Thursday, March 10, 2011

Leaving the house.

Wake up. Take medication. Get some coffee. Pour some orange juice. Water the baby. Water the dog. Water the mama. Add some logs. Do the crossword puzzle. Let the dog out. Feed the dog. Change a diaper.  Read an email.  Make breakfast. Check the calendar. Listen to the news. Herd children. Make  children eat. Sing a song. Remind children to eat. Let the dog in. Ask children if they are eating. Remind the girl to use the potty. Help wipe a bum. Wash hands. Weigh myself. Clear table. Meditate. Pray. Thumb through a book. Write. Call sister. Unload the dishwasher. Load the dishwasher. Wipe the counter. Eat something. Take laundry to the basement. Load washing machine. Shake a rug out. Chase baby. Tickle baby. Light Lucy's candle. Sigh. Kiss girl. Grab the baby. Herd children upstairs. Let dog in the bedroom. Pick out clothes. Chase baby. Catch baby. Dress baby. Lie on the floor. Wrestle. Get kicked. Put in contacts. Brush teeth. Load toothbrushes with baby toothpaste. Hand out toothbrushes. Brush hair. Brush little teeth. Brush fine hair. Sing a song. Clap. Herd children downstairs. Sit on chair. Rub feet together.

Close eyes.


The children chase each other, giggle. They stop at the play kitchen to make me egg, strawberry and lemon soup. I want to breathe them into me. Or pour this moment in a pyrex container, so I can take it out of the deep freeze some day when I am old and lonely. I will simmer it over a low flame. The house will fill with the smell of baby-head and vanilla breath. I'll ladle a warm bowl of love and the ordinary for myself, curl up in front of the fire, and sip it, savoring them. They are everything I imagined them to be, my children. They are all knobby-kneed and corny jokes, long feet and kisses all over my hand. I try to listen to them without being seen, but it's nearly impossible. They always notice me. But when she pretends to be the mommy, she calls her stuffed babies 'honey', kisses their eyes, and tells them she loves them. One day, he will sleep through the night. Later, he may fancy the girl who lives next door, and try to impress her by riding one of the unicycles in the garage. One day, she will tell me about a boy and complain about her thighs, which will look strong and beautiful to me, and fat to her. One day, I will be grey and not the most important person in their lives. As I sit, I cannot shake the feeling that I may not be here for them. I want to tell them that every moment of their lives I felt grateful for them, that every moment I wanted to catalogue in some fetishistic photo album. "Here is the back of her head with its flush of red birthmark that I worried over in the early days. Here is the scab he developed after that weird blister. He was brave when we burst it." I hope I remember, but I am already forgetting what they were yesterday. I want to tell them I will be always there guiding them, you know, if I die, which I totally probably won't. I will show them the way if they listen to the wind. I want to tell them that I will come back as a hummingbird and a ladybug and anything else they think is beautiful, but it won't be enough and I will be sorry for that. I want to tell them that, but it doesn't seem right. They are too young. They have had too much loss already. My death has not even occurred to them yet. I open my eyes. He is standing below me smiling, wanting to be picked up. 


Pick up baby. Squeeze bum. Smell head. Stand up. Put on shoes. Wrangle the girl. Tell her to put her shoes on. Refill water cups. Pack diaper bag. Put on jackets. Walk out the door. Lock door. Smell head. Thank the universe. Thank. The. Universe.

16 comments:

  1. Beautiful, vivid, amazing post. You keep adding to my list of posts of yours I love best.
    Thanking the universe every day with you. And thanking it FOR you as well.
    xo

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  2. You've got a brilliant idea with the pyrex container. I think I'll do that too, so that I can make my house smell like baby-head and vanilla breath when I need it to.

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  3. I feel the love you have for your children, all of them. xoxo

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  4. I take random video clips of the nieces and nephews. I occasionally get good quality Funniest Home Video Stuff. But only when I hide it somewhere and they don't know they are on film otherwise they just act strange. I have hours of footage of them just being them. I hope to someday do it for my own and pass the clips on to them someday when they are old. It's the closest thing I can get to a pyrex container. When I read your words it makes me stop and think and feel. All my love to you Angie~

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  5. I wish these moments could be poured into pyrex containers. Or that I could stop being so aware of the transitory nature of this stage. I even took photographs of the birthmarks on the back of J's head as I was worried that I wouldn't remember what they looked like when her hair grew.
    Beautiful post, so full of love x

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  6. Funny how thankful we can feel given where we are and where we've come from. I feel the same way.

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  7. Tears of gratitude are streaming down my cheeks. Grateful that you can soak up your children and I mine. Grateful that you beautifully put into words what I cannot.

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  8. Wonderfully written and I'm so glad that you take the time to appreciate the small things among the chaos.

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  9. I would like to second Michelle's comment.

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  10. Love this, Angie. I'm going to smell Dot's head extra today, I think.

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  11. I love the recipe for love soup - sounds just about perfect.

    My children have sealed letters in their memory boxes - just a handful - for when I am no longer with them. They don't know that because, like Bea and Thor, they have known too much death already. One day I'll tell them - or they'll discover them by chance.

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  12. Such a wonderful post, written with so much love. Yay for the smell-capsules. Would love to have one too.

    Thank You.

    xo

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  13. This is my favourite post, this is beautiful.x

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  14. Wow Angie! beautiful! I feel the deep deep love!

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