"There's no butter, so Dad said I should try this and I don't like. It's grape jelly."
"You like grape jelly. Why do you have to be so picky? Maybe you'd like it better if there was butter with the jelly. There's some in the basement in the freezer." I walked to the basement in my flowered LLBean flannel pajamas, shaking my head, wondering what other joys the day would bring. 'I shouldn't be so hard on her. It's just a bagel, but I swear she's just refusing to like it because it looks funny.'
I find the butter, walk back up to the kitchen, open the pack, unwrap a stick and put it in the microwave. Melt, no, soften, one stick of butter, start. The dogs are begging at the door. I walk to the closet, scoop out their scoops of food and let them in to eat.
My son is at the table eating a bowl of cereal. "What do you want for lunch?" I ask.
"Do you have tuna?"
"Yes. I bought some yesterday."
"Tuna."
I grab a can of tuna. The microwave beeps. I put a little butter on one quarter of one half of the bagel and some peanut butter on another quarter. I notice as I'm spreading that it's chunky. She prefers smooth.
I go to the bottom of the stairs and call up. "What do you want for lunch? Tuna or peanut butter and jelly?"
"Tuna."
"OK. Come on down, because I found some butter. Maybe you'll like the bagel better with a little butter on it. Come down and taste it."
I go back to the kitchen to open the can of tuna. The dogs are sitting at my feet as soon as I grab the can opener. "You guys are such beggars," I say. "I grab their bowls and squeeze tuna juice into them. They scramble around each other to make sure they get their share. I put the bowls on the floor, one by each of them, and turn back to the tuna.
My daughter walks in. "Here," I say. "I put a little butter on one part and some peanut butter on another part. See what you like best."
She takes the plate and walks over to the kitchen table. She sits. I turn around, open the refrigerator and find the mayonnaise. As I put it on the counter, I glance at her. She's breaking off a microscopic piece of the bagel with her fingers. She says, "This is chunky isn't it?" She looks annoyed, vexed by my incompetence.
"I just grabbed it and started putting it on. Then I realized it was chunky. I didn't know it had to be so perfect." I sigh and go to the cabinet to grab a container for the tuna. I start mixing the tuna, getting out the bread, two different kinds, finding their lunch boxes. "So, which one did you like better?" I ask her.
"The butter."
"Would you like butter on the other half?
"I already finished. I thought it all had butter on it."
"No, I only put butter on a small part. I didn't put anything on the other half. It just had jelly on it." I spread tuna on a slice of bread, wondering if I've got the amount of mayonnaise right. "So, it wasn't all that bad after all." I say. I put the sandwich in its container and turn to her. My arms are crossed. "I think you just decided you weren't going to like it, because you didn't like the way it looked."
She gets up from the table and walks out of the room. I finish making her lunch and start on her brother's. Where did he go? I peak in the office around the corner. "Get off the computer. We have to leave in five minutes. Do you have socks on?"
"Yeah."
"Check the weather while you're in there."
"Sunny, high of 63" he says after a minute. Well, that's good, at least.
The lunches are packed, so I grab a cup of coffee. Finally. "Time to go," I announce after two sips, as the digital clock on the microwave changes to 7:20. I grab my winter coat and purse. I'm still in my pajamas. The kids run down to the basement. My daughter starts yelling about something. "Stop it." is all I hear. I walk down the stairs.
"He keeps trying to make me trip. Next time, I'll probably land on my face." She's sitting on the floor putting on her sneakers. He's already outside. I walk over to my shoes and see one of his DS games on the floor. I grab it as he walks in the door.
"Come on," he says. "She's been getting here early, remember. We're gonna miss the bus."
I hand him the game. "This was on the floor," I say.
"What? Where?"
"Right here."
"It couldn't be. It was in my backpack pocket."
I turn him around and look at his backpack. "Well, the pocket's open. It must've fallen out when you leaned down to put on your shoes."
"It couldn't have. I put it in there."
"You don't take good care of these games. That's why you're always losing them and have no idea where they are."
We continue to argue as we walk out the door. We get in the car and drive the half mile down the hill to the bus stop. She pulls up just as we stop. She's early. They get out of the car, walk to the bus. I say, "Have a good day. I love you," but they don't hear me. I wave to some of their friends on the bus as she pulls away. As I drive back to the house I think about them and wonder how the rest of the day will go. Yesterday, I immediately changed into my work out clothes and finished my aerobics tape by 8:30. Today, I feel like writing. Should I write about this morning? Will the interactions with them be funny, interesting?
Reading back over what I've written, I feel let down. Nothing special here. Just our usual morning. NOthing like what I read last night. I was looking at a site called Good Reads, trying to figure out what book to read next. I posted on a discussion board and someone suggested Kristin Cashore. It turns out she's from NEPA. That got my attention, so I went to her blog. Funny! Very funny! She talks about how she writes, her method. She says that all day, there are voices in her head, different characters talking, usually fighting, and she tries to listen and figure out what they're saying. Then, she writes it all down in long hand. That's where her novels come from.
I don't hear voices in my head all day. Most people would consider that a good thing. When the kids are here, I hear their voices in my head all day, but I try not to listen. When I'm alone, the house is quiet and my head is full of thoughts, but not voices. It's full of my analysis of my world. I guess I'm more analytical than creative. I will analyze this morning's interactions with the kids all day. I'll also think about Kristin's blog, the conversation I had with Cherie and Missy the other day, our upcoming trip, weather trends, anything and everything that pops into my head will be subjected to analysis. Thinking, thinking analyzing, analyzing.
I'm not sure I have a story in me. I keep wondering if I'd be better off reading about the protein I used to work on in Steve's lab and putting together a review article, instead of trying to write non-fiction. I think there's something I'm supposed to write and I can't quite figure out what it is.
It's 8:15. (8:40 now that I've re-read and fixed the typos.) I have seven and a half hours until the kids get home from school. I'm still in my pajamas and my cup of coffee is empty. There are several items on my list, but plenty of time to write, if I can just figure out what's inside of me.
It's 10:15. I tried to do some jobs around the house and discovered my daughter's lunch bag on the kitchen counter. Great. I drove it up to the school. It seems I've been driving something up to one of them every other day for the past month. I'm in a bad mood. (Did you catch that?) I feel discouraged and stressed. I think the stress is because we're going away soon. I love planning trips, but I'm old now and get nervous when the departure date approaches. I'm discouraged because my writing isn't funny. I'm funny. People tell me all the time that I'm funny, that I should be a comedian. But, my writing's not funny. Maybe it's because I'm writing all alone, but I'm funny in front of a crowd. Maybe if I write the story as if I'm telling it to some of my friends and acquaintances, as I have in the past, it would come out funny. Well, it's worth a try, because this is depressing.
I feel a deep need to make popcorn and watch The Order of the Phoenix. Now she can write.
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