The domesticity in this house, the past few days, is staggering. I stirred my compost and ground wheat. I baked bread and made yogurt. We planted bulbs (allium, tulips, hyacinth, and daffodils). We carved our pumpkin, finally, and toasted the seeds. We made gingerbread girls (and pigs, ducks, chickens, cows, and lambs). I laundered the clothes and scrubbed the dishes. I wore my apron for hours straight. (More on my self-sewn apron and how it is a feminist symbol, later).
Mr. Bennet has been busy with work and church and this and that, and preschool has been cancelled, so I have been not only primary caregiver, but sometimes the only not-going-through-premature-pubescent-hormonal-surges person it seems.
Some of the moments have looked like a scene from the fake magazine stories in Christmas in Connecticut. This afternoon I watched three girls, my tall Sally, my cheeky Susan, my gleeful Spot, watch the fat flakes of snow, Sally teaching Susan and Spot to tilt back and catch the first flurries on their tongues. Then we huddled in my bed to read our way through our new library haul.
Forget wine and song and thee. I relish a good book, a soft bed, warm covers, and, well — then I did sing a couple Christmas songs from the book Susan chose. They got all quiet when I couldn’t make it through I Heard The Bells on Christmas Day without crying.
It was beautiful. What a miracle! These fruit from my loin who love words and reading and snuggling and each other. What joy!
And then someone kicked someone else and someone hogged a blanket and someone looked at her sister and someone whined why does everybody hate me?
And I said a bad word. (Or two.)
But hours later they unloaded the dishwasher and set the table and showed their father eagerly their work. And we ate the food I made from scratch around our table where everyone has a place (except the cat, who gets sprayed with water at least once each meal), and I told them all (especially their father who watched some football and took a nap earlier) to clean up that well-used kitchen double-quick and leave me to write this post in my bedroom, which has a lock on the door and a now-empty bed.
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Aaaah, sounds like perfection. Or as close as we’re ever going to get. Maybe someday that day will come for me. Or maybe I just need to start looking harder.
P.S. There WILL be school tomorrow!
I loved it Jane!
I think that’s my favourite Christmas carol.
I go through the cycle between homemaking contentment and frazzles SAHM all the time. Sometimes I forget that the key to leveling out the cycle is that locked door alone time!
Today I called in sick to recuperate from SuperGrammaHood, which I told my boss I was doing – no fake claims of contracting H1N1 or anything. I promised to do some work, too, just so I could collapse in the quietude of my cozy home that I’m trying so hard to transform in to a cottage-on-the-green. So, for the first time in weeks, I am perusing my favorite blog sites in between answering emails.
The day after I picked up my 18-month-old grandson from the hospital after he downed some of the “other” gramma’s anti-anxiety pills on HER watch, the snow flakes floated down. All 4 of the grandchildren – ages 18 months to 10 years – squealed when they saw the little bits of accumulation. And suddenly, all was right with the world again.
This scene sounds so familiar, including the locked door after hours of domesticity. My little ones called the snow “feathers” as they fluttered down past the window, where their dad was already putting up the Christmas tree. I thought, too, how this is just like a cozy Christmas story! Thanks for sharing your special moments!