September 6th

8:32 A.M.—Kate kissed both boys good-bye. And left for work. Boys called out from window. She turned and waved. She wore a dark blue pantsuit, a cream-colored blouse, her new comfortable shoes. Before she left, Teddy said, “Mommy, why are you so pretty?”

8:45 (approx.)—Kate called from subway platform to see if we were okay. And we were! Teddy was helping with dishes while Sam had curled up on the kitchen floor, wrapped himself in his blanket, thumb stuck in his mouth.

9:00ish to 9:28 exactly—art project. Made Welcome home, Mommy sign for front door and Congrats on first day of work card. Teddy did a good job printing his name.

9:30 to 11:00—errands, stopped at Muffins and More, where each boy picked out his favorite muffin/bagel/treat. While we were out on errands, Mommy left two messages. The first to check in, the second to tell Teddy and Sam a secret. She asked me to leave the bedroom, which I did, but kept my ear to the door so I could hear. She’d hidden a bag of jelly beans for them under . . .

The entry continued in that vein for two-plus pages. Where and how Tim had found the time to write it, I do not know. But it was a kind gesture, and I knew what he was trying to do. It was his way of making it seem I wasn’t missing anything.

Later, after the front door had been double-locked and the lights turned out, Tim, almost asleep, said, “Oh, I forgot. Someone called for you.”

“Who?”

“That woman from the Brooklyn Heights Association.”

“Oh, it can wait,” I started to say, but Tim sat up and turned on his bed light. “It sounded important,” he said as he reached over to the answering machine and pressed play.

ABIGAIL HOSFORD

HELLO, THIS IS ABIGAIL HOSFORD, PRESIDENT OF THE BROOKLYN HEIGHTS ASSOCIATION, calling for Katherine. Hi, Katherine, I’m surprised we’ve never met. The reason for my call is that I understand from my associate Pamela Wyeth-Bacon that you are a close friend of Mrs. Ashworth’s, although I don’t believe she uses her husband’s name. Might you call me ASAP at the office or at my home (we’re up late!)—we need to know the name she goes by, and perhaps, and I’m hoping this won’t—

It’s Abigail again, simply wondering if you might arrange a proper introduction of sorts. All of us at the Heights Association would love to welcome your good friend to the neighborhood. Thank you in advance for making this happen. Hold on . . . oh, right, yes . . . we’re looking forward to meeting you, too? Eager for your call. Cheers.

TIM

ALL THOSE YEARS TEACHING HAD OBSCURED ONE SIMPLE FACT: NOBODY ELSE’S children are as interesting as your own. Or as perplexing, sure, or as frustrating.

That was the gist of what I tried to write one early October afternoon. I’d been diligent with journal entries. Lately, though, it was proving more difficult. To be the recorder of Teddy and Sam’s histories seemed a tall order, considering what else was required: to be a frequent referee, both judge and jury, to navigate the treacherous terrain of sharing and turn taking, to covertly implement my own intricate system for bribing them (which meant establishing a complex yet comprehensible program of snacks and treats), to amuse/inspire/educate them, to keep them from harm’s way, and somehow, while juggling all of the above, manage to look happy. However, this cannot be emphasized enough—I’m not complaining.