANIMALS (insert empty threat here).
MOMMY HAS BETTER THINGS TO DO WITH HER TIME THAN CLEAN UP PIG-STIES!
ETC. (CREATE YOUR OWN THREAT HERE--IT'S FUN AND PRODUCTIVE).

Truth is, part of my frustration comes from deep within--a suspicion that, this very afternoon, life has become slippery and out of control. This is due to our lawn, which is totally and completely disgraceful, choked with ragweed; our front steps, which seem to be crumbling; a list of unfinished tasks that I don't want to face. Instead I stretch myself out beside Elspeth at naptime. This little devil of mine presses her mouth to my cheek and says: "Mommy, I fell in love with you. I'm never going to leave you." And I stroke her back as she falls asleep, watch her breath become deep and even, and I think, She'll never remember this moment when she promised me she'd never leave. She'll leave, and she'll be happy, and I'll miss her.

And it's all right. All the rest of it--the jello, the silly things that clutter my life and make me lose my temper--those things are peripheral to this core of precious, simple love, these few moments afforded to me by a generous and gracious hand, this love that blinds me, hews me in two, fills me with such gratitude.