I Live in a Shoe

This afternoon, I found myself in my own backyard with three fifth grade boys, an almost-six year old boy who was desperate for the attention of the fifth grade boys, and three babies, ages 15 months, 16 months and 17 months. My cordless phone rang in my pocket and I said, "Hello?" and my husband said, "What are you doing?" I said, "I'm in the backyard with seven children, wondering how I ended up here!"

He laughed from the quiet safety of his book-filled office. I called him back later and asked if he'd bring home pizza. It was that kind of afternoon.

Actually, the children were all well-behaved. I only watched the 15 month old for three hours, and one of the fifth grade boys was only here for a couple of hours. But still. I feel like the Old Woman Who Lives in the Shoe. Only I can't spank all the children and put them to bed. Isn't that how the poem read?

There was an old woman who lived in a shoe.
She had so many children she didn’t know what to do.
She gave them some broth without any bread,
Whipped them all soundly and put them to bed

I can understand why women pay other less-educated women $3 an hour to watch over their children so they don't have to endure the thankless monotony of keeping children alive. But the thing is, I believe that wiping a nose with love is different than wiping a nose without love. I believe that taking care of those who cannot take care of themselves is as important as making a lot of money and having adult conversations. When did childhood just become a pointless stretch of time that parents can ignore if they can pay someone else to do the grunt-work?

Well, maybe I'm jealous of women who wear pantyhose and go to offices and talk to adults all day and have lunch breaks.

Wait. I used to be one of those women and I watched the clock. I had to put in 7.5 hours a day and I started counting down at 6.5 hours. Only 4.5 hours to go, just 3.75 hours left, just 2.5 hours, only 1.5 hours, I think I'm going to make it. I wanted desperately to be at home with babies. (I never thought about being at home with ten year olds, though. How short-sighted of me.) I just knew that the work I was doing for a paycheck wasn't meaningful. My dad's death during that time only reinforced my feelings that life was too short to sit in an office and watch the clock. He was only 47.

So, I want to be home. I want to be the one who reads my baby's mind. I want to be the one to monitor the snack situation when the boys come bursting through the door at the end of the day. I want to be the one who rolls around on the floor with my kindergartener. I want to be in the backyard.

Every once in a while, though, I'd like to be the one waving good-bye and blowing kisses. My day will come. (I did the math the other night while I was trying to fall asleep and realized I'll be 56 when Babygirl graduates from high school. My mother is just turning 61 this year. I am an old mother. A very old mother.)

Here's a weird thing.

When I was born, my grandma was 59.
When Babygirl was born, her grandma was 59.
When my mother was born, her mother was 37.
When Babygirl was born, her mother (me) was 37.

That hurt my brain. Not a good sign. That's what seven children in one day will do to an old woman!