happy birthday, dad

Last week we were in Lancaster. During the visit, I composed a blog post in my mind about why I feel so at home there, what makes that town such a vibrant, creative community (the arts! sustainable local agriculture! Mennonites!) - and why (I think) I no longer feel so bereft about living elsewhere. Why having a second home, a home-away-from-home, is something to be grateful for.

But then I thought if I told you too much about Lancaster (such as the fantastic new yoga studio or the kids' experience at farm camp), you would probably want to live there. And then real estate would be driven up and there would be waiting lists at the local private schools and it would ruin it for everyone.

So forget I even mentioned it. Instead I'll tell you about my dad's birthday, which is today.

My mom and my sister and I usually connect with each other on the anniversary of his death, but often his birthday quietly slides by. I'm never sure how to commemorate it. But this morning, on the way home from swimming class, I told Gabriel it was his grandpa's birthday. Without missing a beat, he said, "Let's make him a card. Even though he's dead. Okay?"

Okay. We gave Beatrice a piece of scrap to make her card on, Gabriel folded some red construction paper, and hesitated. What does one say to a dead person on his birthday? It was unknown territory for both of us. We laughed and considered sorry you're dead but then Gabriel confessed he wanted to be serious about this. So I suggested he just tell his grandpa - who was surely one of the best people for talking about feelings in the whole world - how he felt.

Sad. He felt sad. And that he wished he could meet him.

When it came time to sign the card, Gabriel again paused. "I could put my name, but he won't even know who I am, Mama. ...What if I write 'Meagan's son'?"

Oh no, I assured him. He knows you are Gabriel. (He does? Does he? Yes. I think.) God makes sure of that.

Frances caught wind of what we were doing and made a card too. She didn't want me to see what she wrote, because it's just for Grandpa. 

Then we confronted yet another challenge involved in making a birthday card for a dead person: how to deliver it? In the end, we build a tiny firepit in the backyard and burned the cards, in the hope that the tiny wafts of smoke might make it to heaven. We cried, a little. And then, maybe in honor of their grandpa's wild spirit, I showed the kids how to light matches for the first time. Fire is so cool.

Happy birthday, Dad.

ever farther, ever closer

About a week ago, Beatrice started responding to me with a funny little affirmative expression that sounds like yeppie. As in, Beatrice, would you like to come outside with me? She nods vigorously and grins, saying Yeppie! It's most often used when she really, really wants the thing that I am proposing: a song at naptime, a nurse, some water after coming in from the hot afternoon.

Was she making the already casual "yep" into a diminutive? Did her little toddler brain somehow get that putting "ie" on the ends of words makes them cuter? Maybe it was just her own odd little made-up word.

But then the other day, as she toddled through the house while calling Mama? Mama? Mama! (as she is wont to do) and I heard myself respond Yes? Yeah, Bea? Yeah, Bea, I'm here (as I am wont to do) - it finally hit me. Yeppie is Yeah Bea. It is the reassuring response she gets every time she calls my name as she ventures farther and farther afield. It's her toddler sonar. Mama? -Yes. Another step. Mama? -Yeah, Bea. Four more stairs. Mama? -Yeah, Bea. Top of the stairs ... then a hurtling chest-first veer into her big sister's room, where she finds chapstick and jewelry and stickers and becomes quiet in her focused destruction.

Yeah, Bea. It's okay. Keep going, keep coming back. I'll be here waiting for you.

Her language is exploding; her cognitive breakthroughs astound us. With every new word she acquires, it is as if the world becomes sharper, brighter, more vivid and alluring. Everything has a name; everything is more extraordinary than she ever supposed! Tonight she identified the backs of some children in a book we were reading, then wanted to rub all of our backs. Back, back, back! After we said our goodnights I brought her upstairs, where we settled into our rocking and nursing and singing routine. She kept pulling off, looking at the door, looking at me, and smiling. After awhile, she lifted her top arm and waved towards the door, pulling off to smile and say Night night, Papa, and then turn back to nurse. It was as if she was putting it all together: even though we're in a different room,  I know Papa and Gabriel and Frances are still downstairs, and even when I sleep, they are nearby. How about that, Mama? Isn't that terrific?

Along with all her new understanding and independence - her utter delight in running away from me -  has come unprecedented fear and anger when I leave her.  The agonies of separation anxiety are nothing short of awful, for everyone involved. I never leave the house unaccompanied by screams of protest. We are in the thick of extraordinary, fascinating, delightful rapprochement - and it can be harrowing. (Especially when faced with coming up with a new child care arrangement when work resumes in about five weeks - oh dear, oh dear - but that is for another post). 

Mike thinks yeppie is, in fact, yes please. It might be. It might be yeah, Bea and yes, please, depending on the context. She is that smart, that subtle! Or maybe the manners/social cues part of her brain is starting to come into focus and the phrase is shifting in meaning. Things happen that fast around here. A sixteen month old person is a wonder!