Climbing Up the Hill
The hour between five and six o’clock must cross over to some other time continuum. It certainly is not of this world. All day long the minutes race past me and I have longed for more time until, at five o’clock, my wish is granted and suddenly time screeches to a painstaking halt.
At five in the afternoon, a time for death and bullfights, the happy hour, I should have a cocktail. I should be listening to the news. Finally my day is coming to an end, just as soon as Daddy can get home to relieve me. Only one hour left and we almost always spend it outside. As soon as we’re out the door, Eli makes a bee-line for the swing.
“Swing!” He dives on and spins himself around, laughing. He rocks and sways on the swing until it loses its luster. Then he looks up at me, eagerly. What now? I look at the time. 5:07. Could it go any slower?
What is wrong with me? I am consumed with guilt for feeling this way in the afternoon. I know that I’m lucky to be able to spend this time with my children. And it’s a beautiful day. The kids are happy. But I can’t help it. I’m tired. I’ve done as much as I can do in one day with play-doh and crayons and the train set and the little people. I’m spent.
So I pull out my very last trick. I pile them into the wagon and we make our way across the street to spend some time in one of our favorite spots. Just across the street from our house on the corner is a mass of tangled roots and heredity that has pushed up and broken through the cement. The sidewalk is broken and falling away under the duress of the tree.
What used to be a plain, straight sidewalk is a little mountain of crumbling concrete. My neighbor, whose children are away at college now, calls this mound in the sidewalk we climb at the end of our tired days “the hill.” Her daughter would beg for permission to walk by herself to this place, to meet pre-pubescent neighborhood girls at this halfway mark between her home and theirs.
“Meet you at the hill,” they would announce, and feel very big saying so.
And then they would walk in the dusk all by themselves at the designated hour, mommies watching for cars and strangers from their doorsteps and behind wooden blinds while little girls ran to this site and then waited to trade a book for class notes or shirts for skirts, to hand off homework assignments, a boy’s phone number, or just to talk briefly about something that absolutely could not wait until the next day.
It takes some coordination to pull Eli and Lena in the wagon over the little hill and make sure they maintain their balance. Elias thinks it’s so much fun and Lena likes to laugh at whatever Eli is laughing at. Sometimes the wagon wheels get stuck in the cracks of broken concrete. Sometimes Elias wants to push or pull the wagon himself. Usually he wants to ride. Today he wants to make sure Lena stays seated safely on her bottom and enjoys the ride, no small task.
We spend the final half hour before dusk crawling in and out, under and around the wagon, jumping over roots, examining bark and the paths that little ants create on the sidewalk. Every few minutes I enjoy myself, I get lost in their amazement at everything. And then a few minutes more and I shamelessly check the time again.
Then Elias decides he wants to push the wagon to the top of the hill, all on his own.
“Puuush. Leeeena.” He uses all his strength to get the wagon over the last little hump. And finally he reaches the top of the hill, to my surprise. He smiles and swells with pride while Lena laughs and claps her hands.
“Whoa! Way to go, Eli!” I tell him. “You’re at the top of the hill! You did it!”
We rest together at the top, and as I praise him, I see clearly. I am on top of the world.
______________________________
I included this entry as part of a Mom Blogging writing sample to ClubMom.com.
At five in the afternoon, a time for death and bullfights, the happy hour, I should have a cocktail. I should be listening to the news. Finally my day is coming to an end, just as soon as Daddy can get home to relieve me. Only one hour left and we almost always spend it outside. As soon as we’re out the door, Eli makes a bee-line for the swing.
“Swing!” He dives on and spins himself around, laughing. He rocks and sways on the swing until it loses its luster. Then he looks up at me, eagerly. What now? I look at the time. 5:07. Could it go any slower?
What is wrong with me? I am consumed with guilt for feeling this way in the afternoon. I know that I’m lucky to be able to spend this time with my children. And it’s a beautiful day. The kids are happy. But I can’t help it. I’m tired. I’ve done as much as I can do in one day with play-doh and crayons and the train set and the little people. I’m spent.
So I pull out my very last trick. I pile them into the wagon and we make our way across the street to spend some time in one of our favorite spots. Just across the street from our house on the corner is a mass of tangled roots and heredity that has pushed up and broken through the cement. The sidewalk is broken and falling away under the duress of the tree.
What used to be a plain, straight sidewalk is a little mountain of crumbling concrete. My neighbor, whose children are away at college now, calls this mound in the sidewalk we climb at the end of our tired days “the hill.” Her daughter would beg for permission to walk by herself to this place, to meet pre-pubescent neighborhood girls at this halfway mark between her home and theirs. “Meet you at the hill,” they would announce, and feel very big saying so.
And then they would walk in the dusk all by themselves at the designated hour, mommies watching for cars and strangers from their doorsteps and behind wooden blinds while little girls ran to this site and then waited to trade a book for class notes or shirts for skirts, to hand off homework assignments, a boy’s phone number, or just to talk briefly about something that absolutely could not wait until the next day.
It takes some coordination to pull Eli and Lena in the wagon over the little hill and make sure they maintain their balance. Elias thinks it’s so much fun and Lena likes to laugh at whatever Eli is laughing at. Sometimes the wagon wheels get stuck in the cracks of broken concrete. Sometimes Elias wants to push or pull the wagon himself. Usually he wants to ride. Today he wants to make sure Lena stays seated safely on her bottom and enjoys the ride, no small task.
We spend the final half hour before dusk crawling in and out, under and around the wagon, jumping over roots, examining bark and the paths that little ants create on the sidewalk. Every few minutes I enjoy myself, I get lost in their amazement at everything. And then a few minutes more and I shamelessly check the time again.
Then Elias decides he wants to push the wagon to the top of the hill, all on his own.
“Puuush. Leeeena.” He uses all his strength to get the wagon over the last little hump. And finally he reaches the top of the hill, to my surprise. He smiles and swells with pride while Lena laughs and claps her hands.
“Whoa! Way to go, Eli!” I tell him. “You’re at the top of the hill! You did it!”
We rest together at the top, and as I praise him, I see clearly. I am on top of the world.
______________________________
I included this entry as part of a Mom Blogging writing sample to ClubMom.com.
Comments
Loved this post!