A Throwaway

Okay. I've been good, so good. It's been over a month now, and I have written EVERY SINGLE DAY. I'm not sure if you know how huge that is, how helpful it's been to me in so, so many ways, how proud I am of myself, how much I delight in your feedback, comments, corrections, input, even if you refuse to post it here.

But it was bound to happen eventually: I can't do a real one right now, I just can't. I won't even give the "too tired" speech; it is 12:30, but I'm not actually tired. A little wired, in fact, but there are a few things I need to do before I go to sleep, and morning will come early; Lily was asleep before 7:30, and I anticipate an early wake-up. I did other things today, instead. I made a big dinner for a friend's birthday, and I think he appreciated it enormously. I excavated dinosaur bones with Lily (don't ask), ran errands I'd been putting off, bounced Annika and lay on the floor with her, wasted some time on the Internet (that I would take back if I could, the time), and had a very satisfying phone conversation with a friend. And now it's 12:30, and I don't have the focus or energy to write something "real," but still I must write.

So here. I will tell you a funny Lily story, with the firm belief (even firmer than before) that writing is writing, that in telling this anecdote I am exercising the muscles, practicing my ability to tell a story, to write.

We were walking up the street to the car last night, at the end of the first part of our weekly journey (and yes, that is the right word) to Connecticut. Ben led the way, carrying Annika's car seat with a sleeping Annika inside. I followed, lugging two heavy bags. Lily trailed, sobbing and whining; it was about an hour too late, and she was tired and at loose ends. I don't even remember what she was upset about, but I was tired too and my patience worn thin, so I was mostly ignoring her but for an occasional, "Pick up the pace, we're almost there." After one loud sob, I stopped, feeling guilty and let her take the few steps to catch up with me. Her nose was running from the crying, and she lifted her hand and wiped her runny nose with it, both sides. Then she did the same thing with her other hand, too quickly for me to offer her a tissue, which 1) I didn't have and 2) I was too weighted down to supply. Her snotty hands gleamed under the streetlights. I know, but really they kind of did. "Mama," she sobbed. "I just want to hold hands with you." I looked at the hands. I couldn't do it. "Lil," I said, "My stuff is too heavy. We're about twenty feet from the car. And your hands are really dirty now. From your nose." The sobbing got louder. "I. Just. Want to hooooold your hand." By this point we had reached the car. We all got in. It wasn't pleasant. We drove in silence for about ten minutes, and then I heard again from the way backseat. "Mama?" She was still snuffling a little to herself. "Yes," I said, perhaps testily. "I wanted to hold your hand." I closed and then opened my eyes. "I know," I said. "Well, why wouldn't you hold hands with me?" I sighed. "You'd just wiped your nose with your hands, Lil. Remember how I was telling you that I really didn't want to catch your cold? That you had to use tissues and wash your hands carefully all of the time?" Silence, for just a few extra seconds. Then the voice again, that indomitable little voice, with a tremor in it, still. "And all I was wishing was for a sink to be right there on the sidewalk so I could do it. And have you hold my hand."

The heart swells, I swear that it does. If it's any consolation, or redeems me in your eyes, we held hands all morning today.