"...the center of all beauty..."

Yesterday afternoon it rained. Jarrah was watching Dora and I was spacing out in front of the computer. Just like everyday. And I suddenly realized that Jarrah and I don't talk much after school. She watches TV, reads, draws or plays with toys. I space out in front of the computer, as I already mentioned. We don't ignore each other. Occasionally, she'll ask for a snack, and I'll make it. Occasionally, I'll ask her how she's doing. She's always fine.

And it occurred to me that we haven't talked much after school in years.

Oh, don't get me wrong. If we have a playdate, then we talk on the way there, and on the way back. If she has a class or an appointment, we do the same. But on the days we are home in the afternoon, it's like we are in our own little bubbles, and clearly that's the way I like it. Her, I don't know. Until yesterday, I'd never much thought about it.

I had a hard year starting when Jarrah was one. Which is when I met her. I found her mind-bogglingly hard to keep up with. She was never still. She dragged her own diaper bag to the front door and pointed. She ate around the clock. She went through the garbage. Her idea of "playing" was demanding I provide voices for a never-ending cast of plastic characters while she giggled and said "Again!" Sometimes, as I dragged my sleep-deprived, unshowered bones around on the cold hardwood floor, I had the distinct sensation that I was trying to talk through a hearty dose of Valium. So. Hard. To. Form. Words. So. Hard. To. Have. Thoughts. When she started getting interested in TV (took a while) and imaginary friends, I encouraged it, and anything that gave me five minutes alone in my own head. I was a graduate student for 11 years. I am used to having a LOT of time alone in my own head.

Now, though, so much time has passed that she doesn't question it. She is perfectly content to amuse herself until dinner because that's what we do, and she is used to it. Kids get used to anything, I'm told.

So I had this thought: What am I doing? Right now she likes me, she really likes me. She has no complicated feelings about me, no ambivalence whatsoever. If I could peek into her brain, one whole track would be dedicated to "I Like Mommy, And Mommy Likes Me." And this will not last. I've been warned. And I've lived it. One day--it will feel like tomorrow--she won't want to be caught dead with boring, old, uncool, unreasonable, bossy me. She is almost six, and I have no idea how that happened. So this will definitely be tomorrow. Before tomorrow comes, I should spend some time with my daughter while she thinks I'm the bee's knees, the cat's pajamas. Because that time may be almost over.

I walked into the TV room and said "Wanna do a puzzle?" That got her attention.

"What kind of puzzle?" she said warily. But she was already turning off the TV, without being asked.

"Any kind you like. Pick one out." The second sentence was delivered to her retreating back as she galloped towards her puzzle cupboard. Well, then. She still likes me.

We got out her wild animal safari puzzle, and spread out the hundred pieces. Somehow I knew, even though we hadn't done this in ages, that she would be very good at puzzles. Sure enough, she was fast. She had strategies. "Everything orange is part of the water, and goes near the bottom." I recalled the endless hours of watching her drool and mouth-breathe while I repeated, testily, "Edge. EDGE. That's an EDGE." Not now. Now she had a tendency to delicately swipe a piece right out of my hand if I hesitated too long. I had to speak to her about that.

"Jarrah, it's not polite to take the piece I was working on. That's taking away my fun."

"Sorry. We haven't learned about that yet in school." Smart ass.

"Well, you're learning about it right now, from ME." I retorted.

When the puzzle was done, she suggested another, and then a third. David came home in the middle of that one. I asked her to put the puzzles pieces away and left the room. She called to me a few moments later.

"Can you help me?"

"Sure." I saw that two of the puzzles were back in their boxes, and I got down to help with the third. As we were sweeping the pieces into a pile, she smiled and said:

"When you asked if I wanted to do a puzzle, I thought: 'What's going on? THAT doesn't happen!'" She laughed happily.

My heart felt stabbed a little. I'm a terrible mother. I shock my child when I offer to play with her. It's such a freakish occurrence.

"You mean because we usually don't do puzzles?" I asked, smiling too, but in a different way.

"Yeah."

"Well..." I groped. "It was a rainy day, and just seemed like good puzzle weather."

"I think we should do puzzles every time it rains."

"It's a deal."

"And maybe on other days. How about Fridays?"

"Fridays will be puzzle days."

This afternoon it rained.

"Can we do a puzzle, Mommy?"

This time I didn't hesitate. "Sure we can."

We did two.