2:32 AM.
I was performing ‘One Day More’ from Les Miserables, with a full cast, choir, and orchestra. I was singing boldly, loudly, operatically.
I woke myself with my own blazing voice and flailing arms.
(This reminds me of the night Robb stomped all over the bedroom, waking me in a frenzy, trying to ‘take care of the mice.’)
It’s probably best that I sleep alone these days.
I hired a woman to professionally clean my home yesterday.
She walked in as I was scrambling to put away the clutter she shouldn’t have to work around. I apologized all over the place, and she simply put her hand on my arm.
In her thick and gracious Uruguayan accent, she said, “Treesha. All is okay. Olga is here now.”
I think I will write that on a 3×5 card and carry it with me. Everywhere.
We returned to a spotless home. Spotless, I tell you.
The boys were appropriately amazed at the sparkling faucets, the vacuum lines in the carpet, the crisply made beds.
And it makes sense they would be so taken back. This kind of cleanliness is heretofore unknown to them.
A homemaker I am. A housekeeper I am not.
“All is okay. Olga will be back.”
A few weeks ago, in an award-winning display of school year preparedness, I bought new backpacks for the boys.
Tucker chose Captain America. Tyler chose Batman. The Dark Knight.
I said to him this week, “Hey, buddy, I’m sorry to tell you this, but we need to choose a different backpack for you.”
“No, thank you. I like the one I chose.”
“I can’t let you keep that one, sugar. We have to choose something different.”
“Why?”
(I am down playing his resistance. It was mighty.)
I really didn’t want to answer his question. I really didn’t want to tell my son about this shade of evil.
“Well, Tyler, there is a man in our city who loves Batman so much that he went crazy. He hurt a lot of people.”
“Does he go to my school?”
“No.”
“Does he carry a Batman backpack?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Then why can’t I keep it?”
“Because many people died because he was so crazy. And even more people are hurting. So, we need to be sensitive to that. If you wear this backpack, it will seem like we don’t care that this happened. We need to choose a new backpack, lovey. I’m sorry.”
And so my son will wear his second choice: Super Mario.
Well done, Tyler. I’m sorry you had to choose.
“As a single mother –
she had to be her best self more than it’s reasonable for any human to be.
And you know what’s so never-endingly beautiful to me?
She was.
She was imperfect. She made mistakes.
But she was her best self more often than it is it’s reasonable for any human to be.
And that is the gift of my life.”
~ C. Strayed, tiny beautiful things
I was born four days before my mom’s 25th birthday… her very own birthday gift in 1979. So, for all of my life, our birthdays have been closely linked on the calendar and in our hearts.
tricialottwilliford 