For Posterity's Sake: Week in Review 59

Happiness is:
The slumbering of a baby who smiles in his sleep (if you can arrange your own slumbering with said baby - double happiness!).
A toddler in over-sized goggles.
Two toddlers straw-fighting over lunch (you know, until someone pokes an eye out).
A first carousel ride not riding a stationary animal (oh the joy of horses ascending and descending to circus music).
A fourteen-year-old in footed pink bunny pajamas, who wears them all night to make your three-year-old laugh, and seeing the two of them side-by-side in near-matching ensembles.
The sight of your husband pushing through the arrivals doors at the airport.
Two thirty-something fathers revisiting their pasts with the help of Little Debbie and an Xbox.
An almost-finished project.
A full house.

And, well, that was just the weekend. Happiness is also the following:

Lately, when Audrey is asked a question, it is not uncommon to hear her say, "As long as my mom says it's okay." I have no idea how this came about, just that the first time she did it I was a bit shocked and tickled, simultaneously. On Sunday, while eating lunch, I asked Audrey if I could have an orange slice from her plate. "Yes, as long as my dad says it's okay," she said. Hmm...

Later that day while watching Dora, Jason laid down on the couch with his head resting across Audrey's legs. She bent over, kissed the top of his head and began brushing her palm across his hair. After a few minutes she said, " Okay, I have to move now. My feet hurt."

Sunday, at church, Nathan began crying. We had the good fortune of his cries being drowned out by a hymn. "Mom, he's just singing," Audrey said.


By Monday Audrey had changed her position. As Nathan cried she said, "He's yelling in the house."
"He doesn't know the rules," I said.
"Go yell in the basement. That's the rule!" she told him.

After dinner (while he was not crying) she told him, "You are the best little brother. Best. Best. Best."


Once again, by the next day she had rethought her former position. While completing a puzzle she sang, "I don't know why God gave us a baby," not in disdain, just as if pondering if over.

She had some thinking to do about her father as well.
"What is Dad about?" she asked.
"He's your dad and my husband," I said.
"Is he my husband?"
"You don't have a husband. You have to be old like Mama to have a husband."
"Who will be my husband?" she asked.
"I don't know. I don't know if we've met him yet."
"Maybe it's Santa Claus."
"Maybe."


Wednesday, we drove Jason to the airport. As Jason and I debated about the best route to take, Audrey said, "You guys are funny."

On the same trip she told us that Nathan was "wide asleep."

We dropped Jason in front of the departures doors and pulled away from the curb. Audrey began to complain. Apparently, the airport resembles the Children's Museum to her and she was sure she was being gypped when I told her there were no dinosaurs inside to go look at (we made this up to her on Saturday when we met up with one of her friends at the museum).

We stopped at a few stores before driving home. While shopping I asked Audrey what she wanted for dinner. "Pancakes!" she said. Later, while walking past Panera, she got upset when we didn't go in to eat.
"You told me you wanted pancakes for dinner," I said.
"They don't have pancakes?!"


Thursday, Nathan began to cry. "Don't cry. You have a big sister," Audrey said.
"You think he's crying because he wants a big sister?" I said.
"Yes. But he already has one so he don't need to cry about it."


Friday, she began playing with my belt. "I'm going to put this (the prong on the belt clamp) in this (the eyelet) because I'm a big sister that can do stuff." Then she asked for help.


Friday afternoon, we drove to the airport to pick Jason up. We saw him walk through the arrivals door and Audrey began to cry, "It's so sad he wasn't here. I missed him."
Jason crawled into the front seat and I told him what she had said. She had been fine the last two days, never mentioning being sad, and now that his meeting was over and everything was fine, she lost it, I explained. Jason laughed. "Oh no. She's just like you."


A busy week. A busy weekend. But lots and lots of happiness. Not that the entire week was one happy-fest, there were times between Wednesday and Friday (my first two nights alone with both kids) when I thought I needed a clone, or more hours in the day, or a magic potion that would shrink us to carry-on size - nights when we ate bagels for dinner. But, thank goodness for bagels with Honey Nut cream cheese. Honey Nut cream cheese. Oh happiness. Let's focus on that.

Fiction Thursday: Candle Piece

Today I set up shop early: fed the baby, got in some reading (two pages), grabbed a bagel and brought the computer to a hum in hopes of beating the garbage truck, the stacks (of dishes, mail, laundry, children's books, felt), the itch and inspiration for other projects, and dates with friends. Today, before my cup is filled to teeming (no matter how wonderful that might be), here I am with more words than yesterday, well, at least a paragraph or two more.

This Fiction Thursday piece began with a focus on using sentence fragments to suspend time (no verbs = no action or tense) and a memory from my childhood of a blue candle. Ironically, I wrote this about seven years ago, before the birth of Grey's Anatomy or reemergence of the name Addie.

***


The final deterioration had happened in this room. It had taken less than three months. It is odd to observe, to watch your mother weaken daily in this bedroom, as if it were these four walls and not the disease taking her little by little. The cancer had begun out in the fields before she knew to wear chemical-proof goggles or a full-face respirator and rubber gloves with extended cuffs at the elbows, before she knew the heavy white canister of anhydrous ammonia she pulled between the rows of corn while soaking the soil was poison to her lungs.

The deterioration began out there, long before any of us could see it. It concluded here. Here: her bedroom with walls like the whitewash of her youth. Clean walls with no memory of sunken cheeks and shallow breaths. No leftover notes of whispers, "Poor Addie." "Any day now." Only my memories of dim blue candlelight against stark white walls. Remnants of deep shadows, dustless nightstands. My hand on her dry wrinkled palm. My ear to her wrung-out chest. The lights off, the room soundless except for sporadic labored breath. Her extinguished eyes in candlelit glow.

And now, the room radiant bright as I pull open the dresser drawers.


***


Hidden in the two pages of reading I snuck in this morning was this quote from E. L. Doctorow, "writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can see only as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way." I don't know that I see this piece as part of a novel, but regardless, I'm seeking that next pool of dark-clearing light. I'm just wondering if this time around my car doesn't need to go in reverse. Hmm...

As for that Paris bloke, rewriting out that piece (and ruminating on it a bit all day) did give me an inkling of an idea about this fellow, but I haven't sat down to experiment further yet.

I promise more light-hearted fare tomorrow. There are laughs to be shared.

Inspiration Found

It's been a brimming cup day: time for activities, hugs, projects, books, a few chores. But little time left for words. So since I have few words to share, I thought I'd invite you to check out a blog I discovered recently, Soul Aperture. It's a little bit of sanctuary. Beautiful photos. Positive words. Checking in from time to time with Christina is like coming out of the damp into the shelter of a bright, full, richly-hued umbrella. And, when she wrote on February 4th, "come as you are february," well, hers is an umbrella I'd like to be under.

Until next time, wishing you warmth, wishing you beauty, wishing you sanctuary - by the cupfuls.

Imagination Blueprints

The beginning of a long-term secret project. Good thing three-year-olds are too busy to check blogs.

Weekend Blues

Yummy.

Toasty.


Cozy.

Funny. (He calls this his action shot).

Filled with things that may be, whimsy

and wonder.

Sometimes the blues are oh so good.

For Posterity's Sake: Week in Review 58

We have been treading a path back to normal since Jason's surgery, catching up: on sleep, on chores, on family time. Of course, the funny thing about normal is it's constantly changing. Just when we think we've figured something out (how to manage a trip through the grocery store, the bedtime routine, how Audrey will react to a situation), the scales tip and we find ourselves scrambling to shift our weight and regain balance. I can find no greater example than our little girl, who is no longer so little, who daily surprises us with her quick wit and maturing reasoning abilities. Just when I think I've mastered the art of the "parental straight face" or "standard issue parental response", she nails me with one of these:

On Monday, Audrey and Jason were in deep discussion. I don't know what the topic was, only that it involved something Audrey didn't understand. Jason was asking her if she knew what something meant, and Audrey, whether for reasons of wanting to be seen as a big girl or simply in the know, refused to admit that she wasn't sure. It went something like this:

Jason: Do you know what that means?
Audrey: I don't um.
Jason: You don't know?
Audrey: I don't kn...uumm.


Tuesday, I caught her picking her nose. Knowing I would not approve of nose-picking, she tried to rename the action. "I just had an itch up there," she said.


She was working on a puzzle on Wednesday at the kitchen table. I was at the sink and heard her asking questions. Assuming they were directed toward me, I answered. "Now I'm just talking to myself," she said.


This week, we discovered that Nathan's second newborn screen was somehow lost and never analyzed, requiring us to have a new screen performed. My mother graciously gave up her Friday afternoon off to watch Audrey while I took Nathan to the lab. While at the house, Emmy (our dog) jumped up on her. Routine trips to the groomer are just one more aspect of normal that I haven't quite figured out how to logistically pull off since bringing Nathan home. As you can imagine, a haircut and bath are well overdue.

"Emmy, you smell like a dog," Mom said.
"We want her to be a dog," Audrey said.


Jason arrived home before me on Friday. Shortly after he got there, he heard Audrey refer to my mom as "mama."

"That's not your mama," he said.
"Well, she looks like my mama," Audrey answered.
Jason and my mother laughed. "You're right. She does look like your mama," he said.


We don't have the most consistent of bedtime routines. Some nights Audrey gets a bath before bedtime, others, she doesn't. Some nights we read a story. Some nights, we don't. But one thing is always consistent. Each night before she goes to bed, I tell Audrey she makes me a lucky mama. Every night, Audrey repeats the things we say. Good night. Good night. See you in the morning. See you in the morning. You make me a lucky mama. You make me a lucky mama.
But last night, she changed up her normal.

"You make me a lucky mama," I said.
"You make me a lucky Audrey," she said.


Nathan is on the cusp of changing normal, too. He wants to roll over so badly. Tonight after a diaper change, he rolled onto his side. I lay down beside him, facing him. He moved his arm in an arc toward my face, his fist coming to rest at my mouth. I kissed his hand. He smiled and squirmed, and a new game was born.


It has often been said that the only constant is change. You've only to spend an hour with a toddler and newborn to feel cloaked in the sentiment. But for all of this growing and the accompanying family modifications, there are some things that I hope remain the same: Audrey's spunk and her ability to morph from full-on spunk to full-on affection in the turn of a page. Her smile that sparkles like a field of lightening bugs, making magic across her face. Her quick wit. Her kind heart. Her genuine laugh. Those grasp-you-to-your-core hugs. As for this little boy of mine, I can't seem to talk to him, or about him, without wanting to preface any mention with the word "sweet", and I hope I always will (much to his future teenage disdain, I'm sure). Even after being pricked at the lab, he quickly regained his calm demeanor, my sweet laid-back boy, so willing to accommodate the normal of the day - whatever it may be. Let's hope the trait remains. Goodness knows, he's going to need it:

She told her Daddy she was "sharing" her toys. Ahem.

Antidotes for Snow Upon Snow

Inside: Deny. Deny. Deny. Pretend it's spring.

Outside: If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.

(Ironically, we've been waiting to trample in the snow the last few days due to leaving our boots at Mamaw and Papaw's house. Of course, as soon as we got the boots back, Audrey decided she didn't need them for traipsing in the snow. Ahem.)