The Bainbridge Studio in New York has invited me to do a two-week residence as a guest artist. I did a residency in Savannah and one in Atlanta last summer, but never in New York. And Bainbridge has such an incredible reputation.
It’s fairly last minute—someone dropped out, and they’re hoping I’ll fill the spot—but I don’t even care. It’s New York. It’s almost impossible to break into the art scene in New York.
I quickly type out a reply giving them my acceptance, then head across the backyard to tell Anna and Miles the news.
I let myself in through the back patio door and find Anna on the couch in the living room, the girls crawling all over her like she’s a jungle gym. She looks exhausted. Her brown hair is swept back in a ponytail, but half of it has fallen out, and there are dark circles under her eyes.
“Hey,” she says when she sees me come in. “Oof. Olive, careful. You just stepped on my belly.”
I glance at my watch. It’s past seven, which means it’s definitely late enough for the girls to go to bed.
“What are you doing here?” Anna asks.
“Nothing. Just came over to see if the girls want to do bedtime with Aunt Sarah tonight.”
“I do, I do!” Poppy calls, standing up on the cushion beside her mom.
“Are you for real right now?” Anna says, hope in her eyes. “Miles said he would do it, but he’s on the phone with an old hockey buddy, so it might be a minute.”
“I’d love to do it.” I reach down and scoop Olive into my arms. “How many books are we reading tonight, girls?”
“Three!” Olive says, bouncing in my arms. I turn around and let Poppy climb onto my back so I’ve got one girl on the front and one girl on the back.
“Hold on tight,” I say to Poppy. We’ve done this before, but they’re getting bigger, and it’s getting harder.
“I want seven books,” Poppy says.
“Seven? How about five?” I say.
“Hmm, how about eight?”
“That’s not very good negotiating, Pops,” Miles says as he walks into the room. “You can’t up your own number.”
Poppy giggles. “I wanttenbooks!”
Miles reaches out and musses Poppy’s hair. “Sorry, Sarah. Looks like you’re negotiating with terrorists. Do you want me to take them?”
“Nah. I got it. But don’t go anywhere. I have news to share when I come back down.”
He nods. “Come here, girls. I need bedtime kisses.”
The girls take turns leaning over to say goodnight to their dad, then I haul them upstairs, my thighs burning by the time we finally reachPoppy’s room.
We’ll read stories in here, then once she’s settled, I’ll take Olive across the hall to her room. Her room—for at least a few more months. Anna and Miles converted the crib into a toddler bed, but they’ll need it for baby Fiona once she’s born. Olive isnotenthusiastic about this change and has been resisting her parents’ attempts to get her to sleep in her big girl bed just like Poppy.
Last I heard, they were debating whether they should just cave and buy another crib, but I think Olive will get there eventually. She’s quieter than her older sister. And usually takes a little longer to warm up to new situations.
I pick out pajamas for Poppy, then head across the hall to get Olive’s before shepherding the girls to the bathroom. Once we finish with bath time, pajamas on and teeth brushed, we climb onto Poppy’s bed and settle in for story time. Poppy finally agreed to seven books, the number she originally started with (clearly, she reallyisgood at negotiating) but we only make it through four before both girls have fallen asleep.
I close the book and set it off to the side, enjoying the weight of Olive’s bath-damp head against my chest.
I don’t have very many memories of my mom when I was this young. Our lives were volatile in those days, and sadly, the traumatic moments are easier to call to mind than the happy ones. But I do remember reading books. Mom would come up to my tiny attic bedroom and snuggle under the covers beside me, and we’d read and read and read. Picture books, then chapter books as I got older.
It never occurred to me that all moms didn’t spend more than an hour reading stories every night. I just thought that’s what moms did.
In hindsight, I wonder if Mom just appreciated that withhis bad knees, Dad would never climb the stairs to my room, which made it a safer space than the rest of the house.
Olive shifts and nestles a little closer, and I wrap my arms around her back.
