Trekhprudny Lane

Feeling a bit numb. Not surprising, I guess. So many hours of darkness each day. And the tininess of my world, which lately does not extend past the walls of this apartment, apart from occasional trips a few blocks beyond for groceries, and even more occasionally now, the metro, to some other part of the city center. And it is all varying shades of gray.

I read JW's column in the NY Times today with keen interest because I'm doing that thing again, worrying myself into paralysis over how to mother the girls. What to tell them, when, and how. EB asks, "Why is the mama bear wearing a skirt?" or "Why are there Christmas trees up around here?" and I am immediately overwhelmed by the range of possible pitfalls into which I might stumble while answering. "To look pretty" is not necessarily true, nor is it wise, I think, to emphasize a dainty appearance to a child already infected with the princess bug. "Because she's a girl" not only begs the question but undercuts some important gains in gender equity during the last century (girls in pants aren't really girls?). I can only cite compositional requirements ("See the mushroom house on the left? The man who drew the picture needed another round shape like that on the right.") so often, and of course only when an illustration is involved. As for the tree, "It's just decoration" sends all the wrong messages, i.e., decoration (and by extension beauty) is superficial and dispensable. The trees also present problems concerning the distinction between "real" and "fake," which must be dealt with in smaller and larger senses, and by the way which type of tree is more ecologically sound? I am not kidding. Then of course there's the Pandora's box of follow-up questions about Christmas itself, from "What's a manger?" to "Is Jesus Christ the Son of God?" OK, she's unlikely to pose that last one this year, but is it really any different from "Why was there a star overhead?" which I heard this afternoon? If I was a believer this would be easy. Unfortunately I care deeply about exposing her to the beauty and generosity underlying the Advent season yet I'm really uncomfortable presenting the Gospel narrative as truth. 

Repeatedly during a typical day I'm so overwhelmed that I say nothing at all. She always repeats her question. It is all that matters to her at that moment; there is urgency and the stakes are high. I am silent, though a whirlwind inside. She shrugs, goes back to looking at her book and chatting to herself in Russian, and I am crushed thinking about how my seeming to have ignored the question must be hurting her self-esteem. I feel I have failed in every way. I pat her head and go into another room and sit, agonized. This cannot go on. 

Just now I stuffed the girls' little shoes with treats and lined them up on the doormat, since Saint Nicholas is expected tonight. It felt so nice to have a concrete contribution, gifts for them I can hold in my hand, and the certainty that they'll wake up delighted in the morning. Lula, too, is such a relief to turn to -- she needs a smile and good warm food, and all our important communication is accomplished wordlessly, through touch.