Like Mud

I stand at the sink, doing dishes. The sun is brilliant out the window. The yard is disgusting.

Large objects are getting tidied up. I see the boat go trundling by on its trailer, and wish I were out there, climbing on it to just…you know…check how things are. There is no longer a snowmobile positioned as a lawn ornament, and I expect not to have to worry about backing into the ice boat any longer by day’s end.

The yard is a-trickle with sparkling rivulets flowing across the etched clay of the driveway, where the boys scrape channels with hoes, dredging an escape for the meltwater. I cringe and grit my teeth every year through this stage. The snow is piled six feet high where it’s been pushed aside with the tractor. Next to the bare ground, its slouching hulk looks like it plans to sit there for another month, making a sly, unrepentant nuisance with its ongoing mess. And well it might, if the weather fluctuates.

I go for a run, and I can see my breath. There is a gentle wind, and it feels colder today. Nonetheless, I’m in sweater and capris. Before long, I don’t feel the chill. I’m in a hurry. I’ve had to scratch the living room work off my afternoon list again. Actually eating lunch seemed to be a good priority, though I was doing three things at once even then — putting away dishes one-handed while downing a soft-tortilla style wrap with eggs and tomato, and munching asparagus straight from the pot like a bachelorette. No one else likes it. In between moments, phoning for kids’ regular health appointments and misplacing the phone for Dave, who needed to call the accountant.

Either I’m running slower than I was last week — which feels a distinct possibility — or I’m actually able to run farther. I go as far as I can, then walk the rest of the way to the end of our long, narrow 25 acres. Same on the way back. It’s no great distance, but it’s the end of winter. I am in dismal form altogether.

The children have music lessons. I shower and hurry off to the city. My older teenager stays home to make supper for us, knowing he has a couple of hours of computer games between now and then. The luxury. That is not a regular feature of our homeschooling life by any means. He’s a good cook, and I can pretty much predict exactly where he’ll be and what he’ll be doing the whole time I’m gone. He hugs me and says, “You’re an old softie, and I like you.” I’m stunned — he’s not an expressive one. I wish I could have thought of an answer that would encourage him and not embarrass him or render him shy. I’ve included this here for posterity.

I go shopping for birthday presents while Dave rides herd on the interactive music class. Teeny-Bopper #2 is there, having been delivered back to us from a weekend away. By the time I walk in, Auntie Teacher, kids and Dave are in a rather hopeless state of giggles. Apparently, flatulence has been an insidious issue throughout the afternoon. It being his sister who’s teaching, Dave is also making a point of contradicting her instructions with ridiculous substitutions. His educational theory is that children remember nonsense far more clearly. This appears to work in our family’s case.

I take them home. The gravel roads are a muck, and by the time I’ve walked the 75 feet from house to garage, my pant legs are spattered with more of the same. The kids have run past me. Inside, the kitchen is scented with ham, potatoes and carrots. An intense Civilization III conflict occupies them all until it’s time to set the table.

Afterward, Tolkien. I can’t resist reading it in my grandmother’s faintly British inflections, the way she used to read to me when I was a child. The all-seeing eye of Sauron frightens Mr. Boo. I think of how I could deal with this: spank him and require him to go to sleep afraid, when the issue isn’t sleep or bed. Let him invade his sister’s room, where the bunkbed is, something she hates. I give him choices instead. The recliner in my room, the couch downstairs where he can hear me just above, or his room. He sits at the table, looking miserable. “I just don’t want to be alone,” he tells me sheepishly.

I dig the old “tummy pillow” out of a closet, a body pillow Dave’s sister gave me when I was pregnant. It is the right size for a not-quite-eight-year old boy. I lay it on the dining room floor near my desk. I tell him to get a blanket and a pillow. He does, takes off his glasses and sets them on a nearby surface, lies down and falls asleep quickly, like he always does.

Have I lost a battle? Won one? Perhaps neither. Perhaps it’s just the ordinary course of life, something small and passing, like a trickle of meltwater. It could seem a bit messy if I were inclined to worry about it, but larger things loom. We are approaching the summer of our family, which will peak when we have The Fab Four ranging from ages twelve to eighteen. The last of this race is ahead, they’ll soon have to face the world on their own footing; and I will not tell them to hide from it. They are beautiful, and this world needs them. But also, I will let them feel what they feel, whether it’s difficult or easy for them to express. I will have them know that when life hurts — because it will — there is comfort. There are supporting arms. There’s a circle of laughter. We can’t be embarrassed of our hearts, or how will we uphold each other through tears, regrets and confusion? It’s messy, like the sopping clay of the lane in spring. Sometimes it’s just like splat-all-over. But from here to eternity, we’re molded by the hands of the Potter. I trust in His heart toward me. We love, because He first loved us.