An Introduction!

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way.

--Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities



Okay. So Dickens was referring to the French Revolution, not my house in the hour between dinner and bedtime on an arbitrary Thursday evening in September, when my four-year-old is “putting on a show” on the living room couch clad in a tutu and fireman’s hat, and my one-year-old is pushing a wooden tricycle into the wall over and over again in a desperate attempt to turn it around, and the dogs are circling my legs because although I managed some meatballs and zucchini for the girls, and set the highchair tray on the floor for them afterward as an appetizer, I have not actually managed to feed them, and the telephone rings and it is an editor I owe work to, and I say, “Oh, no, it’s just the radio,” and rush into the bathroom and lock the door behind me to block out all the background noise.

It is times like this when, like Dickens, I fear we are “all going direct the other way,” especially me, because I am responsible for all this chaos: I made it, I asked for it, I wanted it, even—or so I thought. I think it is safe to say that parenting has never before been compared to the French Revolution, but now that I think about it, I’m not sure why. If the Revolution was a time of political and social upheaval during which the monarchy was overthrown by the people, who desired equality and more control over their government, then is there in fact a more apt comparison for a peaceful household of authoritarian adults into which two citizens are born, insisting upon radical change, personal freedom, the undivided attention of those in power, making manifest a willingness to fight to the death for them?

The end result, of course, of all this turmoil, was the Enlightenment, a glorious period for France, and for much of the world. And even when I am locked in my own bathroom, trying to conduct a business call, as four especially demanding citizens lean on the door from the other side, demanding entry, I can still grasp the “season of light” to which Dickens refers. All of the best things in life, in my experience, come from hard work and a sense of purpose, burnished with a sense of humor and a refusal to quit. I was queen, once. I ate cake for dinner whenever I wanted to, which was more often than it should have been. Now, I need to share, and let them eat some too, and that is only the very beginning of the end of my years of entitlement. At heart, I believe in democracy, which requires being open to the wisdom and the foolishness, the best and yes, the worst.

At night, when my children are sleeping, which is sometimes the easiest time to love them, I slip into their rooms and watch their faces in the shadows, the rise and fall of their little chests. Yes, I can see then, can say to myself as I slip back out and close the door gently behind me. This is the spring of my hope.