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February 15, 2008 Frances Friday: Effect and Cause 
Updated to add: Frances had her four-year check-up this morning. She is now 89 cm/34 inches and 24 lbs of pure adorableness. Taking Frances to school in the stroller on these sidewalks covered in soft ice, small snowbanks marking the boundaries between driveway and sidewalk, is no joke. It feels like tilling mud, not so much rolling as pushing, and by the time I get her to the school the backs of my arms and my legs are slightly sore. But her little legs cannot manage the trek on her own and we can't afford the extra time it would take to let her try walking anyway. "I wish the snow would melt," she said. "Me too," I said. "I'm ready for spring." "I'm ready for spring and summer." I parked the stroller in the boiler room of Frances's school and we walked down the hallway towards her daycare. She loitered, a little--walking slowly, swinging her arms, thwapping herself with the mittens dangling from the sleeves of her winter coat. I carried her lunch bag and my lunch bag and my purse and my work bag and her library bag and her home reading book bag, and I was accutely aware of the time. 8:25. Late already, again. Damn damn damn. The damned snow and the fucking boots and coats and the slush and the cold and why isn't it over already? "Come on Frances, Mummy's already late. We have to go fast! Fast fast! Now!" She scurried down the hall. Bitch. It's not her fault it's snowy and cold and the sidewalks aren't cleared. It's not her fault that I'm going to be late again. I'm not snapping at her because these thirty seconds in the hallway are going to make a difference--especially once I get to the subway platform and have to stand and wait for the train. I'm snapping at her because when I do, she listens--unlike the snow and the cold and the slushy sidewalks. ~~~~~ Getting ready that morning, Frances rolling around in her pink ballerina nightgown, asking for more time to play. I had just finished packing our lunches and snacks and readying the stroller for our slog to school. "We don't have any more time to play. It's a school day. We have to get dressed now and get ready to go." I looked at the clock and groaned. We were already late. "But I'm sick!" she said. "I can't go to school. I have a cough." She had not coughed for weeks. "I think you're well enough for school. Come on, upstairs. Frances. Upstairs. Upstairs! Right now." I put out a pair of jeans, a long-sleeved pink shirt with an irredescent butterfly on the front, miniature athletic socks and a pair of underwear with a bow so she can tell the front from the back and sides. One day I left out a pair of unadorned undies and she put them on with her waist through a leg-hole. I brushed my teeth, pausing to bellow: "Frances! Are you getting dressed." "Oh. I forgot." "Get. Dressed." When I was done brushing my teeth and my hair and was ready to go, I went in to Frances's room and there she was, half-naked, bouncing around and giggling in pleasure at her own cleverness. Ha ha! I am not dressed! She chortled and threw her nightgown at me. "Are you supposed to do that?" "Noooooo." "Come here." She did, but when I tried to put her shirt over her head she wriggled away. "Frances!" It was finally on, we combed her hair, downstairs for coat and boots. Already late. Again. Again. ~~~~~ That morning, 6:45, ten small pink fingers appeared on the edge of my bedroom door. "Do you see my fingers?" I opened my eyes. 6:45 was all right. We might not be late. "Yes, I do." She pushed the door open and clambered on to the bed with her baby duckie, and I snuggled her in beside me under the blankets while she played with the baby mole. "Good morning, Mummy." "Good morning, sweet girl. Did you sleep well?" "Yes I did. When did I wake up?" "Six forty-five." "Oh! That's good! That's a good time to wake up." "Yes it is." She rolled on to her belly. "Tickle my back!" I obliged. By the time we had our fill of snuggling, it was past seven. We were already late. Posted by Andrea at February 15, 2008 10:36 AM under Frances Friday EMAIL this entry (comments fields are below this section) Comments I know of what you speak. We dance that tango here every weekday morning, too. Hugs and a toasted bagel to eat on the run. Posted by: Liz at February 15, 2008 11:08 AM
The working mother's plague - I have lamented more than once that the word I use most with my children is "hurry." Hurry up, we're late, hurry and get your bag so we can go. Where is your hat, we have to HURRY. Mommy has an early meeting, so let's hurry. And some days, it's almost reflexive, we might actually have time, but I can't help feeling like we need to hurry . .. Posted by: elandsimom at February 15, 2008 11:15 AM
I'm so glad I'm not alone. There are too many mornings when I find myself, through clenched teeth, saying, GET. YOUR. SHOES. ON! "Mommy, are you fwustwated?" Gah. Posted by: Fooped at February 15, 2008 11:45 AM
Oh. Mornings. They make me not want to get out of bed. Glad her checkup went well!! Posted by: Julie Pippert at February 15, 2008 12:36 PM
Oh, I SO hear you, and this is so spot-on: It's not her fault it's snowy and cold and the sidewalks aren't cleared. It's not her fault that I'm going to be late again. I'm not snapping at her because these thirty seconds in the hallway are going to make a difference--especially once I get to the subway platform and have to stand and wait for the train. I'm snapping at her because when I do, she listens--unlike the snow and the cold and the slushy sidewalks. Posted by: cinnamon gurl at February 15, 2008 12:42 PM
Oh, that is so poignant. Thank you for telling this backwards. Posted by: Emily R at February 19, 2008 8:03 AM
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Change is God (Octavia Butler, Parable Series) "If the writer is a socially privileged person--particularly a White or a male or both--his imagination may have to make an intense and conscious effort to realize that people who don't share his privileged status may read his work and will not share with him many attitudes and opinions that he has been allowed to believe or pretend are shared by 'everybody.' Since the belief in a privileged view of reality is no longer tenable outside privileged circles, and often not even within them, fiction written from such an assumption will make sense only to a decreasing, and increasingly reactionary, audience. Many women writing today, however, still choose the male viewpoint, finding it easier to do so than to write from the knowledge that feminine experience of reality is flatly denied by many potential readers, including the majority of critics and professors of literature, and may rouse defensive hostility and contempt. The choice, then, would seem to be between collusion and subversion; but there's no use pretending that you can get away without making a choice. Not to choose, these days, is a choice made. All fiction has ethical, political and social weight, and sometimes the works that weigh the heaviest are those apparently fluffy or escapist fictions whose authors declare themselves 'above politics,' 'just entertainers,' and so on." Ursula le Guin Email Frances! frances AT athenadreaming DOT org You can email her mother too (that's me):
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