Sunday, May 2, 2010
For Posterity's Sake: Week in Review 68
During spring, the only days the windows of the school bus weren't open were the days it rained. Even then, a few would find their way cracked a thumb's width in hopes of letting in a breeze. One morning, my mother saw me off to the bus just to get a call to come pick me up when I arrived at the elementary school. My eyes were as clear as the bright sky when I mounted the steps of the bus, three miles later I was still planted in my seat in the school parking lot, unable to see. A few miles of unbounded pollen and my eyes were swollen shut - a pseudo shield. As a child, springs were a study of opposites. A desire to see the world anew: eyes swollen shut. An itch to feel the grass against my barefeet: the itch of hives. The internal jolt of witnessing the first blooms of the season: the physical jolts of sneezing. Ah, spring. The season of tulips, robins, baseball bats, and sinus infections. I could write a sonnet about you - if I could just stop blowing my nose.
I have been dragging my feet in the seasonal grasses, so to speak, this week in writing my review as I battle a sinus infection. I would like to think I'm over the worst and that in the matter of a few days (and antibiotics) all will be right as rain. Poor Nate seems to have grabbed onto my short stick seasonal allergy-ridden DNA with both fists. The two of us have been sniffling our way through the week. This new trait is just one of many that leave me gawking at this little baby-come-man-child, who joined us at the family dinner table this week giving baby spoons and rice cereal a go. Audrey (undeterred by any season and its misgivings) begins each morning by grasping him in a bear hug, eliciting wide-mouthed smiles. She follows up with incidents like those listed below. I tell you, that girl is good medicine:
While driving last Sunday we passed a cornfield. Audrey pointed. "Look at that big garden!"
One particularly wooded route we frequent often elicits questions about trees. Monday, while driving this route, the following conversation ensued:
Audrey: How do trees feed us?
Kristin: The seeds of some trees are foods we eat. You know how mama eats walnuts on her cake and salads? Walnuts come from trees.
Audrey: What about doughnuts?
Tuesday, I watched her completing a puzzle on her own. She slid the last piece in place before yelling, "Booyah!"
Thursday afternoon she was busy with a game of pretend. "I'm Mary and I'm going to have a baby," she said. Then she looked at me. "And you're a donkey." (I'm trying not to read too much into this).
Audrey tends to keep the lights on after she's left the playroom. We've tried to convince her to shut the lights off many times to no avail (this may have something to do with some of the lights being Christmas lights left up for their whimsical appeal). Thursday night I overheard Jason telling her that if we don't turn the playroom lights off we might have to spend all our money on utilities, leaving no money left to spend on her. "Oh, okay, you can turn them off then," she said.
Friday morning, when my symptoms were pointing away from allergies and toward a sinus infection, I decided I needed to head things off with a trip to the doctor. We like to take our time, especially in the morning. I thought that, perhaps, if I were a bit creative with my wording, Audrey would feel a sense of responsibility toward our morning and want to move quickly. "Audrey, I need you to get dressed so you can take me to the doctor today," I said.
"Am I driving?" she asked.
When I was diagnosed with allergies at the age of eight, the allergist told my parents there was a chance I would outgrow them. Twenty-four years later, I'm still waiting. But I'm a late-bloomer, so I'm holding out hope. And hoping my kids outgrow me just as slowly.