Fighting Words

When this whole pandemic began, I had great fears that all of us being at home continually would end in homicide, if not multiple homicides.  I imagined one scene after another on a  continual loop of the scene below...

Maybe a few weeks ago (or perhaps a few months, I've really lost all sense of time), Lotta and Zibbi were fighting in the kitchen.  Here's a sample of what it sounded like, "You said SIX thirty."  "No, I said, SEVEN thirty..." "NO you SAID SIX thirty."  "NO I actually said SEVEN thirty".  At this point, the verbal argument erupted into violence.  Lotta explained that she'd looked at the alarm clock and thought she saw 6:30, then she heard Zibbi confirm this.  Zibbi explained that she'd looked at the clock and saw that it said 7:30, and then told Lotta.  As they explained this to me, the verbal and physical assault between them was reignited.  I suggested that BOTH these things could be true--Zibbi could have SAID one thing AND Lotta could have HEARD a different thing.  Of course, this did not fly and the yelling continued.  I suggested maybe we NOT talk about it anymore because we would never agree.  Lotta agreed, but not before she ended with, "BUT she DID say 6:30."  Overall, an extremely unsatisfying ending.

I have been quite surprised at how the girls most certainly fight, but then they quickly make up, because right now, without playdates or school or sleepovers, they are all they have.  Even Benja has spent time making up "not dangerous" games (one of the main goals during a pandemic is avoiding ER visits) which often involve one participant being blindfolded (?!?!) All three of them spend time daily playing Mine Craft, creating worlds together.  I think in retrospect, the three of them will look back on this time as most certainly challenging, but also a time when they all came together.

2020

 This morning I noticed a silver fish on the kitchen counter (typically we only run into each other in the bathroom). It scurried to the end of the counter stopping just briefly before taking a leap. I had a moment of wonder because I honestly did not realize a silver fish could "fly". Then, I noticed it was not at all moving. They in fact cannot survive a fall like that. It feels symbolic of 2020. Always feeling that sense of hopefulness, but then the next worst thing comes along...tropical storms on the coast, wildfires, not to even mention a worldwide pandemic. Furthermore, it reminds me of the scene in Groundhog Day when the car flies off the cliff and everyone says, "Maybe he's ok", then the car bursts into flame and everyone says, "Oh probably not..."

Insurance Policy

Whenever I got to Marquette Elementary, I always look for the garden stone Ellie's classmates made for her.  And the bench that was replaced by Julie and Nick the year that Ellie would have graduated.  As I approached Marquette on Friday for materials pick up (something you do when your children are virtual learning), I noticed the stone had been moved.  I then clocked that the entire Marquette sign was missing.  A man approached the sign, and I inquired what was happening.  He sighed heavily and explained that he was trying his best to fix it, but he wasn't super hopeful.  I then OVER shared with him how the Garden Stone and bench were in honor of Ellie.  Then, of course, I went on to tell him how Ellie died 10 years ago, when she was in 5th grade and how her classmates created these in her memory.  I walked away feeling like, "Ugh!  Why in the world did I share so much with him??"  Because during this worldwide pandemic, so many of the times when I encounter people outside my family, I either have absolutely nothing to say or conversely, I have EVERYTHING to say.  It is so embarrassing.  As I walked away, I saw this man, bending down to pull weeds around Ellie's garden stone.  And I realized that I had just created an insurance policy that he would take extra special care that nothing happened to that stone.  I guess in the end, it changed both of our days.  

So about the Tooth Fairy...

 

As you may recall, we have had a flurry of Tooth Fairy visits this past year, as Lotta and Zibbi have BOTH been losing teeth.  Furthermore, you may recall the Tooth Fairy's waning ability to arrive the morning AFTER a tooth loss, leading to late fees and letters of inquiry.  

This last summer we implemented "Windy Wednesday" when we would have a socially distanced outside visit with our great friend Wendy (I somehow pronounce it Windy, according to many sources).  During one of the visits, 10-year-old Lotta suddenly says, "I know who is REALLY the Tooth Fairy."  And I responded utilizing my psychological training, "Tell me more about that..." Lotta said, "I'm looking at her."  We then started having a conversation about how she started becoming suspicious, and some of the hints that gave it away for her.  We also talked about how when you want to believe in Santa, you only look for ways that is true and when you are ready to believe in something else, you start noticing all the information that tells you something different.  Suddenly, she gasped and said, "So who's been eating all the cookies???"  To which I explained that her dad always MADE the cookies HE likes best, so....

At the end of the conversation, Lotta said she wanted to do everything she could to make sure Zibbi keeps

believing because she didn't think Zibbi was ready, at 7, to not believe in Santa.  I explained the trick of when Zibbi asks about Santa, rather than telling her a lie, saying, "What do YOU think?"  The thing that struck me about the entire interaction was how peaceful she was, she was truly ready to not believe.  Benja and I had just had a conversation about how disappointing it was for us to realize that Santa was not real.  Realizing that the world is actually not magic, it felt earth shattering.  Lotta however, seemed excited to be apart of carrying on the tradition with Zibbi.  

Unexpected

 Maybe a month ago (time has lost all meaning during this pandemic), my neighbor, Kathy, told me that a friend of the family, whom they'd known since she was a baby, had been driving downtown with the windows down and some people had tried to set her on fire.  She asked if I would send this young woman a card, as she really liked receiving mail.  Of course I complied.  

When I sat down to write the card, I realized I had no words.  What words could there be to someone so young who had experienced such an atrocity?  So, I told her about Ellie.  I wrote how Ellie and I sometimes would be sitting in her hospital room and we could hear other children crying in pain or fear or confusion.  Feeling helpless, but wanting to "do" something, we would throw the crying child a hug.  I told this woman, that I was throwing her a hug.  That I wanted her to know that she was not alone.  

After sending her cards, I realized this young woman had been an assistant in some of the classes for Lotta and Zibbi's circus arts classes.  Madison is like that, though, small and large, where you suddenly realize you have been talking about the same person, without realizing it.

Then, maybe a month later, I received a postcard back.  It was a postcard that she'd created to send to all the people who had written to her.  It started, "And Still I Rise..." And it went on to talk about her future hopes and dreams, of finishing college and someday owning a rescue farm for "any animal or person who might need a safe haven."  On the back, she'd written, "I remember your daughter well.  We started playing together at recess after I asked her what her face cloth was for (Ellie like to use cloth handkerchiefs, I assume that's what she was asking about).  I then made sure to sit with her at lunch.  She was an awesome friend.  She asked a lot of questions.  I also remember liking her shoes.  I made my mom get me a pair so I could match.  I missed her very much when she passed.  She was a much needed friend while I was looking to fit in as a brown kid.  Sending you much love."

I had no idea that she'd been classmates with Ellie.  After Ellie died, one of Ellie's classmates was so upset he had to leave school.  At the time, I had this really strange feeling like when your child hurts another child and you work to fix the problem.  (I was lucky enough to run into this classmate at a park a year or so later and we were able to chat.  He was super upset that Ellie had died 13 days before her birthday.  I explained to him that Ellie had never cared much about birthdays.) But this young woman telling me Ellie made a difference to her at school, helping her feel more at ease, spreading her joy like she so liked to do, left me with the opposite feeling.  That rare and fleeting moment as a parent when you feel like somehow, you did something right.  

No more nonsense

 During this pandemic, Benja and I have been taking lots of walks.  The other day, as we walked, we came upon a tree whose leaves were turning yellow.  I stopped, startled, because it is the end of August.  I asked out loud if Benja thought there was something wrong with the tree, or if it was already changing to its fall wardrobe.  Benja, suddenly exasperated, sighed loudly and exclaimed, "Mom, you notice this EVERY year, some trees start changing now."  I was a bit shocked at his impassioned response.  So I said, "You know, this is only going to worse, right?" (Meaning me not recalling things.)  Without missing a beat, he proclaimed,"That's why I'm moving to Canada as soon as I graduate, so I don't have to deal with this nonsense..."  Of course, for the rest of the walk, I pointed out MORE trees that were changing colors and wondered aloud what their deal was...

Fork Distribution

Maybe a year ago, I decided I needed to "Mary Poppins" our before dinner routine.  By that, I mean, I wanted to solicit help from the children in making dinner appear (all while singing merrily, "A Spoon Full of Sugar" of course).  Zibbi's job was collecting flatwear for everyone at the table, mostly because she has very particular tastes in what utensil should be distributed to each family member.  (She's always had a strong sense of her opinions.) Recently, Benja sat down at his spot and wondered allowed, "Why is my fork so small??"  For he had been given a small fork with which to eat.  Zibbi quickly arose from her table spot (yes we all have assigned spots to avoid nightly disagreements over where to sit) and approached Benja's face saying, "Because you are a DUKE."  Meaning, a smaller fork was distributed to him because he held a lower status.  Zibbi's father had the largest fork.  I was awarded the fanciest fork.  It just made so much sense in her own mind that she couldn't imagine how anyone could misunderstand her system.