Christmas Tree Lights

Eighteen months. That’s how long one of my best friends in Virginia says it takes before a place starts to feel like home.

She might be right. I paused for a moment tonight in our dark living area, looking at the lights on the tree, petting Rosemary as she sat on her favorite spot on top of one of the couches. Dave had taken all the kids out, the older two to swim and the younger two to a date, giving me a rare, quiet moment in the house alone. We got a particularly good tree this year, taller and fuller than any tree I remember having before—it just has presence. The kids wanted to name it.

Holidays always make me nostalgic. Maybe that’s why I like tradition so much. I remember growing up with the rainbow lights on our artificial Christmas tree, lying under it peeking underneath the wrapping paper at my presents. I’d take off my glasses, watch the lights fuzz and blur together, and think, people with perfect vision don’t get to see the lights like this. I remember walking back to my Lawn room in college after a long day out, seeing the Rotunda and colonnades all lit up. I remember coming home Christmas breaks and sitting by the tree in the dark, thinking about what it was Christmas meant to me that particular year.

Having the holidays here feels right this year. That’s what I was thinking, looking at the lights tonight. Last year felt like going through the motions; my parents visited, which was great but triggered several months of depressive loneliness after. I don’t feel so disjointed or jarred anymore; I feel content to be here. This past Thanksgiving was one of the best I remember having, with family but also many friends squeezed around our huge table. We came up with a list of Christmas traditions we wanted to keep and they’ve all felt enjoyable—putting notes in stockings, letting the kids pick out secret gifts for their siblings at the dollar store, making the annual ornaments, converting the thanksgiving tree into an advent tree, listening to Christmas music, picking out and decorating the tree, even getting our photos taken. I’m upgrading some of our holiday décor and that feels fun too. 

Sometimes the holidays feel like they exist in relief, defined by whatever events are going on in life or whoever we’re with as we’re celebrating them—and what strikes me this year is that, for the first time, it’s just us, here on our own as a family, where we will probably be forever, and it feels okay. I feel like I have the mental and emotional space to enjoy it. I suppose I have recovered enough from the move to be okay being who I am, where I am.  

Journal Excerpt

Dear Esme,

Your main interest in life seems to be giving me heart attacks. You cannot ambulate on a flat surface, but you see no reason why you can’t do so down a flight of stairs. God forbid we attempt to carry you down the stairs or make you go down belly-down feet-first.

You like to head-dive off the edge of couches, suck on the ends of bottles of toilet cleaner, and today you noticed I was mopping and immediately slid over to lick the soapy floor. You specialize in finding trachea-sized items despite our childproofing attempts—small shells, fake coins, lego pieces, marbles—which you then enjoy rolling around in your mouth mysteriously until someone freaks out and makes you spit it out.

We got through three kids without needing gates for the stairs or covers for all the sockets. Now I’m figuring out why those were invented.

Love,

Mommy

Potty Training Number Three

I feel like I stepped into a nudist colony today. There have been signs for a while that Elijah was ready to start potty training—I tend to be of the “wait until they’re ready” camp as the parents I observe pushing their kids into it seem to go through a whole lot more trouble, not that I’m saying there’s necessarily a right or wrong way to do it—so by ready, I mean ready. Always poops the same time of day. Informs me reliably of poops and dislikes the feeling of poop against his bottom (resulting in strange contortions during diaper changes). Has read all the potty books we have, observed older siblings going through the routine, and been subtly brainwashed for weeks (“look how cool going potty is! Don’t you think you’d like to learn sometime?”). Finally, we got him undies, which convinced him to start trying.

We go through the same routine for all of them: get them naked and constrained to the less-carpeted ground floor with a small potty in a central location. Pump them full of fluids. Sit them on the potty every hour or so to get them used to trying; ask them every ten minutes in between if they need to go. Typically there’s a lot of sitting with no results, then an accident or two, at the start, then maybe an accident mixed with actually getting some pee in the potty, then eventually getting it all in the potty, with less and less prompting. Then typically two to three days of this goes on before they poop. Then you transition into undies, learning to take them on and off, maybe transition to the big potty with an adaptor seat.

It was actually more fun potty training with the older two around. They all got naked together, and ran around like banshees shouting, “he did it!” whenever Elijah did (which embarrassingly was often when I wasn’t even around; Eric was the one who coached him through the first time), then they all got small treats together. And Elijah is just so cute naked. Something about the combination of his large frontal prominence and very child-like head, his skinny rib cage, his protuberant stomach which proceeds him as he runs around—it’s all just almost too much. If he weren’t already ours, I would really want to adopt him.

Later on today there was a huge thunderstorm that lasted for hours. The kids got frightened (“robbers!” Elijah exclaimed whenever the thunder sounded), and wanted to stay plastered on top of me the entire time, huddled under blankets. This on top of Esme being in a clingy stage had me feeling just physically spent, tired of heads butting my chest, elbows digging into my belly, little butts trying to fit one onto each thigh, little arms wrapping around my neck from behind. I felt like they were little leeches I had to peel off for bedtime.

Well, I think this must be what it’s like to be in the thicket of the little-kid years. Coaching someone through something we take for granted (it’s odd to think about having to learn to void selectively into a cavernous space after being swaddled every day of your life). Dabbling in human waste. Being practically suffocated with physicality. One day, I dunno—these tall adolescent youths will be asking me for the car keys or something while they sling their backpacks on over one shoulder looking all cool—and I’ll miss these days when they ran around in gleeful nakedness and wanted to enfold themselves into me. Elijah did pretty well today: a few more days of being quarantined with naked kids, coming right up…

Miniaturist

Over the summer I try to have themes for the kids to structure our lessons and activities around, and currently it’s plants—memorizing the fruit of the Spirit, nature walks, growing seeds, learning about famous botanists—but I may have picked this theme so we could make terrariums. We ordered an online kit and made closed terrariums with layers of rock, charcoal, moss, and potting soil. The kit came with small, easy-to-grow plants and we decorated with figurines and rocks. The boys made a landscape for dinosaurs and Ellie made one with a princess and horses.

I love working in the miniature. I always have to hold myself back when the kids get assigned to do a diorama—the first time this happened, when Eric got assigned to make one of a doctor’s office, I used cardstock and glue applied with toothpicks to create a perfectly diminuitive replica complete with wall-mounted otoscope and direct ophthalmoscope, a tissue box with miniature tissues, a white coat draped over a chair, and tins of lollipops and tongue depressors. Then I realized most other parents were grabbing life-sized objects related to their topic and putting them in a box, which may have been what the teacher meant. You know, grabbing a few extra syringes or medication samples from the office and gluing them in.

I suppose in the end cataract surgery is working in the miniature too: removing an object no larger than three by five millimeters from a tiny space without breaching a membrane tenths-of-a-micron thick. On someone who is awake and may talk or shift their feet without realizing the tiniest of bodily movements looks like an earthquake under the microscope.

As usual, making the terrariums involved a little more mess and comparison-driven bickering than I had envisioned, but it was fun. The boys seem unable to resist taking the lid off theirs to look and feel inside, but otherwise they’re doing great so far.

The Boys

Have I written yet about how the boys bicker the most of all the kids? I read somewhere that children tend to fight the most when they are close in age, the middle child, or of the same gender. Well, the boys are two years nearly to the day apart, and both middle kids. There you go. It’s always, “I got big one!” “I got new one!” or Elijah running over with, “Eric… Eric say mean thing!” then running back to say, “Told you!” (by which he means, I told on you!)

But when they play together, it’s so sweet. Eric adopts this sort of higher-pitched, lisp-y little-kid cajoling voice (“you wanna play ‘dis, li-jah?”) and Elijah runs along copying everything he does with his tummy sticking down and his head bobbing up and down in the air. They play boom-the-bad-guy, build-nests-in-the-fort, masked-spies, driving the train/bus/truck, stranded-on-the-island, orphans-gathering-food, running-from-Chewbacca (for some reason Elijah loves running around screaming, “chew-bacca coming!”).

Journal Excerpt

The silence in the house right now feels so strange it’s sort of stunning. Been a really full day with the kids. In other words, a normal day when I’m solo parenting, which has been the norm lately. Dave’s been traveling some or all of every week this month. I celebrated the quiet by finally taking a shower.

One day I’m going to look back and forget what this is like, so I figure I should write about it. Solo parenting four kids the entire day feels like triaging and managing four beings with urgent, unique and changing physical and emotional and safety needs, while accounting for unpredictable reactions and interactions between the four, while balancing a constant list of chores (somehow keeping the house constantly tidy makes me feel like it’s not all going to pieces). I’m constantly attending to the kid with the most acute need while briefly addressing the one or two with the next most acute need while planning how and in what order I will get to those one or two as soon as I finish with the first. And meanwhile staying peripherally aware of the fourth. And thinking random things like I wonder when I’ll be able to actually leave all of them long enough to take out the stinky trash? I can’t believe I actually fantasize about taking out the trash.

Those order of needs constantly shifts. Typical scenarios from today: trying to feed a fussy Esme while holding her to see if eating will improve her mood as she’s likely too fussy to put down in the high chair (most acute) while negotiating a timed method of sharing a toy the boys are fighting over (second and third most acute) while telling Ellie yes, I know she wants pink lady apples thinly sliced because she’s reading The Berenstein Bears And Too Much Junk Food, and that’s great, but she will have to wait a few moments (least acute). Or comforting Elijah who is screaming after falling off his chair and hitting his head (most acute) while telling Eric to please go wash his hands with soap and not touch the back of the dining chair with sticky fingers (next most acute) while asking Ellie to go guard Esme who has made a break for the stairs again (least acute, though could quickly become most acute if she falls and gets a subdural hematoma, the MRI of which is flashing through my mind as I’m asking Elijah if he would like ice for his head).

Or walking Ellie through the fingering for E and A-flat major scales, which she finds hardest (most acute, since I lack perfect pitch and can’t tell which key she’s in when she shouts “DO I CROSS OVER WITH A 4?” across the house) while advising an increasingly-frustrated Eric that it’ll be easier to drag Esme in the play tunnel on hardwood rather than carpet (less acute, and Esme is so cute laughing in the tunnel) while checking to see Elijah is okay (lying down on a couch, non-acute). Or running from my room where I’m fetching a new bag of kids’ dental floss after hearing Eric scream “I’m pooping and Esme is putting her hands in the toilet! She’s eating her hands!” (most acute, unaware of other two momentarily). Or nursing Esme to sleep (most acute) while gesticulating wildly to the boys that they are to return to their beds and wait for me for whatever issue they have lest they wake her up (less acute) whereupon Elijah’s face crumples up and he starts crying right there in the room (slightly more acute but still less acute as Esme is so fussy I couldn’t help him anyway until she’s asleep). Elijah tells me later, with big and very serious eyes, that he was upset because I didn’t say the end of the bedtime story. I retell the end of the story (the one of Jesus healing the paralytic man that came in through the roof—Ellie asked, how did they make a hole in the roof? and I can’t remember if there was one), but Elijah says no, you didn’t say the end. So I say, “The End.” and he’s fine and I finally leave and the house is quiet.

There was the usual mix of questionably-worth-it adventures (getting all four in swimsuits and sunscreen to play in a kiddie pool in the yard), minor victories (Eric actually did a reading and math lesson!), and tough moments (said “what’s wrong with you?” after Eric complained about his cup all through breakfast only to spill a ton of milk all over the room after I got him a new cup; technically the spill was an accident and I should have just addressed his earlier complaining rather than losing it over the spill. Milk spills are always disproportionately frustrating for me for some reason).

There were good moments, that I could appreciate as they happened, and that’s good. Eric being affectionate (I asked him, “will you still let me hold you after you get big and grown up?” and he said, “after I grow up bigger than you I will hold you, mommy!”). Realizing Esme can say cheese to the camera (“cheh! cheh!”). Holding Elijah and dancing to “Let’s Call The Whole Thing Off” (they loved the lyrics). Reading Ellie’s journal entry about her loose tooth (“it moves every time I drink milk”).

Well, that was the day. And now I’m going to go enjoy my lime seltzer and rummage up some chocolate and go read my novel. Thank you, God, for this full life and full day.

Journal Excerpt

It’s late, but I do want to say that I feel thankful for the kids. That in itself is a work of God: that I look at my days and feel that. Well, maybe it’s also getting sleep at night.

Don’t have much time to write, but here is what I’m thankful for from today: Elijah singing loudly at the top of his lungs (“TRUCK AND OBEY / FOR DERE’S NO UDDER WAAAY…”). The kids racing around the hall butt-naked before getting a bath. Ellie obligingly doing all the errands I regularly send her on (closing all the blinds, getting me a wipe, clearing the table). Elijah’s squeals of laughter when he sees the others laughing, even though he doesn’t really know what’s going on and just wants to tag along. Esme’s red, plump cheeks right after waking up from a nap. Eric asking sweetly, “Mommy, can you hold me?”

Journal Excerpt

I always thought a lisp would be somewhat stigmatic, but I’m really glad Eric has one. I used to try to get him to say “socks” all the time, which he pronounced “thock-th.” It’s been more intermittent lately, but lately he’s been going through a dinosaur phase, and is always asking, “ma-ma, why does th-tego-thauruth have th-pike-th?”

Another cute habit he has is saying everything with a smile on his face. Do you want to take a bath? Smiling: “noo, I don’t want to.” Or: “ma-ma, first I eat the candy, then I eat breakfast—” (he calls all meals breakfast) (smiling) “—how ‘bout like that?”

Journal Excerpt

Ellie has been asking to pray herself each night. Really sweet. Yesterday her prayer went something like this: “I pray for Daddy and Mommy and Eric and Elijah and Ellie. I pray for all the people in Mexico, Canada, and Italy [the countries we’ve studied]. Thank you for these very cute pajamas. Thank you for us all being together. Please watch over us tonight like a shepherd watches over the sheep. Please give Mommy and Daddy a very peaceful sleep. Please give us good dreams. Give Mommy a dream that is beautiful and Daddy a dream that is handsome. In Jesus name, amen.” Eric clasps his hands and bows his head the whole time.

Yesterday before bedtime was this really happy time where Elijah was lying on the ground in his usual fashion, Eric was doing a free-style dance around the floor, sometimes with a sword in hand, and Ellie was copying either of her brothers. We would have to guess who she was copying. She’d do a pretty good job, copying Eric squatting on the ground DJ’ing with his music toy (“WANT JINGLE BELLS? WANT JINGLE BELLS?”), or him swaying on his tippy-toes, or copying Elijah lying on his back flapping his arms and legs with a surprised expression. Then she’d fall down in peels of laughter. Eric had no idea she was copying him.

This morning Ellie was playing some imaginary storyline by herself and said “I need to find someone to marry…” Eric exclaimed, “I’ll marry you!” and went up to her face and said, “Hi.”

She's Got Perspective

Ellie amuses herself sometimes for long periods of time with pencil and paper, and I typically don't pay much attention to whatever she's sketching, but tonight I sat down and took a good look at a piece she had given me earlier. It's a pretty panoramic scene of royalty, but look at the queen--- she knows how to draw with perspective! Not for the first time, but look how clearly she's gotten it now: she knows the queen should have only one eye, and half a smile. Not sure if the perspective extends to her feet since they still point in opposite directions, but... and she clearly has a crown, a sturdy throne, and a rather chunky hair-tie for her braid..

Ellie, Future Thespian

Ellie got ahold of my phone today and took one hundred selfies for me to discover later. They were all of her making different faces into the camera. The girl is four and she knows how to apply different filters to the camera and I swear I usually never let her touch my phone. And here I used to have charming thoughts about giving my kids disposable cameras when they got older to encourage a photographic eye. And yes, that is a bloody booger that I tried to edit out with limited success.

Speaking of boogers, Eric hates it when I try to wipe out his boogers for him. This morning, he was in a grumpy mood, and when I got two big ones out, he was so upset he grabbed them and tried to stuff them back up his nostrils. It probably didn’t help that I couldn’t stop laughing.

Anecdote

Yesterday, we were all at the playroom table when Ellie got in a fit about something—I think it was my taking a sip of milk from her cup. I got her more milk, but she was standing there stomping her feet, whining, throwing a fit. I was taking a mental deep breath, readying myself for the “we speak kindly here” talk, internally gauging my irritation to see if I needed a few moments alone first, when Eric leaned over from the other side of the table towards Ellie and said, “nee3 shu4 hen3 guai1”—roughly, “you are good.” But really it means, “I still love you. You’re still a good person to me.” It’s what she always wants to hear when she gets really upset and knows she is acting up. She actually calmed down. I was so dang proud of him.

A little later on, she walked over to his side of the table and said, “you’re a good person, Eric.”

Because I'm Going To Forget This Cuteness One Day

Eric has been talking up a storm lately, with variable accuracy. For “clean up” he says “nik-up.” For “sock monkey” he says “thock monkey.” For “octopus” he says “ocpotus” if he’s thinking very hard; if not, he just says “opposite” (“where the opposite?? WHERE, mommy?”). For “what’s this?” he says “wha-dis?”

I had almost forgotten that when Ellie was about his age, she would constantly ask “shu3 muh5?” (what’s that?), to the point where it drove me nuts. That, and ask me to sing the same song over and over and over, which also drove me nuts, especially during car rides. Then it struck me that this hasn’t happened with Eric. The two of them sit in the back row of the minivan, and the entire car ride, it’s “Eh-dee, wha-dis? Eh-dee, wha-dat?” and she patiently answers, “a bird.” “A truck.” And she also sings, all the time, at the top of her lungs, so he never ends up asking me for a song. It’s a nice thing about having more than one.

Journal Excerpt

Speaking of stories, Ellie has a... slight... obsession with them. Her longest-standing obsession has been with the nativity story, which lasted about two years: enacting the story by stuffing balls down her shirt, calling Eric "Joseph" to the point where he would turn around if we said it. Maybe the story was so popular because it involved being very "tired" while pregnant and having to lie down for long periods of time. There was also usually the birth of a stuffed animal that required a lot of attentive care. I haven't had the heart yet to break it to Eric that he probably shouldn't be stuffing balls down his onesies and exclaiming, "going to have a baby!"

She's currently in a Peter Pan phase, instigated by her delight in getting to wear necklaces on her head in imitation of Tiger Lily's headband. Now she is Wendy. She made us call her Wendy all night, and call Eric John, and call Elijah Michael. Dave gets confused a lot ("no, Daddy, he's not Eric, he's JOHN!"). When we tucked them in, Eric said, goodnight Daddy-Captain-Hook.

For a while there I was making up bedtime stories, each night an installation in a saga that involved, by demand, sparkly princesses and rainbow horses, with the occasional injection of a moral story (persistence in reaching a goal, discovering inner beauty, befriending an outcast, learning to share). Unfortunately, her favorite plot development was pregnancy and birth, which led to an extremely convoluted family tree that she nevertheless kept eerily straight ("no mommy, Princess Violet's mother was Sparkly Rainbow and she gave birth to Little Violet!").

It really is marvelous, though, how expansive their imagination is. I could enact a story with rocks and they'd think it was amazing. I could tell them anything, paint any kind of picture with my words, and somewhere in their minds it is real. When we take a bath, they are mermaids, or fish at the aquarium at which I throw grapes which are really fish food. When we huddle under a blanket, we are a family of rabbits hiding out from a predator. When I drag them around the house on a blanket, they are the only survivors on a lifeboat in the ocean. It's probably one of my favorite things about this stage and one I'll surely miss when they grow up. 

Mornings

So I open my eyes this morning and see Penelope staring at me. Obviously, Ellie had crept into my room, found me still asleep, taken my bear from where it was lying in some corner since I don't really hug it anymore, figured I'd need it and stuffed it right up next to my face.

She's so grown-up now. Every morning, she and Eric wake up goodness knows when, and Ellie turns on the light. She takes clothes off the hangar in the closet and rifles through dresser drawers, dresses herself, accessorizes, does her hair (quick brush-through, barrette clip, hairband). She entertains and plays with Eric, who (fortunately for us) is still confined to his crib. It's not unusual for me to walk into their room in the mornings and find his face covered with stickers. Or sporting five hair clips in his hair. Or standing naked down to his diapers. When they get bored, she starts slipping into our room to "check" on how we're doing, and "take care" of things for us, like reorganizing all our DVDs into different cases, or tidying random photographs by sticking them into the fridge for safe keeping. She doesn't wake me up, so I can't complain.

To be fair, and because I (speaking of dinosaurs) recently discovered Instagram, here are the other two:

Journal Excerpt

The baby does this really cute thing now where he suddenly focuses on his fist as it floats past his face. His arm stays extended, his eyes get really big and crossed, and his mouth shrinks with seriousness. He punches his chin back in real surprise, and the three chins and crossed eyes just looks hilarious in combination.

Journal Excerpt

The baby finally went for a nocturnal eight-hour stretch between feeds two nights ago. I am feeling like a new person while desperately hoping it wasn’t a fluke. Unfortunately, it feels like waking up in a post-apocalyptic world, like living in a trailer where obviously aliens have attacked the planet and all you see are flashes of decrepitude: grimy bathrooms and toilets. Small, conveniently choke-able toy parts scattered in every possible random space. Kitchen counters so cluttered there is no space to cut an apple. Food particles sealed into the vacuumed carpet. Any minute now a haggard-looking Brad Pitt or Will Smith will appear. I have to give credit to D that things are not worse, but there’s only so much housework the poor guy can do on top of running two health districts, three kids, and a surly, sleep-deprived wife for the past six weeks.

On the up-side, I made butternut squash soup today, which reminds me of my Boston days when my apartment-mate, who believed in eating colorful foods, first taught me the recipe. It made me think of medical school and community and retreats in New Hampshire in the fall. Sometimes it is staggering to me how much of ourselves we can lose as parents; how much what is still part of who I am I simply don’t access or experience. I really am still someone who likes to read, and paint, and play guitar at retreats, and shop, and bake fancy things, and go to exercise classes. But instead I am mostly someone who spent today wiping snot every five minutes and explaining for the fiftieth time why we have to SHARE. And who will apparently be doing the same thing tomorrow.

On One Hand, They Self-Entertain. On The Other Hand, We Get Headaches.

She is four; he is two. With his rapidly improving verbal skills, we are now privy to long debates in the car like this one:

Eric: “Look! See geese-kuh!”

Ellie: “Dee-dee, it’s not geese-kuh. It’s geese.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Dee-dee, can you say, geese?”

“Geese-kuh.”

“Geese?”

“Geese-kuh.”

“Can you say geeee-suuuh?”

Pause.

“GEEEE-SUH-KUUUUH.”

Journal Excerpt

Probably top on the list of things I enjoy about him—right there next to neck folds, toes, and the way he curls up like a roly-poly bug on my chest—are his involuntary expressions. I enjoy making up monologues, since let’s face it, we spend a whole lot of time alone together these days. Sometimes he looks up at me like I’m God—eyes big in awe, lips pursed in shock—can you believe it? there she is again! Sometimes on the changing table he gets this look of bewilderment—what are you doing down there? And I actually feel like apologizing for intruding upon his privates.

Journal Excerpt

Something really sweet happened tonight. I was rocking them both in the chair, her on my left thigh and him on my right. They were both naked, fresh and soft after their baths, with their diapers on. We told the story of Ellie and Eric Bunny and the Tale of the Shots since she had gotten four vaccines at the doctor’s today. We sang our way through “Tis So Sweet” and “Twinkle Twinkle” and were on the last song, “Jesus Loves Me.” They both sang out loud with me and when we got to the end, we repeated the chorus with their names as usual, except before we finished she jumped in and sang, “yes, Jesus loves xiao dee-dee” (which is what we call the baby in utero), and he joined in, and while we sang they both leaned down and kissed my belly and stroked it.