This Is Thursday, November 17

One day, if the good Lord is willing and the crick don't rise, as a friend of mine says, I will be an old woman and this blog will still exist in cyberspace somehow, and I can look back and remember the sweet moments of mothering, the juggling of marriage. 

The fluffy little white dog who looks at you with pure black jelly bean eyes, pleading to go with you, wherever you are going, especially if travel bags are involved. Not a dog, really, but a baby. A love with a beating heart who tilts her head in disbelief if you must leave her behind. Your sweet Sugar.

The nine year old who still likes to play mommy or teacher or boss--and you have to play along, as her co-worker, student or secretary. She sets up a tidy office in the dining room, lines up her sharpened pencils, pulls up a chair. As a new mom to her baby doll, she is confident and authoritative--but in a stage whisper asks, No, Alice, really, if Annie was 2 weeks old, would you dress her in this onesie? Is it warm enough? Depending on the temp, you tell her, woman to woman, that you would probably add a baby hat.

The older daughter, the college girl, 21, who bikes to Montclair State [just minutes away], and requires vegan things like fake cheese and mock chicken, plus coconut milk and crisp green Granny Smith apples. The young lady who is finding her way, the feminist, the writer, the artist, the biologist. The big sister who last night gently combed knots out of Punchy's wet hair  and read to her from The Care and Keeping of Friends, an American Girl book that you bought for her when she was a little girl. This older daughter is radiant and confident, cherished by her friends, not wanting for romantic relationships, it seems, but can be transparent or opaque; it is more complex to get her reading sometimes. She does things that concern you, such as smoke cigarettes and drink. [There is a history of addiction in this family; you've told her that.] The little sister is getting more and more honest, and can't keep things to herself.

The husband, working hard, often at a desk in the New York Public Library, where he can concentrate better. Still struggling with writer's block on major assignments but always breaking through. Getting home late, but not too late to help with homework and read to Punchy. He is not eating as healthfully as he should be, and drinks copious amounts of coffee.

And you, the mother, writer and wife, trying to keep on top of your work deadlines and make sure there is milk, bread, dinner and laundry detergent in the house. [Your husband grocery shops, too, but less often.] Trying to dress fashionably, because you love to, with black Wolford tights, black skirt, nude patent pumps and a fur-trimmed mocha sweater, even to work at your desk at home. Keeping in close touch with your sister and friends. Tired often, you fit what you can into your full days--tonight, you took Punchy to Family Night at the Scholastic Book Fair at school, where she was delighted to pick out books about chemistry, Ivy & Bean, and especially a book w a magic invisible ink pen. It was over at 8:30, so you both went up to bed early. The college girl is baby-sitting across the street and your husband is heading home on the 9 p.m. Decamp bus.

Future Alice, I hope life is good. I hope you curbed your sugar and ate more fruits and vegs. I hope your girls turned out okay and that the inevitable bumps in the road were not mountains too high to scale.

Good night.

TCOY

1. Yay, Tonia's gentle yoga class. My back was stiff.
2. Made healthy dinner: chicken, potatoes, baby spinach--well, Punch sautéed the latter.