28 November 2013

In medias res...




My Latin has left me,
which may be as well.
They were brute engineers
and their afterlife, hell.

Only one tag stays:
a bird with no wings.
'In medias res'
in the middle of things.

I am weighed down by parents,
made mad by my child.
The late sky is sleeting
the garden is wild.

I slump on a chair
in the last glow day brings.
In medias res
in the muddle of things.
[by Alison Brackenbury]

I never learned any Latin, and my parents are far from burdensome (as for the maddening and delightful children, well I really wouldn't have them any other way). Nevertheless, even on such festival days, the poem is apt. The muddle of things. I do feel like I am flying from one muddle to another, interrupting every clear thought with action. There are perfect moments, and ones I'd rather skate over, and I am so so tired and done with illnesses.

When I press the "call" button on the phone base to locate the handset, it beeps. Talia immediately drops whatever she is doing and runs to press the timer button on the oven, to add to the cacophony of beeping.

We have friends over for latkes, and dance a barely recognisable hora, and sing and laugh and laugh.

The children pull out every blanket in the house and build a den in which they argue loudly over dreidel and chocolate coins.

The cat mews to be let in and the children rush to the window to admit her, with Talia's chorus of unacknowledged "cat, cat, cat, cat" - she repeats words until we say them back to her. She also answers, "yesh" to almost any question. Her siblings gently tease her with it. (Hey, Talia, do you smell of poo? "Yesh!") I love the chatty baby words; it is far from tiresome as yet. (Although she did just come and drop a My Little Pony in my cup of tea. Thanks, child. "Pay!" She says. This is as close as she comes to "Pony".)

I sneak away for a bath in the evening, and one by one they come to find me, to talk about their respective days, their hopes and dreams and loves. I smile, probably somewhat wearily, and rejoice that they seek me out for all these little details of their lives.

Rowan (singing, for about the hundredth time): Hanukkah oh Hanukkah, come light the menorah!
Jenna: Shut uuuup!
Rowan (in a wounded tone): What?! I just love Hanukkah!

Ah, you know, all the chaos is wonderful in its own way. Happy holidays, all. Maybe one day soon I'll be able to string a coherent post together, eh?

1 comment:

  1. I know you are not waxing lyrical about everything, but who wants that? Reality wins hands down. The hard days are what make the good days twinkle.


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