Light bounces from an endless layer of impeccable snow.  Fresh shoots of spring are hidden beneath it.  Our new trees line the fence, scrawny and barren.  I miss the green patches, the newborn blades of crocuses, daffodils, and tulips.  The first snow of winter brings a calm after a hot and chirpy summer, but this snow is different, lonely.

Hana screams from the living room, the scream that says, “I’m hurt.”  It’s loud, but not a desperate cry, just one that begs for attention.  It nears, her feet tapping down the hallway with a bowlegged, penguin gait.  I wait for her to come to me.  Her eyelids are narrowed in rounded hills of baby agony, her nose flattening into her anguished wrinkles, and her mouth pulling into a wide gaping frown.  I launch her into my arms.   Her cries taper into sniffs, her pain forgotten in Mommy’s arms.

A telltale aroma reaches my less than sensitive nose.  I lay her onto the changing table, taking care of business as usual.   Cadence yells from the electric piano, a clatter of plastic accentuating her distaste.

“I hate when headphones don’t work!”  The clatter of plastic is presumably the headphones slamming into the music holder.

I wiggle Hana’s chubby legs back into her jeans and send her back on her way.  Snowflakes fall in persistent patterns.  I debate postponing my already postponed grocery trip, but I just used Hana’s last diaper.  I guess when it rains, it pours.  Or in this case, it snows.

Hana swings the door shut, looks around, and opens it again.  She smiles at me before crawling through.  Her eye, so swollen and pink yesterday, is perfect today.  Naked apart from a diaper, she crawls back into my room, swinging the door open and shut.

Downstairs the music to Cadence’s movie is blaring.  Hana coughs.  I look over my shoulder to make sure she isn’t choking.  She looks at me smiling, mouth empty.

“Are you okay?” I ask, though it’s clear that she is, and though she can’t answer back.

“Yeah,” says a small voice from the hallway.  “Mommy, I pooped.”

I scoot away from the card table I’ve been using as a desk and pry my butt from the folding chair I’ve been using as a desk chair.  The vinyl upholstery probably has permanent dents where I sit, but they’re hidden beneath a green comforter that serves as extra padding.

My brows sink, my mouth is set in a stern Mommy-means-business grimace.  Cadence waits on the other side of the baby gate, her hair in her eyes.  A blue renaissance, princess dress puckers at her waist, where the seam is unravelling.

“What?”

“Mommy, I pooped,” she repeats quietly.  She backs away from the gate with a guilty smile.  I coax her back, before hurdling the gate and dragging her back with me.  Potty training would a thing of the past if my head wasn’t always in the clouds, or wherever it is.

I fasten a diaper on her.  No more panties today.  And urge her to use the potty now, everytime, and forever.  She agrees.  We’ll see how long that lasts.

Hana waits in the hallway, wailing.  Her eyes scrunch up, her mouth parted and spread in a wide half circle.  Her eyes swell with the tears, making today’s recovery undetectable.  I scoop her to my shoulder.  She clings.  Babbles replace her cries, and she kicks of my stomach to play with her older sister.

My chair is angled towards me.  The comforter warm and inviting.  I sit back down, staring at the blinking cursor and a nearly completed page.

My face feels rubbery under my fingers.  My teeth click together, the right side off balance.  In the passenger mirror my closed-mouth smile is almost normal.

“I think it’s wearing off.  I can smile now.”

Jake asks me to smile for him.  A previously paralyzed muscle tugs at my lips.  His eyes leave the road.  “Smile bigger,” he says.

I bare my teeth, the lips peeling away.  The taste of latex is still strong.  I recall gloved fingers and cold metal routing around my mouth with a shudder.  Jake laughs, his face breaking into a brief smile that curves at both corners of his mouth.

My eyes flick back to the mirror, the wide smile glued to my face.  Returning my gaze is a stroke victim.  The right side of my mouth is broken, pulling away from the teeth as if held there by an invisible string.  The corner forms an arrowhead that points straight across.  The left and right sides are a grotesque contrast.  There are two faces where there should be one.

The mirror thumps against the roof of the car as my attention wanders over the passing landscape.  The seat belt tugs at my chest as the car comes to a stop in front of the furniture outlet store.  We walk inside together, each of us carrying a child.  Salesmen infest the floor, marked by their flattering compliments, fake smiles, and white tags.

I try not to smile too wide at the greeter, but I fail.  Her head turns with me, a curious squint in her eyes.  Cadence’s fresh shorn bowl-cut frames her face with delightless eighties’ fashion as she runs through the recliners, popping out the footstools.  She discovered her old baby nail scissors a few days ago, chiming, “Mommy, I cut my hair,” from the bathroom.  This tragic hairstyle is the result.

Jake meanders through the rows, plopping into various choices, dwarfed by a popular style fit for Andre the Giant.  The search for an amazing and affordable recliner begins with disappointment, and ends with more than we expected.

C’est la vie.

Blue lights twinkle between plastic blue and silver baubles.  Filmy ribbon snakes through the fake spruce branches.  The rythmic blinking is hard to look away from, inducing a tranquil hypnosis that for me means Christmas.  This is no time for admiring, though.  There is too much to nitpick, from the blue that is shades too dark blending into tree, to the poor lighting obscuring the excruciating detail (exscrutiating because it took the entire day to complete).  Trees shouldn’t take this long.

The lighting can be fixed.  The chair screeches across the lineoleum under the kitchen light fixture.  I step onto it, a very naked Cadence calling after me.

“Mommy, what are you doing?”

“I’m fixing the light.”

“But why?”  She’s all about the explanations these days.

“Because it’s broken.”

“Why?”

“Because they get old and they stop working.”

“Oh.”

She doesn’t understand, the confusion just adding to her curiosity.  Her short blond hair cascades over her shoulder blades, her neck curving at an uncomfortable angle to watch my hands twist various pieces.

On my tiptoes, I tackle the circular glass fixture.  I twist the last doohicky cradling the fixture in my left palm.  My balance is not good, wobbling.  My teeth clamp onto my lip with the effort.  I picture the fall, the glass spilling out of my hands, my legs flailing from the chair, trying to land upright, Cadence picking through broken glass.

This was a bad idea.  Keep it together.  I hold my breath until the fixture is on the table.  I replace the old bulbs, and decide I’ll leave the fixture replacement to someone a little taller.  Jake.

Light drenches the kitchen, flooding into the living room.  How have we lived this long without it?  The tree improves very little with the extra light.  I holler for Jake as I dig through the coat closet for an old lamp.  It’s extra light also fails to improve the tree.

Jake emerges from his basement cave.  He steps onto the chair and attaches the fixture with reaching room to spare.  We gather by the tree.

“It looks pretty good.”

“Really?”

My eyes get lost in the blinking lights, awed by the compliment.  It means something coming from Jake, who never compliments lightly.  It’s good enough for this year, I conclude.  I begin a list of possibilities for next year: purple ornaments and a pastel purple ribbon with the blue (although, that might be pushing the limit for Jake), baby blue ornaments, or the more traditional red and gold.

Cadence pounds on the piano keyboard, pretending to play a song from My Christmas book.  I love Christmas.

I tuck the toy skeleton under my arm, where it should be less noticeable. Cadence dug it out of my purse during the service. It had been buried there since Halloween. Hana soon made it her drop toy. She’d handle it, suck on it, drop it, lean over and watch it until someone returned it to her, and repeat the process. My uneasiness lights the skeleton up with blazing search lights, pointing out to everyone gathered around just how inappropriate it is here, at the cemetery. But of course, they don’t notice it, they’re too busy mourning.

In the center of our circle is a pine box casket, draped with the American flag. Inside that box is the wasted body of a man I barely knew. His cheeks have hollowed, the last year robbing them of their characteristic fullness. Surrounding the box are people I don’t know. Some that share my same dark eyes, some that have similar high cheekbones.

I arrived at the funeral home before the casket was closed. Tears were shed, hugs were shared as I looked on with little emotion. The grieving widow said a last good bye with a kiss on the dead man’s lips.

It’s hard to mourn for someone you didn’t know.

During the service the pianist raced through a slow and touching song with a cheerful disregard for timing. The audience floundered over the verses, the song mutilated into an indecipherable mess. I’d struggled not to laugh. My younger brother’s censuring glances helped, but smiles flickered across my face, nonetheless.

Family described my grandfather as a hardworking, loving man. Few hinted at his volatile temper and mistreatment of certain family members.

I wonder if he ever thought about the darker things he did, if he saw any fault in his actions. At first I’m uncertain, like the first few minutes of applause when only a few people clap. There’s a moment of build up, and then the audience applauds as a riotous whole. Just like that, I’m convinced. There’s nothing he regretted more. Like any of us, he regretted his worst mistakes.

Eulogists mentioned stories of his childhood: the medicine man, life on the reservation. I’d never heard these stories. Further down my pew, my dry-eyed dad and uncle listened with a mixture of curiosity and apathy. They’d missed out on their father’s tales too.

In the cemetery, I clasp my hand over my heart as the flag is folded to Amazing Grace. A trumpet plays the solemn melody of Taps, and seven senior citizens fire their guns, one aiming prematurely. The skeleton is pinned under my arm, a symbol of what lies beneath each headstone, a symbol of what we have to look forward to, and a symbol of what we must remember…

Mistakes are best remedied when the heart is still beating.

I check the time on the microwave and survey the damage.  It looks like a parrot was killed in here.  Multicolored feathers are scattered with strings of glue, play dough, and foam stickers clinging to their down.   The mess has stayed in the kitchen at least.

A glance out the window tells me the last mom still has not come.   In her room, Cadence and her little friend are picking through the toys abandoned by the other children as they left.  The porcelain Aurora, Belle, and Cinderella dolls were a big hit, along with the princess dress up shoes. Now the dolls’ synthetic hairstyles, halo from their heads in matted poofs.  Their fragile limbs are intact, a miracle.

Hana bounces again on my hip.  An Autumn cold chases muscous down her lip.  I tack get a tissue on the end of my mental list.  She arches her back over my arm, viewing the bobbing hallway upside down.  I have a perfect view of the roof of her mouth and her vampire teeth.  I nudge her up, closer to me as we pass through my bedroom doorway.  It’s time the dogs were freed.

Roxy shoves her nose into my leg as I open the master bathroom door.  Her tail wags with puppy-ish impatience.  I push against her, forcing her back until I can pull Jules’ pet taxi off the toilet seat.

The two bathrooms share a wall.  The girls have moved into the other, their voices reaching me through it.  Hana squirms in my grip, her coos sounding turning into cries.  Nap time.  Roxy takes advantage of my distraction, darting around me and disappearing, her tags clinking down the hallway.  She’s waiting for me by the back door.

Cadence’s little friend has followed.  Her soft voice tells me to put the dog outside.  Roxy is excited by the smell of someone new.  As Roxy nears the little girl, tail wagging and tongue hanging out, she shrieks.  An expression of panic is on her face, and tears are forming.  The shriek lasts for three long seconds, the girl rooted to her spot and Roxy cowering closer to me.

It’s hard to tell who is more frightened now: Cadence’s little friend or Roxy.   I am amazed a sound so loud came from this girl: the girl who talked in front of me for the first time today, her voice never above a whisper.  I remedy the situation.  The girl recovers in time to smile for her mom, the last mom.

My house is still at last.

The phone peals in the family room.  Jake’s favorite show, Cadence’s phone conversation in the garage, Roxy’s barking are all gone, ignored without effort.  My stomach is fluttering/churning with anticipation, worry, and sorrow.  All I see are the phone, Jake’s concerned eyes, and Dad’s name lighting up the caller id screen.

The call I’ve been waiting for.

“It’s my dad.”  I snatch the phone and retreat upstairs.  My thumb finds the send button.

“Hi, Dad.”

“Hi. Sarah?  This is your dad.”  It’s his usual intro, despite the facts that I know his voice and that caller id is a universal phone feature.  “Do you still want to talk to Grandma?  I’m with her right now.”

“Yes, Dad.  I’d really appreciate that.”  The fluttering/churning heightens.

“Okay, I’ll just put the phone to her ear.  You know what?  I think she knows we’re talking about her.  She just moved her hand.  Are you ready?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

I wait until the silence on the phone is tainted by rythmic puffs in the background.  I take a quick breath and smile, hoping she will hear the smile on my face.

“Hi Grandma.  It’s Sarah.  I just want you to know how much we love you.  We miss you so much.  I really wish I could see you right now.”  My voice cracks.  Tears are trying to push through the ducts.  I have to pause.

“I really wanted you to see Hana.  She is doing great.  She’s eight months old now.  She has six teeth, but not the two front ones, so she looks pretty goofy.  She’s crawling too.

“Cadence has curly–” my mind is too distracted to get details right, “not curly.  It’s blond, and it’s getting long.  It’s just below her shoulders now.  She just turned three and got a big-girl bike.  We’ve been having lots of fun.”  A thick tear rolls down my nose.

I want to tell Grandma that Cadence still has the beanie babies that she so painstakingly collected, and the Wizard of Oz Tin Man doll in its original packaging that still bares the oily makeup smear from her cheek.  That we’ll always have them, and always remember her.  But it doesn’t feel like the right thing to say.

What do you say to someone you know is going to die?

“I love you so much, Grandma.”  A good bye without having to say it.

I listen to the soft puffs.  There’s nothing else I can think to add.  Dad is talking to someone in the room, probably my aunt.  I can’t make out the words.

Another puff.

Then, “Sarah, are you done?”

“Yeah, I am.”

“Good, I wasn’t sure.”  He tells me that she’d done something with her arm when I started talking.  It’s the most responsive she’s been today.  “You know she always said she looked just like you when she was a little girl.”

My voice is thick.  “Yeah, I remember.  Thanks for letting me do that, Dad.  I really appreciate it.”

We exchange farewells, and I lower the phone.  Downstairs, Jake is waiting.  I curl into his arms and cry like I haven’t cried for a long time.  Inside me is a glass that needs to be emptied, and it’s leaking from my eyes.  The stirring in my stomach is gone, and with it my anxiety.

Later I will bundle up the girls for a trip to the store.  The only jacket in Hana’s closet that allow the seat belt harness to fasten over her will be a cute,  pink pullover that Grandma gave to Cadence for her first Christmas.  A peace will settle over me.

She knows. That’s all I could ask.

Hana is crying.   Sighing, I wrench the towel out of my hair and throw on some mismatched clothes.  A mother’s work is never done.  I try not to disturb Jake, who is sleeping still.  I hear his deep breathes with envy.  Getting up in the morning would be so much easier if we did it together.

Hana looks at me with a tear streaked face as I reach for her.  She’s propped up on her arms, her eyes a picture of baby agony.  Oh the horror.   I pull her out of the traveling tot we use as a crib, and smell the problem.

“Oh boy, Hana, that smells terrible!”

I call this the dark side of motherhood.  Hana cries as I clean her up.  She flails, her mouth forming a startled “o” every time I use a fresh wipe.  Duty done, I scoop her onto my hip, and enter a world that has descended into chaos in the twenty minutes I was bathing.

Clumps of pillow stuffing are strewn across the living room, small chunks of dog poop completing the masterpiece.  My body is frozen, my mouth twitching with all the exclamations I could be using.  Both dogs look at me, wary.  A piece of stuffing is hanging from Roxy’s droopy boxer mouth.

The poop goes first.  The stuffing can wait until I check on Cadence.  I can hear the music from The Land Before Time playing as I bounce down the stairs, cooing back at Hana, imitating her facial expressions.  She grins, her bottom lip revealing her goofy little teeth as we bound up and down.  Her hair is growing now, the bald patches closing up with dark strands.  Even her eyes are darker than Cadence’s.  The centers of her irises grow a deeper golden brown by the month.  There may be some evidence of our relationship after all.

In the basement, Cadence is engrossed with something, but it isn’t the adventures of Little Foot.  She glances at me, her mischievous smile confirming my fears.  Below her is a patch of damp carpet.  Her hands swirl over it, a white liquid buildup making her hands glisten. Beside her is a long tube of baby lotion.  The cap is missing.

And so the day begins…

The words, she looks like a living stuffed animal, run through my head as I watch my new puppy hop through grass that is knee high on her.  My neighbor had said it earlier as we’d watched her chase our daughters into the volleyball pit, her description fitting the bouncing ball of fluff with uncanny accuracy.

The coast is clear.  None of the neighborhood child mob has noticed us in my backyard.  Roxy sniffs through the grass as my mutt puppy, Juliet, hops at her heels.  Hana observes, surprised at everything as usual.  Her eyes lock on a mote of dust, dirt, or cottonseed.  I’m not sure what it is, but her mouth hangs open, saliva pooling along the spoutlike curve of her bottom lip, as her fingers propel in clumsly loops around it.

Movement catches my eye.  Through the fence into my neighbor’s yard is one of the child mob.  I freeze, waiting till she disappears around the far corner of her house.  The dogs are roaming with no obvious purpose.  I assume their outdoor business is finished, gathering Juliet up in my free arm (the other is still wrapped around Hana’s midsection), and calling Roxy behind me.  I pad up the stairs in my barefeet, glad for one moment that I left my shoes inside.  Hoping I wasn’t seen, I fasten the door behind me, and follow my hermit instincts into the basement.

No such luck.  The doorbell rings, young voices echoing from the porch.

“Maybe they’re not here.”

“I saw them.  Keep ringing.”

There are a lot of them.  I’m reminded of Lord of the Flies, the child mob chanting Give us your puppy.  This crowd has soured my generosity for the next few days.  It was Cadence’s feelings that did it.

Yesterday, two girls had asked to play with Cadence.  Her face lit up, her eyebrows raised in excitement.  “Can I play with friends?”  I sent her off to enjoy the pampering of girls four of five years older.  Ten minutes passed before my doorbell rang, and the girls declared that they were done playing with Cadence, “but can we hold the puppy now?”  My tongue sat fat and reluctant inside my open mouth as I tried to answer why she couldn’t play with her friends.  They wanted you for your puppy, sweetheart.

“They had to go home,” I say instead.

And what do I say to her now that they’re not pretending to want to play with her?  She’s asleep; I may not have to say a thing.  The voices, knocks, and rings continue, but I’m not anwering.

Sopping strands of mucous colored hair slither over my shoulders as I turn my head from side to side.  The hair is broken, sucking the water in like a loaf of bread in a bathtub.  Water drips onto my skin, drawing goosebumps on my back and arms.  The color is still wrong, every try bringing it to some new, wacky kaleidoscope hue.  Frustration is building.  I stare into the mirror, maybe hoping that if I stare hard enough it won’t be so horrible, or perhaps hoping that it’s just a nightmare I will soon wake from.

The rainbow snot hair isn’t changing.

My chest tightens, squeezing out a long desperate sigh.  Jake has forbidden any drastic haircut that would spare only the healthy roots.  So what?  It’s my hair, I try to convince myself.  I shake off the tightness in my chest, throwing one last glare at the mirror, before rushing to my dresser.  My left handed scissors are perched next to my multivitamin.  I snatch them up and pause near the closet door.  If I’m going to do this, I’m going to do it right.  I slide the door aside and pull out a large hand held mirror that I’ve tied a long length of cotton yarn to.  It’s a simple matter of throwing one end of the yarn over the bathroom door and looping it over the handle to position this mirror across from the other.

Wrapping one strand of hair around my finger, I measure the damage with my eyes.  The scissors wander along the strand, hovering hungrily a few inches from the root.  I can’t think about it too much.  It’s like cliff jumping: if I look at it too long, I’ll never leap.  My hand clamps down on the scissors.  The blades inch closer, but they don’t close.

I can’t do it.  As much as I want to have my bad hair decision falling into the garbage in chunks, I also don’t want Jake to vomit at the sight of me.  I slide the blades further down my hair, stopping at half it’s full length.  Then down again, two inches above the ends.

The scissors slice through my hair, the cut finished before I could decide against it.  Already a weight is lifting off my shoulders.  I would not have slept until this had been done.  I could not have waited to do the logical thing and allow someone experienced to cut my hair.  When I want to do something myself, no one can convince me I’m unqualified.  I continue the line of my cut around the back and to the left side.  The scissors and fine toothed comb work in unison, combing and cutting until the line is even, until the stray ends are tamed, until the frustration and madness are appeased.

The shorter A-line looks harsh against my granola face, but the end result is as neat as the original I paid for five or six months ago.  Terrible, Jake had called it.  Pulling up the hair framing my face softens the look.  I’m two inches nearer to having healthy hair, and Jake is spared the embarrassment of having a manly wife.

I’d call that a compromise.