Thursday, September 18, 2014
I know I've told you lots about Beatrice's bedtime. Come to think of it, it might be the only thing I ever blog about anymore. Homemade Bedtime. Hmm. But I digress: the point is that it is a precious still moment in my day. Indulge me here - I need to revel in those moments and hold them close, to balance out all that barreling.
Mike has taught Beatrice to say I love you when they say goodnight to each other. I love you Papa. It sounds a bit like: Ah ruv you. Papa. It is the sweetest thing in the world.
Tonight after all the night night, I love yous, we entered her room. She turned her light off ("light OFF") (she likes to narrate as much as her experience as possible these days) and settled into the rocking chair with me to nurse and sing. She paused, looked up at me, and smiled.
I love you, Papa.
I repeated her words: I love you Papa.
I love you, Gabriel.
I smiled back and repeated: I love you Gabriel.
Hello, Didi. I love you.
I thought my smile would get so big it would start to pull my face apart. That sweet hello! I repeated: I love you Didi.
Then she just grinned back at me in silence.
....I love you, Beatrice, I said.
More grinning. Silence.
What about Mama? ...I love you Mama?
Then she said it. I love you. Mama.
Even though I'd asked her to, I still nearly choked with emotion (laughter? tears? something beyond those categories?) as I told her I loved her too.
And then she laughed! She was smiling with her eyes and nose and chin and teeth and it got so big and wonderful that she laughed. Transcendent.
Then she abruptly got serious, turned towards me and announced: nurse.
It all lasted about two minutes, and it was the most joyful moment of my day. Off the charts joyful! My heart sings with the memory of it.
Thursday, September 11, 2014
Gabriel explained to some dear friends who were over for dinner recently that Beatrice's favorite time of the day is dinnertime, and her favorite part of dinnertime is when we all hold hands and sing the Johnny Appleseed grace. She smiles, slowly scanning every face at the table, and when it is over she punctuates the song with a joyful Ah-men!
Tonight, just before bedtime, I was carrying Beatrice to say night-night to Gabriel in the kitchen, when we passed my phone sitting on the counter. I noticed Beatrice look at it and could hear the wheels turning in her head.
Would you like to say night-night to Gramma, too, Beatrice?
Yeah, she replied. Call Gramma, call Gramma, say night-night, night-night Gramma, night-night Bardolf!
She has only Facetimed my mom, so somehow the phone is like a magical portal to Gramma. But Gramma is in Ashland and was probably finishing up a matinee at the Shakespeare Festival when we called, so she didn't pick up. Beatrice looked crestfallen watching her own disappointed face in the phone, listening to the relentless ring that refused to end with Gramma's face.
You know Beatrice, I told her, we can call Grammy and Poppy on my phone, too.
Grammy! Poppy! Call Poppy! Say night-night Poppy!
So we did. His wireless connection was not so hot; it was short and sweet. Then Beatrice said goodnight to Frances and Michael, then we went into her peaceful darkened room, where she looked at me expectantly: Nurse, Mama.
She falls into position, so sleepy and happy. Do I love this time of day? Oh, I do. Every night at this point I say, would you like me to sing a song? And she grins blissfully and snuggles closer and sings-talks in response: vatetrain vatetrain, which means Freight Train Freight Train, which she has insisted on for her bedtime song ever since she first heard me sing it many weeks ago, which sometimes makes me sad because our song used to be Wild Mountain Thyme - which I think suits her perfectly - but she was adamant.
It's okay, I love Freight Train too. I sing it Elizabeth Mitchell-style, and sing about all the places I would like us to visit, or the places we love, or the places we are considering for Mike's sabbatical next year, or the places in the world I am so sad for. Going to Syria, going so fast. Going to Liberia, going so fast.
Yes, we'll see her soon.
Poppy? Grammy? Soon.
Yes, we'll see them soon too.
And then ... back to the song and nursing. But then, a few moments later: tell Poppy ah ruv you. Ah ruv you.
Yes, he loves you too.
A few moments later: See Bardolf? Soon. See Bardolf soon.
everybody is all together.
Thursday, August 28, 2014
She consistently identifies yellow and purple, and sometimes green, and every time I nearly jump up and down applauding, I am so delighted by her learning. We all are; she is in the midst of a magic, golden age. We hardly notice the hard behavioral stuff because we are so taken with her new compentencies, which she seems to aquire by the hour and is in turn delighted by, and then again, she is delighted by our delight. Back, forth, back, forth, so many grins erupt in our family every time she strings together a little proto sentence. Papa, read me! Look, Mama, I draw! What a great system.
So this is one of her new favorite places to be: standing at the kitchen table, preferably alongside her siblings, which allows her a sense of comraderie as well as the occasional opportunity to reach over and mess up whatever they are working on.
She even likes to stand there and draw while I make dinner, which is a miracle that I should be thanking God profusely for. But sometimes I hardly notice, because at that hour the kitchen can feel like a maelstrom. The quiet sensory pleasures of simmering rice and chopping vegetables cannot compete with the nonstop voices, the flare ups of competition, the constant need for my attention. Eventually Beatrice joins in the action. I've been at work, they've been at school; they haven't seen me all day. I have to listen to what happened at gym, see what's under this Band Aid, look at how amazingly this top spins. Now. I wonder how many times I hear a plaintive MAMA! between 5 and 6 o'clock?
Is it always like this? Are we simply adjusting to work and school routines, and eventually I'll be able to tolerate all the voices heading in my direction at once, and the children will (hopefully) be more peaceful in reconnecting with everyone at home? (Say yes. Please.)
Tonight Frances was pacing around the first floor of the house while reciting a poem at an uncomfortably loud volume (her preferred mode of memorizing something - pacing while nearly shouting it). I'd ask her to speak more quietly, she'd try for a line or two, but then her voice would shoot right back up. OH HARK, OH HEAR! HOW THIN AND CLEAR!
Gabriel had taken apart a pull-back car and was fascinated by the mechanism inside it. He'd poke my arm urgently until I looked, showing me how one aspect of it worked, then minutes later return to show me something else, then to show me how he put it back together, then to show me how one might create a car using the same components arranged differently.
And Beatrice was at the table, in her spot, muttering draw draw, eyes eyes, draw eyes. She'd look at me when her concentration broke and demand Mama, draw, Mama, sit. Sit here.
At one point, while the frozen spinach and cauliflower simmered in some last bits of tomato sauce, I did. I sat and drew a picture with Beatrice, while the Tennyson poem came in and out as Frances marched past again and again, and Gabriel brought yet another incarnation of his car study for my investigation. These are all worthwhile pursuits that might make another parent glow with pride and pleasure, yet in their simultaneity I felt utterly exhausted by them.
By bedtime, things quieted down; we'd read together and I'd regained my composure. Somehow, I made it through. Oh friends, I suspect I join in a chorus of parents - generation upon generation stretching back through the mists of time - when I say this: good gracious, that dinner-making hour is grueling.
Monday, August 18, 2014
There are few things duller than talking about improvements to one's home. Hinge selection? Roof repair? Sump pump in a tizzy? This ordinarily makes my brain go fuzzy and heavy, and then a bit of anxiety stirs in my belly, because if I don't change the subject or find a way out of the conversation quick it will begin to drip out of my ears.
That's why I'm not going to tell you about all the improvements large and small that have been made around here this summer. I'll just show you. Part of why I wanted to mention it at all is that I am experiencing the sum total of our efforts as a surprisingly pleasant improved sense of being truly home. This space is more ours: more beautiful, more personal, more of a real place. Which, come to think of it, seems worth talking about! So take it back, you can tell me about window replacements anytime. Honestly. And then I will tell you about my hunt for the right drawer pulls for Frances's old/new dresser...
Did you get this far? Well. I do have one more little thing to note: tomorrow I go back to work. So obviously instead of prepping for freshman orientation I am here with you, showing you the pet mice and three-year-old napkin art that I had saved and that Gabriel and I made into a little bottom bunk banner last week.
Transitions! May yours be going as peacefully and smoothly as possible.