Uh oh. Am I flirting with you? Indeed I am.

Once upon a time, in the land before marriage and kids, I was a solid flirt. Not over-the-top, but I had my moments. I even indulged in the old school head-tilt from time to time. And you know what? Flirting was fun. In college and law school, I looked forward to nights out because I so enjoyed the playful banter that would invariably ensue between moi and a medley of cute guys. Please note that I was not looking forward to hooking up (yes, I just said hooking up. I’m allowed). I was eager for the light and lovely chit-chat.

So. Why am I talking about this now – the lost art of flirtation? After all, I now reside – and happily – in the land of marriage and kids. My days are not spent anticipating cheeky exchanges with beautiful strangers. My nights are not spent in dimly-lit bars scoping out brooding poets and hot lacrosse players. No. My days are spent in the company of two little girls and this screen. My nights are spent (yes, largely on the couch. Sue me.) with my forever man. So, why this topic today?

First, I am realizing something. What I write about affects me. That might not strike you as revolutionary, but this truth is just beginning to dawn on me. If I spend my days talking only about parenting fails, blank pages, existential grays, and the bleeding of past dreams, I might just spiral into a bit of a self-induced depression. Not good. So. Today, I woke up and said, Flirtation! Let’s do it!

Second, and more importantly, I have a belief:

Life without flirtation is blah.

I believe this. Yes, we get older, some of us even grow up, but that doesn’t mean we have to stop with the giggles and head-tilts and goofy chatter, does it? No, it doesn’t. Adulthood (yuck) is riddled with responsibilities, yes, and much of the time we are expected to be (or act like) serious creatures, but that doesn’t mean we have to lose our silly selves.

A critical clarification is in order here. I am using the term flirtation quite broadly. Flirtation does not presuppose anything sexual. I am not advocating that all of you reading this now log off and go out and flirt with a handsome bartender. No. What I am saying is that flirtation, in the wide sense of the word (think: playful banter, koo-koo chemistry) is vital to happiness. Too much seriousness? Good luck with that.

Last night I went on a date with Husband. We walked around the neighborhood hand-in-hand. I could not decide what I wanted to eat, so we stopped in front of about six restaurants before deciding on one. Husband mocked my lovely indecision. Over sushi, we talked and laughed. We flirted. It was fun. It felt good.

It was a great night. And I slept well. And woke up smiling and thinking that we do have some control here. Life takes turns we cannot predict or prevent, but there are things we can do to sweeten our days. To put the silly and sexy and fun back in that fabulous existential pot.

One thing? We can flirt. That is, if we remember how…

{Oh, and the picture above? In the likely event that you are confused, that is not Husband and me. We are far less hideous.}

____________________________________

• Do you agree that life without flirtation is blah?
• When is the last time you flirted, really flirted?
• Do you think flirtation is an important life skill? Or is it inappropriate after a certain point in life?
  
• Do you agree that flirtation does not have to be done with an agenda, that it can be totally innocuous?
• Are you affected by the content of what you write? Have you ever forced yourself to lighten things up on the page so as to lighten your mood?
• Were you a blue-ribbon flirt once upon a time?

Sometimes, flirtation gets us in trouble. Exhibit A: Quinn. Want to read her story? Then click! (Warning: parts of said story are a wee bit naughty in nature. Do I tell you this to entice you to purchase? Absolutely.)

The last few days have been a bit heavy, their waters rippled with worry familiar and foreign. Despite the surplus of seasonal sunshine, sogginess has pervaded many moments. Smiles have been there, here, but sometimes forced. There are things, so many things, spiky and scraggly and real, bobbing under the surface. Things I’d like to say. To release.

This? This feeling? It is nothing major. It is life. Life does not boast smooth edges and permanent rainbows. Life is shot through with a universal gray that at once soothes and confuses. Life is clouded with questions, questions that nip at us, questions that make us look in. Questions that exhaust us.

And so. I am here. Being characteristically vague. Waiting for the time when I can articulate the passing fog more clearly, when I can give the questions life on the screen. I am here. Because this is a good place, a place where my words can hang until they make better sense.

I am here.

Last night, we enjoyed a big family dinner out. The girls behaved for the most part and ate well. I sat in my seat, playing with my angel hair, and my mind rumbled with inchoate thoughts about assumption and reality, about perception and place. It is amazing how we can be in two spots at once. In a restaurant and in an existential tunnel. We humans are indeed skilled creatures.

Back home. We tucked the girls in. In their new purple room. They were giddy still from the lemon sorbet, but they did not fight us as we flipped the light and whispered goodnight. For the next forty minutes, we listened to them on the monitor as they talked, and winded down. Their voices, sweet and unique, wrapped around one another. They had things to say. The stints of silence grew longer as time passed.

At one point, Toddler said something that made me smile. Something little and big, so silly and so serious. Something I will never forget.

“Tell me when you’re sleeping.”

At this order, Baby said it. “Okay.”

I love that my little girl said this. That she made this request, this impossible request. I love even more that she had no clue about the impossibility inherent in her words, that there are times when we cannot articulate our state of being. Because, simply, we are not awake.

Or because we are confused, weighed down by life.

I think of their voices, little and melodic, and a smile appears. A real one. Unforced and golden. It lingers now as my fingers dance.

Even when life gets tricky, even when our minds are mangled with gray, there are things, sweet things, rainbow things, that cut through the clouds.

Thank you, girls.

• Are you ever weighed down by a temporary and largely inexplicable existential fog?
• Are there things in your life that snap you out of your own introspection?
• Have your kids ever said any silly and genius things that you will never forget?
• How often are you in two places at once?
  
• Do you celebrate or curse life’s intermittent grays? (I do both.)
  

In the next five years…

I hope to publish at least two more novels. Stories that are quirky and crisp and loved.

I hope to have at least one more child. A child who is healthy and happy and embraced by big sisters.

I hope that Mom finds love. Love that is not a replacement, never a replacement, but a compelling next chapter.

I hope to learn how to cook and bake and drive a car.

I hope to accept myself for who I am. And have been. And am becoming.

Because there is always becoming. Thankfully.

_____________________

I think so many of us are fearful for some reason of saying what we hope for out loud. Maybe we feel that we will jinx ourselves. Perhaps we feel greedy or selfish for wanting, for wanting more. Possibly, we worry that our wishes will be laughed at or not come true if told. I’m not sure. But I think it is so important that we acknowledge and articulate – concretely – our personal dreams and desires. Without identifying these dreams and desires, do we really participate in our evolution as people?

So, today is your day. What do you hope for in the next five years? For you. Don’t be shy.

On Monday afternoon, I took Baby to music class. Truth be told, we arrived a whopping twenty minutes late because with my Box Brain, I’m even more delinquent with the everyday details. But we got there. And with plenty of time for her to run about on the rainbow carpet and frolic with friends and sing and dance under the parachute. The class ended like it always does with many bubbles and many happy kiddie giggles.

After class, I popped Baby in her stroller and we started our short trek home to reunite with Toddler and Nanny. After half a block though, I stopped. I bent down next to Baby and asked her, “Do you want to have a french fry date with Mommy?”

“Yeah!” she crooned.

And so we turned into the little vegan restaurant right there. We’d had some trouble with a certain grumpy old man in this restaurant before, but I decided to test my luck. Thankfully, the restaurant was almost completely empty. There was just one man at the bar scarfing tomato soup. (Hey, it was Matt Dillon!) Baby and I settled at a small table in the back. I ordered her a plate of fries and myself a bowl of chilled corn soup.

And we talked. We talked about the purple room she now shares with her sister. We talked about her beloved grandparents Moo Moo, Grammy, and Dad-Dad. Nanny texted me to tell me that our cats had vomited all over our brand new duvet cover. For whatever reason, I decided to share this horrific tidbit with Baby. She laughed deeply. “Oh no! Cats peeped on bed!” And I told her, no. They threw up. “Oh no! Silly cats!”

Our food arrived and Baby began a careful process drenching her fries in dip dip (ketchup). She fed me a few. She counted little fry bits (up to eight! genius!) She asked me how my soup was. Good, I told her. She asked me to strap her into her high chair – a safety detail I admittedly neglected – and I obliged. Then she finally started to eat. I smiled as she took a single fry and bit it from the side like an ear of corn. She ate all her fries this way. After a little while, I finished my soup.

“Eat it all up?” Baby asked.

“Yes, sweetie. It was delicious.”

“All done too!” she proclaimed. And then she started yelling “Fry fry!” over and over at a barely appropriate decibel. It was then that I noticed that the famous grumpy old man had taken a seat at the next table.

Check please.

We took the remaining fries to go in a little plastic box. I let Baby hold this box in her stroller and she shook it vigorously. A makeshift maraca. As I was strapping her into her stroller, I asked her something.

“Was it fun to have a date just with Mommy?”

“Yeah!” she screamed. And then she put her hand up for a high five.

I pushed this little girl home. I smiled the whole way. And as I smiled, warmed by experience and realization, my little creature shook that box of fries and kicked those little legs.

Do you agree that it is important that we have experiences with each of our children alone? Do you have fond memories of one-on-one experiences with your parents? (I do. I remember catching a big trout with Dad at Vick’s Pond when I was eight or so. And I remember pizza dates with Mom after preschool. We would sit in the very back of Pizza Joint and she would cut slices into small bites and then we would share.)

We move into our new home today! If I have an ounce of energy left by this evening and I can find my camera in the sea of boxes, I will do my best to post some nifty pictures of the new place. If I do not get my photographic act together (very likely), have a wonderful weekend!

Cleaning your house

While your kids are still growing

Is like shoveling the walk

Before it stops snowing.

Phyllis Diller

Toddler, sweet Toddler, sits cross-legged on the hard wood floor, surrounded by scattered strips of stickers. Strips of stickers I very systematically stacked and placed into a Ziploc baggie yesterday in preparation for our move. Baby runs between the kitchen and the living room wielding paint pens, one green and one purple. These are the paint pens I placed with all the sundry art supplies just yesterday.

Yesterday, after hours of effort, there was a pinch of order around here.

Today, on the eve of our migration, we are back to full-blown chaos.

This does not panic me as much it should. Rather, it makes me smile. Why? Because this is it. My life. Our life. A life with small children, growing and grabbing, oblivious to moments when organization is important. I smile because this reality of mess and magic will follow us there. Of course it will.

Today is box day. Everything will disappear behind cardboard walls. And I know this process won’t be smooth. I know the kids will see it as a challenge. As things go in, neatly folded and carefully wrapped, I imagine a rush of giggles and little fingers. Today, as always, there will be steps forward and back, progress and regress. Today, as always, there will be silliness and sweet sabotage.

But we will get there. We will.

And so. This? This is a little morning ode to the snow of small children, to the exquisite flakes that fall and frustrate, and make life slippery. Today, we will shovel because we must. Because we have somewhere, somewhere good, to go.

And we will get there. We will.

One day, our floors might stay clean. One day, our walks might be free of snow.

Not yet though. Thankfully, not yet.

___________________________

• Do you agree that organization and small creatures do not go together?
• Does the prospect or reality of domestic chaos panic you or make you smile?
• Do you ever imagine a day in the future when more order will be possible? Does this make you happy or sad?
• Wish me luck on Box Day!
  

Love is like a virus. It can happen to anybody at any time.

Maya Angelou

A newer friend of mine who happens to be single asked me a question recently. “When you met your husband for the first time, did you know?” And what she meant by this, of course, was did I know in that very moment of our first encounter that I’d met my match. Indeed, she was inquiring about whether it was an instance of love at first sight.

And, at her simple question, I wanted to scoff. I wanted to laugh it off. I wanted to say: Of course not. Finding one’s life partner is indeed a process of intellectual introspection and emotional endurance. One that takes thought and time and tremendous patience. But I did not utter these sensible, sage things I very much wanted to be able to utter. Why? Because, for me, they were not true.

Instead, I said, in an apologetic whisper, “Yes.” Because that was the truth.

Many of you know that I met Husband in a bar (yes, a bar!) late at night. I was out with good girlfriends and was not looking to meet anyone. But. It just happened. We started talking, trading bits and pieces about ourselves and our stories. We sipped. We smiled. There was laughter. The authentic and crippling kind.

There was love.

And maybe that sounds cheesy (I think it does), but it is what it is. Something happened, something mysterious and magical, in that darkened Manhattan jazz bar (called Prohibition no less). Something took hold of me. Something like a virus.

A good virus.

And so. When my friend asked, I answered. I told her that indeed I knew, I felt it, in the moment of our meeting. I felt obliged to be honest. To tell it like it is. And was. And ever since that conversation, I’ve been thinking about this. This virus we call love. I’ve been wondering whether I’m in the majority, or the minority. I’ve been wondering whether most people experience things this way or whether, for most people, falling in love is an evolution, something that happens more gradually. My profound hunch is that there is a broad spectrum; That there are infinite ways to fall into, and find, love.

Oh, there is another thing that I think about sometimes. Another cheesy thing. Another interesting thing if we dig past the cheese. There are many names for this thing: Soul mates, The One, Other Half. In life, is there one person for each of us, whom we are meant to find and hold on to? Or, are there several people out there for us? Or, could we really, in the right circumstances, find love with most people? I have always prided myself on my critical thinking and as such, I have always dismissed the idea of two people being cosmically meant for each other. In this big, bad world of choice and chance, it has always struck me as ludicrous that two tiny people are destined for each other.

And I still feel this way. I think. In theory, at least. In practice though, I am with a man who loves me and understands me and gets me. My life is complicated and not without pain, but there is love. A lot of it. I feel I’m where I should be. And with the right person. I am flirting (just flirting) with the idea that somehow, someway, I was meant to meet that handsome guy in that darkened bar late that night. I tell myself, No! Don’t be ridiculous! You are a thinker! But, in my mind, where honesty resides most freely, I really don’t know.

So, yes. This post is, on the surface, all lovey-dovey Velveeta. But. If you allow yourself to stop judging for a split second (so hard, I know) to think about these questions, I think you will realize that these questions have significance. For all of us. And I am not scared to ask them. So here I go:

• Do you agree with Maya Angelou that love is like a virus, that we are vulnerable to its forces? Or, do you think love is more a matter of calculation and choice?
• Do you find the idea that love is a virus to be uplifting since it means we can fall in love at anytime and in any place OR does this concept frighten you insofar as it also means that people we love might catch the virus when they shouldn’t, when they are already committed?
  
• Do you believe in love at first sight? Have you ever experienced it?
• When you met your partner, did you “know”?
  
• Do you think falling in love can be (or should be) a gradual and thoughtful process?
• Do you believe in soul mates?
• Do you agree that once we strip away the rainbows and hearts and Hallmark-ian imagery from their surface, these questions are actually quite complex and interesting?
• Do you think that, as a society, we are to obsessed with Love and its manifestations?
  

This morning, I woke up sad.

For several minutes, the inaugural minutes of this July day, I didn’t know why I felt this way. I looked around me for clues. My legs were tangled in powder soft sheets. The door to the bathroom was ajar; through the opening I heard the rumble of Husband’s shower. Out the window, tree branches swayed, flirting with the sun, cocky even at this early hour. A muffled melody came from the corridor; the sweet chirping of little girls. And, at all of this, these small things that are so big to me, these mundane morsels of the everyday, I did smile. But that smile faded too quickly. And I was left there, alone in my bed, swaddled in sadness once more.

But like a good existential trouper, I sat up, reaching for my glasses on the bedside, eager to see. Eager to see more clearly the lines of my life, my good life. Eager to see more clearly the lines of my melancholy. Because there is one thing worse than sadness: unexplained sadness.

I paused on the edge of our tall bed, my feet dangling freely like that of a little child. I continued to listen. The sounds changed. Husband turned off the spray of water. My girls started calling for us. And it hit me. Suddenly and swiftly. I am sad because we are moving. Because one week from today, our life will be in boxes and crates. Seven measly days into the future, my family will migrate.

And I know this is exciting. That it is a distinct privilege that we have been able to dream and design, brainstorm and build, and pick wild purple papers. I know. And I know that it is a matter of time before we are settled there, before the new place is home.

But for now. For now, this is home. This is our place. This is the place where I have spent seven-plus years, stumbling and evolving. I arrived here a young girl, a student of life and law, confident and confused. I will leave here a different breed. A wife and mother and wordsmith, a student of love and loss and longing, ever confident and ever confused. Husband proposed here. Our babies were raised here. Dad knew this place. I wrote my first book here (and at Starbucks). I threw killer parties here. A lot of good things happened here. A lot.

In the kitchen this morning, as we were pouring our coffees, I hugged Husband. Like always. But this time I lingered, not letting go. “I’m sad that we’re moving,” I said.

And he hugged me fiercely. “I know, but we are moving in the right direction.”

With these words, something lifted in me. Lightened. A smile settled. And, this time, it didn’t fade.

“Thank you,” I said. To my man. The man who moves me every day. Who will move with me next week.

And then I felt a rush, a tricky emotional tide. Of sadness, yes. The sweet kind. Of happiness, in muted and magical tones. Of excitement, building. Of change, scary and sublime. Of relief, that I can be honest, that I can be sad, that I can say what I’m feeling. To my guy. To you.

With my cup of coffee and my computer, I went to the couch. The couch that will be soon hoisted by strong strangers into a big truck. I did what I so often do when I’m a bit lost. I looked for words. Words about change. And I found something that made me smile.

“There is nothing wrong with change, if it is in the right direction”

Winston Churchill

This made me smile because Churchill and my man said the very same thing. I told Husband. You are a very smart man, I insisted. And I kept smiling.

But behind that smile, this smile, the complex sadness lingers and asks. What is the right direction? Is there such thing? How do we find what is right? What if we are not as happy in our bigger home with the high ceilings and crystal door knobs and  fancy wallpapers?

____________________________________________

• Do you ever experience unexplained sadness? How do you cope?
• When you approach big change in your life, are you more confident (a la Husband and Churchill) or confused (like I am)?
• How have you handled the moves in your life? Has it been hard for you to leave behind the space, the memories, the years?
• In life, do you think there is such thing as the “right direction”? Or do you think there are just directions, paths, this way and that, and we tell ourselves they are “right” to feel better about our choices?
• Am I a spoiled brat (indeed likely) for not being 110% ecstatic about moving into our lovely new place?

{Shameless self-promo. Because I want a big, bad writing career and rumor has it that sales matter }

Both. Yes, both. Parenthood, this miraculous and maddening job into which I’ve immersed myself over the past 3.5 years, can be both miserable and magical.

There. I said it.

Before I go any further here, let me assure you of two things. Two simple and profound things. I love my girls. To itty-bitty pieces. These little creatures have brought more joy and meaning into my life than anything else. I love Husband. I love him even more deeply now that we have kids, now that I can glimpse his paternal prowess in its endearing and unending manifestations, now that we have a common and compelling purpose: to raise good children into good people.

But.

There is a but. There always is. And here it is quite major. The but is that parenting, however you slice it, is hard. It is hard and harrowing job that entails endless hours, constant worry, and periodic and sharp frustrations. And so. It could be that while our children are pure magic, parenting them is often pure misery.

Many of you might be familiar with a recent article in New York magazine called All Joy and No Fun: Why Parents Hate Parenting? Well, I encourage you all to check out this fascinating, if unnerving, piece. It is this article that prompted my words today. The magazine showed up in the mail one day and I saw its cover with a sad looking mother clutching her child. The headline was something along the lines of: I Love My Children. I Hate My Life. Of course, I had to read this cover story. Right away. And I did, lapping up its embedded words and theories and studies, nodding at times, vehemently disagreeing at others. A good eye-opening read that I cannot begin to boil down neatly in a brief blog post.

The most basic thrust of the article (I think) was this: Having children does not make us happier. Note that this can mean one of two things: (1) Having children makes us more depressed; or (2) Having children does not add to our well-being. But, and ultimately the author acknowledges this, this theory (well-substantiated in many studies) depends on how we define happiness. If we are most concerned with “moment-to-moment happiness,” then the theory seems sound. Parenting – with its concomitant responsibilities and worries and frustrations – detracts from our total moments of pure pleasure, of hedonistic bliss.

But.

Yes, there is another but. And this one is encouraging (for me at least). If we are interested in something more along the lines of transcendent happiness, that kind of happiness that is experienced when we take a step back and look at existence and detect purpose and meaning, then children absolutely enhance happiness. In many ways, this is a little/big picture question or a micro/macro issue. If we look at the big existential picture, at the aspects of our life from a more macro viewpoint, children do make us happier. (Please know that I avoided Economics like the plague during my collegiate years and I have no clue what I am talking about when I toss about the terms micro and macro.)

Phew.

A few days after I read the article, I saw Husband holding the issue of New York. And I said something like, “Step away from the magazine.” I said this because, as many of you know, we have been talking about adding to our brood. I worried, and understandably, that this piece of writing would further muddy the debate we’ve been having about whether to try for a third child. And maybe it should.

But it hasn’t. For me at least. Despite this article, despite the studies, despite the surplus of worries and frustration in my head and heart, despite the exasperation lining the edges of my day-to-day existence, I want more. More creatures. More of that magical misery.

Am I a glutton for punishment? Perhaps.

But I am also a glutton for purpose. For love. For life.

(I am also a glutton for good conversations. So let’s go.)

_________________

• Did you read the piece in New York? What did you think?
• Do you agree that parenthood entails moments of magic and moments of misery? That it is perhaps the hard stuff, the struggles, that make the magical moments so magical?
• Do you think that we as a society have become too obsessed with happiness?
• Do you believe that there is an important distinction between moment-to-moment happiness and bigger picture happiness?
• Do you think I am nutty for wanting to add to my family?
• If you have kids, are you more or less happy now that you have them?
• If you do not have kids, do articles like the one in NY Mag scare you a bit?
  

A month or so ago, something happened. Toddler and I were relaxing on the couch watching one of her shows. I can’t remember which one. And because I’m not a huge fan of Jungle Junction or Max & Ruby or whatever it is “we” were watching, I watched my little girl instead. I noted the sliver of a smile that came and went, the faint giggle that escaped her lips when some cartoon character did something she deemed particularly funny. But I also noticed something else. (Or thought I did.) I saw one of her eyes turning inward slightly as she focused on the television.

Later, I mentioned this to Husband. I also fessed up that I had recently heard a story from a fellow mother about a girl who had been losing vision in one eye for many years before her parents realized. Husband suggested that I was likely worrying over nothing, that I was perhaps projecting my own personal and professional stress (news flash: I have been stressed) on to our kid. I was not exactly offended by this interpretation. I decided this projection theory was entirely possible.

But then.

Then I thought I saw it again. The subtle turning in of one eye. It was like an optical illusion almost. I asked Toddler if she could see okay. And she said, sadly. “No, not very well.” This was not good, but then again I had asked a leading question. It was when Toddler said one day that her eyes hurt that I made an appointment with a pediatric opthamologist. Husband was still pretty convinced that everything was fine, but he understood my desire to check things out.

At the appointment, I was very self-deprecating, joking to the doctor and his staff that I am probably a bit crazy. The good-humored doctor chuckled and examined my girl. Sure enough, something was up. It turns out that Toddler is a bit far-sighted and that she likely develops a headache when she starts to focus on a singular object. The doctor explained that the issue is muscular in nature and very common and will correct itself over time. With the help of full-time teeny-tiny super-cute glasses. He also said that it was very very good that I caught this – and now – because without intervention Toddler’s vision could have been compromised and she might never have properly developed 3-D vision.

The night after the appointment, I met my best mommy friends for a glass of wine in the neighborhood. To be honest, I was a bit shaken by the day. I worried aloud that my tiny creature would refuse to wear her new specs. I worried that glasses would interfere in her play-play-play lifestyle. And my friends listened. And then I can’t remember who said this, but I actually think it was all of them.

They said, “Aidan, you are a very good mother for noticing this and catching it.”

After drinks, I returned home. When Husband returned from work, I relayed the details of the appointment to him. I told him how good Toddler was, how she sat up there in the big leather chair all alone and answered the doctor’s questions. I told him about how I gave her her very first gumball at the store where we picked glasses and about how Toddler didn’t quite know what to do, that she dribbled white drool down her chin. I told him how we picked two pairs of glasses: A purple one (Toddler’s favorite color) and a gray and yellow pair with little squiggles up top that we would call her Sprinkle Glasses (because she adores sprinkles). I told him how we walked home from the optometrist shop and how Toddler, zapped after a long and foreign day, fell asleep on my shoulder.

And Husband, my good man, my partner in crime said: “Babe, thank you. Thank you for noticing this. You are a good mom.”

*   *   *

Last week, we returned from vacation and it was 100+ degrees in the city. Our apartment was sweltering. It wasn’t until evening when we were putting the girls to bed that we realized that their air-conditioning units had petered out. Husband found a thermometer and we learned that both girls’ rooms were over ninety degrees. We stripped our kids down – Baby to her diaper and Toddler to her undies – and we put them in bed. Despite the heat, the girls did not complain.

Husband and I sat down for dinner. But he was distracted. At 8:30pm, he hopped up, told me he would see me in a bit, and left the house. As it turns out, he ran to PC Richards – which closed at 9pm – and bought two brand new air-conditioners (for the home we are about to move out of). He hoisted these monster machines into the back of the taxi and brought them home. I helped him unpack the boxes. First, we sneaked into Baby’s room. She was fast asleep. Husband pulled the old air conditioner from the wall and put the new one in. All of this in the dark. Baby never stirred. Next, we sneaked into Toddler’s room. She was half-awake, sweating, and curious. I told her that Daddy wanted to make her room cooler. She said okay and stayed in bed.

After 10pm, Husband, sweaty and sore, finally sat down to eat his dinner. He was quiet then, plainly exhausted. But I broke the silence because I had something to say. Something important.

“Babe, look at me.”

(He did.)

“You are a really good dad. A really good dad.”

*   *   *

This parenting business? It’s tricky, heartbreaking stuff sometimes. Most of the time. There is no manual. There is no map. There is no compass. Whether it is an issue bigger or smaller, involving health or heat or something else, we care deeply and we try hard, don’t we? And often we fail. But sometimes? Sometimes, we succeed. Sometimes, instinct or intuition or love takes over and guides us and makes things clear, and we get things right. And when we do, when we rise to the challenge, it is so important to hear those words.

You are a good parent.

Words matter. Say them.

____________________________

• How often do you tell your partner that he/she is a good parent?
• How often are these words directed at you?
  
• Do you think much of parenting involved instinct and intuition?
  
• Have you ever picked up on an issue with one of your children that no one else noticed?
  
• Does it ever stress you out that if you don’t notice the more subtle and nuanced issues with your children, no one might?
• Tell us why you are a good parent.
• Tell us why your partner is a good parent.