Sigh. I’m sorry.
Both the girls have been up since around 4:30 a.m. I tried to shush them back to sleep, but it didn’t work. I laid still with my eyes closed trying to trick them, they’re very observant; the little buggers could tell I was awake.
The early wake up started when our new kitten jumped on the bed and started purring. She woke up my eight year old daughter, who then looked out the window at the black sky and exclaimed, “Wow, look at the moon.”
Her five year old sister answered, “It’s so bright, mama look.”
I turned over and looked outside.
“That is beautiful.” I put my arm around the little one while reaching with my other hand to gently touch the face of my ‘dreamer’, my middle child. For a moment all three of us were gazing at the glowing crescent moon.
I thought, ‘they’re so different, my girls; both are wonderful, imaginative, playful, and clever, but each is quite unique. They reminded me of my sisters, when they were small, and I was the always the third wheel.
“Girls, it’s not even 5 a.m., let’s try to sleep a little longer.” I turned away from the window and snuggled in, or so I tried to make it appear.
Come on, come on, fall asleep.
Nothing. They started chatting, as they always do first thing, tossing around, trying to tuck in the kitten who was having none of it.
“Girls, please, just a little more sleep.”
“Mama, now that I’m awake, I can’t go back to sleep,” declared the eight year old.
“I can’t sleep either,” came the voice of her partner in crime.
This was my wake up time, anyway, resistance was futile.
“Let’s go.” I was the first to get out of bed.
We started our day.
But this was a real setback for me. My dedicated writing hours, the five to seven a.m. window I treasure, during which they sleep, and I allow my memories to take me back in time so I can stroll through my a life I once knew; that window was quickly closing.
I worried it wouldn’t be possible with them making their usual morning ruckus to get into such a deep state of reflection. I was right.
We barely made it down the stairs, when…
“Mama, can we watch TV?”
“Have you found the remote?” I asked, although I knew they hadn’t and so it wasn’t going to happen.
“No.”
“Then I guess you can’t watch TV. I would suggest you find it if you want to watch TV again.”
I went to make my coffee and turned on the laptop. I hadn’t entirely given up on writing.
‘Uhhh’, I forgot to set the dishwasher the night before. I started it. We would need the dishes for the day.
“Can I have your phone?” asked the five year old. She knew how to use my phone better than I did. She’d find new games in the app store, sneak up to me while I was occupied and put my thumb on the scanner, then run off and play.
“Nope. No screen time before school.” I gave the standard response.
I know what you’re thinking, ‘but you were going to let them watch TV?’ No, no I wasn’t. I knew they didn’t have the remote, not since the day before because despite repeated reminders to look for it, they didn’t. So I used the moment to make a point.
I bet you’re also thinking, given it’s just after five a.m., wouldn’t it make my life easier if I occupied them with the phone or the TV. Yes, yes it would. It would make the writing I am doing, with constant interruptions, far easier. It might have resulted in something other than the play-by-play of the morning, if I could focus. But here’s the thing, and I don’t care for war analogies, but it fits (I’ll try to think of another one if I can), if they “win this battle”, I “will lose the war.”
It’s a long standing house rule, ‘no screen time before school’. I held my ground. It’s important even when it’s inconvenient.
“I’m cold” the five year old again.
“Put on your sweater,” I answered as I handed it to her.
“No, I want something warmer and softer to cuddle with.” She scooted over to me and curled up into a ball.
The eight year old pulled a bin of markers and crayons from under the ottoman and started colouring a picture.
The kitten scaled the sides of the couch, ‘oh the destruction’.
I did my mama magic and blocked it all out. I am going to write, I am going to write, I am going to write – something.
“I’ve been ridin’ shotgun, underneath the hot sun, feelin’ like a someone….” My cuddling companion started singing; the memory of an elephant, she learns song lyrics effortlessly. I turned to give her the “I’m trying to focus” eye; her little eyes looked up at me and she burst into hilarious laughter.
I shook my head and looked past my laptop screen at her older sister, raising my eyebrows. She contorted her face in the silliest way possible, I couldn’t help but laugh, shrugged her shoulders and said “what do you want me to do?”
“Oh, nothing honey, keep drawing.”
“Do you like it?” she raised her picture to show me.
“It’s great.”
“I’m hungry… I’m going to make myself something.” She put down her drawing and got up to go to the kitchen.
“Can you make your sister an egg too please?” I asked. At eight, she makes perfect sunny-side and over-easy eggs, boils pasta, makes tea, toast; the list goes on and on. She’s very independent.
“Oh, I’m not making eggs. I’m going to make a chapatti.”
“Can you make me a chapatti?” chimed in the little one.
“Yes, yes, I’ll make us breakfast.” She’s a tiny mama.
I smiled and watched as they walked to the kitchen together. Magic, this was the magic of the day. I think every parent waits for this moment, the “I can make my own breakfast” moment.
They sat at the dinette, ate together, chit chatting the whole time, laughing. Then they cleared the table, dropped the dishes into the sink, and started playing with the kitten again. They dragged a fuzzy pipe cleaner attached to a long string over the floor while she tried to catch it.
More laughter, so much laughter.
They’re such a joy.
‘I have ten days of holidays left’, I thought, ‘back to work on the 18th’. I’d committed to myself that I would write for seventeen days straight, if at all possible. I had so many stories in my mind, stories I wanted the kids to know, stories I didn’t want forgotten.
I realized after my grandmother died that our oral history was particularly vulnerable. She was the final matriarch, she was the keeper. Migration had wreaked havoc on our identities, those of the older three daughters, my sisters and I. Most of us had lost our language or only managed to keep a basic level. We had disconnected from our culture; without my mother to teach us, to show us how, we didn’t know our own traditions. Other than me, the others rarely went ‘back’. It wasn’t easy to have relationships with people across an ocean, separated not just by geography but also by time. We’d been apart for decades, people change; it’s hard to feel connected even if the people you are trying to connect with are family.
I thought about how I hoped someday my kids would enjoy these short stories, my jaunts down memory lane. Maybe they’d feel inspired to get to know their ancestral home, to follow my stories like a kind of map. That would be amazing.
Writing was cathartic for me too. It’s been hard living in two worlds with an awareness of myself in both. Writing has let me move between those lives, it’s allowed me to ‘talk’ to relatives, even if they were already gone, reconstructing from my memory the wisdoms they had shared.
I suppose that was yet another reason I set out on this task. Aside from capturing our stories, I wanted to write to better understand myself and my place in the universe.
Side Note: For a second, about two hours ago, when I thought my “reflective writing” wasn’t going to happen I opened the search bar on the laptop and started typing ‘outl’ – Outlook. But then I stopped. I haven’t looked at my work email since last year (ha ha), I’m not going to start now. What a gift it has been, for the first time in so very long, to be present in my own stories.
