in a day

I'm sitting here, exhausted, settled, listening to the steady hum of the dishwasher. I keep contemplating putting music on, but there's something strangely meditative about the noise. Music might make me indecisive, I might move from one thing to the next too quickly. And that's not what I need.

I think back on this full, full Monday and all the bits and pieces that compose a day. The wild conversations I have with Eliana when she replies to my ideas with a, "That sounds great!" (with the same enthusiasm as Tony the Tiger on the Frosted Flakes commercials) or a, "That's a good idea, mom!" She is such a conversationalist, with a memory or song or reference to go with every occasion. "Remember Amy and the pinata? Pinatas are a game. With prizes. And treats. Not scary. Fun!" (This monologue comes up often, as Eliana continues to make peace with the pinata she saw when we were on the coast in August. It was shaped like a little girl. It was decapitated. It was mildly traumatic -- but we're working through it.)

Her vast bank is open and accessible, everything a connection to something else, a continuous piecing together of the puzzle of her life.

I'm attempting to see things this same way. The key to maintaining this nutty schedule of mine is to stay open to each moment. Each question or need from my students or colleagues or husband or daughter. Each request or discomfort I have in my changing body, this new yet familiar state of growing another human being. Every anxiety or ache or frustration or craving, something that has to be met head on, or else they'll all snowball and I'll end up annoyed and hungry, whiny and bitter. It's certainly a challenge. But it seems to be getting easier and easier.

That's not to say there isn't extreme exhaustion or longing. Like when my daughter wakes up at my in-laws again because we've been taking care of PopPop while Nana takes a much deserved break back east and says, "Elie wanna go home." And I can't take her home because we have to race out the door to the daycare because it's Grandparent's Day and I have to be totally on my game, looking my best, shaking hands and sharing accomplishments. My heart screams with frustration when she asks her simple, honest request, all guilt ridden and heavy. But then I explain it to her. "No, Els, today you get to go to Caroline's. You get to see Fiona and Joaquin and paint pictures and play playdoh. And mama has to go to the school to teach the kids and read books." She didn't protest, didn't affirm, just willingly got in her big girl sneakers and hoodie, ready to roll with it.

Like we roll with our busiest season, our family's reentry into the working, scheduled world.

Fall has finally settled into the valley and the days are growing chillier and shorter. We enjoyed one of our last farmer's markets last weekend and my sister-in-law managed to capture my daughter in all her clown around glory. Again, always one to savor the moment and not get too caught up in ridiculous expectations.

How do they continually manage to teach us so much?