tenderness

Gabriel is three years old, and he has been pondering the mysteries of existence as only a three year old can. His favorite problem to puzzle over is language. "Mama," he asks at least once a day, "why is there a word for everything?" Are there things without words? If it doesn't have a name, is it real? Why do other people know so many words that he doesn't? If he makes up the word can it be a real word for a real thing? Clearly my answers to his questions are wholly unsatisfying, otherwise he wouldn't have to ask me over and over.

He's also been trying out some creative ways to get around death. The unthinkable finality of death is so terrifying and strange that it has no place in his way of thinking. Just today he noticed I'd taken a zinnia out of the little yellow vase in his bedroom. Why did I do it? Well, the flower had died.

"But you said if we put the flower in water it will stay alive!"

"But not forever. Eventually the petals dry out and turn brown."

The lower lip had already begun to tremble, and tears were gathering, making his eyes glitter beautifully. No, no, no, the flower cannot die. There must be a way to ensure forever. I told him we could pick a new one after naptime, which didn't solve the problem by a long shot but kept the tears from spilling over.

I was carrying Gabriel to bed tonight, and his whole body rested heavily in my arms (we both have colds, the consolation for which is fantastic snuggling).

"Can I always carry you like this, even when you're bigger?"

We were sitting in the rocker at this point, and his head was burrowed into my shoulder. He lifted it up to look at me a bit wistfully and say, "Probably not."

"What if I'm the strongest mama?"

"Maybe." We sat quietly for awhile, savoring the still moment before I started our bedtime routine. Then Gabriel looked at me again, his face sharpened into focus with a new idea to share. "Did you know, Mama, that when kids grow up, grown ups turn into kids? They do! Grown ups get small again."

"So when you're all grown up, I'll be a kid?"

He nodded vigorously. "You and Papa will both be kids when Didi and I are grown ups."

"Will you carry me?"

Another emphatic nod, yes. "I will. We'll take care of you and Papa. And then we'll go back again, and we'll be kids, and you'll be grown ups again. That's how it goes, back and forth. Wait and you'll see, Mama."

I didn't say his related thought out loud: and then we'll never die. The four of us will be a family forever, taking turns caring for one another. We'll never have to leave parts of our lives behind; we'll always be able to go back. We snuggled in the chair for a long time, pondering his vision of eternally loving and being loved. Then he looked up again and with an equally bright light in his eyes said, "Mama. I think a hockey stick is just like a polo mallet!"

He's probably dreaming of sports by now, but I'm still thinking about turning into a kid. Should Mike and I be so blessed as to grow old together, so old that we shrink and become like little children, I have no doubt that Gabriel would carry us. I hope we have the grace to let him.

briefly

 Good morning! Today is our third day of school and our fifth day without power. We are slowly but surely getting the hang of first grade, but life without electricity continues to challenge us. Yesterday at pick up time I circled the jammed parking lot and surrounding side streets twice at the Key School, getting increasingly frazzled as the time got later and Gabriel continued to cry because, just woken from his nap, he had dropped the picture of a "football guy" cut out for him from yesterday's sports section and couldn't retrieve it, and so I pulled over in the parking lot, jumped out of the car, tried to ask the nice mustachioed man directing traffic what in the heck I should do so I could get my kid already, and burst into tears instead.

"Are you new?" he asked.

"Yes, I'M NEW," I sobbed, "and I don't know why I'm crying."

Well, we made it through. He was very sweet and helped us. I thanked him this morning at drop off time, then picked up a load of our laundry from our dear friend Milena, who has also been supplying us with extra ice and loads of moral support. I returned home to find a bag of ice left on the porch by another dear friend, Katie. The candles have burned pretty low, and we are appreciating phrases like "the dying of the light" in a whole new way, having lived for a week with the reality of darkness. Once it's dark, it's dark. There's no going back. But it sure is nice to have the unwavering light of friends and neighbors at a time like this.

These pictures were taken during the storm. The children were so tickled with their abilities to put each other into "packages."

Now off to get some work done! Happy new school year and new beginnings to all of you. The reports come in fragments and small details, but overall my impression is that our daughter is already starting to love her new school.

storm craft

 

As Hurricane Irene approached, I became increasingly concerned. I normally scoff at the grim warnings of meteorologists because they are nearly always overblown, but I’d never weathered a storm like this so close to the water. On Friday, my Facebook wall started to ring the same note over and over: how many gallons of water should one have, where to get ice, who was evacuating and who was sticking it out.

So we took it seriously, making room in the garage for the car and filling the tub – just in case. Thank goodness we never lost water, but we did lose power. Who knows when it will ever come back on? I’m writing now on a battery-powered laptop that is creating the lone pool of light in this pitch-dark house. We’re well into Day Three without refrigeration, lights, land line, and internet access. No streaming, no satisfying the children’s wonderings about, for example, the distance from here to Papua New Guinea, no email, no blogging…! But tonight I realized I could write on a Word document and post this whenever I find somewhere to get online. Hence this gritty report from the frontlines of hurricane-induced deprivation.

As the storm built in intensity on Saturday, we set out on a crafting mission. There was still leftover cardboard from our Ikea ordeal, and the sharks seemed hungry. So I cut out a school of fish for them to chase, and the children painted and glittered them. Then we needed a crab. And an octopus. It was at this point that I started cutting up cereal boxes and whatever cardboard packaging I could find. Gabriel requested a sea spider, so I took a crack at it, and soon after that the recycling bin ran officially dry.

As the wind blew and the tree branches moved like waves outside, we kept painting and decorating in the kitchen. The rain pounded all day; it didn’t seem coincidental that we were drawn to underwater scenes.

 The power went out in the afternoon and we ate dinner by candlelight, watching the sky. I was hit many times by a strong desire to go outside into all that violent motion, but I knew that wouldn't go over well with my family. It was all beautiful and sinister. The darkness, the howling, the bowed plants and trees, the pervasive feeling of being trapped together in our strangely still, warm house.   

Branches littered the yard and street in the morning; one home in our neighborhood was destroyed by a large fallen tree. We took a rainy walk when the wind quieted, comparing notes with neighbors, then returned home to our fish, which were all dry. Gabriel and I decided to put the animals he’d decorated on his bedroom walls. (Frances is not sure of her fishes’ final destination). 

We all had great fun arranging and rearranging them in the room. And when we were finished, the sun had come out.  

Mike had to teach seminar, so I did bedtime tonight. Frances starts school tomorrow. I gave her a bath, rubbed her dry, and yanked a comb through her hair by flashlight, like so many other parents must have done all along the East coast. We are preparing for this leap into the first grade at a new school under unusual circumstances, but everything feels okay. As okay as it can in the dark, where all would be quiet if not for the pervasive rattling buzz of nearby generators. 

Frances looked so small while I gave her our customary nine sprinkle dusties. I count them off as we go, “sprinkling” by giving her a tickly pitter-patter with my fingertips down her spine.

Tonight she turned her body back towards me in bed when I was finished, asking “What are sprinkle dusties, Mama?"

Five years into this routine and now she asks! I didn’t tell her how she was captivated when saw her older friend Julian receive them once from his mama, or how the two of them had played sprinkle dusty with a little bath toy on the sidewalk when she was not yet two years old. Instead I told her sprinkle dusties were a kind of magic fairy dust that protected her and kept her safe in the night.

“Could you do extra ones tonight? I need powerful sprinkle dusties.”

On the third night of fumbling through our evening routines by flashlight, and on the last night of summer vacation, was I surprised that she needed extra magic protection? I heard myself saying a kind of prayer as I ran my fingers down her spine over and over: this sprinkle dusty is for courage. This sprinkle dusty is for patience. This sprinkle dusty is for kindness. This sprinkle dusty is for peace.

With each sprinkle her eyes drooped and her lips parted further. Those dusties really are powerful stuff, and thank goodness, because she’s about to step off this storm-battered craft into a great unknown. I’d cover my small, strong daughter in magic talismans and good luck charms, ropes of garlic and an invisible force field if I could. Ah, wish me luck tomorrow! Deep down I know Frances doesn’t need it – but I might.   

in defense of amusement

Bright and breezy, the weather on Wednesday was could not have been more perfect. The day fell squarely between a rare East coast earthquake and an anticipated hurricane; its proximity to extremes made it that much more quietly glorious. It was the last gasp of summer vacation, and we did not celebrate with peach jam preserving, nor with tomato harvesting nor daisy-chain making in a green meadow. People, we went to an amusement park.   

The whole day brought to mind The Sound of Music, another occasion in which I inwardly assumed a too-cool-for-school attitude in anticipation of some good, clean fun only to give way within seconds, forgetting my adolescent resistance and fully embracing how awesome the whole thing was. My mother brought us to that show, and she brought us to Lancaster County's own Dutch Wonderland yesterday. Because she knows I will love it. She pushes through my suspicion of things commonly considered to be Fun, things that people pay lots of money to do in large crowds on hot summer days, and says oh come on Meagan.  

We arrived and got right on the Sky Ride. When we disembarked, we rode a real roller coaster. And a carousel, and a crazy up-and-down ride that made me ill but the children loved, and a monorail in need of a paint job. And then ate our picnic lunch surrounded by all kinds of families in a pretty area just outside the park (the family next to us was Hasidic; the parents looked about my age and had eleven children).

It turns out that my kids, at ages three and six, are totally up for Fun. I was anticipating fights, tantrums, and meltdowns in punishing August heat. We did have one tough twenty minutes, during which both kids fell apart, but that was immediately before lunch so I attribute it more to hunger than bombardment by the relentless evils of an amusement park.

And seriously, Dutch Wonderland is just about the least evil amusement park I can imagine. There's no intense corporate presence, nor mass-marketed crass cartoon characters. Well, Thomas the Tank Engine does feature in a show, but it was so simple and low-tech that it was impossible to be offended. A freckled, tired-looking teenager in a blond wig and pink satin dress wandered the park and all the kids jumped up and down because a real princess was walking in our midst. What a summer job!

Being at an amusement park designed for young children within a two hours' drive from lots of big cities was a lot like my experience at the airport over the Fourth of July weekend. Except my love of country swelled even greater yesterday, because everyone seemed so happy, grinning at their toddlers and watching their big kids on the carousel. The diversity of parents pushing so many double strollers in one place took my breath away! There were disheveled Brooklyn dads in flip flops, Japanese families in matching polo shirts, Long Island glamour-mamas with bejeweled sandals and heavy accents, countless Hasidic families in long dark sleeves, and so many Amish teenaged girls taking their kid brothers and sisters out for the best day ever. I wish you could have seen them with their somber dresses and tightly knotted hair laughing uncontrollably on a roller coaster!

So on the cusp of a new school year that promises many changes in our family, I am all filled up with gratitude: for my mother who insisted on taking us out for some serious Fun, for my kids who kept it together and delighted us with their delight, for my hard-working husband who was home just beginning the new fall semester, and for my country, the kind of place where you can snuggle into a bumper car with your kid and slam into other cars driven by - among others - a teenage girl in a white mesh cap, a bearded man in a yarmulke, a chubby grandma in a sequined t-shirt, and a young Indian mother with shining black hair all in one thrilling 60 second ride. Then you all stumble out laughing on shaky legs, get in line, and do it all over again. What a fine way to say goodbye to summer!