Schultz Party of Four

I spent the day in my cube. My brain (right side or left I am unsure) was crunching numbers, leaving the other side bored and wanting for excitement. Enter NPR Book Tour. I listened to a countless parade of intriguing (and some not so much) authors reading from their latest books and discussing plot development, inspiration and the like. It got me thinking. Being an author, maybe just on the side, would be an awesome gig. And then I heard a memoirst and realized that is what I should do...you know, cause I've got so much memoir material crowding this number crunching (ha). Perhaps I shall just dabble here-and-there with my blog, supposing that's not what I already do.

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Attempt 1:

When she was fresh from the womb, even just days old, I looked forward to the evenings and the ritual bath. It represented closure, I had defeated the lazy clock and at last completed another day of motherhood. In the overwhelming first weeks of breastfeeding (or breast-chewing for Carolyn), recovering from delivering life into the world, and realizing my own life was over as far as I had known it to that point, the clock was an obsession. Go faster, tick-tock-tick-tock, come on, maybe this ones broken, nope. Will she ever grow!?! Open your eyes and recite the alphabet, say 'mama', do something.

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At some instant along my motherhood journey the clock finally agreed to my pleas and sped up with such intensity I fear it may now be unstoppable. I stare at the girls giggling in the back seat carrying on conversations of complete sentences, the alphabet having been recited years ago, and I realize that the clock continues to be my enemy. Slow down, tick-tock-tick-tock, please go slower, nope. Why are they growing so quickly!?! Curl up in my arms again, say 'mommy' forever, never grow up.

And now as the sun sets on another one of the precious few days of my daughters' childhood I dread the bath. It represents dirt, sweat, tears being washed away with another day never to be seen again.  The legs that once curled up tight against the cool evening air now stretch a good portion of the tub's length. The toenails, once just slivers on tiny toes, are painted pink or red or purple or all of the above and dance along to the singing of 'Honey Honey' or 'Jesus Love Me'. We no longer turn down the lights and play soft music as we gently pour warm water over a soft newborn head - now its 'look up!...look up! stop screaming, the neighbors will call the police! Just look up! I have to rinse your hair!' 

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Two bare bottoms race from the bathroom and melt in hysterics onto our bed, wriggling beneath princess bath towels and shaggy wet hair. Nightgowns slip over their heads, gone are the footed sleepers with confounding snap-crotches. Once dressed and properly combed they race to their bedroom to make a book selection - then hop into bed. Even the books seem to go fast these days. I try to take it slow, convince the girls we must know what happens in the next chapter and go for another fifteen pages. It is to no avail, at last I must give kisses and hugs, say prayers and goodnights. The clock has won again.