therapy

Before the therapists come over, I hurriedly dress everyone, wipe crusty breakfast remnants of little faces, brighten up my tired face and put on something that says "I plan to accomplish something today." I wipe fingerprints off tables. I relegate clutter to it's rightful home, or at least a different room. I sit and feed Little Miss, or I think of ways to entertain Silas (she's inevitably hungry right when they arrive, and he's inevitably clingy the entire time they're here).

It's all a little unsettling, a little like a performance, but I try to resist that. I voice my concerns, I sing her praises. I pry Silas off my neck. I listen and nod.

When they leave, I am usually overwhelmed by my new to-do list. Today, it's more formula per ounce of water, olive oil, avocado, probiotics. It's massaging open those tiny clenched fists, encouraging sitting and exploration, always  pushing her forward. Pushing.

We're pushing ourselves along, looking around to make sure all of us are keeping up.

in it

I've checked on them, finger-combed up sweaty nape of neck hair, tiptoed out. The little one wakes up at the drop of a hat lately. I planted pale yellow petunias today, and we ate turkey burgers with green chile outside, even though it was chilly by then, in the shade. I watched the new Mad Men episodes, and was disappointed with all the drama. I know, wrong show. Maybe this stuff is too depressing, maybe it makes people think their lives should be more complicated instead of less. Complicated gets too much glory. Sometimes you look outward for inspiration, sometimes all you need is to look around your own little space. At any rate, it's not going to kill my little springtime buzz.

I'm tapping away at the keyboard in bed now, his chest is rising and falling next to me and all is quiet but the tap, tap, tap and the breathing. The bare spots in the grass are filling in. There is color when I look outside. My baby looks for me all day long; we dig our hands in the dirt and he buries his face in Penny's coat and the breeze blows stray hairs out of my face. I don't want to get lost in anything, or pass the time. I'm in it, alive.

learning a person

We sat up late a few nights ago after the kids were tucked away and talked about our teenage years. Ir was after a long day for both of us; me still in my scrubs and him leaning back into the chair and drinking a tall glass of cold water. He was deep into some old memories, and we shook our heads, and had our silences, and laughed a bit too. I joined in, re-examining some things that have gotten clearer over the years, and some things that haven't yet. I don't know how you turned out the way you did, I tell him, again. Some stories are familiar, and some are new, but we keep remembering to tell each other more. I'm starting to understand how you can spend a lifetime learning a person.

I'm so grateful for the man who sits across from me--for his softness with our children and his ability to push back against ideas, for how he makes me brave, for the understanding we've grown into over the years. One thing I never knew--people can be honest and real and loved all the more for it. I used to think love, in part, was about hiding. Protecting feelings, protecting from the ugliness in me. We've put so much out on the table, and I love him more than ever.

August 2005

i needed this.

I stand in front of the wood block board, hulling strawberries and listening to the sounds of five thirty pm. Silas climbs in and out of cabinets, spreading plastic bowls and trays on the floor, dumps out a box of plastic forks. Nicky's playing Monkey Moves, dancing around the living room. I'm enjoying the chance to cook a meal slowly, brushing butter and rosemary onto salmon, drizzling maple syrup over squash. Silas buries his face in my legs and lingers while I pat his back, then takes off again, legs lifting side to side, laughing at brother. He'll be back in two minutes to repeat the process. This is all day, this little dance we do, and some days I sigh at it but today I reveled. Papa comes home; now we're all here.

Today there is no rushing off anywhere, so we take our time eating around the table-Nicky prays thank you God for this food and for the Earth and for my parents and everybody says Amen! and Silas throws food on the floor and looks up at us for a response. Nicky tries asparagus and likes it. More and more adventurous with food, that boy. I remember when he survived on beige food only, when I was putting yellow squash in his quesadillas. Ricky runs the bath while I load the dishwasher and I hear him playing blues to them while they splash and pour. I join them, stretch out on the carpet, then slather lotion and zip up footie pajamas, laugh at Silas, lean my head on Ricky's shoulder. This.

I read out loud from Little House in the Big Woods, stopping every few sentences to explain things like kerosene lamps and lead bullet-making and panthers. Then he cleans teeth and we all say our good-nights and he says I love you to the moon and back and to the moon and back and to the moon and back. That's further than heaven, he tells me, so satisfied and safe.

just write: two

Something that becomes more precious as our family grows: time for just two people. Yesterday it was Nicky and I going to the movies, with scratchy 3D glasses and Red Vines and me holding his good hand while we skipped through the parking lot. Me and my impossibly long-legged boy whose mind never seems to stop, whose questions and musings I struggle to keep up with, and whose innocence and acceptance of all I feel desperate to preserve. We go to see Beauty and the Beast, and he's so upset when Gaston dies ("he was a good guy, Mommy, and the beast was a bad man, then a bad beast, then a good beast, then a good man")-he sees that progression is possible. My five year old, deconstructing a fairy tale. And there's another bread crumb-I have to remember, now that I'm thinking of it, to tell him I think that's what Jesus would say too, that Jesus is planting seeds of compassion in his heart.

This morning it's just me and Silas, disheveling the house and putting it back together, most often simultaneously. Snuggling and locking eyes and laughing at each other, having our own kind of conversation. Just us two.

this time of day

He's back in his own bed tonight, after four nights of listening closely, through sleep to his breathing just to make sure. Normalcy is coming back; we will try to go to school tomorrow. He's been really sick this time. Yesterday we ventured out to a birthday party and he went to bed right after, exhausted. We made a thankful tree, and I wrote medicine on one of the leaves. Isn't it amazing- lungs function again, airways open. Thank God for it.

Baby was so restless today, a no nap morning, and I remembered the wisdom I read somewhere: put them in water. So, a long bath later I slipped my little fishes out of the water and the rest of the day was easy, content.

Now, the wind outside is icy, but they are tucked in with warm jammies and later I will tiptoe in to inhale the sweet smell of their hair and cover them up again, and tiptoe out and hold the door so it closes quietly.
This time of day only feels good if I did something right while we were in the thick of it, I realize.

Just Write: Marching

Nicky's ants are on the refrigerator door, counted one by one, two by two, ten by ten. He gets to be student of the day tomorrow, and that always includes a special homework project. Today was an on-call day, and it felt stolen; the best kind of day. A little bit of productivity, a lot of connection. We've had dinner, and the baby's sleeping, and there's a coffee cup in front of me. Ricky plays blues guitar, and Nicky sings along in his little voice I love my baby, heart and soul, coloring in his Dinosaur Train book. It's dark out at 7:30. Brown bear, brown bear book props up my laptop to keep it from overheating. The after-dinner glow is one of my favorite things about this time of year. It's different from summer, when you squeeze in as much day as possible, and outside beckons with it's breezes and clouds. Now, I just want inside, and a crochet needle, and the feeling of my family all around, cozy. The promise of a chilly morning and coaxing the boy out of bed with promises of hot chocolate, gloves on fingers for the drive to school, quick errands before morning nap-time, and the sometimes-giddy feeling of really? I get to do this again today? looms ahead.