Journal Excerpt

The silence in the house right now feels so strange it’s sort of stunning. Been a really full day with the kids. In other words, a normal day when I’m solo parenting, which has been the norm lately. Dave’s been traveling some or all of every week this month. I celebrated the quiet by finally taking a shower.

One day I’m going to look back and forget what this is like, so I figure I should write about it. Solo parenting four kids the entire day feels like triaging and managing four beings with urgent, unique and changing physical and emotional and safety needs, while accounting for unpredictable reactions and interactions between the four, while balancing a constant list of chores (somehow keeping the house constantly tidy makes me feel like it’s not all going to pieces). I’m constantly attending to the kid with the most acute need while briefly addressing the one or two with the next most acute need while planning how and in what order I will get to those one or two as soon as I finish with the first. And meanwhile staying peripherally aware of the fourth. And thinking random things like I wonder when I’ll be able to actually leave all of them long enough to take out the stinky trash? I can’t believe I actually fantasize about taking out the trash.

Those order of needs constantly shifts. Typical scenarios from today: trying to feed a fussy Esme while holding her to see if eating will improve her mood as she’s likely too fussy to put down in the high chair (most acute) while negotiating a timed method of sharing a toy the boys are fighting over (second and third most acute) while telling Ellie yes, I know she wants pink lady apples thinly sliced because she’s reading The Berenstein Bears And Too Much Junk Food, and that’s great, but she will have to wait a few moments (least acute). Or comforting Elijah who is screaming after falling off his chair and hitting his head (most acute) while telling Eric to please go wash his hands with soap and not touch the back of the dining chair with sticky fingers (next most acute) while asking Ellie to go guard Esme who has made a break for the stairs again (least acute, though could quickly become most acute if she falls and gets a subdural hematoma, the MRI of which is flashing through my mind as I’m asking Elijah if he would like ice for his head).

Or walking Ellie through the fingering for E and A-flat major scales, which she finds hardest (most acute, since I lack perfect pitch and can’t tell which key she’s in when she shouts “DO I CROSS OVER WITH A 4?” across the house) while advising an increasingly-frustrated Eric that it’ll be easier to drag Esme in the play tunnel on hardwood rather than carpet (less acute, and Esme is so cute laughing in the tunnel) while checking to see Elijah is okay (lying down on a couch, non-acute). Or running from my room where I’m fetching a new bag of kids’ dental floss after hearing Eric scream “I’m pooping and Esme is putting her hands in the toilet! She’s eating her hands!” (most acute, unaware of other two momentarily). Or nursing Esme to sleep (most acute) while gesticulating wildly to the boys that they are to return to their beds and wait for me for whatever issue they have lest they wake her up (less acute) whereupon Elijah’s face crumples up and he starts crying right there in the room (slightly more acute but still less acute as Esme is so fussy I couldn’t help him anyway until she’s asleep). Elijah tells me later, with big and very serious eyes, that he was upset because I didn’t say the end of the bedtime story. I retell the end of the story (the one of Jesus healing the paralytic man that came in through the roof—Ellie asked, how did they make a hole in the roof? and I can’t remember if there was one), but Elijah says no, you didn’t say the end. So I say, “The End.” and he’s fine and I finally leave and the house is quiet.

There was the usual mix of questionably-worth-it adventures (getting all four in swimsuits and sunscreen to play in a kiddie pool in the yard), minor victories (Eric actually did a reading and math lesson!), and tough moments (said “what’s wrong with you?” after Eric complained about his cup all through breakfast only to spill a ton of milk all over the room after I got him a new cup; technically the spill was an accident and I should have just addressed his earlier complaining rather than losing it over the spill. Milk spills are always disproportionately frustrating for me for some reason).

There were good moments, that I could appreciate as they happened, and that’s good. Eric being affectionate (I asked him, “will you still let me hold you after you get big and grown up?” and he said, “after I grow up bigger than you I will hold you, mommy!”). Realizing Esme can say cheese to the camera (“cheh! cheh!”). Holding Elijah and dancing to “Let’s Call The Whole Thing Off” (they loved the lyrics). Reading Ellie’s journal entry about her loose tooth (“it moves every time I drink milk”).

Well, that was the day. And now I’m going to go enjoy my lime seltzer and rummage up some chocolate and go read my novel. Thank you, God, for this full life and full day.