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Our family is so loud that it’s startling to other people. My boys are unable to speak, much less carry on a conversation, without adding sound effects. The other day, Liam said, “Mom, you shed worse than a cat,” as he picked a long hair off the chair where he was sprawled. “I find your hair everywhere! They’re like little bombs…[Dropping the hair, he makes a whistling noise.]…KAPOW! Everybody, take cover! [Another whistling noise.] Here comes another one!”
My children are loud, energetic—and when I am lucky—empathetic. They are constantly moving, jumping, falling down. They slide on stockinged feet across the hardwood floor, use our furniture as launching pads and trampolines, thunder up and down the stairs fifty times a day. One of our oft ignored house rules is: Keep Your Feet on the Ground. As if they could! My kids are all about headstands on the couch (“The floor is too hard!”) and gymnastics in the house, which has resulted, unsurprisingly, in heel prints on the wall at or above eye level, broken picture frames and sometimes, tears.
Even now, Large is upstairs in the bathroom, presumably having just showered, where he is rhythmically knocking the step-stool against the uneven tile. When I ask, “Why?” He answers, “Why not?”
Sometimes all the bickering, explosions, and shrieks send me right over the edge of reason (“Are you trying to make me CRAZY?”). But, then, when they are absent, such as when all the kids are at their grandparents’ house, it’s eerily quiet. The house feels lonely without them filling it and I’ll wander from room to room with the echoes of their noisy escapades ricocheting inside my head. And in spite of myself, I’ll miss them.
Maybe I should try and remember the missing them part more often.
A couple of months ago, Henry and I had a heart-to-heart about his penchant for scribbling on the walls (scribbling is my term – he would call it “dwawing” as in “Thee Mommy! Wook at my dwawing!”).
My attempts to suppress his creative impulses backfired. Instead, he appears to have experienced an artistic breakthrough. Today, I found this strategically mounted on the underside of the loft in his bedroom where it could not be seen from the doorway:
His composition is pretty good, don’t you think?
(A friend forwarded this image to me. The caption was: Tensions mount.)
The day dawns like any other. Medium and Large are at school; Small is at the counter finishing his breakfast, watching me sip my go-juice (high-test with lots of sugar and cream) and marshaling my thoughts. For once, we are not in any rush. Until I glance at the calendar. There, in my own handwriting, is my reminder: Swine – 10a.
I had been rather “anti-” about getting the kids vaccinated against H1N1, so, I was startled to discover that my husband was firmly in the “pro-” camp. Since his position was unequivocal and mine was tainted with cynicism, I decided not to oppose him. I simply made the appointment at our pediatrician’s office and then promptly forgot about it.
Henry and I retrieve Liam from school and are racing to collect Nora, when it occurs to me that she doesn’t know we are coming to pick her up. This is a problem. Nora doesn’t like surprises. Good or bad, they’re equally unwelcome to her.
Upon collection, Nora is annoyed with the day’s unexpected disruption, but I can tell—from her silence—she is giving me the benefit of the doubt. A benefit which is quickly dispelled. By the time I’ve gotten her out of the building and into the car, she is wailing. “I don’t want a shot! I want to go back to school! Take me back to school! The doctor is stupid! You’re stupid! And mean! Take me back, right now!” She is like a caged wildcat, spitting and yowling. Liam and Henry are shocked by her vehemence. I apologize over and over. I tell her that I wish I had told her beforehand (How I wish this!), that I take responsibility for not having given her time to prepare. I tell her that she can blame Daddy for having to get this shot at all (This was low but I am willing to stoop to such lows to escape her wrath.). I posit that she won’t have to get a shot at all – that it’s possible the nurses will spray a mist up her nose, instead. None of this matters to her. She is implacable.
I once read that if you want a good indicator of how your child will act as a teenager, observe them closely at the age of five. If this is a true measurement of temperment, then am I ever in for it. (Personal note: Mom, you’ll be pleased to know that your “I-hope-that-you-have-a-fifteen-year-old-daughter-who-is-every-bit-as-miserable-as-you!” curse has a good chance of coming true.)
Twenty-four minutes later, my left-hand blinker is announcing to all unsuspecting passerby that Phase One of my torture session is coming to an end. By this time, she has stopped screaming and is weeping, quietly. I mentally gear myself for Phase Two: The Interminable Wait for the Doctor.
“Nora?” Liam sounds uncharacteristically tentative. “There was this time when I was scared about getting a shot—I was just about your age—and then I got it, and it didn’t hurt…much. If you exhale when you get the shot, it’s not supposed to hurt. I’ll go first, so you can see.”
Then it’s Liam who helps her out of the van, Liam who holds her hand in the parking lot, Liam who lends her his strength.
I will not remember this day for the drama. I will remember it as the day Nora believed her brother was the smartest person in the world and the only one she trusted to guide her through it.
My little one desperately needs a nap but isn’t inclined to take one. Who is more stubborn? His assent is grudging. We walk hand-in-hand back to our cabin, crunching the crushed stone under our feet. The sun is high in the sky; it seems hotter inside the cabin than out.
He wants to be held. Get away from him. He wants a drink. He doesn’t want a drink. He’s hungry, but not for this—he wants that. Leave his clothes on. No, take them off. I feel so stifled I can barely catch my breath and it is not only because there is a dearth of fresh air.
We lay down on the bed together. Eyelids drooping, he cuddles Piggy to his face and sucks the special thumb (the right one will do in a pinch but he prefers the taste of his left). The ambient light from the window spills over us. Every one of his downy hairs is backlit. I notice his muscles are bunched and taut in spite of our repose.
I grab the closest book and read out loud. After every few pages, I check, surreptitiously, to see if he is asleep. Each time, I find him surveying me steadily. Just when I’ve decided to admit defeat, his eyelids droop and he flips onto his side. I pause. He shifts around to meet my gaze. “More story,” he demands. I say nothing. He inhales. And in that moment, I hear him relinquish reality. He is tumbling into his dreams.
I always meant to observe, but never did, the spectacle of the migrating snow geese. Up to 20,000 snow geese make an annual pit-stop in Addison, Vt, on their way to their winter habitat (Compared to the upper reaches of Canada, Maryland must feel practically tropical.). Wouldn’t it be fun, I thought, for the kids to witness this natural phenomenon? Anticipating An Experience to Remember, I invited my goddaughter, the Bean, to join us.
It would take us an hour to get to the Dead Creek Wildlife Management Area. Before we left, I called the Vermont Fish and Wildlife’s information line. A recorded message informed me that 2,000 snow geese and 500 other migratory birds had arrived! Hooray!
VT Route 7 is a gorgeous drive in the fall. I urged the kids to admire the passing scenery and peppered them with deep questions such as, “How many cows are over there? Do you know what those mountains are called? Why do birds fly south for the winter? Think we’ll see the camel?”
The camel? Oh, yes. In September, Henry and I spotted a two-humped camel in a pen along this same stretch of road. It’s not every day in New England that one sees a native desert dweller and she surprised us.
We reached the snow geese’s designated viewing area just after noon. The wind whipped our hair into nest-like towers as we exited the van then huddled for warmth in the lean-to. We tossed each other tidbits of knowledge gleaned from poop-christened signs. The stage was set. Where was the main act?
We scanned the fenced field dotted with mud and lined with corn stalks. A group of black birds wheeled in the sky above us. But no geese. How were we missing 2,000 geese? When the breeze brought us faint honking sounds, I squinted to find the source. Far, far, far in the distance, a thin, white ribbon rippled between the static brown field and the bluish-purple mountains. That narrow stripe was the flock.
The four kids fought over the three pairs of binoculars (poor planning on my part). Even so, all of us were watching when five white fluffs rose into the air and drifted off. It wasn’t long before someone clamored for lunch. On the grassy area next to the lean-to, we ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, popcorn, and grapes. The kids delighted in the homemade babe ruth bars Bean brought to share–the sugar was quickly metabolized in their chase over and around some boulders.
I was disappointed but didn’t want to admit it. “Ok, everybody! Time to go. Let’s load up!”
As the kids piled into the van, Large said, “Well, at least we didn’t come for nothing.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, we saw the geese and those other little birds and we got to have a picnic…with dessert.”
“Did you have fun?”
A chorus of “yeahs” soothed my lumps.
“Thanks, guys.”
On our trip home, we saw a pair of bi-curious heifers and wonder of wonders: The Camel. It was a memorable trip. Even if it wasn’t for the same reasons I thought it would be.
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