Beatrix, who screamed and poured out water on her sheets all through her nap as I lay down with Elspeth, is sitting on the trampoline with a red rubber spoon, throwing pieces of apple onto the carpet. Dressed in her sheep pjs, with her hair pulled askance from an hour of keeping herself awake, she's testing my appreciation for her sweetness at the moment. Merry is firing off math problems that are impossible for me to do in my head--What's 453 times 9? And then she triumphantly calls out the answer. I think she's cottoned on to my lack of enthusiasm for mentally struggling through the fifth problem, since she just said, "MOMMY. Can you. . .look, listen? Pay attention?"
All I want to do is write a poem or work on my quirky story, "Empress Chicken," which may die in the end, but I want to find out for myself. Bea just hung upside down from the bar on her trampoline and dropped herself on her head. A pause as she assesses whether she's hurt or not. A scream. I love the children, I love the children, I love the children. Why isn't my afternoon cup of tea working?
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
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