a conversation

While Gabriel was climbing into bed, I stood by his dresser and picked up a piece of black construction paper folded over itself many times and sealed with copious amounts of scotch tape. There was something heavy and hard inside.

I said Gabriel, what is this?

-It's paper, folded around a rock.

Oh. ...Do you need it? Can I throw it away?

-Well, it's actually a rock I found a long time ago, in 2012. It's the oldest rock I have. So I'd really like to keep it.

Okay.

-Mama, I found it in the middle of 2012. So that is more than a year and a half ago! Which is pretty old for a rock.

Yes.

-And actually - actually - I found it outside, so it's probably a lot older than that even.

You're probably right.

-I should definitely keep it. ... Mama, doesn't it seem weird that it will be two thousand and twenty one day?

Yes! It seems very weird.

-And I'll probably be like, ten. Or maybe eleven.

You will be eleven.

Then I showed him how to add five, the age he is now, to six on his fingers. Then he told me that thirty plus thirty is sixty, because three plus three is six. And also fifty plus fifty is one hundred! After a few more exciting math revelations, he told me a little about sharks, and then I told him it was time to have his routine and go to sleep.

mad science

On Thursdays I go into work late, which means Beatrice and I get to sneak in a little exclusive time together between the bus stop drop-off and her nap time. Without anyone else vying for my attention, and with a specific end to our interlude in sight (when she starts rubbing her eyes), I get kind of swoony and gaga and start thinking she is the best most sweetest most outrageously adorable baby in the world and cannot resist taking pictures of her, to document this absolutely perfect developmental moment.

Of course the moment will also be perfect next Thursday, and the Thursday after that. 

(An aside: my grad school friend Patrice was the only person in the world I knew who had a baby when Frances was born. She told me, when I was pregnant, that my baby would be the best baby in the world. But I should also keep in mind that every other person's baby is also the best baby in the world. It's an approach that still works for me - it recognizes that one is not alone in feeling crazy bottomless motherlove. Connection rather than competition. It's why I can barely stand to consume news when children are involved in tragedies, because I know they are the best babies in the world too.)

Back to today! Beatrice is in full-on baby scientist mode. Her favorite occupation is putting objects into some kind of container, removing them from the container, testing them for hardness (with her many sharp teeth, of course), testing them for knock-ability (how do they sound when whacked on a hard surface?), testing them for clutch-ability (can she crawl with them in her fists? keep them in her hands while I slide them through the sleeves of a clean shirt?), replacing them in the original container, examining the full container briefly, then repeating the process.

And most beautifully, all this experimentation takes place within the safe container of loving relationship. She'll whack something on the ground, be delighted by the noise, then look up, scanning the room for a member of her family with whom she can share the experience. She'll take her objects out, spread them around, then pick just the right one to hold out to me: look, Mama! You touch it too! Try biting this, it's terrific!

This morning it was a set of nine pins that Gabriel likes to take out with her. It was novel to have them all to her best baby-scientist self. 

be it ever so humble

Gabriel, Beatrice, and I drove home to Annapolis from Lancaster this afternoon. We had a very satisfying 24 hour visit that included savoring gooey chocolate-studded bread from the market, some long overdue Olympics-viewing, and sledding on the fantastic hill at Buchanan Park (Beatrice went down with me and was positively stunned by the experience). Frances has this week off of school so we visited for a bit before dropping her with my strong, generous, extraordinary mother, who is not only hosting her for a few days, but also spent those 24 hours taking care of all of us. It feels so good to have her make me dinner and pour me another glass of wine.

It was all very homey and very excellent. And yet. Home is the place where your children go to sleep: at a reasonable hour, with minimal fuss, for the majority of the night, most of the time. Which means Annapolis wins the home contest hands-down, and I was relieved to walk in the door late this afternoon with my tired kiddos. We all flopped onto the couch, and fatigue moved through me in a mighty rolling wave.

Life with two kids is easier than life with three; the break from what has lately been relentless sibling rivalry is dreamy. Beatrice, despite sleep deprivation, was positively thrilled to see her papa and be at home, and her sweet grins made everyone else happy too. Gabriel returned to the culinary roots of his toddlerhood and early preschool days and volunteered to help me make dinner, taking on the salad with admirable focus and care. Beatrice cooked up her own mess on the floor at our feet.

There was dinner, there were baths, there were stories. There was a breakthrough moment that involved the Nose Frida being utilized in an unintended way. Mike went to seminar, Beatrice and Gabriel went to bed, and as I cleaned up the kitchen I realized that I curl up and relax into routines nearly as readily as the children do. Or maybe I'm just content because they're content. In any case, being at home with its rhythms and routines feels great. Gabriel and Beatrice are happy; happy and sleeping. 

I wonder if Frances is...?

the mama

I was trying to leave church this evening after children's choir practice and dinner, and Frances and Gabriel were chasing each other, running wild around the parish hall with a pack of other kids. Beatrice - overtired, pink-cheeked and snotty - was in my arms, alternately smiling at them and arching her back in despondent exhaustion. My eyes fruitlessly scanned the room for our discarded coats. Just then our friend Carolyn walked up to me, the picture of grace, and smiled a peaceful hello at Beatrice. Then she turned to me and said, "And how is the mama?"

Who? What? I felt confused. Did she mean my mom? But that wouldn't make any sense. 

"Do you mean ... me? Moi?"

"Yes! Toi."

Oh. I was a total blank. I couldn't even think of an appropriate string of words to respond with. 

It sounds pretty bad, but I think most mothers can relate at least a little - sometimes our internal and external worlds are so crowded by the needs of others that it's hard to reach down deep in there and take one's own temperature. It's hard to even feel inclined to do so. 

The thing is, my worries are not even that worrisome. But because they are persistent, I'm a little ragged around the edges. The big thing is that Beatrice has been sick. Awhile back she had a high fever that hung on for a couple of days, and now she rattles out an alarming-sounding cough on and off for much of the night, streams baby snot down her sweet little philtrum (a word Frances taught me years ago - so useful!), has minimal tolerance for being out of my arms when in my presence, and struggles to get enough sleep. Basically, she has a nasty cold. It's killing me.

Every time I wake to hear one of those awful coughs on the other side of my bedroom wall, I cringe. I feel like the new door stop in the bathroom, the springy one with a white rubber tip that the children love to push down with their toes so they can listen to it reverberate. (They guffaw and tell me it sounds like a fart. I totally disagree.) After one of those hacking fits, I feel my insides shudder wildly, slowing down only gradually over time, til there are just quiet vibrations buzzing in the dark.     

There have been a couple of intense crises at work. Frances fights about practicing the piano. Gabriel hates when I help with homework. Bea has a cold. This is the relatively reasonable level of problem - of other-worry - that I'm talking about, but geez, do I feel it deep in my bones. 

Thank goodness for stolen yoga interludes, late night talks with dear friends, the everything chocolate-covered section at Trader Joe's, solidarity that I find here, and pink nail polish. Which I will now proceed to apply. 

(Well! All those good things have made appearances in my life recently. Now I know what to say. The mama, it turns out, is just fine.) 

Sweet dreams, friends.