A cold, overcast, damp Catskill afternoon. May is in hiding. The phone rang. My daughter Elizabeth called to ask if I could possibly watch two of my granddaughters, Willa – 6, and Julia – 5 for a couple of hours. On a scale of unenthusiastic to whiny, they were in the whiny zone, resisting a car trip to sit through their older sister Josephine’s –10, Friday gymnastics class. Sensing that I could spare Elizabeth a tense standoff sure to include tears and full-throated juvenile opposition, I hopped in my car and made the twenty-minute drive for my rescue mission.
Elizabeth and Josephine, were already in their car ready to depart; the little girls on the front porch; all welcomed my arrival. I have no idea whether the dogs, Prince and Archie, had any opinion one way or the other about my arrival, but they too, were on the porch.
The driveway puddled and muddy, all but Prince headed back into the house. I found a short National Geographic documentary on my computer about Emperor Penguin chicks making their first leap into frigid Antarctic water off the fifty-foot edge of an iceberg. The girls were impressed, but as the penguins swam off the girls edged away to find something on TV. Archie stretched out waiting to get her belly scratched.
Time passed easily enough, the girls watching TV, Archie dozing, and Prince…where was Prince?! I opened the front door and called Prince. Nothing. I offered treats. Still nothing. The girls reassured me that Prince liked to hang out near the chickens, that he wouldn’t bother them, and that he’d reappear. Sure enough, a few moments later a muddy-pawed Prince was at the door. Much to my relief, as I like to know all my charges, child or canine, are safe and secure.
I want nothing amiss on my watch and probably expend too much worry in that regard.
“I’m hungry. I want some pasta.” Willa.
“So do I.” Julia.
We easily agreed I could warm up some pasta that was in the refrigerator. “With butter and salt.” TV was too compelling to add on “Please”. I let manners slide. The pasta served, I set about meeting the next request, orange juice. The house phone rang. Willa dashed to answer. Willa allowed me to speak to Elizabeth. A courtesy call; she would be home soon.
The pasta remained largely uneaten. I’m not a fan of waste. Willa complained she didn’t like it. Julia, “I ate some.”
Elizabeth’s arrival prompted a dash to the kitchen by Willa with her bowl of pasta. Not up to date on current rules and regulations I had unwittingly allowed the girls to eat in front of the TV. TV they shouldn’t have been watching in the afternoon. Hence Willa’s dash to cover up her tracks.
After Elizabeth reviewed the ground rules with the girls, I narrated the tale of Prince’s extended sojourn outdoors. Due to the rain Elizabeth hadn’t been able to give the dogs their usual exercise outdoors. I volunteered and took them on a short excursion along the trail behind the house that runs high above the Beaverkill River. Prince, bouncy and Tigger-like, raced back and forth. Archie, less enthusiastic, apparently unhappy in a light rain, and more in tummy rub mode lagged behind, seemingly determined to make this expedition as short as possible. We returned home soon enough.
Upon her return, Elizabeth showed me a Mother’s Day salute Julia brought home from school. A fill-in-the-blanks tribute. Julia has provided the necessary information with each answer neatly printed in a teacher’s hand in the space provided. It turns out Elizabeth likes “to clean the house” with a particular favorite activity being ironing. Where, Elizabeth wants to know, did this notion come from? She doubts her children have ever seen her hold an iron in her hand, much less employ it. Does she clean the house? Yes…but she is not a Cinderella singing happy songs while mice, birds, and especially little girls help make swift work of the chores. There is indeed the occasional mouse, but never one who sings or cleans. There are birds, the ten chickens who required attention outside the house, and a change of footgear upon reentering the house. And three little girls who do more to advance an incoming tide of daily mess than clear jetsam should the opportunity arise.
I question the Mother’s Day document. It appears to me to be from some pre-printed holiday activity book for teachers, somewhere between Mayday and Memorial Day. Thoughtful busy work for teachers and students which will arrive home in most, if not all, backpacks to cheerfully celebrate Moms and add to the clutter those Moms struggle to eliminate. I imagine the teacher, patiently (one hopes) sitting with each of her young pupils while they fill in the blanks. Five-year-old’s enduring a hit-or-miss-inquisition about nice things to say about Mom. The teacher, editor, and prompter needing to expedite the process for a classroom full of charges. “What does your Mommy like to do?” Contemplative silence. “How about ironing? Does she like to iron?” More thought. More blanks to fill. Ironing sounds good. Ironing gets neatly printed in the blank and on to the next question. “What does your mother like to do to relax?”
“Lie down and watch the news.” Half right. How about just lying down? The busy work fills part of the school day. The fictions arrive home. Moms everywhere get to feel known and loved. Or at least remembered and appreciated – even if the appreciation is for tasks never imagined much less realized.
Elizabeth asks me if I’d like to stay for a glass of wine. I have a hunch “a glass of wine” would not fit the blank of the festive questionnaire. It does sit well with Granddad, however. It provides not only a moment to relax but also the opportunity for some adult conversation. First, the girls are gathered to inform them of a longstanding family tradition. As they have already eaten (some), it is going to be an EMFH night. Every Man For Himself when it comes to dinner. There is some clarification about “Man”. We really mean Everyone for themself. Willa is already eating a banana. That’s an example of a good choice. Elizabeth runs off a quick list of good choices. Julia understands that snacks don’t count. For a moment the flock disperses.
Elizabeth has a multitude of talents beyond being a mother. Her talent as a mother extends far beyond a school worksheet. She and I discuss a play she has read and how she’d like to perform in it. There’s a role that would be right for her. She’s a very talented actress. At least when being a Mom doesn’t come first. Or when running for town council or the local school board. Or co-producing a television documentary that has just won a Peabody award. Or when working with her talented chef husband to manage a family food business that originated at the beginning of Covid, has brought a small rural town extraordinary food and community in the best sense of the word.
We explore ways Elizabeth might get the play she’s interested on stage in a professional setting. Who do we know who might act in it? Direct it? Fund it? Have an available space? It is an open, imaginative discussion, rewarding in its own right. Suddenly, EMERGENCY!! Julia announces that Barbie has been in a car accident. One presumes it is the Barbie in her hand, although it could be any one of the multitude of clone Barbie sisters scattered throughout the house, sometimes in swarms. What to do? Can Julia get the first aid kit? Elizabeth, now offstage from her professional imagination, is onstage as a Barbie first responder. The first aid kit is for US, real people, she reminds. It needs to be saved for when we need it. Perhaps Julia can find some fabric to create a cast for Barbie’s arm. Julia is clever and remarkably competent. Off she goes.
Elizabeth and I resume our musings about her career ideas. But not for long. Julia reappears. Barbie’s arm is in a cast. Now it seeems Barbie has also broken her leg. I suggest that a splint or a brace might be in order. Sister Josephine enters. She’s been using her mother’s phone for a while to search for a dress for the Blue and Orange dinner at camp this summer. It’s never too early to start planning. She’ll be attending the full summer, so it’s possible she might need something in blue and something in orange. Which one does her mother like better? Granddad? There is, of course, the possibility she’ll only need one color – but which one? Or can she swap with a friend for a night? Elizabeth tells Josephine to put the dresses in an online cart for a later discussion, decision, and resolution. In the meantime, it appears Barbie will need crutches. Josephine agrees to crutch construction.
Elizabeth instructs the girls to get several bins of art supplies always kept on hand. Elizabeth opens a “store” to sell medical supplies. Two tongue depressors at five dollars each. How much is five plus five? “TEN!” pipes up Willa from the other room. Josephine confirms that five-plus-five is the same as two times five. Josephine keeps track of the running tab. Two items at three dollars apiece. Six. Six plus ten. Two items at a dollar each. Six plus ten plus two. Finally, two items at fifty cents each. A dollar. Nineteen dollars later crutch construction can begin. Elizabeth has graciously accepted the nineteen-dollar bill Julia has offered her.
Elizabeth and I discuss school report cards while the crutch workshop gets busy. The reports don’t quite seem to synch up with the imagination, cleverness, and intelligence we’ve seen around us. I contend that the reports, much like the Mother’s Day tribute are full of boxes to be checked. No narrative. All the boxes/responses about work and study habits are “Excellent”. The holy grail of grade-level mastery seems harder to attain. I maintain teachers are unwilling to say someone is doing well until standardized tests say so. Hence, they assess progress on the conservative side just to be safe. There are, of course, no grades for Barbie crutch building, or constructing the narrative that led to Barbie’s misfortune.
All discussion of Elizabeth’s career and creative empowerment has come to a halt. Barbie’s crutches are too long. They dig into Barbie’s armpits. Elizabeth helps adjust them for Barbie.
There are no grades for Mom, even in ironing. There are lessons to teach, examples to set, and patience to model. Someday, perhaps, these girls will mend another generation of Barbies and shower their caretakers with the same love and dedication that is molding them into caring, kind, loving young women no chart, form, or filled-in-blank can ever describe. They will say from their hearts Happy Mother’s Day. I will bet on lovingly crafted cards and gifts to show they mean it.
Barbie’s fracture will undoubtedly heal swiftly. In time Elizabeth can mend the breaks in her career. She already knows well how to play and share love.
No comments:
Post a Comment