smilence

Pronunciation: ’smI-l&n(t)s
Function: noun
: the sound, as heard by a mother, emanating from behind the closed doors of a room in which two young girls, together for a playdate, are quietly playing.

silengst

Pronunciation: ’sI-[ng](k)st
Function: noun
: the sound, as heard by a mother, emanating from behind the closed doors of a room in which two young boys, together for a playdate, are quietly playing.

geronimOhNo

Pronunciation: j&-’rä-n&-”mO-nO
Function: noun
: the sound immediately following silengst. Usually also accompanied by a thud or a crash.

“Welcome to the XYZ Company Voice Recognition System. What would you like to do today? Say ‘do this’ to do that, say ‘do this other thing’ to do that other thing, or say ‘other options’ to do something else.”

[in the background] “Evan! I want to play with the red puppy!”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t understand your response. Please say ‘do this’ to do that, say ‘do this other thing’ to do that other thing, or say ‘other options’ to do something else.”

[in the background] “Zoe! Give me back my red puppy!”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t understand your response. Please say ‘do this’ to do that, say ‘do this other thing’ to do that other thing, or say ‘other options’ to do something else.”

[in the background] “Stinky Face!”

“I’m sorry, I can’t understand you. Let me get you to a live representative. But first I’m going to ask you a question to make sure you get to the right person. What would you like to do today? Say ‘do this’ to do that, say ‘do this other thing’ to do that other thing, or say ‘other options’ to do something else.”

Click.

Do you understand that?

I suspect it won’t last. I suspect there will be days, weeks — perhaps even years — that I will recall this entry and wonder how it was ever possible. But, for now, I can say it, and I will: Zoe and Evan adore each other.

Sure, there are squabbles. There are times when one wants to be alone, times when they don’t cooperate, and times when the howls of disapproval are more than I can bear. But, those times are few.

More often than not, Zoe and Evan play excitedly, genuinely enjoying each other’s time. They play games only they understand. Giggles are theirs alone, secreted away from Mom and Dad in a united affront to parental involvement. She brings him a lovey when he needs it. He offers her a calming back scratch when she’s tired. She helps him find the words he so desperatly seeks to find sometimes. And he helps her find the courage to take on new challenges by simply making sure she’s not alone.

Most of the time, Zoe falls prey to the big sibling’s tendency to bos–er, lead — the play with intricate rules and fantastic scenarios, while Evan willingly follows. It may appear she’s taking advantage of him, instructing him and bossing him in a less-than civil manner at times. But, without him, there is no one to laugh at her jokes, to chase her around the yard, or to be Superman to her Wonder Woman. Of that, I believe, she’s keenly aware. In short, theirs is a relationship worked out to a perfection they both understand — and love.

I, too, was reminded of their special relationship, and their awareness of it, the other day. In one of their rarer moments of discord, Zoe brusquely turned away from Evan, hoarding her toy underneath her arm and shouted, bitterly, “I don’t want to play with you!”

I sincerely believe that Evan would have taken such news from any other person with aplomb. His cheerful, confident demeanor doesn’t usually have room for the hurt feelings of child-like tribulations. In any other circumstance, he would have simply left the scene, feelings entirely intact, and moved on to greener pastures of play. But, when these scornful words came from Zoe, someone far more than just a playmate, it was too much for even his resilient soul to bear.

I watched as Evan absorbed his sister’s painful barb. At first, there was silence. And then, from a quivering lip came a soulful response: “You’re mean.” The heartbreak in his voice was palpable. The quivering lip soon gave way to an eruption of tears. It was all I could do to keep from crying myself.

I’d never before heard the word mean uttered from the mouth of either of my children. It was painful enough to find out that the concept was known to my children at such a young age. Far more painful, though, was that one of my children had found meanness in the other. Evan’s sister had broken his heart, even if it was for only a moment, precisely because he loves her. My heart was broken, too, precisely because I love what they have together. A bitter, painful lesson, handed to us by somone we love.

Even though it’s every mother’s instinct to protect her children from pain, both physical and emotional, it’s also every mother’s fate to fail to bring that hope to fruition. It’s an unattainable goal, made impossible by the very love that drives our instinct. The same is true for any relationship bound by love — filial, familial, or otherwise.

I think Evan learned that very lesson the other day. And when Zoe gave him a hug and said genuinely and regretfully that she was sorry, I think he learned another lesson as well: when we’re handed a painful lesson by someone we love, there’s always the other hand to hold when it’s hurting so bad.

Zoe
is away at my parents’ house this week. Camp Mimi and Papa Joe, we call
it. She’s going to the beach, starring in a parade, swimming the
afternoons away at the pool, eating M&M’s to her heart’s content,
and watching far too much TV.
In short, my parents are performing the duties of grandparent quite
well. And Zoe is having the time of her life.

Evan, on the other hand, is at home. He’s
enjoying a week of undivided attention, an unshared spotlight, sole
rights to toys, and the opportunity to sit in whichever chair he
chooses for meals. Presumably, a heaven on earth for a typically
self-concerned two-and-a-half-year old.

I’m not sure he sees it that way.

The
tearful farewell was to be expected. Watching his sister load up into a
car, knowing she was headed somewhere he was not could only have
elicited a mournful mood. But the soulful “Where’s Zoe?” hours later,
the entreating “Wake Zoe up!” pleas the following morning, and the
constant string of hopeful requests for his sister throughout the days
lead me to believe he’s less self-concerned than I’d previously
understood.

I’ve always loved the French use of the verb manquer,
to miss. One is missing a button; one misses an appointment; one even
misses doing their homework. But when it comes to missing a person, the
subject and object are reversed — Tu me manques. The literal
translation? You are missed by me. There’s something about the
inversion that seems far more active, far more passionate — far more true.

Evan
misses his sister. But, even more so, he is missing his sister. His
sister is missing from him. I used to mourn the lost “alone time” that
his sister, being the first child, received but that he never
experienced. How unfair, I used to think. This week, my thinking has changed. How unfair it is to be suddenly alone, when all he’s ever lived is together. His world? Includes his sister. He’s never known anything else. I hope he never does.

The first day I did it, I think it took as long to prepare for the event as the passing of the event itself. The second time, the preparation didn’t sting so badly. By the third trip, I’d found my groove. Suits on, sunscreen applied, picnic lunch prepared, towels and toys and changes of clothing packed: we’re headed to the pool! A well oiled machine, we are.

A little less than a month into summer, and it’s hard to imagine that last year I hit the pool less than five times. Already this season, we’ve been five-times-five times, at least, and there’s no indication the pace will slow down. Both children are old enough to enjoy the water for hours at a time, and, finally, now having access to a pool with a shallow end, swimming is more an enjoyable activity than a worrisome one. The pool lets the kids expend their energy and gives mom a welcome relief from the hot, humid air. It is, quite simply, the summer of cool waters.

I grew up at the beach, spending entire days with my feet in the sand and tasting the salt water on my lips. Raucously riding the waves in on canvas rafts, combing the shore for never-found seashells, and dripping wet sand into fantastic fairy castles — these were the main activities of my summers.

But, every once in a while, we — my sister and my friends and their siblings — would all pile in cars and make the seemingly endless trip to the on-base officer’s pool. And there, in its teal blue and concrete expanse, we’d splash and dive and play in an entirely different aquatic adventure. Underwater flips, suspending all sense of gravity and spatial relations, turned our hearts and souls upside down, if only for a moment at a time. Entire worlds were created in our underwater games, filled with giggles and rules and imagined heroes. Those games spilled over onto the concrete patio, softened with damp, chlorine smelling towels, during the inconvenient and inexplicable “adult swim” breaks. And the diving board, both enticing and terrifying, was the site of many displays of juvenile bravery, triumph, and — once — tragedy. Fond memories, those chlorine-filled days.

Those memories are all returning this summer, splashing onto me as I watch my kids at the pool. The same rush of adrenaline I felt so many years ago jumping off the high-dive rushes through me once again as Evan enthusiastically (and timorously!) leaps from the edge of the pool. As Zoe flirts and giggles with her new-found friends, playing games to which only they know the rules, I find myself struggling to not insert myself into their imaginary play, remembering how fun it all is. Zoe’s first back flip — tossed high in the air — sent familiar waves of weightlessness through my own body. The poolside snacks, the picnic lunches taste every bit the same as they did at that officer’s pool. Slightly warm and salty, the food brings a much-needed burst of energy and makes the arbitrarily imposed breaks just a little more bearable. And, finally, the hard, powerful exhaustion at the end of the day brought on by the sun and water feels every bit the same as I recall from long ago. Sleep scarcely stays away from all three of us on the short ride home. All the packing and preparation and parental responsibilities brought on by a trip to the pool are washed away in that deep, rewarding sun-drenched slumber.

I’ve always known that parenting can provide the opportunity to reconnect with your own childhood. But, up until now, I’ve been parenting children of ages for which I have no personal recollections. Reconnecting with walking and talking and solitary play is simply not possible, as I have no memory of that time in my life. But as my children grow into the age of which I have memories, entire experiences are relived and recalled effortlessly. Unexpected gifts, they are. This summer, I’m swimming in them.

“I wanna be a boy!” my daughter proclaimed loudly last night. It was her form of protest for being required to sit on the potty to pee. Her eyes reflected the pure injustice she was called upon to bear.

Moments later, I ushered my son onto his makeshift step-stool (fashioned out of two phonebooks and some duct tape — how’s that for recycling?) in front of the commode. In the ensuing moments, I held my breath, praying that he would get it all in the potty. He didn’t. Thing is, sitting hadn’t fared any better for him. Peeing on the potty, it seems, was an act to be taken literally: on the potty, on the floor, on me. Ewwww. No matter what the position — standing, seated — the aim is decidedly not true. The apparatus is, simply, flawed in its design.

Rethink your proclamation, Miss Zoe. Because, in my eyes? You most definitely do not want to be a boy.

A year ago, a month ago, a week ago, I would have cringed at the thought. Oh, the mess!

Yesterday, I just kissed her. Chocolate kisses, however messy, are still so very sweet.

Act I: Mr. Literal

Evan: “Eat mouth closed.”
Me: “Yes, Evan, you eat with your mouth closed.”
Evan, bringing his waffle up to a closed mouth: “Waffle won’t fit.”

Act II: Ms. Prerogative

Me: “Zoe, what do you want to wear today?”
Zoe: “I want to wear this red shirt and pants.”
Me: “That’s fine. Get dressed.”
Zoe: “I love this outfit, Mom. Thanks for buying it.”

(ten minutes later)

Zoe, in a sudden puddle of tears: “I want to wear a dress!”
Me: “But, Zoe, you were the one who picked out what you’re wearing now.”
Zoe, still in a puddle of tears: “I changed my mind!”

You simply can’t make this stuff up.

Exactly 48 hours from now, I will have enjoyed my first four hours alone - no kids, no husband - in a little under two years. (Ok, I had I weekend alone in March, and I’m eternally grateful for that. But it ruins the drama of the opening statement.)I probably will spend the time cleaning the house, and I am positively thrilled at that prospect. Seriously.That it will be followed by another four hours in less than a week, and then another, and another, and another — I must stop myself before I hyperventilate — the thought is just too much for words.Get my groove back? You bet your sweet bippy.

That pregnancy is traditionally nine months long, and not eight, is a well-known lament. August, too, proves too much for an otherwise delightful summertime holiday. And I offer that our morning is simply too long, by a mere hour.Impossibly beautiful weather today. An adventure downtown. Buildings. Busy Machines. People. A Secret Garden. Giggling. Joy. Eight months of pregnancy. June and July.And then it all came tumbling down. Nap time could not be here soon enough.