Fragments

Sometimes I want things to be easy. Sometimes, when things feel hard, I fantasize about moving somewhere and raising my children in a safe little bubble and teaching in a safe little school where my biggest problem is all the white moms who are irritated because their honor students have a few B's or their sons aren't getting enough playing time on the field and the school district would never be in the news unless it was to report on the Homecoming game; perhaps the biggest controversy would be some conservative parent protesting a novel or a cheating scandal or something. But the thing is that I don't want that. I don't want those people to be the people who influence my children, the people they learn from, the people who shape their worldview. And frankly, I know that so much of what I value about where I am now would not be possible if I retreated to that mythical bubble.

But right now I am indulging in a fantasy, because things have just not been easy this year. Well, some things. I need to remember that, on top of everything that makes me feel so unmoored right now, I also have the deep privilege to teach three of the best classes I have experienced. Teaching them is exciting. It's everything I love about teaching. That is something, and it is a lot.

*

Sometimes, the parts that are hard become the parts that I live for. The parts that make me stay, in the end. And when that's not enough, I have the best people in my corner, in the trenches with me. The best of the best. And these people are the people I want in my children's lives.

*

October makes the unbearable bearable. When I can manage it, I squeeze in a quick run before I pick up the kids in the afternoon. I run through piles of damp, fallen leaves and breathe in the faint scent of woodsmoke. Some of these fall afternoons have been beautifully sunny and warm. The other day I jogged through a light rain that soothed the edges of my fraying nerves. The sky begins to darken earlier, and I am ready to settle in at home afterwards, settle my kids at the table with their snacks and their books and their math while I slip into the bathtub with a book of my own.

*

Twice a week we go to soccer practice. Suzannah runs to the field, ponytail swinging, shouting greetings to her friends. Isaac runs off with the other little brothers. Sometimes one of the soccer dads brings a football and tosses it around with the boys; sometimes they stomp through puddles and run off to collect sticks and branches and enter a world of wild boyhood just beyond my grasp. They play at the edges of the trees, stomp through piles of leaves, disappear for a few anxious moments, and reappear with whoops and hollers. I sit at the edge of the field, my eyes glancing between them: my girl on the field, my son just beyond it. I love them so much I can hardly breathe. Observing them like this, when they are wholly, unselfconsciously themselves, so present in their bodies, is one of the great gifts of motherhood. These babies, my babies, these wonderful humans. What will they become?

*

I tell everyone I never wanted to be a soccer mom and I mean it. I never did. Matt and I are great lovers of outdoor activities: hiking, swimming, running. We are not great lovers of sports, although I have been known to enjoy a good college basketball game. But somehow, the two of us produced a child who loves sports (she understands football more than I do, no question), and when she said she really wanted to play soccer with a real team, what could I do but sign her up? And as it turns out, I love it. I really do. I've spent every Tuesday and Thursday since mid-August at the soccer field, sitting in a camp chair and reading or chatting with the other parents. I've spent every Saturday for nearly three months watching her play fiercely in games, and there is no reading then: I'm in it, all the way. I'm balling my hands into nervous fists, I'm cheering, I'm leaning forward and holding my breath. I have intense respect for her coach, who is a legitimately awesome coach but who is also gracious and positive. I love the girls on the team and it has been amazing to watch them grow together. I love the other parents, how they learn the names of all the players. Two months in and we cheer together. We shout encouragement to each girl, by name, and when one goalie throws herself into the mud to stop a ball or one girl finesses the ball away from the other team and passes smoothly and another shoots it triumphantly into the net, we know which parent to turn to: "Your girl is doing great."

The girls didn't play their best game today; they had a make-up game last night (from the game they lost due to the epic storm that didn't quite happen two weekends ago), a mere eighteen hours before their regular game today, and we could all tell they were tired and foggy. But still, the mood was upbeat. One of the dads said, "It's more like they're out there going for a nice little jog together and they've forgotten about the ball," he said. He started jogging in place next to me. "Y'all want to to out later after the game? What are you doing this afternoon?" And we all laughed. We didn't love losing the game, but I did love that when the girls walked off the field together, red-faced, hair sticking to their cheeks, they called cheerful good-byes to each other: "See you tomorrow!" Because we play in a state cup qualifier tomorrow. It's exactly the sort of weekend I assumed I would dread, but somehow, I don't. When I learned the season lasted until December, I thought that seemed like an awfully long time; now, as I can stare down the month of November, I'm already feeling a little sad about the season's end. I really, truly love this. What an unexpected joy.

*

After today's game we headed to Seattle. Matt took the kids to EMP and dropped me off at one of my favorite coffee shops to work on an online workshop I'm doing this month. I really wanted to just sip coffee and read (I'm loving Work Like Any Other by Virginia Reeves), but I hunkered down and worked for two hours and wound up feeling so glad I didn't put this off for late Sunday afternoon, which would have made me edgy and stressed because I still don't really know what I'm going to do with my freshmen on Monday and I need to spend part of tomorrow figuring that out. When they came back to pick me up the kids were happy and spent and full of stories: Suzannah ran into one of her classmates and they played together, and Isaac told me what he loved best about the Sound Room. We drove to West Seattle for dinner. Matt and the kids walked to Easy Street Records while I wandered over to Elliott Bay Brewing to put in our name. I crossed the street behind two men in jeans and boots and leather jackets with chains, and suddenly they clasped hands and giggled and crashed their hips together, totally smitten. They walked more and more slowly as they looked at each other, and I couldn't help smiling. One of them leaned in to kiss the other, and then he glanced back at me.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" he said.

"We're totally hogging the sidewalk," the other said.

"No, it's okay," I said. And then I blurted, "You're...really cute."

They looked at each other and beamed and laughed.

"I had to bring my Jersey boy to Seattle," one said. "It's his first time."

"Don't listen to him. I just met him five minutes ago. But I think he might be my next husband."

We all laughed and said goodnight as I went inside the pub. I scrawled our name on the wait list and headed for the bathroom. I passed a table with two parents and a golden-haired baby, who looked up at me and grinned and waved, her chubby hand opening and closing. Coming out of the bathroom, I met a mother leading a toddler by the hand. That kiddo looked up at me and said, "Hiiii!" And in the space of five minutes, I just felt that in spite of everything, the universe can show us these beautiful moments of grace, these fleeting random encounters: people in love, babies, toddlers, husbands who lead children into a restaurant and slide into a booth with their wives. The warmth of it all.