Dated

My list is long, but not exhaustive: the produce has been piling up all week, and it's time to put it by for winter. There is an enormous zucchini, five pounds of pie cherries, a dozen beets (yellow, red, and pretty-pink stripes) and blackberries, peaches and blueberries (a surprise from our overgrown yard). I have jars, sugar, lids, even flour and tapioca, but I somehow cannot find my rhythm. I am fragile and disorganized, slipping into crankiness at the drop of a hat.

I know I should simply decide which task I will do first; That I should do the mise for all, and everything will come together. But boys are hungry, and their puttering derails me again, and I snap at one of them, light-heartedly, I think, but not lightly enough, it seems, and tears flow: first theirs, then mine.

Why, I wonder, is parenting so hard today? When did my delightful toddlers become a complex, moody teen, and one on the cusp of tweendom? Buck up, I tell myself, and I pull out a freezer bag and a sharpie, and start to label it with the contents and the date. The date. And then I remember, I am supposed to be parenting a teenaged girl, and this was the date that our hopes were dashed. The tears flow harder momentarily, but once I give a name to my grief, I can face it. Darling husband comes to my rescue, reminding a broken child why Mommy is sad. A sticky hug, and I can proceed.

Finding peace in my pain (for my heart will never heal entirely) I can pare, shred, measure and stir. The enormous zucchini turns into 3 mini loaves and a dozen muffins (only some of which actually make it into the freezer, since men folk keep walking through the kitchen); fallen crabapples begin their journey to pectin; pie cherries release their juices to be thickened, and berries line up to be assigned pots and jars.

And one by one, as each task is done, each bag and each jar is wiped clean and readied for the larder or freezer. The sharpie etches the contents, and the date. As if I could ever forget.