A few weekends ago we had family in town. As usual, we played, ate, chatted, and went to bed late. Then morning came. Soon. Very soon. Somewhere in the six o'clock hour the blue eyed one was smiling and babbling and bouncing me out of dreamland. It's happened before and I know it'll happen again but just this once I wanted to extend a little extra courtesy to the other souls inhabiting our 900 sq. feet so I did my best to sneak silently out the front door before we could wake them; keys in hand, pudger on my hip, and the beach in mind. No baby was ever so delighted to be strapped into a car seat.
We parked and went to watch the blue light stretch into the white morning and grow deeper across the water as the day arrived. She sat in the cradle of my crossed legs, smelling the stillness just like me I presume. And scanning her surroundings with her clear, curious, innocent eyes. Then something captivated her and she hopped off with purpose, like a little bird to peck seed. It's one of the little things that makes Louie our Lou. She spends the day marching around, pointing, and clucking, like a merry little chubby chicken. And this morning was no different.
I sat back and watched for a moment. Fuzzy blonde head, sweet face, cheerful bumble-bee jammers accented with a red plaid scarf to ward off the brisk breeze I hadn't anticipated. She was a sight to enjoy. I hopped down and she let me join her bobble-head tour of the freshly groomed sand. The trucks and tractors that had lately manicured the beach had left trapezoid tracks, dogs later added their circles, and birds their heavily outlined triangles. Looking behind me I saw the oblong traces of two baby feet, criss-crossing and dancing through the rest. I thought of the quiet that preserves astronaut footprints in moon dust. Bugs cooed a question, smiled a smile she couldn't help.
We went home. The day progressed; I bet our footprints were recycled into a sandcastle by noon. I'm glad: we made them in living sand instead of stale debris. So I'm saving them here instead.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Siblingitis
Siblingitis: severe inflammation of tiny, tender emotional egos characterized by swift oscillation between soft, playful affection and extreme, physically manifested frustration. Listed as most common cause of maternal insanity. Tx: time
We have a daily cycle of acute siblingitis going; Love: despise. Love: annoy. Love: attack. All quite reactionary and mutual. Emotional outbursts puntuate the day, ricocheting like a bullet in a tin can. It's funny. And sometimes it makes me totally nuts.
There are days the monkey and the bug are sisters and best frenemies. I love their interest in each other. Blue desperately wants to participate in every aspect of Curly's life; Curly diligently seeks to teach her sissy all that she knows. They can play together in ways I wouldn't have anticipated at so young an age: they already have games original to them, the rules to which I'm fairly ignorant of but can see that they each fully understand. And seemingly just for the sake of contrast, they are already supreme masters of button pushing. Like they each came with a complete and perfect knowledge of exactly how to drive the other absolutely mad. This morning the girls stretched across the back seat to brush fingertips on the way to drop daddy off. Just trying to have physical contact as long as they could, and beaming each time they found success. An hour later, RED ALERT, children are screaming bloody murder and hoarding cups of juice. Repeat the cycle at least five times a day, swapping out infinite unique scenarios.
The episodes, be they happy or sad, indulgent or defiant, expire quickly. It's so weird. I think it's just part of learning to live together. To share space, attention, possessions, and air. To be a family requires work, apparently from the word go. I remember that, just didn't realize it all started quite so early. I thought you had to have some kind of verbal ability, or at least some idea of personal property to really get in each other's way. And it's all so different from this seat. The fighting, small scale and temporary as it is, hurts my head, and sometimes my heart. And I have a sneaky inclination to be lazy and avoid. To somehow acquire two of everything, because sharing is hard, whether it's toys or mom, whether you're 1 or 3 or 30. And it's even harder to teach. I'm tempted to seperate them, give them totally distinct lives, and only mix them when they're sure to appreciate each other.
Then I think of my brothers. How close we are in age. Four of us in ten years. You know we suffered our share of siblingitis. I think of my brothers. How I love and admire them. How I would pick each of them as my friend even if we hadn't been forced to figure out how to enjoy each other. And I feel like they would pick me too. I remember a bunch of things, moments that make a mental collage of my childhood as the only girl. Me providing the drama, taking the bait every time. Those fellas, they never would let me take myself too seriously. I remember once, I had this dress for a formal dance. Periwinkly blue silk with a lace up back and whale bone corset. It was prissy, prissy, princess as they come. My brothers christened it "the Buick" and refered to it at every possible opportunity. The poor dress joined the ranks of "the Grecian goddess" and "the wedding dress" (which, incidentally, was black) and a whole bunch of other dresses, not to mention dates, I could never be in the same room with again without suppressing a smirk. I'm smirking even thinking about it.
I think of my brothers and the bzillion inside jokes we have; words and cues and subtle looks that refer to instances that will never grow old. How learning to breathe in concert yeilded far more benefits than simply surviving the threat of suffocation. We're growing in four different directions, yet our roots are still intertwined. Our kids are and will be special to each other, and extra special to us. And I think of my husband, and his sisters, and how they're the same. And how they welcomed me too. And my thinking shifts. The siblingitis, still leads to a good bit of vaso-constriction. But all the sudden it's worth it. I don't need to exterminate or cure it. I can let this run its course. And I don't need to get impatient about it. I can try to guide this, and help the girls fashion their interactive skills. And I'll mediate innumerable contentions of indecipherable cause. And I'll stop being a baby, stop looking for the easy out or feeling like I must be totally failing if my girls don't always get along. Even when they are just one and three.
Siblingitis is a function of the process of loving each other. Of growing together. It'll shake out, bit by bit, year by year, so slowly and steadily I won't even notice until it's gone. Somewhere, in that weird annoying process, people figure it out. Families bend and adjust and grow and stretch, the elasticity of each member improving until the fit is snug, yet most accommodating. I'm glad my girls will get to know that. And get to be that.
We have a daily cycle of acute siblingitis going; Love: despise. Love: annoy. Love: attack. All quite reactionary and mutual. Emotional outbursts puntuate the day, ricocheting like a bullet in a tin can. It's funny. And sometimes it makes me totally nuts.
There are days the monkey and the bug are sisters and best frenemies. I love their interest in each other. Blue desperately wants to participate in every aspect of Curly's life; Curly diligently seeks to teach her sissy all that she knows. They can play together in ways I wouldn't have anticipated at so young an age: they already have games original to them, the rules to which I'm fairly ignorant of but can see that they each fully understand. And seemingly just for the sake of contrast, they are already supreme masters of button pushing. Like they each came with a complete and perfect knowledge of exactly how to drive the other absolutely mad. This morning the girls stretched across the back seat to brush fingertips on the way to drop daddy off. Just trying to have physical contact as long as they could, and beaming each time they found success. An hour later, RED ALERT, children are screaming bloody murder and hoarding cups of juice. Repeat the cycle at least five times a day, swapping out infinite unique scenarios.
The episodes, be they happy or sad, indulgent or defiant, expire quickly. It's so weird. I think it's just part of learning to live together. To share space, attention, possessions, and air. To be a family requires work, apparently from the word go. I remember that, just didn't realize it all started quite so early. I thought you had to have some kind of verbal ability, or at least some idea of personal property to really get in each other's way. And it's all so different from this seat. The fighting, small scale and temporary as it is, hurts my head, and sometimes my heart. And I have a sneaky inclination to be lazy and avoid. To somehow acquire two of everything, because sharing is hard, whether it's toys or mom, whether you're 1 or 3 or 30. And it's even harder to teach. I'm tempted to seperate them, give them totally distinct lives, and only mix them when they're sure to appreciate each other.
Then I think of my brothers. How close we are in age. Four of us in ten years. You know we suffered our share of siblingitis. I think of my brothers. How I love and admire them. How I would pick each of them as my friend even if we hadn't been forced to figure out how to enjoy each other. And I feel like they would pick me too. I remember a bunch of things, moments that make a mental collage of my childhood as the only girl. Me providing the drama, taking the bait every time. Those fellas, they never would let me take myself too seriously. I remember once, I had this dress for a formal dance. Periwinkly blue silk with a lace up back and whale bone corset. It was prissy, prissy, princess as they come. My brothers christened it "the Buick" and refered to it at every possible opportunity. The poor dress joined the ranks of "the Grecian goddess" and "the wedding dress" (which, incidentally, was black) and a whole bunch of other dresses, not to mention dates, I could never be in the same room with again without suppressing a smirk. I'm smirking even thinking about it.
I think of my brothers and the bzillion inside jokes we have; words and cues and subtle looks that refer to instances that will never grow old. How learning to breathe in concert yeilded far more benefits than simply surviving the threat of suffocation. We're growing in four different directions, yet our roots are still intertwined. Our kids are and will be special to each other, and extra special to us. And I think of my husband, and his sisters, and how they're the same. And how they welcomed me too. And my thinking shifts. The siblingitis, still leads to a good bit of vaso-constriction. But all the sudden it's worth it. I don't need to exterminate or cure it. I can let this run its course. And I don't need to get impatient about it. I can try to guide this, and help the girls fashion their interactive skills. And I'll mediate innumerable contentions of indecipherable cause. And I'll stop being a baby, stop looking for the easy out or feeling like I must be totally failing if my girls don't always get along. Even when they are just one and three.
Siblingitis is a function of the process of loving each other. Of growing together. It'll shake out, bit by bit, year by year, so slowly and steadily I won't even notice until it's gone. Somewhere, in that weird annoying process, people figure it out. Families bend and adjust and grow and stretch, the elasticity of each member improving until the fit is snug, yet most accommodating. I'm glad my girls will get to know that. And get to be that.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
The Story of a Day
Monday in Review:
In the morning, we see Daddy off, get breakfast, wash faces, get dressed and indulge in our daily dose of curly-headed-hair-combing torture.....Yay! Approximately 5000 questions are ventured in this process, including a few about all types of anatomy, if you follow me here. And a very important one about squirrels.
Then we put on a movie for the monkey while the ladybug gets put down for a nap. With the baby snoozing, I turn off the movie and Sue and I test the bouncing abilities of the new couches, read a few books, and make up a dance about "how do you do and shake hands". Our favorite part is when you march around in a circle.
When Zooby wakes up from naps she always gives me a long sweet hug. We call it the snuggle wakey and if I could put any lovely part of the joy she is on "instant re-live", I'd be tempted to choose that. We come out to the living room together where she promptly ditches me to climb in and out of a blue plastic chair 18 times, each time making sure to hoot in the seat with her arms high in the sky until her accomplishment is verbally acknowledged. And congratulated. I move on from this game to get the kitchen tidy and while I do that, Curly tells me all about "Castle in the Sky" while baking me all sorts of delicious culinary air and Louie studies our shoes with the earnest calm of a scientist on the brink of a revolutionary discovery. I love it.
Now lunch: Kraft mac 'n cheese and about half a watermelon. They wolf it down in their individual ways. There are two schools of thought about eating in this house, mine and Daddy's. He can make his food disappear like a well-practiced magician. I am slow as a snail. It's really a question of single-minded focus on the task at hand. Bugs is a committed eater. The monkey dawdles just like her mama. We chit chat and I learn all about Curly's philosophy about parties, monsters, and that Jesus is her friend, and son, and Santa is his daddy. Yes? No. Hmmm.....
Daddy calls, he's done for the day. We load up in Goldie and pick him up at the clinic. Then it's time for errands: Babies'rus, Sports Authority, Micheals, and KamMan market. A few hours and one near poopy diaper disaster later we make it home, goodies in hand. Daddy finally gets to hang his Father's Day/birthday gift ( a canvas tryptic the girls painted up for him entitled "Making Purple" that looks stellar on the wall) while I throw together some dinner. I pick yakisoba, beefed up with leftover steak and veggies. Yum.
Somewhere in there, we do magic stickers, write a note to Auntie Ne', and have a wild rumpus. It starts with the theme from Jaws: Duuuhnuh.....Duuuhnuh....Duhnuh, Duhnuh, duhnuhduhnuh....... The girls know this game well. It involves screaming, flailing, and general rosy-cheeked shiny-eyed rough housing. It goes until Daddy calls for calm and the girls get in their last rowdy contributions: Curly whispers the daintiest little "tickl, tickl, tickl" you ever will hear, Lou impersonates a smug squishy lion saying "whaaaaar". This new word has come along with "bobb-eye" and "ba" (ball). I believe she quite enjoys it.
Later, chopsticks cleared, jammies on, stories read, and songs sung, I go out for my run. I'm training for a half marathon. I head for the beach and enjoy my jog. I people watch as the sun sets: a couple of teenagers hopping on a bullet bike and blazing away, kids jabbering, using up the last of a sunsoaked day in every manner they know, runners, walkers, dogs dizzy with nasal joy, a construction worker, shoes off, toes in the sand. And a silver-haired couple, his arm around her shoulder, her head resting on his, quiet and content to just sit next to each other. I hope this last is a vision, a promise of a tomorrow far in the distance. I have a moment of gratitude for Kuni; we're a good team, even in the things we do "seperately".
More Jimmy Eat World, Tom Petty, The Killers, rhythmic footsteps, measured breathing. I'm on the return and it's dark now. The Yacht Club is all lit up, looking far more high brow than usual. A rogue firework bursts in the sky, raining violet white witchcraft on the skyline. The same skyline twinkles and winks goodnight. Then I go home, looking forward to tomorrow. Tired and happy and feeling young.
In the morning, we see Daddy off, get breakfast, wash faces, get dressed and indulge in our daily dose of curly-headed-hair-combing torture.....Yay! Approximately 5000 questions are ventured in this process, including a few about all types of anatomy, if you follow me here. And a very important one about squirrels.
Then we put on a movie for the monkey while the ladybug gets put down for a nap. With the baby snoozing, I turn off the movie and Sue and I test the bouncing abilities of the new couches, read a few books, and make up a dance about "how do you do and shake hands". Our favorite part is when you march around in a circle.
When Zooby wakes up from naps she always gives me a long sweet hug. We call it the snuggle wakey and if I could put any lovely part of the joy she is on "instant re-live", I'd be tempted to choose that. We come out to the living room together where she promptly ditches me to climb in and out of a blue plastic chair 18 times, each time making sure to hoot in the seat with her arms high in the sky until her accomplishment is verbally acknowledged. And congratulated. I move on from this game to get the kitchen tidy and while I do that, Curly tells me all about "Castle in the Sky" while baking me all sorts of delicious culinary air and Louie studies our shoes with the earnest calm of a scientist on the brink of a revolutionary discovery. I love it.
Now lunch: Kraft mac 'n cheese and about half a watermelon. They wolf it down in their individual ways. There are two schools of thought about eating in this house, mine and Daddy's. He can make his food disappear like a well-practiced magician. I am slow as a snail. It's really a question of single-minded focus on the task at hand. Bugs is a committed eater. The monkey dawdles just like her mama. We chit chat and I learn all about Curly's philosophy about parties, monsters, and that Jesus is her friend, and son, and Santa is his daddy. Yes? No. Hmmm.....
Daddy calls, he's done for the day. We load up in Goldie and pick him up at the clinic. Then it's time for errands: Babies'rus, Sports Authority, Micheals, and KamMan market. A few hours and one near poopy diaper disaster later we make it home, goodies in hand. Daddy finally gets to hang his Father's Day/birthday gift ( a canvas tryptic the girls painted up for him entitled "Making Purple" that looks stellar on the wall) while I throw together some dinner. I pick yakisoba, beefed up with leftover steak and veggies. Yum.
Somewhere in there, we do magic stickers, write a note to Auntie Ne', and have a wild rumpus. It starts with the theme from Jaws: Duuuhnuh.....Duuuhnuh....Duhnuh, Duhnuh, duhnuhduhnuh....... The girls know this game well. It involves screaming, flailing, and general rosy-cheeked shiny-eyed rough housing. It goes until Daddy calls for calm and the girls get in their last rowdy contributions: Curly whispers the daintiest little "tickl, tickl, tickl" you ever will hear, Lou impersonates a smug squishy lion saying "whaaaaar". This new word has come along with "bobb-eye" and "ba" (ball). I believe she quite enjoys it.
Later, chopsticks cleared, jammies on, stories read, and songs sung, I go out for my run. I'm training for a half marathon. I head for the beach and enjoy my jog. I people watch as the sun sets: a couple of teenagers hopping on a bullet bike and blazing away, kids jabbering, using up the last of a sunsoaked day in every manner they know, runners, walkers, dogs dizzy with nasal joy, a construction worker, shoes off, toes in the sand. And a silver-haired couple, his arm around her shoulder, her head resting on his, quiet and content to just sit next to each other. I hope this last is a vision, a promise of a tomorrow far in the distance. I have a moment of gratitude for Kuni; we're a good team, even in the things we do "seperately".
More Jimmy Eat World, Tom Petty, The Killers, rhythmic footsteps, measured breathing. I'm on the return and it's dark now. The Yacht Club is all lit up, looking far more high brow than usual. A rogue firework bursts in the sky, raining violet white witchcraft on the skyline. The same skyline twinkles and winks goodnight. Then I go home, looking forward to tomorrow. Tired and happy and feeling young.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Sky Pie
When I was sixteenish my dad gave me a birthday card. And a gift, but the card is what I remember because of the good advice inside:
"Dear Jennie,
Always keep your head in the clouds and your feet on the ground.
Love, Dad"
I like it. 'Cause it's a perfect mantra for a practical idealist like me. I like big dreams and high goals. I'm about hitching my wagon to a star. I believe in faith and hope. But I know about work. It satisfies me. And I like the definitions and cooperation reality insists upon.
Back in the days of the blue kitchen and the pink bedroom my dad used to tell me about this dinosaur museum he was wishing into existence. A really amazing one, with the world's longest and tallest ossified mysteries standing proud in galleries bigger than air plane hangers. A museum that was truly about experiential learning, where kids could hear, and see, compare, touch, and play. A place that provided context and truly addressed an audience. A place that set the stage with a trip through a star tunnel. And a program called "Dino-snorz" that let you bring your sleeping bag and dream away under those majestic bones. Pie in the sky kinda stuff. Except one day, not too long after that sixteenish birthday, it came true.
On a recent trip home we visited the North American Museum of Ancient Life, a place where the dino-tales my Daddy told me became concrete; A piece of sky pie served up and tasting sweet. I watched my girls play, touch, learn, enjoy. We splashed and built and organized and fed bunches of beasts in the erosion table. We carefully uncovered dinos in a sand pit. We felt the texture of fossils under our finger tips: ancient plant life, giant lizards, mammoths, turtles the size of one-man submarines. We asked questions. My girls loved it. And I, for the umpteenth time, was proud of my dad. And inspired to eat my own pie in the sky, and teach the girls to do the same, with our feet on the ground and our heads in the clouds.
"Dear Jennie,
Always keep your head in the clouds and your feet on the ground.
Love, Dad"
I like it. 'Cause it's a perfect mantra for a practical idealist like me. I like big dreams and high goals. I'm about hitching my wagon to a star. I believe in faith and hope. But I know about work. It satisfies me. And I like the definitions and cooperation reality insists upon.
Back in the days of the blue kitchen and the pink bedroom my dad used to tell me about this dinosaur museum he was wishing into existence. A really amazing one, with the world's longest and tallest ossified mysteries standing proud in galleries bigger than air plane hangers. A museum that was truly about experiential learning, where kids could hear, and see, compare, touch, and play. A place that provided context and truly addressed an audience. A place that set the stage with a trip through a star tunnel. And a program called "Dino-snorz" that let you bring your sleeping bag and dream away under those majestic bones. Pie in the sky kinda stuff. Except one day, not too long after that sixteenish birthday, it came true.
On a recent trip home we visited the North American Museum of Ancient Life, a place where the dino-tales my Daddy told me became concrete; A piece of sky pie served up and tasting sweet. I watched my girls play, touch, learn, enjoy. We splashed and built and organized and fed bunches of beasts in the erosion table. We carefully uncovered dinos in a sand pit. We felt the texture of fossils under our finger tips: ancient plant life, giant lizards, mammoths, turtles the size of one-man submarines. We asked questions. My girls loved it. And I, for the umpteenth time, was proud of my dad. And inspired to eat my own pie in the sky, and teach the girls to do the same, with our feet on the ground and our heads in the clouds.
Friday, June 19, 2009
A Thousand Paper Cranes
Once upon a time my handsome hubby folded one thousand paper cranes as a Christmas present for me. I, know! Sweet. He put his legion of tiny winged creatures in a tall plastic vase where they live on the top shelf of our bookcase. And I love them: love them for the delicate, meticulous, sentimental gift that they are. And, strangely, love them for the gorgeous color collection they embody. That man of mine, he picked the perfect colors for this lovely gift: soft baby pink, bold earthy turquoise, sunset orange, deep rose red, sunshine yellow, lush purple, fresh greens, and blues that reflect ocean and sky in a variety of moods. Colors that lend breath to each tiny little crane as it dances it's part in the wish-granting choreography that is its legendary destiny.
I am not the only one who loves those magical origami beings. Curly Sue is crazy about them. That's why they live on the top shelf, because sometimes I feel a little protective of my special things.....maybe even a little stingy in my sharing? Maybe. But, this particular point of stinginess broke one day last week. I decided to let my big girl play with the prized paper birds with the understanding that if she did not treat them very carefully, this would be a one time thing. She had asked so often, so eagerly, that I thought I ought to at least give it a try. She agreed, so, with a deep steadying breath, I handed her the goods and let her loose. And I did not regret it. Not one bit.
We took them down and looked at them. Talked about their beautiful colors, about the way Daddy folded them one by one. Tossed them in the air to see if they really flew. Then decided to make them fly. Together we piled them in a loose gigantic lump on a piece of fabric; and one, two, three, we held the corners tight and bounced those babies higher each time until they came raining down on my laughing sweetie, lively, lovely, blobs of color falling in concert with her gorgeous giggle. And showering magic to match the sparkle in her joyful eyes. We repeated again. Lined them up end to end in one gigantic rainbow. Then talked about how the real cranes act, flapped our wings, experimented with sounds, 'till our play evolved into a game of animal chase. She the eagle, me the lion. She the eagle, me the bunny. She the eagle, me the frog. Eagle, dog, eagle, elephant, eagle. Laughing, flying, crazy, regal eagle.
In the end, she carefully helped me place each paper crane back in the vase. One wish granted, a thousand more born. A thousand more promised in simple joy, simple faith.
I am not the only one who loves those magical origami beings. Curly Sue is crazy about them. That's why they live on the top shelf, because sometimes I feel a little protective of my special things.....maybe even a little stingy in my sharing? Maybe. But, this particular point of stinginess broke one day last week. I decided to let my big girl play with the prized paper birds with the understanding that if she did not treat them very carefully, this would be a one time thing. She had asked so often, so eagerly, that I thought I ought to at least give it a try. She agreed, so, with a deep steadying breath, I handed her the goods and let her loose. And I did not regret it. Not one bit.
We took them down and looked at them. Talked about their beautiful colors, about the way Daddy folded them one by one. Tossed them in the air to see if they really flew. Then decided to make them fly. Together we piled them in a loose gigantic lump on a piece of fabric; and one, two, three, we held the corners tight and bounced those babies higher each time until they came raining down on my laughing sweetie, lively, lovely, blobs of color falling in concert with her gorgeous giggle. And showering magic to match the sparkle in her joyful eyes. We repeated again. Lined them up end to end in one gigantic rainbow. Then talked about how the real cranes act, flapped our wings, experimented with sounds, 'till our play evolved into a game of animal chase. She the eagle, me the lion. She the eagle, me the bunny. She the eagle, me the frog. Eagle, dog, eagle, elephant, eagle. Laughing, flying, crazy, regal eagle.
In the end, she carefully helped me place each paper crane back in the vase. One wish granted, a thousand more born. A thousand more promised in simple joy, simple faith.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Four
We spent last week in Toronto with family. Kuni's Japanese grandmother flew in for a visit and we happily zipped up to introduce the girls to the woman who had a hand in naming them. Hiibaachan is a one of a kind. A tiny, lovely, general of a lady. She and I don't speak enough of the same language to have a conversation in the classical kind of way, but that's never stopped us from talking. We have things to say! So we chat here and there, in our respective tongues; two languages, lots of gestures, lots of enunciating. It's rare that our verbal exchanges are technically successful, but that never seems to slow her down, so I keep trying as well. And the message is clear, she and I have love for each other. And that's all I need to know. She adores the girls. They speak even less Japanese than I do. But all the same, by the end of the week, the same message had been delivered between Hiibaachan and Louise, Hiibaachan and Suze too. I could see that it brought her joy. And me too.
We went to the zoo on Wednesday. Chihiro, the bug of "fathomless depth", our baby who's not such a baby these days, casually glanced at an animal or two while she people-watched. A parade of individuals marched by for her entertainment: folks dressed in school uniforms, turbans, even full sleeve tattoos. We wandered for hours, enjoying creatures as varied as the humans observing them. Towards the end of the afternoon, Hiro-chan opted to ride on Hiibaachan's lap in the wheel-chair. The two of them cruised around with perfect posture, one out of nature, the other out of practice. Periodically, bitsy Lou softened her stance and rested her fresh, pudgy cheek against Hiibaachan's shoulder. Young and old, enjoying the sunshine with all their strength. I watched them, and I felt happy.
Hisako, the monkey destined for "eternal child"hood, is a notoriously slow warmer. I like that about her, she's cautious. She showed obvious signs of uncertainty regarding this stranger so clearly thrilled to be in her presence. It took till Friday evening for her to finally crack. Hiibaachan was invited to sit in on bedtime stories, so down the stairs they all went: Daddy, Curly, Baachan, Hiibaachan. I got some things settled upstairs and went down to contribute my good-night kisses. Crowded on the bed I found four generations, sweet-stinky monkey in the middle, listening to "Go Diego Go" in a circle of comfort while Hiibaachan lived a dream and drifted off beside her. I joined the party. The warmth of the room reminded me of the family I grew up with, often voluntarily crammed in together for the pure pleasure of one another's company. I wondered how many people feel so at home with the families they married. And I felt lucky.
We went to the zoo on Wednesday. Chihiro, the bug of "fathomless depth", our baby who's not such a baby these days, casually glanced at an animal or two while she people-watched. A parade of individuals marched by for her entertainment: folks dressed in school uniforms, turbans, even full sleeve tattoos. We wandered for hours, enjoying creatures as varied as the humans observing them. Towards the end of the afternoon, Hiro-chan opted to ride on Hiibaachan's lap in the wheel-chair. The two of them cruised around with perfect posture, one out of nature, the other out of practice. Periodically, bitsy Lou softened her stance and rested her fresh, pudgy cheek against Hiibaachan's shoulder. Young and old, enjoying the sunshine with all their strength. I watched them, and I felt happy.
Hisako, the monkey destined for "eternal child"hood, is a notoriously slow warmer. I like that about her, she's cautious. She showed obvious signs of uncertainty regarding this stranger so clearly thrilled to be in her presence. It took till Friday evening for her to finally crack. Hiibaachan was invited to sit in on bedtime stories, so down the stairs they all went: Daddy, Curly, Baachan, Hiibaachan. I got some things settled upstairs and went down to contribute my good-night kisses. Crowded on the bed I found four generations, sweet-stinky monkey in the middle, listening to "Go Diego Go" in a circle of comfort while Hiibaachan lived a dream and drifted off beside her. I joined the party. The warmth of the room reminded me of the family I grew up with, often voluntarily crammed in together for the pure pleasure of one another's company. I wondered how many people feel so at home with the families they married. And I felt lucky.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Bella Mama, Prima Ballerina
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