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I actually looked up into the sky and said thanks

A car almost hit Max yesterday. The kids were riding bikes on our road, a flat, mostly quiet stretch with the occasional vehicle zipping by. I sat in a camping chair, reading a magazine, one eye on what Max, Claire, and their neighbor friends were doing, feeling a little smug that I was in the cold supervising at all.

Max flew by me and up a sloped driveway.

Seconds later, I spotted, in the distance, a mini-van coming toward us. "Car!" I called.

It was then that J. emerged from the house, asking if I wanted to go work out. I'd mentioned earlier in the day that exercising was a goal for the weekend.

Max raced down the driveway. The mini-van cruised toward us.

From where I sat on my lazy ass, I couldn't see Max. J., standing, had a good view. "Stop!" he shouted to Max. He yelled it twice more before Max, visibly shaken, could pull over.

"I didn't see it!" Max cried.

"I forgot he was up there," I gasped.

I came inside and changed into my t-shirt and yoga pants, feeling stunned and worthless and lucky. I got on the elliptical in our basement. I flipped on the TV. Grey's Anatomy, a show I've ever only watched a few snippets of, was on. Oh, I thought, I'll see what this is all about (only about 6 years late, I know).

The very first scene was of a mother holding her eight- or nine-year-old boy as he lay dying in a hospital bed. Boys that age, they slay me. The freckles, the still delicate noses and jaws, the way they love their moms (but not in public).

I lost it. I started sobbing and had to get off the elliptical. For a long time, I sat on the stairs weeping. I don't know real pain, I thought. I don't know what real devastation is even like. I only know what it feels to love another being so much that his (or her) demise would kill you. Fuck you over completely.

At dinner, J. said, "It wasn't that close."

"I thought it was. You saved him."

"Not really."

"That's how I see it."

*

Last night I had horrendous nightmares, the most dark and notable of which was me giving Max and Claire to a friend. Delivering them like second hand books. In the way of dreams, a lot of time passed during which I did nothing but drive. Finally, after a week, I realized I'd made an awful mistake, that I wanted my children back, that I had no idea what they'd been exposed to over the past seven days. It was pure, subconscious terror.

I met up with my friend and she relinquished my kids. They were happy to see me, but quivery and confused about why I'd left them. My disgruntled friend confessed she'd had to leave Max and Claire with people she didn't know very well so she could go to work.

All I could think was: had they been sexually assaulted? And if so, would they tell me?

I woke up and looked around my room, knowing the kids were safely watching TV. I staggered downstairs to hug them. Claire gave me a full on body wrap and didn't want to let go, which is her M.O. lately. Max was willing to accept the embrace, but never looked up from Sid the Science Kid. Which was just fine with me. All was normal. Everyone was safe.

And I was grateful. So grateful.

Gimme an epiphany

When I was in my twenties and single, I had a lot of epiphanies. Mostly they had to do with how not to be single any more.

I liked life on my own. Somewhat. I loved living in an apartment that was all mine–-no one to make a mess but me or my cat. No guilt if I wasn't doing something productive like cleaning. Not a soul breathing in my space.

But, without a doubt, I wanted to meet Mr. Amazing. He didn't seem to exist in Lansing, Michigan, where I lived for a good chunk of my young life. Seattle was better, but still full of guys who were full of themselves.

Then I met J. and in pretty quick order we had two kids.

I don't have epiphanies any more...the lovely dawning of existential understanding that comes over a person. For one thing, I don't sit around thinking about life as much as I used to. I mean, I guess I do. But it's more about balance and identity and parenting and less about how do I live as a single person while being okay with it or how do I meet that special someone who will complete me???

No longer do I spend Saturday mornings sprawled across my bed talking to other single girlfriends on the phone about who we met the night before, who we hope to meet, the world and our place in it.

***

Claire is six-and-a-half. Going on 15. She has inherited a pair of patent leather boots that are two sizes too big. She wears them anyway, almost everyday. She loves them. Style over function. That's my girl.

I decide to make cookies with her one day after school. She puts on a frilly apron I gave her the Christmas before. She is all little girl, rolling her dough balls in sprinkles and licking the beaters. She's receptive when I show her how to level off the flour and use a rubber spatula. She's adorable.

At breakfast that morning Max reads descriptions to her out of one of the gajillion toy catalogues we get (despite having flagged them all here). "The cheeky new monkey chatimal  (approx. 9"H) loves to repeat what you say, but in his own funny voice. Simply squeeze his left paw and then record a short message..." It is childhood and siblinghood embodied. Another moment I want to hold in my hands like a clutch of brightly colored crayons.

But there are bad days, too. So many times when I think I'll go lock myself in the car if I have to hear them fighting or talking over each other to tell me some dumb story I don't give a shit about.

***

This morning I am walking Claire across the playground to where her class lines up. A special ed teacher approaches me and asks if I'm Max's mom.

She then, essentially, wonders aloud if I teach him any manners.

Ok, let me put that in context. Apparently she's been saying hello to Max for years with no response from my less than social son. Yesterday, she finally called him on it. She inquired why he never says hello back. "Because I don't want to," was his reply.

So the teacher said something along the lines of, "I'm sure your mom teaches you manners at home, right?"

He said, "Not really."

This upsets me because 1. I do try to teach my kids manners. Of course I do. J. and I both talk to Max constantly about responding when someone greets him. About how it feels to be met with silence when you make the effort to say hi. And, 2. I thought we'd made more progress than that.

It is a rainy, windy morning. Weather than causes my eyes to water incessantly. As the teacher talks, tears course down my face. She thinks I'm crying. "No!" I yelp. "It's the wind." But I don't think she believes me.

***

A couple hours later, I chaperone a field trip to the zoo that Claire has been excited about. And, I dunno, can I say this about my kid? She is obnoxious.

Claire is all kinds of brightness and lightness and empathetic and caring. But today she does not shine. She is a know-it-all, announcing that she already understands every single thing the docent teaches, because she'd been to zoo camp once two years before. She goes up to kids who brought a lunch box and admonishes them for not having brought a sack, as instructed. She makes it her personal mission to enforce the rule of "no picking things up from the ground". And at the end of it all? She tells me it has been the most boring field trip ever.

I'm not sure how much you'd have to pay me to chaperone the next one.

I feel like a big parenting fail right now.

Despite the games of Battleship across the coffee table, the hours of homework help, the baking together and tucking in at night, I'm wondering if I'm doing it wrong. Are my kids just immature, or do I really suck? Am I too distracted? Too uninterested? Can they read on my face that I truly am not fascinated when they put noodles down their pants?

I need an epiphany.

Good girl

You're aware of the Seattle girl/woman imprisoned in Italy for killing her roommate. Of course you are. During the past four years you've heard her name hissed, spit bluntly, and chanted, the sibilant X at the end the perfect cupped-tongued reverberation for however compassionately or angrily you want her syllables to drop from your lips. You pass the TV and think Maybe... What do I know?

Amanda Knoxxxx.

It isn't until the week before the verdict on her appeal is expected that you really pay attention. You read the Rolling Stone feature, whose author exonerates her of committing a crime. You read other stories, too, where she's made out to be a slutty drug user with no regard for human life.

But you really start to watch her in court. You begin trolling the internet for news.

She's innocent, you think. Any halfway observant fool can see that. She moves with a gentle gait. She is full of emotion, but it's not remorse. She's done nothing for which to feel remorse. Her visible emotion is fear and anguish over what she's been through and her uncertain future.

You recognize another good girl when you see her. And you become a little preoccupied with her fate.

On the day her appeal verdict is announced, you sit in front of the TV waiting, actually shaky and teary. You realize you're ridiculous, but you can't help it. There is something about her you relate to. Not that you had the chance to travel abroad in college or visit that particular hilltown where she was kept, not that you're anywhere near her age. And even though you live in Seattle now, it is not your hometown.

It's her earnestness. Her anxiety.

When they announce her acquittal, you're elated. The world is an okay place. Justice, sometimes, still wins.

You watch her dad patiently field questions on the local news. You admire him. You wish the best for his daughter.

You know you'll encourage your own daughter to travel every chance she gets. It is already clear that she is also a good girl, that she wants to be a helpful, thoughtful person. Maybe she'll go to UW, too. Maybe she'll travel to Italy, where her parents went on their honeymoon. And probably everything will be fine.

But still, you wonder.

Mostly, though, you feel for this 24-year-old you've never met and likely never will.

You hope she'll be okay.