There’s no light I can find that won’t awaken someone so here I am in the laundry room, scribbling in my notebook propped atop the dryer. I have my 11pm snack of antipasto from the olive bar at the local Ingles. Since we’re in the hills of western North Carolina the big “AMERICAN OWNED” sign outside the store seems somehow menacing, but I can’t figure it out—are we under siege from foreign powers trying to sell us groceries? Is shopping at the Piggly Wiggly or the Harris Teeter like sending money to terrorists? All the silverware is in the dishwasher so I’m stabbing up balls of mozzarella and parts of artichoke with a butter knife. If my niece grows up to fear the bright line of light under the door of a room no one should be occupying, the smell of oil and garlic accompanying the restless scritch-scratch of some lunatic writing in longhand deep into the night, well, I guess, blame me.
***
We’re four adults and one two-year-old, two years and three months, and there are sometimes too many adults and sometimes not enough. It doesn’t take three people to read a book but then I look up and here comes the baby, running full tilt toward the stairs, somehow none of us close enough to grab her. We’ve fashioned a barrier out of coolers and that gives my sister enough time to scoop her up and avert disaster but how did she DO that? Where was she? Where were we? The baby is startled to be grabbed so suddenly and clings to my sister’s neck. “What happened, mama?” she says plaintively, “What happened to me?” We look at each other, dazed, no answers but the same questions.
***
Going pee-pee on the potty is a big deal right now. In a show of solidarity, I have taken to announcing my intention to do so. This trip I barely have the door closed when it slams open again and she is there.
“I need to see you go pee-pee on the potty,” she tells me authoritatively. The kid is so smart and child-rearing so confusing that I take her back into the kitchen where my mother and my sister are engaged in the endless making or cleaning up of meals, the cutting board never being put away, just wiped down and used again.
I interrupt to repeat what the baby has told me: “Does she?”
“No,” my sister says, slowly, mystified, and my mother comes over to gently take the baby’s hand from mine. I go back to the toilet and lock the door. What do I know about how all this works?
***
The baby speaks in full sentences and has a tremendous vocabulary. She hasn’t learned to dissemble yet, hasn’t learned that there are secrets to keep or things best left unsaid.
“What happened to your dinosaur book,” my sister prompts.
The baby looks up, and her face open and honest. “I threw it out the window,” she says, matter-of-factly, because that is a matter of fact, that is what happened, is there anything else you’d like to know?
***
An evening rainstorm coincides with bath time so a naked baby is turned loose on the deck to run around in the warm early September shower. “Naked baby butt!” we call at her and she squeals and circles back to us, grabbing her mother’s legs and burying her face in happiness. The next second she’s back out in the rain, little shoulders hunched up as her face scrunches in delight. I turn to my stepfather, Papa, and feel two small hands grasp the seat of my pants. A little voice, “Can I see it?” and wow, no thank you, are all butts naked baby butts to you? What do you make of us, sheltering fully clothed under the eaves as you cavort naked and alone in the rain? We wait, we watch, and each time you run back there is a towel and someone ready to embrace you in it, before you shake free and run back into the wild.
***
“Who’s that somebody,” she likes to say, over and over again. “Who’s that? Who’s that somebody?” We are walking down the main street of a small town and she sees a man with skin a shade darker than hers, this milk-chocolate little girl with her tight curls. “I love that daddy boy,” she shouts, waving eagerly at the man. He is in a car, reversing into the street, but he makes eye contact and waves back to her. “I love that daddy boy,” she says again with delight as he drives away.
***
In the car, the Blue Ridge Mountain Parkway means 31 miles takes over an hour. I am quizzing the baby on animal sounds: What noise does a horse make? What sound does a cow make? Embarrassingly soon I run out of animals and turn to my sister, helpless.
“A goat,” she whispers, and I turn to the back seat, triumphant: “What sound does a goat make?” We go on like this until my sister runs out of animals, too, and as we are exchanging a what now glance, the silence dragging out, from the backseat comes a little voice prompting gently: “What about a duck?” We have forgotten about a duck, but she remembers. Quack quack, we shout together, quack quack!
***
I hear my name called. I go to the loft railing where I can see her at the breakfast table. “Yes?”
She looks up, motions imperiously. “Come,” she says, then goes back to her eggs, confident there could be no other, certainly no better, claim on my attention.
***
She is eating a slice of an apple when we turn the page and find an apple in her picture book. “Look!” she yells, “Look! I am eating an apple and that is an apple!” I feign amazement at this coincidence but that is not enough, she runs to get Mimi, tugging her pant leg to share this wonderous happenstance, this incredible convergence of the universe—she is eating an apple, and there in the book is an apple! As quickly as the shock hits it wears off and she has climbed back on the couch, ready for me to turn the page to see what is next.
***
She is blissfully aware and unaware of being the center of our worlds, commanding our attention constantly—What’s that? What are you doing?—but when Papa asks if she can build him a house with her blocks, she flaps a dismissive hand: “No, Mama can do it,” and there is my sister on the floor amidst a pile of giant legos looking up in disbelief. The baby doesn’t notice because she’s got her eye on Mimi, Mimi who will do anything for her, including give her as much avocado as she asks nicely for.
“I need more avocado,” she says importantly, “I need more avocado, please,” and there is Mimi, radiant, with more avocado. The baby eats it from her fingers. If she could rescue any of us from a burning house, it would be Mama and Mimi and I gotta admit this kid knows where her bread is buttered, knows who makes her delicious, carefully constructed avocado toast.
***
She owns herself, this little creature with the big eyes and the ready smile. “You can tickle me,” she will announce, poised and ready on the couch. Later, I swoop in, “I’m going to tickle you!” and she holds up a hand. “No,” she says, “I don’t want you to.” She doesn’t cry or shriek, she states this as fact and I stand down. Everybody’s got a right to decide when to be tickled.
“This is my boo-boo,” she says, “don’t touch it.” Having proffered said boo-boo for Mimi’s inspection, she relents. “You can touch it a little,” she says kindly, tiny benevolent dictator, as if remembering of course her subjects will want to inspect her boo-boos in minute detail, just as we all take turns to watch her pee-pee on the potty or file outside to watch her dance naked in the rain.
***
And here I am in the laundry room, past midnight, scribbling away to try to capture some of her, some of what it is like for all of us to have this child in our lives at this moment. We wonder at her as she learns the world, we listen raptly as she tells us she what she did to Mama’s finger—“I bit it,” she says seriously. When we turn her favorite question on her—“Why? Why did you bite Mama’s finger?”—she looks at us steadily then turns away, a warm little buddle of happiness and curiosity and a total mystery to us in so many ways.
Where does she go from here? What will she be like? What will the world be like to her? It is unlikely any of us will get to know all the answers to these questions as the fires we build to guide her will one by one flicker down and smolder into ashes. She will not be left in darkness though, this little one, she will find the warmth of new fires and perhaps carry a spark from each of ours with her. So, for now, we gather closely around her, piling on logs to make the flames dance as high and brightly as we can. Do not fear the cold, the wind, or the rain, little one, at least not today, not while we are here.
***
We’re four adults and one two-year-old, two years and three months, and there are sometimes too many adults and sometimes not enough. It doesn’t take three people to read a book but then I look up and here comes the baby, running full tilt toward the stairs, somehow none of us close enough to grab her. We’ve fashioned a barrier out of coolers and that gives my sister enough time to scoop her up and avert disaster but how did she DO that? Where was she? Where were we? The baby is startled to be grabbed so suddenly and clings to my sister’s neck. “What happened, mama?” she says plaintively, “What happened to me?” We look at each other, dazed, no answers but the same questions.
***
Going pee-pee on the potty is a big deal right now. In a show of solidarity, I have taken to announcing my intention to do so. This trip I barely have the door closed when it slams open again and she is there.
“I need to see you go pee-pee on the potty,” she tells me authoritatively. The kid is so smart and child-rearing so confusing that I take her back into the kitchen where my mother and my sister are engaged in the endless making or cleaning up of meals, the cutting board never being put away, just wiped down and used again.
I interrupt to repeat what the baby has told me: “Does she?”
“No,” my sister says, slowly, mystified, and my mother comes over to gently take the baby’s hand from mine. I go back to the toilet and lock the door. What do I know about how all this works?
***
The baby speaks in full sentences and has a tremendous vocabulary. She hasn’t learned to dissemble yet, hasn’t learned that there are secrets to keep or things best left unsaid.
“What happened to your dinosaur book,” my sister prompts.
The baby looks up, and her face open and honest. “I threw it out the window,” she says, matter-of-factly, because that is a matter of fact, that is what happened, is there anything else you’d like to know?
***
An evening rainstorm coincides with bath time so a naked baby is turned loose on the deck to run around in the warm early September shower. “Naked baby butt!” we call at her and she squeals and circles back to us, grabbing her mother’s legs and burying her face in happiness. The next second she’s back out in the rain, little shoulders hunched up as her face scrunches in delight. I turn to my stepfather, Papa, and feel two small hands grasp the seat of my pants. A little voice, “Can I see it?” and wow, no thank you, are all butts naked baby butts to you? What do you make of us, sheltering fully clothed under the eaves as you cavort naked and alone in the rain? We wait, we watch, and each time you run back there is a towel and someone ready to embrace you in it, before you shake free and run back into the wild.
***
“Who’s that somebody,” she likes to say, over and over again. “Who’s that? Who’s that somebody?” We are walking down the main street of a small town and she sees a man with skin a shade darker than hers, this milk-chocolate little girl with her tight curls. “I love that daddy boy,” she shouts, waving eagerly at the man. He is in a car, reversing into the street, but he makes eye contact and waves back to her. “I love that daddy boy,” she says again with delight as he drives away.
***
In the car, the Blue Ridge Mountain Parkway means 31 miles takes over an hour. I am quizzing the baby on animal sounds: What noise does a horse make? What sound does a cow make? Embarrassingly soon I run out of animals and turn to my sister, helpless.
“A goat,” she whispers, and I turn to the back seat, triumphant: “What sound does a goat make?” We go on like this until my sister runs out of animals, too, and as we are exchanging a what now glance, the silence dragging out, from the backseat comes a little voice prompting gently: “What about a duck?” We have forgotten about a duck, but she remembers. Quack quack, we shout together, quack quack!
I hear my name called. I go to the loft railing where I can see her at the breakfast table. “Yes?”
She looks up, motions imperiously. “Come,” she says, then goes back to her eggs, confident there could be no other, certainly no better, claim on my attention.
***
She is eating a slice of an apple when we turn the page and find an apple in her picture book. “Look!” she yells, “Look! I am eating an apple and that is an apple!” I feign amazement at this coincidence but that is not enough, she runs to get Mimi, tugging her pant leg to share this wonderous happenstance, this incredible convergence of the universe—she is eating an apple, and there in the book is an apple! As quickly as the shock hits it wears off and she has climbed back on the couch, ready for me to turn the page to see what is next.
***
She is blissfully aware and unaware of being the center of our worlds, commanding our attention constantly—What’s that? What are you doing?—but when Papa asks if she can build him a house with her blocks, she flaps a dismissive hand: “No, Mama can do it,” and there is my sister on the floor amidst a pile of giant legos looking up in disbelief. The baby doesn’t notice because she’s got her eye on Mimi, Mimi who will do anything for her, including give her as much avocado as she asks nicely for.
“I need more avocado,” she says importantly, “I need more avocado, please,” and there is Mimi, radiant, with more avocado. The baby eats it from her fingers. If she could rescue any of us from a burning house, it would be Mama and Mimi and I gotta admit this kid knows where her bread is buttered, knows who makes her delicious, carefully constructed avocado toast.
***
She owns herself, this little creature with the big eyes and the ready smile. “You can tickle me,” she will announce, poised and ready on the couch. Later, I swoop in, “I’m going to tickle you!” and she holds up a hand. “No,” she says, “I don’t want you to.” She doesn’t cry or shriek, she states this as fact and I stand down. Everybody’s got a right to decide when to be tickled.
“This is my boo-boo,” she says, “don’t touch it.” Having proffered said boo-boo for Mimi’s inspection, she relents. “You can touch it a little,” she says kindly, tiny benevolent dictator, as if remembering of course her subjects will want to inspect her boo-boos in minute detail, just as we all take turns to watch her pee-pee on the potty or file outside to watch her dance naked in the rain.
***
And here I am in the laundry room, past midnight, scribbling away to try to capture some of her, some of what it is like for all of us to have this child in our lives at this moment. We wonder at her as she learns the world, we listen raptly as she tells us she what she did to Mama’s finger—“I bit it,” she says seriously. When we turn her favorite question on her—“Why? Why did you bite Mama’s finger?”—she looks at us steadily then turns away, a warm little buddle of happiness and curiosity and a total mystery to us in so many ways.
Where does she go from here? What will she be like? What will the world be like to her? It is unlikely any of us will get to know all the answers to these questions as the fires we build to guide her will one by one flicker down and smolder into ashes. She will not be left in darkness though, this little one, she will find the warmth of new fires and perhaps carry a spark from each of ours with her. So, for now, we gather closely around her, piling on logs to make the flames dance as high and brightly as we can. Do not fear the cold, the wind, or the rain, little one, at least not today, not while we are here.
I enjoyed the blog and your take on our favorite 2 year old but I LOVED the last paragraph...You nailed it, Casey!
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