‘Tis the season of being home together for the two and a half weeks break from school/work – at least for us school-employed people with children in school. It is a time of tension, of trying not to strangle each other. Around here at the Oye house, I’ve been attempting to balance screen-time with “figure-out-something-to-do” time. I will beg the kids to play card or board games, and sometimes we do and it’s pretty fun, until the too-competitive youngest is too competitive and not focused on having fun. Then threats of strangling commence. (Thanks to my friend Katie, who on Facebook, reminded me to keep my storytelling real, and pointed out that the game of “trying not to strangle each other” is the one we are more apt to play during this time.)
And, forget going outside. It’s been too cold for that, and there’s no white, cold fluffy stuff out there to give the kids a purpose for going out anyway. If that were there, they’d be out for hours dealing with that, even with their Georgia snowsuits (eh-hem.. regular clothes, coats and tennis shoes, and mismatched gloves.) It’s amazing how being out in the cold, when there’s snow, doesn’t phase kids.
Besides card and board games, the kids have spent time dancing, Boxbollen-ing, painting and drawing, building with Legos, and working on a research project for school (the oldest). And the two adults in the house have been cooking, washing, running errands and shopping, reading and writing and… trying not to strangle.
The below sonnet is one that I’ve been wanting to write for a while. The end-of-the-semester needs of my students and children, though, took precedence and have taken my attention. My need to read some books has also grabbed my attention lately, and so that’s my other excuse. (In fact, I may likely write another blog post here soon, for the sole purpose of showing off books and authors that I’ve grown to appreciate in 2022.) Anyhow, I hope you enjoy the below sonnet, which is a great reminder of two things: 1) that there will be tension in life, and 2) to prune your bushes.
When he cut the roses back, I got mad. His constant stoic, stony expression hindered my mind from seeing intention. My heart accused him of everything bad. Amnesia, too, to the tension did add. Had I thought deeper, rejuvenation I’d have seen was his goal, not vexation. But maybe he would have cut them down had I not spoke up and questioned his purpose? “Those roses add color to the landscape.” I ascertained. “I like those, they’re my fave.” To which he responded by, without fuss, transplanting some to a plot of their own, while reminding me of the need to prune.
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