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When does it get easier?

Sometimes my two kids, a freshly minted five and three, play together really well and I feel like we're gettin' somewhere, like my life won't always be about fetching this, reaching that, cleaning up after. But then, we have days (read: the last few) when it seems all I'm doing is scurrying around like a housegirl.

I repeat the mantra all day long: I'm not your servant. I'm your mommy. I'm not here to do everything for you. I'm here to teach you to do things for yourself.

But the learning curve? It is steep. For all of us.

I often have to sit on my hands to prevent myself from plunging in and finishing a task. It takes all my willpower to ignore their screeches of protest when I'm hanging back, letting them figure out the frustrating riddle of their jacket zippers.

Also, teaching kids things...takes sooooo loooooonnnggg.

I wish I could impart my knowledge, smile confidently and step away. But that's not how it works. They forget. The next time they confront a challenge (a stubborn glue stick top, a button and button hole, SHOE VELCRO FOR CHRIST'S SAKE) they, once again, expect me to pick up the slack. And the next time and the next. Until my gentle reminders that they can do it themselves turn into battle cries.

Then there is my guilt. Which is large and fuschia and sometimes hovers over all of us like a thick cloud about to burst. Only it won't disperse gentle fuschia rain, but large, sticky balls of tar that will bind our hands and feet.

I never feel that I'm doing enough. If I'm on the floor with the kids, I'm eyeing the crumbs scattered across the floor that need to be swept or the dishes piled high in the sink or my laptop which I want to fondle.

If I'm wiping the kitchen counters or folding laundry, it seems that I should be engaging more with Fruit Bat and Kitty Cat.

What I want to know is, When Will That Magical Day Arrive? The Day In Which I Can Stop Whimpering About What's Become Of Me, Because I'll Be Back. Fully And Totally Back.

Don't tell me it will never return. Please don't tell me that.

San Diego Burning

My hair still smells like smoke. We had to evacuate San Diego yesterday, or, more specifically, Rancho Bernardo which is inland and is where J.'s mom lives in a large retirement community that we'll call Casa.

On Sunday afternoon the sky to our west started to fill with smoke.

We took Fruit Bat and Kitty Cat down to the pool for a quick swim, but with Fruit Bat's newly diagnosed asthma, we weren't too keen on staying out for long. So, we were mostly cooped up in a one-bedroom apartment, trying to entertain with coloring books and dress up.

By Sunday evening we thought the Santa Anas had lessened and the air had cleared somewhat and were planning a beach outing for the next day. I slept so well that night. Neither child woke up and it was a glorious nine straight hours of slumber.

Then at six a.m., J. whispered that the power was out, the hallways much smokier than the day before, the sky much grayer. I dressed and hurriedly packed up by glow of my book light. Casa was hot, a film of ash scuttling around the balcony, eighty-year olds gossiping outside our door.

By eight o'clock, J.'s mom and I were arguing about leaving for safer ground. She thought we were safest staying put, but my flight instinct was so strong my limbs were twitching with the need to jump in the car and go. The major highway into downtown San Diego was closed. Or so we had heard. We consulted maps and listened to a staticky transistor while J. did his best to entertain Fruit Bat and Kitty Cat.

Finally the reverse 911 call came and told us to evacuate. The Casa staff still hadn't advised anyone to evacuate, so J.'s mom resisted. Luckily, J. agreed with me, so we pulled all our gear (which was substantial, as I'm sure you know if you've traveled with children) into the hallway. Just then a woman emerged from her apartment wearing a housecoat and asking if the elevators were working. Um, no, the power's out. The WORLD IS ON FIRE. No elevators.

"Well, we are in a bind, aren't we?" She said.

None of the other residents I met up with seemed to feel the slightest urgency to leave. Of course, they are more used to living in wildfire country than I. But still.

So, we managed to stay mostly calm and to not slap the fat little cheeks of our children as they argued about what they would and wouldn't carry as we RAN FOR OUR LIVES. I'm being overly dramatic. But that was how it felt to me.

The roads were deserted. Police officers wearing dust masks over their mouths and noses directed us onto Highway 15 (it wasn't closed after all) and we drove. Small piles of debris along the road's shoulder burned and the sky above us was thick with smoke. The orange ball of the sun just managed to shine through in some spots. And it was all surreal and nothing I hope to repeat.

We ended up at J.'s cousin's house in downtown San Diego where Fruit Bat and Kitty Cat were able to play and nap until we arranged an earlier flight home.

I've never been so happy to see our lush green Pacific Northwest. To think, that just three days ago I was kvetching about all this rain.