Always Remember That

I realized that I haven't taken many pictures of the kids lately; so today when they asked to have a picnic in the backyard, I packed the camera along with the pb&j's and potato chips. I thought I'd try to get a few frameable shots that captured both of my daughters' elegant beauty. Well. Instead I got these: Goofy and giggly and precisely what these two are like, most of the time. I think they're keepers (the pictures and the girls).

You are not as sympathetic as you could be, no doubt, when you hear your bedroom door creak open and a little voice say, “Mommy, I threw up.” You roll over and look at the clock and groan, “Really? You did?” and then hesitate a moment, thinking of the thoroughly unpleasant task ahead of you. You get up, turn on the hall light, look at your daughter, and say, “You should change your pajamas.” You walk into her bedroom and immediately realize that you should’ve obtained more information from the child before stumbling into her bedroom in the dark, in bare feet. You turn on the light and assess the damage – great, lots of ketchup with dinner last night – and then dither around for a few minutes wondering what to do. Do you need a washcloth? A towel? Maybe you should just move out? “Do I have to go to school tomorrow?” your child asks, still in her yucky pajamas. “That is not the most important thing at this moment!” you snap. You reflect, as you look for the Oxyclean, that you have no...

Mallory’s illness has been hard on Phoebe. It’s not that Phoebe is consumed with sympathy for her big sister. Nor does she wish that Mallory would get up off the couch and play with her. No, the problem is that Mallory’s being sick has visited upon Phoebe a series of perceived injustices, which are the worst things ever for a 5-year-old. First, Mallory was, as I said, supposed to go to a sleepover on Saturday night. Phoebe had determined in advance that she would sleep with me that night. (Neither girl likes to sleep alone; both regard sleeping with me as a big treat. Don’t ask why.) Since Mallory did not go to her sleepover, however, I told Phoebe she had to sleep in her own bed. Well. You would have thought I’d killed a kitten. Phoebe cried for hours about this. (Mallory, it must be said, cried only about 2 minutes when I told her she couldn’t go to her party, even though she’d been looking forward to it for weeks and had packed her bag days in advance.) “It’s so unfair!” Phoebe ...