The Highs, The Lows

         I'm typing this without the "n" key on my keyboard. That's the kind of afternoon I had yesterday. Dee Dee and I were in the side yard getting the eggs, Sylvia was finishing up an episode of Dora on the laptop, Clayton was, well, Clayton was somewhere.
Somewhere along the line, I must have made an impression with my impersonations of animals talking, because now it's "What is Howard saying?" "What is that fly trapped in the window saying?" "What is my cereal saying?" "What is my poop saying?" Ad infinitum.
Right now it's "What are the chickens saying?"
At first, I play along. "They're saying, 'Thanks for the food, Dee Dee."
"And what am I saying?"
"You're saying, 'You're welcome.' Come on, Dee Dee, let's get the eggs."
"What are the eggs saying? What are the chickens saying? What is this egg saying? What is the basket saying? What am I saying?"
"They're saying, 'Hurry up, Dee Dee!" I am exasperated. This has long since ceased to be cute. Finally,  one, two, three, five gregarious eggs are all in her basket.
"Hurry, Dee Dee!"  I say.  I want to get back inside before another episode of Dora begins on the laptop.
Inside, I am met by Clayton's muffled shouts. "Mom!! I'm all done pooping!" he yells from the bathroom. (Oh, that's where he was.)
I close out Netflix and hurry in to help wipe Clayton's bottom. He had a bout of number 3 earlier today and he could use the expert help.
Not to put to fine a point on it, but the toilet needs some attention, too. I'm getting out the toilet brush while Clayton washes his hands. "What are my germs saying?"
Ugh. There's no Comet under the bathroom sink, so I head for the kitchen. Sylvia is still sitting in front of the laptop, her tiny fingers curled over the keys, as if she's got some important writing to do. It's cute, until I notice the missing "n."
"Oh no!" I exclaim. Don just replaced the keyboard a month ago, after another letter mysteriously detached itself. This time, the mechanism still seems to be in place, at least. Maybe it will snap right back on, just like in all the infuriating You Tube videos we watched about replacing missing keys the last time around.
I'm fumbling with the n as the kids head out onto the back porch. I glance up to see the screen from the sliding door has been totally detached from the frame and is flapping freely in the wind. At this point, I could care less about the screen; what worries me is how angry Don will be when he comes home. I glance at the clock. 4:23. He could be home any minute. The screen will be the first thing he sees, and he'll swear and scold the kids, and I don't like to start the evening out like that. I put the n on the counter and grab the roller tool to reattach the screen.
The kids head out to the fish pond while I struggle with the door. Clayton is looking at the tadpoles when the girls start throwing the pebbles that Don sprinkles decoratively around the edges to cover the pond lining. To be honest, I don't care much about that either. What young child doesn't want to toss rocks into water? It's irresistible. But Clayton knows his dad's rules; he is outraged.
"Mom!! They're throwing rocks! They're not supposed to do that!!"
Dee Dee, for once, listens when I holler at them to stop. Sylvia just gives me a look and reaches for another handful.
"Put that down or you're going to your room," I threaten from the porch.  She pauses, looks at me again, and then hurls them into the pond.
I want to give her a time-out right then about as much as I want to rip out a hang nail. But out I go to the pond. Sylvia sees me coming and reaches for another handful of pebbles as fast as she can. If she's going to get in trouble, she might as well get her money's worth. She is also laughing gleefully, which makes me madder than I care to admit. I scoop her up and take her to her crib. She laughs all the way there, and by the time I drop her in her crib, I am boiling.
Meanwhile, Dee Dee and Clayton head up to the tree fort.
"Dee Dee! Don't! You can't! Dee Dee! Don't climb the ladder! You will fall! And you will die!"
All of this is said, I am sure, to get my attention, but I am still working on the screen. Dee Dee can manage the ladder.
A few minutes later hysterical screams are coming from the tree fort. I imagine someone impaled on a nail or dangling by one leg from the ladder. I sprint up through the woods.
Dee Dee is sitting, smug as can be, on one of the make-shift stools Don made out of two by fours. Tears are streaming down her older brother's face.
"Dee Dee won't share!" he howls.
There is another, bigger, unoccupied stool in the tree fort.
"Why don't you just sit there?" I suggest.
"Daddy made this one for him and this one for me and Dee Dee had a turn, but she won't share!" he sobs. "And I tried my best but she pulled my ear!"
I'm not sure how to react. Is this true, endearing, four-year-old despair or is my son already a very good actor, knowing just how to turn on the chin-quivering and the tears? Most likely it is a little bit of both. Even if it is an act, he seems to have convinced at least himself by his performance-- the tears are real. (And I wouldn't put ear pulling past Dee Dee, either.)
Dee Dee, meanwhile, is still perched impassively on top of the stool, holding on with both chubby hands. My heart goes out to him. She must be an infuriating little sister.
I glance at my watch. It's 4:39. Surely Don will be home any minutes, and the energy will shift as it always does.
Clayton is red-faced and sweating. It's over eighty degrees, and he's still picking out his winter clothes when he gets dressed in the morning. This is one conflict there seems no point in resolving, so I don't even try.
"You look hot, Clayton," I say, changing the subject. "Let's go change your clothes, get you a drink, and read a book until your dad comes home."
Dee Dee hears "book," and hops down off the stool.  Clayton whimpers all the way back to the house, where we meet Sylvia on the porch steps. I don't even have it in me to wonder how she got out of her room, never mind scold her.
"We're going to read a book, Sylvia. Come on."
It's mere seconds now, I tell myself. Don will come home, and we'll be peacefully reading on the couch and everything will be fine.
Dee Dee and Clayton are bickering over which book to read when the phone rings. It's Don. He hasn't left work yet.
A year ago, that would have put me over the edge. Doesn't he know, doesn't he care, why can't he, etc., etc., etc. I try to be more understanding these days. I know how hard it can be to get out the door at the end of the day. But today? I allow myself a moment of self-pity before I head back to the couch.  I was (more or less) offered a teaching job last week, but I turned it down.
"Momma? What's the robot saying? What's the horse saying? What's the cookie saying? Clayton's squishing me!"
  Maybe I could still change my mind.

* * * 

Don's had a rough week at work, too.  With the warm weather and no air conditioning, his classroom is sweltering. There were faculty meetings, coaches' meetings, a staff breakfast that meant a late night trip to the grocery store for orange juice and yogurt in the name of faculty "morale," and inane bureaucratic decisions to move final exams up by a week, when he's already racing to get through the curriculum.
We sit down to dinner. The kids are talking a blue streak. "Nobody talk!" he demands. "I want a few moments of silence!" In the past I would have smoldered. (i.e., "What's your problem? You haven't seen the half, the quarter, the eighth, of it!") I try to be more empathetic now. We're both doing the best we can.
At work, Don deals with bureaucratic crap; I deal with the other kind-- all over the toilet. He's got meetings that squander his time and good humor; I've got bickering, whining, naughty children that squander mine. He's got all the perks of a professional life for which I sometimes yearn; I've got all the perks of being with our kids full-time.
Because today, really, was pretty great. I went to the gym in the morning, then took the kids to Lake Louise. We watched the ducks, had a picnic,"winged on the wings" (to use Sylvia's expression), read books in the shade. The trees were blooming, the sun was warm, the lake sparkled, and I realized I was making the ducks talk without even being asked.
Afterwards, we treated ourselves to chocolate ice-cream on Weaverville's quaint main street, and when we got home, we all read books piled together on Clayton's bed. At quiet time, Clayton brought Dee Dee a stuffed pig to "make her happy" and later he let Sylvia play with his teddybear, whom Elmo immediately began to mother and put to bed. And when I stubbed my toe on the coffee table, Dee Dee hugged me and sang me "Twinkle Twinkle" so I wouldn't cry.
So what if Dee Dee pulled out all my dental floss and dumped the matches into the bathtub when I thought she was sleeping? So what if the n key is still missing and sometimes Sylvia cries so much I just want to scream at her, "Stop crying!" (Which doesn't help-- I've tried). Those moments are just the faculty meetings and irritating emails of full-time motherhood. They are the lows that make the good times feel like flying.