Morning Snuggle

The boys and I have a daily tradition we call Morning Snuggle. Morning Snuggle is exactly what it sounds like: we snuggle in the morning. 

It involves the boys making various amounts of noise before 6:30am -which is the time we have told them they may exit their rooms- and then barreling into our bed at 6:31am, Jack on one side of me, and Ol on the other. 

Last week, Oliver woke up at 6:10 or something, and soon after we heard him chanting, "Bad clock, too slow, bad clock, too slow..." Tom and I laughed in muted hysteria, and when it became clear that Oliver A) doesn't require breathing and thus B) was not going to stop anytime soon, Tom started timing him.

"Bad clock, too slow" went on for FIFTEEN minutes straight before we heard, "Good clock" and Ol's door open. He came to our bed as if nothing had happened. 

But I digress. In some form or fashion, the kids make noise and then pad in to find me cocooned in my sheets and fluffy comforter. They wriggle in with their icy feet and Tinkertoy arms and legs, burrowing close to me and I to them. 

Their hair is mussed, their cheeks are ever-so-slightly flushed with sleep and happiness. Tiny bits of nighttime crust might remain in the corners of their eyes. Rarely do they have morning breath, and for that, I am grateful.

Their matched-set jammies are soft and still make me see them as little ones who will wear such pjs: friendly pirates and penguins on a festive boat; red, white and blue stars; smiling sharks; all manner of motor vehicle.

Only recently do they seem keen on having different patterns on their pajamas; for years they've wanted to match. Shark Brothers, Bat Brothers...any team is possible when your sleepwear differs only by size. 

In our blanketed island, we hold each other close. I kiss them to excess and they tell me about dreams they had. They know that I know they are spinning the crazy tales as they tell them, but we all pretend otherwise. And then I kiss them some more.

"I love yous" are batted about like an Olympic ping pong ball; as if we have the whole night of silence to make up for. Morning snuggle is fairly ideal which is to say it's also somewhat ephemeral.

Before I know it, Oliver has started "mining" his way under the sheets to the foot of the bed. There, he will begin to terrorize our legs and bottoms because in those things he delights. Jack kicks which is his immediate, instinctive reaction to being tickled, and invariably, Oliver is, at some point, kicked. 

Soon after the tears are dried, Oliver will probably fart which will both stink us out and lead to a rapid fire discussion about butts. Someone begins to jump. I repeat the daily message about how much it hurts to bash one's head on the wooden headboard.

Morning snuggle's time in winding down. Rapidly. 

Finally I can take the mayhem no more and so get up to leave. "No, Mom, just a minute more. We'll calm down. SWEAR!" But they know that I know they won't, and anyhow, it's time for breakfast.

That denouement is an integral part of Morning Snuggle anyway. Something's got to give or we'd be in that bed forever. There's always tomorrow.

Time's determined march

Leaves are changing color and falling, but the high temperatures and humidity persist. My habanero plant is flowering again; it is confused. Summer and fall are duking it out in the final battle for seasonal primacy.

I step from my bath, dripping and thoughtful. Epsom salts and heat help my achy back, the scar on which hasn’t faded over the years as much as I’d have liked. I am prone to all manner of irregular freckles and moles; some need to be removed, while others are simply physical manifestations of my idiosyncrasies and can stay and remind me of such. 

I study my face and its newer wrinkles, my belly and hips. My eyes look tired. Things everywhere are both taut and soft, as aging bodies are wont. Thinner here, fuller there.

It occurs to me that the seasons aren’t the only things fighting for supremacy.

I used to know everyone in the school pick-up line. But during the past two years, waves of new families have reached the shore, and now, I sometimes feel slightly meek and anonymous. Friendships are being forged, over children and similarities I may never know. 

I haven’t felt that way in a long time, and I’m not sure if I like it or don’t.  

My big boy will graduate this year and move to the older campus. I think I like that but nostalgia grabs my heart and makes me unsure. I glean comfort from the fact that even if I’m then just part of the crowd, my younger one will tether me to the special place for a couple years more.

A friend writes with disbelief, “I can’t believe you volunteer at school so often.” I reply, “I love it because not only can I give back but also I can see my children as their best selves.” I had never thought about that before and am again struck by the power of writing without thinking, of responding without editing myself immediately and repeatedly.

There is a lesson there.

I awoke this morning as might a furious storm, swirling and messy and vexed. My agitation could have been for so many reasons, or none at all. I cried, and cooked. I talked to a dearest friend and kept cooking. I poured my soul into my friend and my food. And, later, into my boys.

They were both darling and not, thankful and spoiled, perfect and ugly. My mind told me to run, my heart urged me to stay. Both were right. I am no longer interested in the not-rare arguments about, for example, how much of a body one will willingly bathe. But I am inordinately grateful to be the one asked for advice and trusted with deep secrets.

Finally, the pregnant skies have opened, releasing their watery savings with an unapologetic gush. The parched earth yawns, gratefully lapping up what is shared. Mud splatters, newly sown seeds are unmoored. Wild animals take cover, my domesticated ones snooze obliviously, comfortable and secure on blankets and in beds.

Time marches inexorably on, battling towards the future and against the past. I see it in the seasons, and on my body. In the wave of new faces and the six years that have flown by, a blip in a vast sea, since my family joined the school community we hold so dear. In my dog’s gray whiskers, and in my husband’s too. In the rain that pours down and my sons as they mature.

In the belief in tomorrow and the fresh start it holds.

Twisters

My head is spinning, my jaw is stiff, my chest and stomach a churning storm. A new thousand-piece puzzle is half done. I find comfort in its whirling colors, in the ways that abstract pieces slot together to create order.

It's Sunday. Which feels like eight years since Friday even though a mere 48 hours separates us. In that expanse, a high school classmate died suddenly and I feel unsettled; I finished the best book I've read in years and mourn the loss of the characters I'd become so fond of; my boys light me up and douse that fire too many times an hour to count. It is all enervating.

I'm just past the two-margarita ante. Percy is snuggled next to me on his throne, a large, cushy pillow I've given up on and bequeathed to him.

Inspired by the way we familiarized ourselves with London, we decided today to acquaint ourselves with a part of our own city that too often feels foreign. On a blindingly-bright afternoon, we paddle-boated around the Tidal Basin, two to a skiff, ogling the tributes to Jefferson and Dr. King, the quarried obelisk that stands proudly as a monument to Washington. Even though we were told not to, we dipped our hot toes in the cool water and relished it.

view of the washington monument from the tidal basin

We walked past the World War II memorial, an ugly, overwrought thing in my opinion, and towards the graceful reflecting pool and Lincoln's magnificent stead. We had Italian ices and ice cream. It was so hot. People mulled all around. It's Labor Day eve. Whatever that means.

I wish I could say it was all idyllic. I wish I could say it has been since.

But it wasn't and hasn't been, and maybe that's OK. Maybe that's life. But it sure feels hard.

Later, I attempted to stand up for something I believe in, which is the urgent need for more stringent gun laws and reasonable behavior. I tried to engage in conversation, share facts, challenge myths.

I realized, once again, that I would make a terrible politician because while I fervently support standing for something, standing on the just and right side of things, speaking for the underdog, fighting for the things I might be lucky enough to have but others don't, doing so terrifies and tires me. I wouldn't last ten minutes in Congress; I'd run out crying.

If I don't stand for injustices though, what do I model for my children? And so I try. I consider what Dr. King and Lincoln worked and fought for, and I remind myself of what they gave for those right ideals, and I think, "Well, I owe it to them and my kids to speak up against bigotry and ignorance." I do believe that.

But it's hard because people are entrenched and they're angry. And you know what? So am I. I don't want to hear any more from uninformed gun-lovers who want the freedom to carry guns in bars, on school campuses, in churches "just cuz." Who don't want background checks and regulations on clip size, who think more guns is always better. I think they're crazy idiots hiding behind an ignorant misunderstanding of the 2nd Amendment, and that's the truth. So, that admission made, am I any better? I simply hope I'm on the right side of history, which I believe I am, and that I inspire my children to stand for their beliefs.

At the two margarita draw, I tucked Ol into bed. He was snuffling and vexed, and I held him close and said, "Baby, please tell me what you're thinking." His lip trembled in that way that makes me double-sure that I'd do ANYTHING for him, and he shared some good, deep stuff, some of which I felt I knew just what to do about, just how to help. But for the rest?

"Mama, do you have a diffwent strategy I could twy?"

"I don't, sweet pea, I don't. I don't know all the answers, and I'm so sorry. But I can ask some people and try to find out if you'd like."

And he hugged me so tightly and said, "Yes, please. I love you, mama." And my heart broke just a bit because I don't always know, and I won't always know, and still he loves me so purely, as I do him.

I never wanted to leave his side but part of me wanted to leave ten minutes ago, because J also wanted to talk, and my husband, and the Sunday paper, and also that from last Wednesday which had an article I really wanted to read because the immigrant crisis, and those edits I needed to make two weeks ago, and yet another submission deadline I missed. And still tomorrow there is no school.

There is a new puzzle, a new game, walks to be had, time to be spent. I like to think these challenging times, in which everyone is tired and wishing for routine and in need of time apart, are, nonetheless, bonding us tightly. That one day, tomorrow or Friday or decades from now, we'll all be grateful we forged determinedly on. That we stood for beliefs and values and each other. That we admitted when we didn't know and tried to find answers when we needed them. That we loved enough, openly and in action, such that none of us ever doubted that.