Family

Kiki came home smiling. The boy walked her to the door, both to say goodnight and to retrieve his suit jacket which she was still wearing. She gave him the jacket and apologized for the silver glitter stuck to it. Her shining dress had an infinite supply of sparkles to shed on every surface it touched. He assured her that he didn’t mind and gave her a hug goodnight. The door closed behind him and my daughter’s first formal dance was done.

“Can you help me take down my hair?” Kiki asked slumping on one of our kitchen stools.
“Sure.” I answered. I stood behind her and pin by pin removed the twists and curls I’d helped her put up only a few hours before.

My mind was aswirl with memories of my own formal dances, times when I got to wear a boy’s suit jacket, lovely dances, awkward dances, dates in which the whole evening was like flying, and dates which ended in tears. Formal dances are fraught with possibilities both good and bad. I wanted to know which sort of experiences had come to my daughter. I hoped for her to have happy ones. Yet I was strongly aware that these were her experiences, not mine. They were hers to share or to tuck into her heart like treasures. All these thoughts, hopes, fears distilled themselves into bland words.

“It looks like your hair stayed put.” I said
“Yeah.” I was surprised.” Kiki answered. “It even stayed when I flipped it around.”

I pulled out the last pin and Kiki’s long curls tumbled down her back. Those curls represented thirty minutes of effort, mousse, and hairspray.

“Sounds like you had fun.” I said.
“I did. But the dance was loud and crowded.” Kiki smiled, then slumped forward to rest her head on her arms.
I smiled and ran my fingers through her hair, freeing it from its twist. What ever difficulties or awkwardness attended the evening I could tell they had passed, leaving Kiki with an exhausted contentment. I breathed thoughts of gratitude to the boy who’d helped make the loud and crowded dance a good place for my daughter. She generally avoided noisy crowds. I also sighed relief that this date had gone so much better than the one last Fall with a different boy. That one had been filled with stress and awkwardness in larger measure than enjoyment.

Kiki and I walked together up the stairs. She was too tired to talk much. I helped her change out of her fancy dress and into pajamas, just as I used to help her change when she was little. One last cloud of glitter drifted to the floor as I hung it up. After an evening dressed up and grown up, Kiki was glad to come home and be young again.

I was glad to have her home too. That final waiting hour before she walked in smiling had not been hard or worrisome, just aware. My daughter would be home soon. Then I would know what sort of an evening she’d had. During that waiting hour, Howard and I stood in the kitchen together, participating in the parental cliche of waiting up for a child who is out on a date. We were waiting to see the results of this small flight into independence. Her flights will take her higher and farther. Before long our house will become a place she visits instead of the heart of her existence.

At quarter to midnight our patience ran out. Howard sent her a text.
“Tick. Tick. Tick…”
We laughed as we sent it, enjoying the irony of Howard pretending to be an over-bearing, curfew-demanding father, when we knew it was unnecessary. We had not set a hard curfew and she would be home as soon as possible after the dance. We trusted her. If something had gone wrong she would have called for rescue. Yet there was a core of truth to the text too. We wanted our daughter home so we could lock her safe inside, so we could sleep easy.
Howard’s phone chimed with an answering text.
“Booom!!”
We laughed. She was fine, humor intact. She entered, smiling, only a few minutes later.

I tucked the pajama’d Kiki into bed and Howard delivered our cat to sleep with her. I walked through the house once more before turning out the lights. Silver glitter sparkled on the kitchen floor, like dust from a vanished fairy. I turned out the lights and all was well.

Today I:

Waved to my neighbor of six years as she drove her boys away from the house next to mine, which is no longer hers. She paused long enough for us to exchange a hug through the window of her car. I felt bad that my day had been full of things which did not include helping carry things from her house or scrubbing the fixtures which are staying. We’ll still see them. They haven’t gone far yet, but it is different.

Packed a bag full of cosmetics, curling irons, hair products, and bobby pins. Then I went to the house of one of Kiki’s friends where four girls were getting ready for a formal dance. I assisted in creating beautiful hair until I was coated with a layer of hair spray and my hands were sticky with mousse. The results were lovely.

Took a call from Howard in which he informed me that his Volkswagon Beetle had been rear-ended. The damage is minor, but will definitely have to be repaired. So come Monday morning I’ll be taking over communicating with insurance companies so that Howard can focus on work. By evening Howard was feeling stiff and had crashed down off of the adrenaline from the accident. I stood in the kitchen and listened to him as he sorted the thoughts in his head.

Did not get nearly as much done as I’d intended to do. I mailed packages and began laundry. I did a little computer work and sprayed bleach on the mildew attempting to colonize a corner of our bathroom. I did none of the de-cluttering I’d intended.

All that remains is waiting up for my daughter to arrive home and then getting to bed.

Some days are made out of cranky. On such days all six personalities spit and spark as if we’re all charged with static electricity, accidentally zapping each other by simple proximity. These are the days when our house feels too small. I sit in the front room, which is not far enough away from the kitchen where Link is wrestling with homework. Crowding my feet are the boxes of books, t shirts, and assorted other merchandise which we hastily emptied out of Howard’s car on Monday morning so that he could drive Kiki to school. I need to sort through the boxes and put the contents away. It is on my list of things to do. It has been since Saturday night when we arrived home from LTUE both tired and sore. There are more boxes in the back of my van. I haven’t gotten to them yet because I’ve been too busy focused on things upcoming to clean up after things past.

Gleek comes to return my kindle. The thing has been sitting around for months and the kids paid it no attention at all. Today I’ve been reading Midnight in Austenland on it. So naturally the kids have rediscovered a fascination with reading on an electronic device. Even my reading space is invaded today. I could go upstairs and hide in my room, but one of the duties of mother is to be available during homework time. I must quell the noisy enthusiasm of those who have no work to do, so that those who have work can get it done. To do this I must sit where both the enthusiasm and work can be observed. Then I’ll know whether the playing children have actually been too noisy or if the working child is just cranky about the existence of play.

Most days this is just normal, not particularly difficult. I move through my family like a fish through water, thinking ahead, solving problems before it occurs to anyone else that there might be an issue. I pick up the shoes from under the kitchen table and put them where they’ll be sought tomorrow morning. I clear dishes from the table so that they won’t spill on the homework next to them. I make appointments, decide which events we’ll attend and what we’ll skip. I am the organizer of all things. Mostly I like it. I am good at it.

Then comes a cranky day. A day when my efforts are rewarded with tantrums and tears, because whatever I did, they wanted different. There is no winning on cranky days. Not for me, not for them. We all know it will pass. Cranky days do. The structure of our family is plenty strong enough to handle days when we’re all grouchy. Yet I still end up tired, staring at boxes I haven’t had time to put away, listening to children who are playing happily at the moment, but who might break into a squabble at any time.

I need to remember that the existence of a cranky, moody day does not represent any sort of a failure. It just is. I just have to do the best I can and trust that I will soon find myself in a better day. And indeed I do, before this day is even gone. Gleek hugs me tight and tells me she loves me. Patch lingers close and snuggly. Link settles in to do his work. Quiet music plays and I think that perhaps our house is large enough after all. Or it will be once I get these boxes put away.