Scenes
I can hear giggling and the squeakysqueakysqueaky of two girls jumping up and down in a crib. I sit up and struggle to see the time on my clock. It is early. Too early. M and I were up late last night at a church choir recording session. 5 1/2 hours of sleep is just not enough when you're already operating on a bit of sleep debt.
I stumble out of bed, but I know that I'm already too late to intervene-- L has turned the light on in the bedroom she shares with C and woken her sister up again. It has only happened once or twice, and C never minds, of course, when a playmate jumps into her crib to bounce around with her for an early morning romp. But Mommy will be the one to mind later in the day when C is fussy and cranky because she woke up too early.
I grumpily enter the room. L giggles and C gives me a huge grin, holds up her arms and cries, "Mama's heeeeeere!!"
I give L a stern talking-to about how she needs to come straight out of the room and find Mama if she wakes up early, and not to bother C. She feels quite ashamed of herself and tears well up, as is usual when she has done something thoughtless. I feel a bit badly for reprimanding, especially because I'm half asleep and grouchy and not as gentle about it as I probably should be, but still, she has to know what is unacceptable.
At the same time that I am frustrated I am partially happy to see her tears, because they show me that she cares-- that she understands the well-being of another person beyond just herself. I know that these close quarters and the constant need for sharing and waiting one's turn and even the arguments that happen between girls in this house are giving them everyday examples of how their actions affect other people. Being a part of a big family naturally makes them better people, I think. (But that's only my opinion.)
We make our way to the living room; I'm still holding C. She points to the kitchen and asks, "Haffa snack??" in her typical style of elongated vowels and upturned inflection at the ends of phrases.
I respond by falling on to the couch with her in my arms, laying my head down and closing my eyes.
But this won't do. "Haffa snack!!" she insists, with a little less sweetness and a little more impatience, her indignant finger pointing towards the kitchen again.
"The itsy bitsy spider climbed up..." I begin, without opening my eyes, because it's the only thing I can think to do in my fog of sleep deprivation.
"No. No. No." she says matter-of-factly, not shouting, but shaking her head vigorously, and the fine wavy hair that frames her face like a hood brushes against the edges of her eyes.
"Okay, okay," I heft myself off the couch. "Let's get some breakfast."
"Yea, honey," C replies-- the sweet tone has returned. "Oatmeal??" (only she says it "oat-male" and sticks her tongue out when she says the "a").
"You want oatmeal?" I ask.
"Yea. Yea." She nods vigorously. "Blue one???"
I smile because I've never heard her ask for it that way. She wants oatmeal with blueberries, and we use frozen blueberries so when you stir the oatmeal it turns a purpley-blue. It's fascinating how rapidly her language is developing lately.
I make the oatmeal and get her seated. Finally I can make some coffee.
I get the toaster out and put in a slice for L.
The coffee's done. I stand over the sink and sip and try to wake up, and the trees are bare out the porch window, and the air is clear and cold, and the tip of the sun rising lights the horizon on fire in orangey red.
L is dressing in her room; she sings tunefully in a high range, "The green grass grew all around all around and the green grass grew all around..." with her own improvised syncopation at the end of the phrase.
C sits at the table, and I can see the back of her head as she chats with herself between mouthfuls of oatmeal, and the wisps of pale fine hair cascade down her back, and her little pajama-clad feet with the monkeys on them swing under the table in rhythm with L's singing.
We begin our day.
I stumble out of bed, but I know that I'm already too late to intervene-- L has turned the light on in the bedroom she shares with C and woken her sister up again. It has only happened once or twice, and C never minds, of course, when a playmate jumps into her crib to bounce around with her for an early morning romp. But Mommy will be the one to mind later in the day when C is fussy and cranky because she woke up too early.
I grumpily enter the room. L giggles and C gives me a huge grin, holds up her arms and cries, "Mama's heeeeeere!!"
I give L a stern talking-to about how she needs to come straight out of the room and find Mama if she wakes up early, and not to bother C. She feels quite ashamed of herself and tears well up, as is usual when she has done something thoughtless. I feel a bit badly for reprimanding, especially because I'm half asleep and grouchy and not as gentle about it as I probably should be, but still, she has to know what is unacceptable.
At the same time that I am frustrated I am partially happy to see her tears, because they show me that she cares-- that she understands the well-being of another person beyond just herself. I know that these close quarters and the constant need for sharing and waiting one's turn and even the arguments that happen between girls in this house are giving them everyday examples of how their actions affect other people. Being a part of a big family naturally makes them better people, I think. (But that's only my opinion.)
 |
| channeling Marilyn Monroe over the heating vents at the library |
I respond by falling on to the couch with her in my arms, laying my head down and closing my eyes.
But this won't do. "Haffa snack!!" she insists, with a little less sweetness and a little more impatience, her indignant finger pointing towards the kitchen again.
"The itsy bitsy spider climbed up..." I begin, without opening my eyes, because it's the only thing I can think to do in my fog of sleep deprivation.
"No. No. No." she says matter-of-factly, not shouting, but shaking her head vigorously, and the fine wavy hair that frames her face like a hood brushes against the edges of her eyes.
"Okay, okay," I heft myself off the couch. "Let's get some breakfast."
"Yea, honey," C replies-- the sweet tone has returned. "Oatmeal??" (only she says it "oat-male" and sticks her tongue out when she says the "a").
"You want oatmeal?" I ask.
"Yea. Yea." She nods vigorously. "Blue one???"
I smile because I've never heard her ask for it that way. She wants oatmeal with blueberries, and we use frozen blueberries so when you stir the oatmeal it turns a purpley-blue. It's fascinating how rapidly her language is developing lately.
I make the oatmeal and get her seated. Finally I can make some coffee.
I get the toaster out and put in a slice for L.
The coffee's done. I stand over the sink and sip and try to wake up, and the trees are bare out the porch window, and the air is clear and cold, and the tip of the sun rising lights the horizon on fire in orangey red.
L is dressing in her room; she sings tunefully in a high range, "The green grass grew all around all around and the green grass grew all around..." with her own improvised syncopation at the end of the phrase.
C sits at the table, and I can see the back of her head as she chats with herself between mouthfuls of oatmeal, and the wisps of pale fine hair cascade down her back, and her little pajama-clad feet with the monkeys on them swing under the table in rhythm with L's singing.
We begin our day.
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