gabriel's groove

Is it back? I think it might be back.

You may remember that I'd been worried about him. Since the baby joined us, he'd become muted, blunted, prone to staring out of windows. Loving his little sister, yet decidedly lacking his usual joie de vivre. Oh! For me, the heartbreak of seeing my vibrant, ebullient boy so sad - and feeling helpless to do much about it - has been the hardest part of our transition to life as a family of five.

But this week, he's back. I'm not sure if it's for good, but these days I am working on soaking in the moment, and letting all the rest float downstream. The baby grows before our eyes, the children become more and more independent and articulate, and the summer days are waning. After a playful swim and a speedy wild bike ride with the big kids this afternoon - while the papa and the baby slept - I am awash in gratitude. My dear sweet boy. I love him so.

page-turning

Frances and Gabriel have been visiting their grandmother for a couple of days on their own. This has given me the opportunity, during baby naps, to ransack their bedrooms and throw away everything I think won't be missed (but could never be disposed of in the children's presence).

Digging through Frances's room takes stamina. Which clearly I lack, for after the 5th or 6th start of a story that I found (buried on her desk, crumpled on the floor, tucked into a bag), I could stand it no longer and had to tell you about it.

Here's the first. Just two sentences:

Edward Fuller lived on 1563 Green Street. Everything there went well, except one thing.

What is that thing?? I shall never know. Next:

PROLOGUE
I will write this story in a very strange way. Of course Penelope Gray, and Dorcas and Thomas Carnegie are the characters my readers will grow familiar with and hopefully grow to love. But in parts of this, I will talk and describe parts of my own childhood.

The story takes place long ago. Slavery was done, but Abraham Lincoln was also. This is how the children find out how to turn the torn-apart, young America into a better place. First you meet a child called Penelope. Penelope had hope and spirit, but not enough to redo American. She needed help.

It goes on, written on tiny notebook paper. Here's another I found, written on square pieces of yellow stationary:

-1-

"In Congress, July 4, 1776." Those words lingered in Charity Carnegie's heart. She was an American girl, not British! Charity reached into her blue linen dress. She pulled out a bit of slate and her chalk and wrote:

Dear Mr. Jefferson, In true honor of American, please press this onto the Declaration:

Charity nailed a bit of parchment to her slate. The parchment read:

Charity Carnegie.

Charity tied a piece of twine to the peg on her slate. Then she slowly lowered the slate into the Congress Building.
"Well, what's this?" exclaimed John Hancock.
"It's addressed to Mr. Jefferson," said Ben Franklin. They handed it to Thomas Jefferson.

Who is this just-turned-8, moody, brilliant, creative, wild young lady novelist with the vivid historical imagination? Can you believe she lives in my house?

The flow of regular family life is so dense, so full, so brimming to the very top. Children's outward behavior takes center stage for us - how they conform to expectations and how they do not. I forget sometimes to be more curious, to wonder more about their mysterious inner lives. But oh, these stories! What an extraordinary glimpse.

a dream

A few nights ago: I am waiting to board a boat. A ferry, maybe - a dingy enormous public transportation-type boat that sits docked on the edge of a gorgeous, peaceful, dark blue expanse of water that extends as far as I can see. There are small cottages along the shoreline. It is twilight.

Whatever the nautical equivalent is of a porter approaches to help carry our bags. I am desperately trying to zip two rounds of delicate bread dough into my duffel bag without damaging them and failing miserably. He stands over me and comments, in French, on how awful it is that there are so many irritating children boarding this boat. I don't speak French, but I understand. And manage to respond, flustered and defensive, "but, but ... j'ai ... trois!"

But I have three, sir!

My dreams have always been comically straightforward in their symbolism. Sometimes they are just comically straightforward (I'm worried about a work problem - and I dream about the work problem). So this doesn't take much interpretation. I'm going on a journey, heading into a place that is quite beautiful, where people speak another language (therapy, college, the program) and I can't bring my bread dough. Nor my children! I doubt many clients would appreciate their boisterous presence in my new office. Who could get a word in edgewise?

Anticipating leaving the baby hurts. I've been working lately for Seeds 4 Success and it's been good practice. Yesterday I dropped the kids at camp, then left the baby with her sitter, got into the car, and cried nearly all the way to my home visit.

We'll be fine. I'll get on the boat.

I'm just a little scared.

mangia

Remember how I said I probably wasn't blogging anymore?

Hmm. Well. I was just thinking about this one little thing that kind of tickled my fancy.

You know the kind of grandmother that urges children to eat with an intensity that is startling, almost scary? Have you noticed how a child that eats and eats and eats fills many mothers (myself included) with nothing less than satisfied, glowing joy? I have often wondered why a hearty appetite makes me so happy. Sure, it's my job to feed my family, and everyone likes to do a job well, but it goes even deeper than that.

Last night Beatrice, who has been waking up more often than usual with teething pain (she has TWO teeth ... how is it possible??) slept all night. I shouldn't even tell you about it. I'm probably disrupting the cosmic order right now and she won't sleep through the night again til high school. (But I'm willing to take the risk for this tiny insignificant post-blogging post!)

Getting back to Bea. I woke up at 5:30 this morning, completely confused (what happened to the baby? where am I? good gracious, what time is it??) with what I will euphemistically call discomfort. Oh my. Serious, big bad discomfort. I tried to go back to sleep but that wasn't happening. Finally, feeling ridiculous, I tiptoed into Beatrice's room with the intention of waking up my baby who was still in the process of sleeping til morning. I know, absurd.

I leaned over the crib and she was wide awake, all big blue eyes, smiling and happily kicking off her swaddling blanket. I scooped her up to nurse. Relief! (Mostly. I had to pump a bit too).

All morning I've been overfull, and the last time the baby nursed I heard myself whispering to her: mangia, mangia. Eat, baby. Help your mama out. Eat, eat, eat.

Is that where it all starts? Is this experience where the third helping of kugel or lasagna comes from?  I do think relief features in the mix of positive feelings I get from successfully feeding my big kids, even though it seems like my own physical well-being is no longer at issue. But it is. It is.