Feb. 13
My Dearest Little Men,
It’s only three weeks into my spring semester and this is
our fourth snow day! This means my students have yet to get their heads in the game, and instead see me as “that lady who talks about body
paragraphs once a week.” Jack,
you’re currently looking at me over the fence of the play circle, as if to say, “How can
you be clicking on the computer when I want you to read to me?” But family moments that allow for pause and reflection rarely come, and I want to
document this one. Another snow day
means no babysitter, Daddy shoveling the driveway or teleworking in the
basement, and the three of us swaying to “The Itsy Bitsy Spider” on Pandora while
we watch the snow fall just outside sunroom windows.
We are all unused to such quiet moments; typically, you are
running around to more animated tunes (I’m ambivalent about your enthusiasm for
Katy Perry!), switching on every blinking beeping toy, calling out to Blue—“Boooo!”---
as he barks at every neighbor who dares to use our sidewalk, all while the cat howls
for me to let him outside.
At first it was difficult to distinguish my own thoughts
from such chaos—but now it’s familiar, even welcome and reminiscent of my own
childhood. Flipping through Facebook and
seeing how childless friends and colleagues are spending their snow day, I
momentarily longed for an afternoon of sipping hot chocolate and curling under
a blanket to watch a marathon of The Wire
with your dad… but I’d soon resent the stillness. I don’t know if I was ever really alive, or
fully opened my heart to selfless love until you came along. Things were calmer, more relaxing, before we
were parents, but I think we were just waiting for you, like that full-bodied, anticipatory silence before a band takes the stage. Bring on the music!
Feb. 14
Valentine’s Day, another snow day! But Lonee arrived at 9
and I’m being productive before your dad and I sneak out for a celebratory
lunch. Though, I have put a pin in my
online grading marathon to capture this moment in your development. Other mothers do a much better job—Facebook photos
of babies propped up on pillows, wearing their “6 month” or “7 month” onesies
serve as biting reminders that I didn't do that for the two of you. Your baby book is blank and the bi-weekly
posts I’d planned on your blog appear tri-monthly. But we take many, many pictures and discuss embarrassing future slideshows of bath time moments and
brotherly cuddles that we could screen during your 16th birthdays or
graduation parties. We also take short videos
of you playing, jumping, running and upload them to Youtube (and cast the links
out to friends and family).
And as I flip through those
pictures, looking for some to add to this particular post, I realize the “baby-ness”
has entirely disappeared from your faces.
You’re nearly 17 months: you jump, spin (without falling), throw, cheer, swing a bat, and use forks (the Elmo forks won’t do; Alex, in
particular, demands silver forks and porcelain plates, just like the adults use). We graduated from bath chairs this week and two
new child gates have been installed. Jack,
you are on the verge of putting on your own pants and Alex, during our first
venture to the Please Touch Museum, you left with two new words: “bird” and “choo
choo.” I’m glad you’re finding language
so quickly Alex, for when Craig was training in Nashville last week you
discovered “the terrible two meltdown” when we couldn't
Time is cruel: you rarely fall asleep in my arms anymore, you want to dress, feed, and wash yourselves, and too often would rather walk than be carried. But you ask “for huggles,” accept and give kisses, and still make it clear how important “Mama” and “Dada” are to your happiness. I love you more every day.
