Monday, not even close to morning.

So, the day is gone. I started this post about twelve hours ago.

Before I made pancakes, before I was parent of the day (photo day), before Anna and I collapsed into a fully dressed heap of a nap.

Before I ran around and picked up and dropped off and picked up; before I got to see the piano teacher, and make a date to hang out and drink wine.

Before the wind came up, and the cherry blossoms in the yard kitty-corner came snowing down on our tentatively greening yard.

Before the dinner making-and yes, I need to do a "dinner post"; want to do a dinner post. Tonight, matzoh-ball soup, and meatball sandwiches. Yes. Both. And more to come, for Tim and I. See why dinner around here deserves a whole post? Or three.

Before baths and iTunes downloading and In the Night Kitchen. Before tea, and goodnight hugs and kisses, and Frere Jacques and "Wisemen" (aka, I Can't Help Falling in Love).

So now, here I sit for a minute or two. To say hello. To finish what I started, all those hours ago.

Here I sit, before our own dinner, and a chance to trade stories from the day. Before the trash goes out, and the cat comes in. Before the book-club book gets finished. Before we tuck in, and say our own goodnights.

Before it starts all over again.

More tomorrow. Thanks for reading.
tt

M.A.S.

D'you call life a bad job? Never! We've had our ups and downs, we've had our struggles, we've always been poor, but it's been worth it, ay, worth it a hundred times I say, when I look round at my children.
W. Somerset Maugham, 'Of Human Bondage', 1915

It's a funny thing about life; if you refuse to accept anything but the best, you very often get it. W. Somerset Maugham

Happy Birthday, dad. I love you. And all these girls love you, too.

More tomorrow. Thanks for reading.
tt

Buckets of Love

Happy Birthday to my sweet girl. You have always been my little one, even long after you weren't. I guess it's time for me to see you as the incredible ten year old you've become, and let you show me where you want to go.

If you want me,
honey baby, I'll be there.

I love you more than you'll ever understand. Until, one day, you do.

Happy Birthday, Linds. Thanks for reading.
tt

Monday Morning :: Random bits and pieces

::Coughs and sore throats all around here, today. A little lemon ginger concoction is just the thing.

::And some beans simmering, already, to make this incredibly comforting white bean gratin, from Alice Waters.

::A whole stack of New York and The New Yorker magazines to get through, from Tim's mom. We've never even looked into getting our own subscription. She sends them to us, without fail, when she's done. Complete with little sticky papers attached about which articles were most interesting, or some small note so we don't miss something good. It's like having our own reader's guide. We think it's hilarious to read similar pieces in each magazine and then trade; always two completely different takes on the same topic.

::We're two thirds of the way through the Three Colors trilogy, and I have to say, I'm a little baffled by White. I've got great hopes for Red, though. Blue was slow, but engrossing, mostly because I could watch Juliette Binoche read the phone book for two hours. In French.

::Next Friday, if someone would remind me why a sleepover party for ten year old girls is a good idea, I'd appreciate it.

And now, I have to get the remaining healthy child off to nursery school. Tim and I had promised each other to walk together every Monday-the gallery is closed and the kids, in theory, are all in school. I don't see that happening, now. It's so hard to keep these little rituals going in the middle of life's swirling business. But I think it's worth trying.

More tomorrow. Thanks for reading.
tt

Refuge

My story does not lend one to believe that I might find myself, alone on Christmas afternoon, in New York City, with time to kill. But here I was, with Christmas morning for six children under my belt, a husband in transit, and two hours or so to make my self scarce.

The story, I suppose, starts many years ago, when two flawed people, imperfectly matched, only slightly out of their teens, married and somehow produced two perfect little girls.

Those two little girls were now at Lenox Hill Hospital, meeting their new little sister.
That's right. Another girl.

No! Not mine. But theirs, none the less. Beautiful and healthy, just like they were. Eliza.

So, while my husband (the second one, the one I married many years and much wisdom later) and our own perfect little girl (my third, his fourth...are you keeping up with this?) delivered his own mother safely to her home in Brooklyn, and while my girls (two of them, at least) were counting baby toes and fingers, and breathing up that new baby smell...

I.went.out.to.lunch.

I'm not sure what sort of planet alignment had to happen for me to be there, on a wooden stool in a French bistro, with ochre walls and beamed ceiling; with a lovely Ukrainian barmaid pouring me Pinot Blanc; with a solicitous Maitre'd summoning up un-asked for samples of the lobster bisque; with no children asking to go to the bathroom.

But there I sat, and tears welled up. Not over some misplaced nostalgia for days gone by. Not even with relief for having survived yet another Christmas as Grand Marshall of so many little humans' expectations. But for the fullness, the richness, the intricacy of all the things that led up to this very afternoon.

And perhaps, for one more perfect little girl, brought into a world,(at least our corner of it), that so loves little girls.

Welcome, Eliza. Your sisters love you.

More tomorrow. Thanks for reading.
tt