This morning I found a dirty rag on the floor beside the basket of laundry. I took it downstairs, along with the laundry, and called the bathroom-cleaning child over for a look-see. 

“Things that are full of dirt can’t go directly into the machine with all the other clothes,” I said. “You have to wash out the rag and then put it in the laundry. Now go do it right.”

I do this a lot, calling kids back for a re-do follow-through. Last night at bedtime I called someone downstairs because there was a dirty thermometer on the kitchen counter, shoved up against the wall as though that solved the problem. The other day I noticed a ring of gunk around the base of the pedestal sink and had to explain (again) how to scrub a floor and then make sure it got done again — this time, properly. This morning I sent someone outside to pick up all the pieces of twine that were strewn over the trailer, remnants from hauling a load of hay. 

The constant follow-through exasperates my husband. “We shouldn’t still have to tell them how to do it properly!” he rants, and I get it. It would be nice if they scurried around doing all the things before we even knew they needed done (and sometimes they do; sometimes they’re freaking amazing).

But wishing something doesn’t make it true.

The truth is that my children are 16 and 18 (and older) and while they do most of the dishwashing, toilet scrubbing, dusting, vacuuming, laundry, porch sweeping, trash emptying, etc, I still monitor and track.

The truth is that teaching kids to work takes work. It’s on-going — a marathon, not a sprint — and it takes years.

The truth is that it’s the little things, like setting the trash basket down properly (upright and in the right place) after emptying it, or wiping the bits of cleaning rag lint clustered in the mirror’s corner, or delivering the stacks of folded laundry to the proper rooms and then returning the empty washbasket to its spot atop the machine, that are the difference between a half-assed job and a completed job.

The truth is that the stupid little things are actually rather enormously important: attention to detail, finishing a project all the way, caring enough to do, enduring temporary discomfort for later gratification, seeing things from another perspective (mine).

The truth is that my children know how to work and I’m still teaching them to work. Two things, both true.

Would it be easier to do the work ourselves? In the short-term, yes, in some ways, but in the long run, no, absolutely not because: 1) I don’t want to do it do it all myself, 2) I can’t do it all myself, and 3) I don’t enjoy children who expect to be waited on. So I make notes of the piddly things like “put coats away,” “fold blanket in hall,” “pick up the paper you swept off the porch into the yard,” and then make them follow-through. Because — another truth — practice makes better, and we have an endless supply of things to practice on!

P.S. While I was working on this post, I got a text from one of my children showing off a freshly-cleaned room (in another house). “It blows me away how amazing I am,” the text read, and I thought back over the years of markered walls, junk-strewn bedrooms, and the hours upon hours of gnashing teeth and dragging heels as I taught them again and again and again how to work — and I laughed. Amazing indeed.

This same time, years previous: what we ate, a new dress, how we homeschool: the suburban correspondent, today…, marching, high on the hog, breaking the fruitcake barrier, the quotidian (1.6.14), headless chickens, buckwheat apple pancakes.

On New Year’s Day, my husband and younger daughter got up at 3 a.m. and drove up to Massachusetts to pick up my older daughter and all her stuff. The plan was to load her up and then return the next day, but they made such good time, and she was all packed (and wasn’t too keen on dragging out the goodbyes), so they loaded everything up and headed right back, arriving home at 2 am in the morning.

Yes, you read that right: they were gone for a total of 22.5 hours and were driving for 19.5 hours of that time.

They spent the next day doing a lot of this:

I was bummed they came right back because I’d been looking forward to a leisurely day at home (mostly) alone, but then I got over myself and adapted. As one does.

When they arrived home in the dead of night, I went downstairs to say hi. Charlotte was all excited to see me, and my daughter was walking around pointing out all the changes. And then I made my younger son wake up and come down because I wanted to be there when she saw him for the first time — all six feet and four-plus inches of him. The look on her face!

I didn’t think about my daughter that much when she was gone. I mean, I thought about her, of course, and we talked on the phone (a LOT), but she was so far away and so busy doing her own thing that she was sorta back-burnered in my mind. The last time she was home was over a year ago for the whirlwind wedding weekend, and she came home a couple months before that for about a week — in other words, she was only home twice in the two years she was gone. The last time I saw her was when my husband and I made a quick trip up in early spring.

I guess what I’m saying is, she was gone a long time and we hardly saw her. And now that she’s back, I’m almost sorry for myself for having lived the last two years without her. It’s like only now that she’s here do I feel the weight of her two-year absence.

Weird, that.

In a couple weeks she’ll move into another house not far from here where she’ll be housesitting. She plans to work with my husband, perhaps pick up some other jobs, and get reaquainted with the area while she figures out what’s next.

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (1.4.21), my new kitchen: the computer corner, Lebanese dried lemon tea, high-stakes hiking, just for sparkles, Christmas cheese, 5-grain porridge with apples, when cars dance, cranberry crumble bars.

In the last year, I’ve read the following:

• The Story of Arthur Truluv, by Elizabeth Berg. Wonderful: simple but not simplistic, and easy, but with depth.
• Know My Name, by Chanel Miller. An incredible story about a difficult topic. Somehow she managed to tell her story in such a way that I didn’t suffer any second degree trauma. I learned so much that, hoping to get my husband to read it, I ordered the book. (And then he wouldn’t read it — says stories like this are just too deeply disturbing.)
• The Art of Natural Cheesemaking, by David Asher. An excellent book — highly recommend (but note: my kefir-cultured cheeses were a disaster!). I wrote more about it here.
• No Cure For Being Human: (And Other Truths I Need To Hear), by Kate Bowler. I read this one in a single sitting (and it made me tear up).
• Permanent Record, by Edward Snowden. Interesting, but the tech parts were baffling (so I skimmed about a third of the book).
• Stranger Care: A Memoir of Loving What Isn’t Ours, by Sarah Sentilles. Well-written (I love love love her writing style) and utterly devastating. As a former foster parent, I wasn’t surprised by her story, just (re)angered.
• Between Two Kingdoms: A Memoir of Life Interrupted, by Suleika Jaouad. A wonderful story that made me feel a little bit incredulous that I somehow have a healthy body.
• The Mindful Grandparent: The Art of Loving Our Children’s Children, by Marilyn McEntyre and Shirley Showalter. I got to see the creation of this book, participate (a little) in its formation, and celebrate its birth! I wrote more about it here.
• But You Seemed So Happy: A Marriage, in Pieces and Bits, by Kimberly Harrington. I had trouble connecting with the author and never really relaxed into the story.
• The Buddha in the Attic, by Julie Otsuka. A fast read. Well-written and creative. Poetic.
• Here We Are, by Aarti Namdev Shahani. About our broken justice system and an immigrant family, this is an important topic but the story felt disjointed and too long and I didn’t quite make it the whole way through.
• Tasha: A Son’s Memoir, by Brian Morton. Well-done and interesting.
• Migrations, by Charlotte McConaghy. A fun book, well-written and pleasant, but it took me a while to finish.
• Sex Is A Funny Word: A Book About Bodies, Feelings, and YOU, by Cory Silverberg. Balanced, open, upbeat, frank, age (6-12-ish) appropriate. I wrote more about it here.
• Mastering Artisan Cheesemaking: The Ultimate Book for Home-Scale and Market Producers, by Gianaclis Caldwell. Packed with scientific information, cheesemaking insights, and recipe ideas! I wish I bought this book a year ago.
• And Yet, by Kate Baer. I read this sweet little book of poetry in a single day, two sittings. Kate did it again!
• Teaching While Black, by Matthew E. Henry. Packed with imagery, this raw, dense book of poems is an insightful read about racial issues in our school systems.
• Before and After the Book Deal: A Writer’s Guide to Finishing, Publishing, Promoting, and Surviving Your First Book, by Courtney Maum. Warm and honest, and loaded with facts and details, this one is a real insider look at the ups and downs of publishing a book. (And then I arranged a phone consultation with her!) Highly recommend.
• The Measure, by Nikki Erlick. An interesting concept but the story felt a little too didactic. The plot seemed distant and then I realized: with an established predestination for all the characters, there’s not much thrill.
• Giving Up the Ghost, by Hilary Mantel. So dense that I found it hard to follow and ended up whip-skimming whole swaths.

Top picks include Stranger Care and Know My Name (for most absorbing and inspiring), as well as Mastering Artisan Cheesemaking and Courtney Maum’s book (both for their usefulness). I struggle to enjoy fiction — my mom says it’s because the stories aren’t real; she might be right — but I keep trying. Just now I placed several books from this list on hold at the library. What are you reading?

This same time, years previous: cheesetasting: round three, perimenopause: some goodies, 2020 book list, 2019 book list, the quotidian (12.31.18), 2017 book list, remembering Guatemala.