Naturally the children did not want to take a little nap and miss all of life.
I think that final sentence is one of the more perfect I have encountered in recent memory. One reads it well into Ginger Pye by Eleanor Estes (well enough that Gramma's ineffectiveness re: inducing naps has long been established), a book so good that Frances could not resist its allure (again) and ended up listening to the last 50 or 60 pages or so with her brother over the weekend.
What is it about that sentence? The use of "naturally," the musical rhythym that stops up short, the feeling of an arrow letting loose and suddenly hitting its mark, and of course, the sentiment. It made me laugh, because that is just how it feels as a child. If you are forced to take a break from the action you will certainly miss out on ALL OF LIFE. The stakes are in fact that high.
It's funny, but it's serious too. There is so much excellent life out there to partake of, to taste and see, and sleeping - voluntarily, no less - smells a little of mortality. At least I think so. (Have you read Goodnight Moon? You see what I mean.)
I am coming off of St. John's spring break, during which I longed for spring, shoveled snow, and managed to achieve one long-standing goal: assembling an album of our wedding pictures. This involved finding the photos - which for years I secretly feared were lost and had been too scared to look for because what if I discovered they actually were lost - deep in our basement, tucked, as it turns out, in a large poorly-labeled cardboard box. I printed some photos I had on a CD, sorted various snapshots, and day by day slowly put the thing together.
It was nearly twelve years ago! We were so young, and so much had yet to happen. Graduate school was waiting, the children were tiny twinkles, and I had not even crossed paths with so many people who would become important to me. And yet, strangely, it doesn't seem like a long time ago at all.
We watched Enough Said over the weekend. The cast was charming, and I mostly floated through the movie being pleasantly entertained with the exception of one scene that I can only describe as brutal, during which parents say an achingly real goodbye to their college-bound daughter at the airport.
My stars. I cried like a baby. Mike turned to me and said, "We only have 10 years left."
It will happen, and we will wonder where all the time went. I was ready to throttle Frances today (snow day #732 will do it to any parent) but oh, oh, I really don't want to walk those airport corridors with Mike one day and feel like I squandered it. Like I was too short-tempered, too impatient, too distracted to really appreciate her complicated, annoying, glorious eight year old self.
And Beatrice...! Having a big kid and a baby at the same time leaves you with no illusions. She will be rolling her eyes at me and slamming the door any minute now.
And Gabriel...! He wanted to read aloud to me tonight. And he did. And his two front teeth are about to fall right out of his head.
Well. Naturally I don't want to take a nap and miss all of life. So here I am, back on the blog, the place where I reach out for those ephemeral moments and colors that are shifting into something new even as I write.
(Blame the season for my rather grown up boggled-by-time vibe tonight. I am approaching the anniversary of my dad's death (this year it makes as many years without him as I had with him, a strange thought) and always feel extra vulnerable to the exquisite beauty of the changing world at this time of year, right on the cusp of spring.)
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