Lonely

We had a weekend filled with friends. Friday night slumber party. Saturday trip with friends to visit Miguel at the land school. Sunday movie with a friend from school. When we arrived home yesterday after dropping her friend back at his house, Zeca was quiet - too quiet. I found her standing in the pantry and I asked what she was doing. I expected her to be planning our dinner but she shrugged and said, "I'm lonely." My mind started shuffling through possible responses: "How can you be lonely? We've spent all weekend with friends!" and "I'll play with you! I've been playing with you all week!" and "We've been having fun, right?" Denial, guilt and insecurity all culminating in a desire to fix it. But, I didn't say any of those things - well, not in that very moment. I took a breath, wrapped my arms around her and asked why she felt lonely even though I wasn't sure she could answer. How many times have I felt lonely in a roomful of people and found myself unable to explain? She said, "It just feels lonely here without Mãe and Miguel." It's true. We are usually four but now we are two and, though I looked forward to the ease of solo parenting one child, it has been too quiet at times. I know that I have done the best I can. I've finished my work during the day and postponed deadlines when I couldn't. I've played Minecraft and built legos and cuddled on the couch. I've been more present - intentionally so - than I am a lot of the time so yes, for a split second, I took her loneliness personally. And then, I remembered that it's not about me at all. It's about her love of Luisa and Miguel, about missing them, about this quiet that seems strange. It is about a routine disrupted and a life pared down by half.

We held each other in the pantry and I knew there was only one response. I'm getting better at recognizing my limits, at understanding that I cannot fix everything. I know that sometimes you just need to speak the hurt aloud, to give it space to exist outside of yourself in order to let it go. I was never a fixer until I had kids. I want to remake the world for them but I also know that I can't.  All I can do is take a breath, hold them close and say, "I understand…"

Observe

This morning, as he got ready for school, Miguel yelled, "Where's my hair gel?" I reminded him that I had packed it in his duffle bag. "A middle school boy needs his hair gel, Mom." I smiled, "I get it. A middle-aged mom needs hers too." He used mine and lived to gel another day.

The morning was a blur of checking things off lists and making sure that everything he needs for the next three weeks was packed. The conversation was filled with "Remember…" and "It's in your bag" and "Check your folder" and "Do you need…" The foyer was filled with stuff and Zeca maneuvered quietly around her brother's bags to pack her backpack for school. Somehow, we managed to get everything ready and loaded into the car to head to school. Zeca was returning to school after a week off due to a frozen water main and Miguel was heading to the school's rural campus in Wisconsin for three weeks.

On the way, I talked about the first time Miguel went on a school trip and how hard Zeca cried when he left. Miguel said, "You're not even going to miss me this time, are you? You're probably glad I'm leaving." She rolled her eyes and said, "I'll miss you…" and left it with that even though her inflection suggested that she wanted to qualify her statement. She is no longer four years old and the shine has long worn off her big brother. I know there is part of her that enjoys being an only child every once in awhile, enjoys the extra attention and quiet.

When we got to school, Luisa and I carried Miguel's bags and he carried the bottled water for Zeca's classroom.

"You're kicking the bag, Miguel!"

"I'm not doing it on purpose!:

"Just let me carry it myself!"

This is how it goes a lot of the time. She sees his help as just slightly off the mark in some way.

At the entrance of the school, they said their goodbyes and Miguel tried to hug her tightly and she looked disinterested.

An enthusiastic "Bye Zec!" met with a quiet "Bye."

It was done. I teared up a bit because it wasn't the parting I wanted for them. I found myself wishing that she would miss him terribly, that she would cry like she did when she was younger. I know it says nothing about them or their relationship or even their feelings about one another. It is about me and the meanings I make of situations, the fear I have about what the future holds for them. I want the best for them as individuals and as brother and sister but I have to embrace the fact that I can't know what that is.

We walked Miguel to the junior high and reminded him one last time to get his math binder and it was clear that it was time for us to go. We each got a hug and then he was gone. Luisa worried about what he might forget but I didn't - not because I thought he would remember everything but because I know this is how we learn to let go. These moments teach us that goodbyes do not always look the way we want them to and forgotten binders will not always be our concern. In the small ticks of time, we learn that we are not the writers of this story but invested observers.

PHOTO CREDIT: VIKKI REICH

Little House on the Tundra

Today, it was 40 degrees in Minneapolis and the sun was shining and I felt a tiny flutter in my chest that felt a lot like hope, like this winter might not last forever. When I stepped outside to take the kids to school, I said, "It's warm and there is a fresh coat of snow and this is good!" The kids were unimpressed with the temperature hovering at freezing and Miguel said, "It's still cold. Hurry up and unlock the car." We drove to school on roads covered in snow but there was also water and water means melting and melting means "not as bitterly cold as it has been for what seems like months." I dropped the kids off and put on sunglasses for the drive home. Once home, I got a glass of water and sat down at my desk to begin my writing day and, as I got on the internet, my phone rang and I recognized the number as school. Neither kid had been sick so I figured that someone forgot lunch or shoes or snow pants and I answered expecting to hear the voice of one of my kids saying, "Mom, can you bring me…" But it wasn't one of my kids. It was a recorded message from the principal explaining that the school had no running water and all parents needed to return to school immediately to pick up their children.

Above freezing. Sunny skies. No school.

Luisa went to school and brought home our two very happy children.

This evening, we found out that there was a frozen water main and it is not yet fixed. There may be no school tomorrow. I can't even rally enough to be outraged at this point. I'm resigned. If there is no school tomorrow, I'm staying in bed with Netflix and my kids can run the show. Cookies for breakfast. Pajama day. Unlimited media time. I can live with that.

Note: I took this photo at Lake of the Isles while skiing this weekend. It is an ice sculpture or maybe a phallus or maybe - just maybe - an icy middle finger.

PHOTO CREDIT: VIKKI REICH