All

Saturday night my parents stopped by the house to take all three children out to dinner, giving us some quiet time to get things done (this week’s to-do list is two pages long and single-spaced, because of things due, appointments made months ago, out-of-town guests and birthday party preparations).

So Nini and Pop Pop loaded all the kids into the stroller, and walked to Frisch’s. And dinner with Nini and Pop Pop at Frisch’s always ends with a hot fudge sundae, much to Sophie’s delight.

But on this night, Sophie apparently wanted to eat her sundae with her purple, plastic, swirly straw, instead of her fork. My mom told her that she needed to use a fork, that forks are used for eating and straws are used for drinking.

Sophie sat for a moment, considering this and then said, “Nini, close your eyes for a really long time.”

“Genius is the ability to see things invisible, to manipulate things intangible, to paint things that have no features.” —Joseph Joubert

Last fall my cousin Ben taught at Our Lady of Guadalupe Primary School in Belmopan, Belize. (Here he is with his class, all decked out for Cultural Day.)

While there, Ben realized that the school, which educates 700 children, pre-kindergarten through the 8th grade, doesn’t have a library. So, he formed the OLOG Library Group, dedicated to building and supplying a small library at the school.

There are many fundraisers planned for this project this summer and one of the first is this weekend—a Scholastic Book Fair at the Preble County YMCA in Eaton, Ohio. Open to the public, 100 precent of the proceeds will be used to build and supply the library. The book fair is open on May 13 from noon to 7 p.m. and on May 14 from 9 a.m. to 2 p.m. (I’ll be there early Saturday morning to help out—and buy books!)

Hope some of you can make it!

“What is more important in a library than anything else—than everything else—is the fact that it exists.” —Archibald MacLeish

2010

2011

It’s quite different, mothering two boys inside versus out.

We had a lovely Mother’s Day in that we were able to celebrate with Andy’s mom, in person (a rarity as she lives in Baltimore), as well as her sister, Fran (who lives in Dallas). (We’re celebrating with my mom in a couple weeks, when my siblings are in town.)

Andy made delicious coffee cake and fruit salad for breakfast. The children gave me a beautiful ceramic bowl with butterflies on it from Anthropologie and a small, heart-shaped soap (both of which Sophie picked out on a shopping trip to the mall with Andy which, apparently, required four separate trips to the bathroom—sorry, Drew).

We spent the weekend cooking, playing at the park and installing Sophie’s new window treatments, a gift from Jill, which Aunt Fran made (pictures to come!).

Sophie and I have struggled lately. In part, I think, because it’s been raining for days and we’ve all been cooped up inside. Also (a much larger part, I’m sure), she’s 3. So after a particularly bad tantrum I noticed the sun was out and so I suggested we share a snack outside, using the new bistro set (a Mother’s Day gift from Andy). I don’t know if it’s the sun or fresh air or change of scenery but being outside works with her, every time. Whatever it was, I think that happy snack together was the best Mother’s Day gift of all.

“We never know the love of the parent until we become parents ourselves.” —Henry Ward Beecher

Sophie loves playing with Grandma.

Also, Grandma is a good sport.

“Grandchildren don’t stay young forever, which is good because Pop-pops have only so many horsey rides in them.” —Gene Perret

while frantically trying to clean the house for Grandma and Great Aunt Fran’s visit:

• “Mommy, there is cheese all over the couch.”

• James’s head hitting the toilet after trying (and failing) to cling to the edge of the clawfoot tub while wearing fuzzy footed pjs and standing on tile floor (he’s OK).

• “Mommy, I need milk!”

• The boys, crying for milk.

• “Mommy, I need juice!”

• The boys, crying for milk.

• “Mommy! I went potty! And there’s pee on the floor! A lot of pee.“

• Tucker barking (I forgot he was outside).

• “Mommy, look!” I look and Sophie is licking her hand and then wiping it on the fridge, two minutes after I had sprayed the fridge doors with Windex, ridding it of fingerprints.

• The boys waking up from their morning nap much too soon.

“We labor to make a house a home, then every time we’re expecting visitors, we rush to turn it back into a house.” —Robert Brault

We’ve had days of rain. As such, ants have sought shelter in our house. Sophie, who is usually fearful of bugs, loves ants. She calmly points them out to us. She talks to them. She tries to convince them to march into her bug house. She wasn’t so happy when they dined on the jelly beans in her Easter basket, but she was quick to forgive. In short, she considers them friends.

Several evenings ago Sophie was trying to convince a particularly stubborn ant into her bug house when Andy discovered the ant wasn’t stubborn at all—it was dead. I was in the kitchen, cooking dinner, when I heard him say “dead.”

“Drew,” I said. “She doesn’t know death.”

He managed to redirect her attention elsewhere (most likely, another live ant—we have enough of them). I’m thankful he did.

Sophie is 3. And for three years she hasn’t known that someday she will no longer be, as she is, in this world. She doesn’t know that someday I will die. Andy will die. Her brothers will die. Tucker and Mia will die. Everyone she knows and loves will die.

She’s known two dogs who have died—Molly and Droopy. And if I remember correctly, we told her they died but we didn’t stress the point. She was young, much younger than she is now. It’s been many, many months since she’s talked about them. I believe she remembers them, but I also think she hasn’t taken the time to truly consider what their absence meant and means.

And while she someday must know, really know what death means, the absolute finality of it, I hope it’s years from now, not days, not months. I dread the conversation, in part, because Andy and I disagree about what happens after death. And I am uncertain in my beliefs. I’m still reading, searching, hoping, seeking. So I don’t know what to say to her. But even if we both were to blanket her in the comfort of heaven, a blanket I often curl up in myself, death is still tragic. It means no longer sinking your teeth into a sweet orange or hugging someone so tight that you can smell the morning soap on their skin. You can’t hold the hand of someone who has died. You can’t bake them a birthday cake and offer them the spoon to lick. You can’t say the words you always meant to say. Because even if you believe a loved one who has died is in a better place, they’re no longer here, with you. And when you die, you’re no longer here, with them. And it’s just so damn certain. And final. Jesse Tuck’s spring doesn’t exist.

Many find comfort in death. But I don’t like unknowns. So I find it scary—way scarier than any ugly monster hiding under a bed. And I can only imagine she will, too—no matter how carefully we present it and how hard I try to keep my own fear out of it.

Once Sophie knows death, she’ll never be able to forget it. So I don’t want her to know it, until she must.

If you look out any back, second-story window of our house, you can see the green grass, large pines, and the antique statues and stones that dot St. Stephen Cemetery. It’s beautiful.

It’s also one of my favorite places to walk.

Not sure what to call this place when with Sophie, my mom suggested “the remembering place.” The explanation is simple and satisfying. “This is where people go to remember those they love,” I say. Sophie understands love. She understands remembrance. This satisfies her, for now.

So we walk the paths of this beautiful place and I think about 18-year-old Mabel, and all that she witnessed, and all that she missed.

I think about the person who put a rosary around this woman’s neck.

I think about William Madden, born 1871 and died 1930, and then I think more about his wife, Minnie A. Madden, born 1873 and died 1966. How did she she live those long years of her life, after her love was gone?

And then I read one of the many (too many) stones that have a little lamb on top. And I think of 2-year-old Charles and my heart grows heavy. I think of my frustrations with Sophie that morning, how she just won’t listen. I think of how tired the boys make me, constantly picking up, putting down, feeding, changing, loving. I think of the editing I have to do once the children are in bed, the dirty dishes in the sink, the pile of laundry on the couch. And then I look back at this stone, or any of the lamb stones. And that little lamb is like the universe slapping me in the face. Waking me up. Reminding me of what I have, what others lost, and what I will, someday, lose. And I am grateful.

I am grateful.

I am grateful.

I look at the new spring leaves, the long tree shadows …

and the flowers Sophie took the time to notice, and smell, at the gate.

I then look at Sophie, blithely blowing seeds, making wishes and unknowingly planting new life in grass that blankets life that once was.

I walk among the stones, statues, angels and lambs …

in our backyard Remembering Place and remember those I love who are no longer on this earth—and love those who are living. And just like Andy, redirecting Sophie’s attention to the ants still moving, I redirect mine, not to what will someday be, but what is, now, here, today. I find myself at peace with Sophie’s ignorance, and hope that she will be better able to cradle the concept in her brain that someday, she will no longer be. And I find myself at peace knowing that she, most definitely, will be remembered.

“No one knows whether death is really the greatest blessing a man can have, but they fear it is the greatest curse, as if they knew well.” —Plato

I often make deals with Sophie, in order to avoid tantrums. For example, “Sophie, let’s make a deal. If you eat five more green beans, you can have dessert. Deal?” Or, “Sophie, let’s make a deal. If you pick up your toys and go potty and wash your hands, we’ll go to the park. Deal?” She loves making deals so she almost always says “deal.” We even shake on it (her favorite part).

Today I told her we were going to go to the library, after I finish my cup of coffee and get everyone ready. She wanted to watch “Cars,” the movie, while I caffeinated myself and got everyone dressed. I told her no and that she could play with toys until we were ready to go. A couple minutes later she said this:

“Mommy, let’s make a deal. I watch ‘Cars’ and then we go to the library. That’s a good deal, OK? You let me watch ‘Cars’ and then we can go to the library. Deal?”

I don’t think she quite understands.

Or, maybe, she does.

“Deals are my art form. Other people paint beautifully on canvas or write wonderful poetry. I like making deals, preferably big deals. That’s how I get my kicks.” —Edward Koch

Sophie always has known the age-old bedtime story ritual. We started when she was very young. I have fond memories of reading to her at dusk, immediately following our last nursing session of the day. She always snuggled into us, calm, attentive, happy. Still, reading to her at nap and bedtime are two of my favorite times of the day.

Although I try to get a story time in with the boys a couple times a week (usually while they’re sitting in their Bumbos), I’ve been terribly neglectful when it comes to a true bedtime story.

Andy and I used to do Sophie’s bedtime together. Now, we divvy up the duties. Because Sophie sees so little of Andy during the week (and because she misses him), he does Sophie’s entire bedtime routine—bath, pajamas, stories, milk, teeth brushed, lights off, music on, stars on, poem read, gate up, door cracked, a promise to check-in in 10 minutes. While he’s doing that, I change the boys’ diapers, put them in their pajamas and give them their final bottles of the day downstairs. I burp them, carry them both upstairs, put them in their cribs—sound machine on, lights off, stars on, poem read. (Of course, it’s not as simple as this. As I type this Sophie’s still awake, reading in bed, requiring that we check in on her every 10 minutes and I just spent 20 minutes bouncing Owen on an exercise ball as he was screaming like a banshee keeping James awake.)

So. Last week Andy said we really need to start reading to the boys, every night. And he’s right. Except that reading them a bedtime story is really, really hard. Here’s how it typically goes (with thanks to Mem Fox, for her lovely book, Time for Bed, which I (tried) to read to the boys tonight and which you can (and should) purchase here):

(I’m sitting in a rocking chair in the boys’ room, holding both of them and the book.)

It’s time for bed, little goose, little goose, 
The stars are out and on the loose.

“Boys, look at the book! Do you see the goose? And the cute gosling? And the pretty stars? No, James, you can’t have the book.”

It’s time for bed, little cat, little cat,
So snuggle in tight, that’s right, like that.

“Owen, no, don’t eat the book. James, don’t turn the page yet. Look at the pretty picture!”

It’s time for bed, little calf, little calf, 
What happened today that made you laugh?

“James! Don’t pull your brother’s hair!”

It’s time for bed, little foal, little foal,
I’ll whisper a secret, but don’t tell a soul.

“Owen! Do not poke your brother’s eye like that! That hurts him!”

It’s time for bed, little fish, little fish,
So hold your breath and make a wish.

(I adjust their positions on my lap.)

“OK, see, this is more comfortable, right?”

It’s time for bed, little sheep, little sheep,
The whole wide world is going to sleep.

“James! Owen! Oh my God don’t do that I’m seriously going to drop you! Stop arching like that! Hold still! Seriously, I’m going to …”

(I stand up, barely holding onto either of them, and lower myself to the floor. I reposition them on my lap.)

“OK, let’s try again. It’s safer here.”

It’s time to sleep, little bird, little bird,
So close your eyes, not another word.

“No, don’t crawl way. Please don’t crawl away. Let’s just get through this. Don’t you know lots of smart people go on and on about how important it is to read to you every night so that you become smart like them someday? Here, chew on these while we finish.”

(I hand them puzzle pieces.)

It’s time to sleep, little snake, little snake,

(Both boys are off my lap crawling in different directions. So, I just start reading louder.)

Good gracious me, you’re still awake!

“James, no, no, no, at least stay in the room. No, Owen, don’t start following James.”

It’s time to sleep, little pup, little pup,
If you don’t sleep soon the sun will be up!

(They’re gone. I get up off the floor and find Owen clinging to the edge of the clawfoot tub, where Sophie is taking a bath. She thinks it’s hysterical that Owen is peering over the edge of the tub and her laughing is, in turn, making Owen laugh. James is in Sophie’s bedroom, playing with her dollhouse.)

I give up.

Maybe tomorrow night.

“I would be most content if my children grew up to be the kind of people who think decorating consists mostly of building enough bookshelves.” —Anna Quindlen

“It’s double the giggles and double the grins, and double the trouble if you’re blessed with twins.” —author unknown