In hindsight I may have reacted too harshly, but this was his eyesight we were dealing with, and I knew that any damage done would be permanent. And he is more and more thinking himself The Wisest, probably because he is the oldest and, compared to his brothers and baby sister, he is the The Wisest, though he has yet to learn that that sampling of four children that he dominates is hardly a cross-section of the entire world’s population.
This past year has given space to much thinking and evaluation–much contemplation on busyness vs. diligence, on valuing people and making a home, on routine (oh, how I have evaluated and re-evaluated our routine!) on birth and the eternal perspective, and on so many other things that haven’t made any appearance here because they haven’t matured into coherent thoughts, able to be shared.
The concept of rest is something I have been thinking on for several years. Oh, I know that thinking on is such a tame word for the process–I use it for the same reason as that nebulous word interesting, which we use because we can’t think of any other phrase to express so many things. My husband constantly stops me after I’ve called something “interesting”: What do you really mean when you use that word? Strange, repulsive, curious, funny, fascinating? When I say “thinking on” I mean obsessing over, evaluating, wrestling with, trying to make clear.
It is both very chic and very cliche to comment on how fast the year has gone, once we hit mid-November, right? Today I made a menu for Thanksgiving and I couldn’t quite comprehend what I was doing. I believe my mind stopped calculating the passage of time around late August–I couldn’t explain to you why that happened, only that if you asked me when Halloween was, I would tell you it was quite a number of weeks away yet. Of course here we are barreling on towards Christmas, and today I made a new section in my bullet journal labeled Holidays, hoping to find myself ahead of the game, for once! We’ve started stringing garlands of oranges, cranberries and cinnamon, though I have personally banned myself from Christmas music until after Thanksgiving and have attempted to lobby for no tree until Christmas Eve, which will likely will not happen. I really love the Christmas season and I am always nervous about wearing it out by starting in on it too early.
Elvie Kay turned eight months on the third of November.
I frequently read about writing mothers who practice their craft in the margins of their days–a moment here, a moment there. This is one of my moments of margin: the hour or so between getting Elvie Kay up and getting the boys up.
I used to wake her at 5 a.m. (and put her to bed at 5 p.m.) but now that Jeremy is with us permanently, I have moved her schedule to waking at 7 a.m. and going to bed at 7 p.m. After feeding her and changing her that leaves me about an hour or a little more before the boys get up at 8:30, and I have time to write, if I can wrap my head around it. I have stories I want to tell, and this is my time to get them down.
It’s difficult to sit here and focus on that one thing. Invariably I glance up and make a mental note to clean the glass on the side door today–I ought to do it every day–no, the boys ought to help me do it every day. Focus! Write a few words. What’s that noise? What is Elvie Kay doing? Go to see…I left her here, where did she go? There she is…NO! Elvie! Don’t eat that! Come here to your toys…Sit! Stay! Three babies who sat for months but wouldn’t crawl and now I have a baby that crawls but won’t sit up…Wait, what was I writing about?