Three Minutes of Peace

End of Monday: Martin's downstairs marinating pork from our friend Mike's, pigs, for a stir-fry. It is grey again but I am mustering cheer, for all is well at Wazoo Farm; the children are happy and the house still stands. I am determined to make a better week than the last one.

At one point last week, as I stood at my kitchen window soaping mugs (the kitchen window that looks onto my neighbor's grey house-siding, on the third day of deep, rainy grey), I felt a deep peace and sense of good-will infusing me. Why was this, I wondered, as I gazed out into the dark day. . .and then I realized: the children had been quiet for three minutes in a row. That's all I needed to feel calm again for a few instants.

The calm did not last. In fact, this is what launched off the worst morning of the entire week:

Need I explain? Baby powder. Everywhere. White footprints across the upstairs. A very old-looking two-year old. Desert sands in the children's bedroom. And this was JUST THE BEGINNING.

The morning ends with a mother finally giving into tears and despair, becoming preternaturally calm and shutting a middle child into her bedroom, who then gives into tears and despair. One mother concludes that a middle child is contrite, only to find colored sand heaped in a slipper and spread around the floor which was just cleaned of baby powder.

FINALLY all ends happily at the lunch table with the M.C. saying, "Can we just start this day over, Mommy?"

Yes, please.