Story Time

The hours of 4-7pm are what's known as "the witching hour" around here. Everyone is overtired from a long day but it's not quite time to go to bed and there is SO much sibling conflict that absolutely, positively MUST be squeezed in before the sun goes down! After dinner, after bath, after telling the girls for the millionth time to brush their teeth and be sure to use toothpaste because their breath smells like a rotting, dead goat, it takes every ounce of will-power I have to make it to story time. In the past I've breezed past this and sent kids straight to bed after I call upon Ireland to say family prayer (her prayers are incredibly short). However, a few weeks ago Liesel's teacher sent home a Reading Log. Damn.

Now someone is keeping track of whether and how often I read to my kids. The goal is 2 books a day and once we do a full week, Liesel gets a sticker next to her name at school. She also gets tickets for the upcoming Halloween party. It's a dream for her, it feels like a public flogging for me. At the close of the witching hour I've been forced to ask Liesel and Ireland to pick out one book each. When we finish, I write down the date, the name of the book and my initials in Liesel's log. I don't want to do it. But I don't want my daughter to be sticker-less and ticket-less on my account and have to withstand the shame of appearing she comes from a broken home that doesn't care about literature. Oh the horror. So I reach deep into the dry well of energy I'm running on and find a way to read to my children at the close of the witching hour.

Over the past few weeks, Brigitta (who is always keen to be in on the fun) has impatiently stood on tiptoe and fussed to be put on my lap during story time. However, once she's there, she lunges for the book in one deft move of over-enthusiasm. I can't let her continually rip up the library books Liesel brings home from school (I've already taped up more than one). I can't hold her in one hand AND a book in the other very well on my disappearing lap. To be quite frank, I can't handle one more conflict as the very last shreds of my sanity fall away to reveal a mama who is raw from a long day. And at this point in this pregnancy, every day is a long day. I decided Brigitta just has to stay on the floor. She's clearly not old enough for story time. 

Tonight as I was YET AGAIN directing/cajoling/begging the girls to brush their teeth, I saw Brigitta wander into the room in my periphery. "Liesel! Use toothpaste! GIRLS!!!! Knock it off! Share the stool! Sweet Mother of Abraham Lincoln what is taking so long? Let's go, let's go, let's go!" Suddenly Brigitta was at my knees, grunting and impatiently stomping her feet to be held. I let out a sigh and picked her up and tried to mitigate a fight in the bathroom from my command post in the den. It wasn't until she waved something in my face that I relented and gave her a bit of my attention-- it was a book. Brigitta wanted her story time. 

The sweet innocence of my little girl asking me to carve out some time and space when I am the most exhausted, the most impatient, the most like a sham-of-a-mom caught me off guard and hit me to the core like a Mack truck. I decided to let Liesel and Ireland battle it out on their own in the middle bathroom and to Brigitta's delight, I opened the book and began to read. Her dimpled hands and chubby fingers were eager to help me turn the pages. She made a sound of surprise and pointed at one of the pictures as if she were shocked by the plot twist. When we finished, she opened it again. Just one more time Mom. So I read it again and relished a moment alone with this precious girl, our forget-me-not, who so desperately wanted to feel included and loved and read to. Tonight, it was the last bit of energy I had to give, but I gave it to Brigitta freely; the cacophony of a fight over who was taking up all the water echoing down the hall.