Flash Cards

Ever's cry is so beautiful. It makes me think of Sylvia Plath, 

And now you try /Your handful of notes;/The clear vowels rise like balloons.

Her cry is round and full and rises- but not far- until it pops easily against the air, her father's face, the space between her and I. It hums upward like this: hmmm mm....hmmmm hmmmmm..  Her cry is so clear and crystalline and free of all the muddy hurts of life. Her cry is river water over rocks. It is also a calm cry, a cry that expects fully to be met with tenderness, loving voices, hands, a bare breast pressed into her mouth.  It breaks me open.  I am worried for our D., our oldest child, and that worry is etching itself into my face in the lines around my mouth and the one between my eyes. In the hollow distracted expressions a camera catches from me before I can offer something else.  I have been worn down with the bright cracking love of a new baby, and I am tender to the bone. Slight hurts invade my skin..I wrote once. True again.  I am shy, easily embarrassed, prone to misting over in the eye, self conscious and apologetic over things that I know logically aren't my fault, or anyone's. But still I am sure they are my own to fail.  I feel ashamed of my fumbling. I wanted four children. I have four children, and now I am fumble fucking around, making lists one minute and falling asleep on the chair, mouth open drool down my cheek the next. 

In Starbucks this morning I talked to the mother of a boy in Lola's class. I tutor the math in class, she said. Lola's having a really  hard time with the multiplication tables. I opened my mouth to respond but she kept talking I told her she should practice. We do practice, I said quietly, biting the inside of my cheek, screaming YOU WILL NOT CRY MOTHERFUCKER in my mind.  Oh I know! I told her...and she kept talking.  And it was mostly a lie. Mostly, we haven't been practicing. Mostly, I bought flash cards three weeks ago and still haven't remembered to use them once.  Mostly, I get off work at 4 and have to be lying in bed nursing my baby to sleep at 7. In the hours between 4 and 7 I have to spend time with all of my children, take one of them somewhere, eat or make and eat dinner, fold and put away one load of laundry, shower myself and or Ever, and possibly on a good night, like tonite, blog.  We are letting Ever stay up late tonite, because I had to write. Or my head will pop, not like Ever's kitten cries, but like a big, bloody pustule of adult frustration.  In addition to the things listed above, there are the other four million things, like teaching Lola how to ride a bike (feeling  horribly guilty we haven't regularly taken her out to learn) calling people who used to be my friends but might have given up on me at this point, returning emails, keeping my  house from the brink of filth and hoarder status, picking up groceries, going through Lola's backpack with her, signing papers, opening mail, paying bills, organizing the month's schedule, organizing whatever needs to be done for kids outside of school ( lately: summer camp forms, payments, phone calls and Insurance forms and phone calls and emails and phone calls to both L and D's schools about separate things ) spending 'special time' with Lola, doing homework with Lola, talking to D ( who has been wanting to talk nightly and who I MUST respond to because 1. he's almost seventeen and his time as my son as a kid is almost over and 2. he's having a hard time ) and oh my God...sex...my husband. I miss him so much. 

I've forgotten so much. And no matter how much I do- we do- I am always failing somewhere important. It's important, all of that. It's important that Lola's homework is done and one time and we make the kids school lunches so they don't eat like shit and our house isn't disgusting and I always, always have this feeling of anxious urgency.  At work, I can barely stand it sometimes, thinking of all the day going by and all the things I need to do.

And sleep, and Ever's teething and waking up all night,

and I have a tremor and a twitch in my left hand and today, I dropped not one but two drinks, just let go of them like an old lady, not even tripping or slipping, just my hand letting go for no reason.  

Not only do I feel like a failure, I feel like everyone agrees that I am.  Everyone but Mr. Curry, of course, who is, as always, my biggest supporter.  Everyone being the lady in Starbucks who knows my daughter isn't good at math and that I'm not tutoring her ( I work with S. every night with flash cards, she told me ), the people who wrote the complaint at my work about my baby holding propensities, and my nine year old daughter, who while she says I'm the best, also acts like I'm monumentally fucking up every time I have to ask her to wait a minute or to stop talking for TWO SECONDS CAN YOU JUST STOP TALKING FOR TWO SECONDS or tell her, no, Mommy can't play dolls tonight, I'm too tired.  I want to cry just writing this. I'm too tired for my sweetie at night, I just can't have focused play acting with her more than once a week right now and it's what she wants more than anything. I offer other things- sit with me, snuggle me, let me read a book to you- but it doesn't make her feel important the way playing does.  

Two nights ago we did have a dance off. Mr. Curry was the judge and Lola won by 12,000 points. I did the Sprinkler wrong and got -1. I love you Mr. Curry for giving me a negative one for our daughter.

And I'm sleeping with her and Ever, and after Ever falls asleep, Lola and I cuddle, every night. But still she doesn't seem to feel IMPORTANT enough, her big blue eyes are a little sad, and she acts so hurt over everything we can't do for her.  I feel like I'm ruining her happy heart. Dakota wasn't like this when Lola was born. What I could give him- which was much the same- was enough, he felt loved and important. Lola needs more.

I keep trying to prioritize. I keep rearranging. I keep trying. I keep failing. I'm always forgetting something, something that can monumentally fuck my kids up. ( If she doesn't get this now, she'll have a horrible time in fourth grade, she said. And it's true.  ) Like flash cards.