laugh much and often

you irritate me mom.

you irritate me.

that's the basic cycle of irritation.

that's a great line, i'm going to have to write about that. can i write about that?

yes.

(i've taken to asking a bit more as she has reached the age where her life is not merely fodder for my writing habit. she loves to hear herself written but i am now trying to ask a bit more.)

this is how conversations with my daughter go. she asked me once when leaving for the library,

how will we get there.

to which i replied,

i'll put you on my back and we'll crawl there.

she laughed. which is really the only response that matters to me.

she reminded me of the time we were ascending the large hill to the library (not that large, but she's 9, so it's large to her), and she was complaining. railing on about the hill. i finally said,

what do you want me to do, put you and the bike on my back and crawl there.

you understand, i say this a lot.

i'm around more young mothers these days. little ones underfoot. i'm so far from there. so far from having to brood over every ounce of milk taken in, and every output (thank God!).

one mom said to me,

you're way ahead of us.

really? i'm used to brining up the rear.

i've been in the passenger seat for most of this mothering journey. learning from my sister, friends, and now the good cyberhomeschoolers of ny (www.nyhen.org is the bomb. john munson rocks. i trust him). so now to be more of the tour guide, the one saying, here's what's coming is a bit odd.

i've grown silent in these older years. won't talk to groups of people. don't feel that what i have to say need be heard by more than one set of ears at a time i guess. though here, where i just jot and tiddle, i can speak at will. or write as, the case may be.

my daughter is developing an irreverent wit which pleases me immensely.

we went to the natural history museum and found the ornithology room. a frightful room full of dead birds. so lackluster, most with covered over eyelids. all looking like an inverted turkey dinner with feathers, stuck to a board with a number.

let's go mom.

my girl kept saying.

wait. i want to see these birds. this is the only time i'll get this chance.

but i'm in a curious place with animals which i won't get in to now. so we round the corner and there are flanks of furs. tragic really. we're looking at these draping bits which were once animated and the chipmunk, all racing striped is staid.

at least he's in the lead,

i said to my girl.

she laughed.

come on mom, let's get out of here.

wait.

i said. as i scoured the furs. porcupine. a few numbers without furs. lynx, tufts and all. bobcat.

a couple got away,

i said, pointing to the empty spaces.

she laughed.

that is really all i want my girl to remember, and it seems to be working out well for me. the laughter that permeates our moments of humdrum. sure we have our tension. my beloved says we bicker more now than ever. i've always believed she never had a sibling (and since i'm largely a child at heart, i take to playing the part of bratty sibling more than i should).

one thing i realized though, during this deprivation, when i am afraid, concerned, bored whatever, i take the role of clinician and analyze it through writing. even something brief. thereby parting myself from it. i could not do this all week and had a tough time at the onset of uncomely emotions reeling it all back in.

but all ends well.
and we laughed, much together.
that is really all that matters.