But The Days Are Long

The days are long but the years are short. But the days are so, so long. And yet so, so fast. This is life with children, growing and changing so fast you can watch it happening, yet exhausting you with their day-to-day sameness. I’m only 35 and both of my parents are dead and gone, at ages 54 and 68. I appreciate full, long days and fear the speed that the years are passing probably slightly more than the next person, while still being a human thing who occasionally yearns for a stretch of time in which to relax, read, navel-gaze, or, you know, sleep?

It would be comically ludicrously impossible to chronicle thoroughly even one day in the life of our raucous family of two moms and four boy children. It would be heart-achingly negligent of me not to try.


for today,

Heather is mowing the lawn. I am having a go at the blog I’ve been encouraged to write for so long by so many. I am in the living room, which I picked up-folded up-put away-cleaned up a bit ago while simultaneously scooping cat litter, changing the sheets on our bed, supervising the boys picking up their toy room, breastfeeding, wiping off their chalkboard wall, turning duck eggs in the incubator, doing loads of laundry, putting away last night’s dishes and washing today’s, bouncing the baby, taking out garbage, and probably other things I’m forgetting during that hour. I am watching the baby nap via our Big Brother baby surveillance device. Evan and Asa are also napping – an imposed session brought on by mommies who want to remain patient and kind combined with children who stay up late and wake so so so so early.  Isaac is not here – which is a can of worms, frankly. He has so far spent the time since the end of his less-than-successful tenth grade school year avoiding all responsibility and scurrying off to his father’s house, where he can play unlimited video games and keep whatever hours he pleases. We are underwhelmed by his choices at the moment, while admittedly relieved by not his absence but the momentary absence of our obligation to steer him into an adult life with what we hope will contain more meaning than playing video games. Well, not so much the obligation, but the enforcement of the steering, I suppose.

That’s the six of us for this moment on a Saturday afternoon in July, only now Oscar has joined me, needing to be fed.


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