nbaszile's blog

This afternoon, on our way home from the math tutor, my daughter C asked me this question: "Who would you have married if you didn't marry daddy?"

At this point in my parenting career I've learned a few lessons, one of which is that after your kids gets to be about six, it's impossible to pull the wool over their eyes. Maybe it's the tone of your voice or your averted gaze when you're telling that "little white lie"--I'm not sure--but somehow they always know when you're not being straight with them.

I can't tell you how happy I am that the holidays are behind me; that I'm back to my normal routine. It sounds terrible, I know, and I don't mean to suggest that I didn't enjoy the Christmas break because I did--every moment. I loved being with W and the girls. I loved our leisurely drive up the coast to Mendicino and trudging through thigh-high snow drifts in Lake Tahoe. I didn't miss the early morning rush or the frantic race for the school bus or the afternoon carpool madness. It was great to get put all that aside.

It’s a gorgeous Saturday day here in San Francisco, one of those perfect mornings when the sky is clear, the weather is warm enough for a t-shirt, skirt, and a light sweater. All over the city, people are outside walking, riding bikes, lounging on the grass. My husband is off at a rugby match and my daughters are out with friends. Where am I?

From the time I was in first grade until I was fifteen, my mother was always the first one up and out of the house. She’d leave before I woke up, at least an hour before the sun rose, in order to beat the rush hour traffic. She was a kindergarten teacher and her school was in downtown LA, miles from the suburban community where we lived. My dad was the one who saw my younger sister and me off to school and that meant that our mornings looked very different from those of our friends. Their mothers made pancakes and fried bacon. We had cold cereal.