(no subject)
At some point I'll be able to exercise without needing a full or half day recovery, right? Please tell me yes.
Meanwhile, the gate has come down. We have left the golden era of childhood, ages five to ten, and have now entered that weird, weird space that begins adolescence. I mean the little E. Miss J is of course rounding the corner and heading toward fifteen, which I am told is a reward for making it through fourteen. A reward I'll gladly take. Miss J is a lovely, lovely teen, but the whole project is painful at times and I will be glad to reach the next rest station at some point. She has begun high school and with it, her eventual withdrawal from the family. But only just! She is still here at times. And she is still nice when she is.
But the little E. Walking that queer edge between little kid and princess. Currently she is hoarding her childhood in the form of: ALL the Legos, ALL the Fisher Price toddler toys, ALL the food toys, spread out on the floor of her room like weapons. Hoarding them as though against a coming storm that she knows instinctively will snatch them away for good. Her room looks like a fortress against progress. Okay. I can't blame her.
Because what's coming is slightly scary. Just yesterday she descended into a silent and frightening rage over -- what? Being offered extra dance class on Saturday. Here is a child who treasures her private time, and yet she knows that if she wants to keep up with everyone else at dance --which, let me add, she loves and is good at -- she will have to put in the time. Some time, anyway, even if not on Saturdays. It is an incontrovertable fact that you only get the result if you put in the work; and it is this she is struggling over. She cried over the start of school, she speculated openly about quitting dance, she quit piano -- she dreads the time lock coming down on her. She dreads reality.
I can't blame her.
But she seems young to be so stressed. And recalcitrant.
And then after an afternoon of rages and tears and silences, she asked me to read to her at bedtime and then -- miracle of miracles! -- to stay in her bed after. We turned out the light and just talked. I wasn't sure whether she meant for me to sleep with her (I miss sleeping with her so keenly) but I only stayed for a little while. [And I should also note: she is way into the book we're reading. This is a major success! My summer reading initiative has paid off! Amazing, amazing!]
So, you see, I am not ONLY gloom and doom. Now I will drag my tired and feeble ass to the library, to pretend to write fiction while everyone around me memorizes the anatomy of the heart.
Meanwhile, the gate has come down. We have left the golden era of childhood, ages five to ten, and have now entered that weird, weird space that begins adolescence. I mean the little E. Miss J is of course rounding the corner and heading toward fifteen, which I am told is a reward for making it through fourteen. A reward I'll gladly take. Miss J is a lovely, lovely teen, but the whole project is painful at times and I will be glad to reach the next rest station at some point. She has begun high school and with it, her eventual withdrawal from the family. But only just! She is still here at times. And she is still nice when she is.
But the little E. Walking that queer edge between little kid and princess. Currently she is hoarding her childhood in the form of: ALL the Legos, ALL the Fisher Price toddler toys, ALL the food toys, spread out on the floor of her room like weapons. Hoarding them as though against a coming storm that she knows instinctively will snatch them away for good. Her room looks like a fortress against progress. Okay. I can't blame her.
Because what's coming is slightly scary. Just yesterday she descended into a silent and frightening rage over -- what? Being offered extra dance class on Saturday. Here is a child who treasures her private time, and yet she knows that if she wants to keep up with everyone else at dance --which, let me add, she loves and is good at -- she will have to put in the time. Some time, anyway, even if not on Saturdays. It is an incontrovertable fact that you only get the result if you put in the work; and it is this she is struggling over. She cried over the start of school, she speculated openly about quitting dance, she quit piano -- she dreads the time lock coming down on her. She dreads reality.
I can't blame her.
But she seems young to be so stressed. And recalcitrant.
And then after an afternoon of rages and tears and silences, she asked me to read to her at bedtime and then -- miracle of miracles! -- to stay in her bed after. We turned out the light and just talked. I wasn't sure whether she meant for me to sleep with her (I miss sleeping with her so keenly) but I only stayed for a little while. [And I should also note: she is way into the book we're reading. This is a major success! My summer reading initiative has paid off! Amazing, amazing!]
So, you see, I am not ONLY gloom and doom. Now I will drag my tired and feeble ass to the library, to pretend to write fiction while everyone around me memorizes the anatomy of the heart.