In a fit of domesticity, I made a variation of this last night. Of course, I was the only one who really ate it. Leo picked at his (squinting suspiciously at the stray tomato skin—he should be a private investigator specializing in vegetable detection). After eating the leftover string cheese, apple sauce cup and Pirate Booty from her lunch box, Ellie wasn’t too interested in my creation either. Shocking.
For some reason, after working all day and being away from the kids for eight hours, five days a week, a home cooked meal feels like the least I can do. But then they won’t even touch it. And then I remember why scrambled eggs (or something equally fast to make and easy to clean-up) really does make more sense, most nights.
***
Last evening was a strange one. For Ellie, the word exhaustion doesn’t cover it. I continue to look at her sideways, daily, still paranoid that she’s doomed to get the strep that three-quarters of the house had/has. It would certainly help if I remembered to take my antibiotics too, ahem. But the appetite is still there (you can’t really gauge sickness with Ellie by mood since she’s often what I would describe as, um, opinionated) so that’s a good sign. As I said, she devoured her lunch box remains (she now proudly zips and unzips that little bag like it’s her job, and her favorite phrase to go along with that activity is “I want something else.”) Hmm…something else? I know the feeling.
When we finally did finish eating and cleaning up the abbreviated “Hayride” (it’s now become an after dinner activity too), Ellie dissolved upstairs. There was refusal to put on the nighttime Pull-Up, there was hysteria at the thought of pajamas. There was plenty of warning from me, there were vows of “no books, you’re going straight in your crib” if she didn’t cooperate.
She didn’t.
And so, fearing what I might do if I was forced to continue trying to shimmy little pink pajama bottoms onto exceptionally uncooperative little legs, I did what I promised to do all along. It was into the crib for her, without pants even.
I know. Mean.
What was odd was there was no crying. Not even a peep. Erin went into her room to attempt to wrangle Pull-Ups and clothes. Somewhere along the way she must have lost her will to fight, because she let Erin dress her without argument. She then plunked back down and was out for the night.
Meanwhile Leo was feeling cuddly and needy (no surprise). I lay next to him on his little firm twin bed with the fish sheets and stared up at the ceiling, listening to his breathing, heavy but noticeably (so far) less congested-sounding than it was pre-adenoid surgery. That’s when he shot upright and presented me with two stubby fingered hands. For some reason, I knew exactly what he meant: he wanted me to cut his fingernails.
The moment reminded me of a lesson my mom taught me, handed down to her by the great and wise Peg Bracken: If you have the inclination to do something (in Bracken’s case it was housework-feel like dusting but you’re on your way to make a phone call or coffee? Dust! You never know when the burst of dusting energy might return!).
Normally, cutting Leo’s nails is just one notch easier than giving him a haircut. There is holding down, there is struggle and pleading and cajoling. But not last night. He observed me wordlessly as I carefully trimmed each little half-moon down. Note to self: he’s outgrown the infant nail clippers (oops).
This might sound silly, but it felt like a Moment. A milestone of some sort. Leo noticed something about himself that needed attending to. He asked for help. He tolerated having something "done" to him.
Now if we could just get him to notice that hair of his, part surfer dude, part Adam Rich from "Eight is Enough" and fast on its way to mullet city.
Ten minutes later, Leo was asleep, buried under comforter and fleece throw, clutching his water bottle and stuffed dog, the tired boy with the well-groomed nails.
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