Sugar and spice

Polly heads down the sidewalk with a little one on either side, their hands slipped confidently into hers. Shoulders a little rounded: all the reading, the computer games, the growth spurt. Old plaid skirt an inch or two above the knee now, about the length she’d wear it if she went to Catholic school. Yesterday a stranger asked her if she liked being homeschooled and she lit up, answered Oh yes with shining eyes. He works with students her age, this man does, and I could see him comparing—favorably; it was lovely, the way she grinned at her daddy’s jokes and nodded so vigorously when I talked about how much fun we have. Mary did some mild eye-rolling; she finds plenty to complain about, but I know that would be the case if she went to school too. Some temperaments have to wrestle and push, I think. It took me a long time to understand that what she needs is for me to be an angel for her to wrestle with. I wish I were better at it. She is so very strong.

Polly would rather lose an arm than wrestle with me. What she wants is not a sturdy angel but a song of praise, a warm glance, a shared joke.

When she brought the little ones back from their walk this evening, Jack had lost his band-aid. She put him on the counter and hunted for a new one. He took a pinch of air from her cheek and pretended to eat her. That laugh rippled out, and she threw her arms around him and said, “I just love you!” He grinned and bobbed and took another bite.

“Sometimes he just melts me, Mom,” she said.

Oh honey, don’t I know the feeling.