Things are shifting in our house. Very recently, although somewhere in my head I knew it was happening, I just really got hit with the fact that A. We are not young parents anymore, and B. We have no more babies. Or even toddlers. What we have is a house of 2 parents gaining on 40, and elementary school aged kids. Kids.
This is somewhat assuaged by the fact that I keep them at home. Which is done largely to shelter them from the world while they are tender shoots, and all it’s inherent evils, and all that, and to give them a superior education upon a foundation of high moral character and spiritual development in our faith of choice, which is to follow Jesus, specifically, not just a general God or Spirit somewhere out there or in your back yard cherry tree, but primarily because I want them to be my babies forever. Mine. All mine. And I think, just maybe, that if I keep them with me long enough, tied to me in an only slightly twisted fashion, they may just forsake all others for as long as they all shall live and love me most forever. And tell me I’m pretty when I wear that brown shirt, and hug me until I can’t breathe, and bring me microwaved toast in bed for breakfast and try to put their tongue on mine because it feels funny (this is just the barely turned 5 year old, I promise, not some weird inappropriate fetish, and after the first and only time, I did tell him he needs to keep that tongue away from mine, so he tried to put it in my ear - but I stopped him, promise).
Private One. Over 10 now. Getting just a bit gawky. Got braces on his sweet teeth, and doesn’t realize when he wets his hair like that in the mornings to get rid of his bedhead he looks like the front man from Flock of Seagulls. Love him. His tennies fit me. He thinks his bright orange Old Navy fleece zip up is so cool, he puts it on every morning, of every day, no matter the weather. He suddenly demands privacy. Says I shouldn’t see him naked, but it’s OK if he walks in on me. I think this is backwards, but there is no arguing with him. Because he thinks he’s smarter than me, and nearly any one else he comes into contact with.
Watching American Idol tonight:
I really think she shouldn’t try so hard to be someone else when she’s singing. Ought to just relax.
Oh yeah, Mr. Man? You don’t know her, so I don’t see how you can comment on how she should or shouldn’t relax and not be something she’s not.
Well, it’s just so obvious. I mean, look at the way she’s pandering to the audience. Surely she doesn’t act like that with everyone all the time.
Oh.
Well, often, he is. But he doesn’t have anything on me, and doesn’t realize he can’t pull anything I’ve not pulled before. But it can be tough with 2 people in the house cut out of such similar cloth who must both always have the last word. Good thing I can pull rank. But that becomes less important when he does stuff like buy me my favorite ever flowers when he hears me mention them in the grocery store. He did. My boy bought me tulips last week. Said, take it out of my allowance, I want you to have them.
Darlin’ Private Two. Tall. Willowy. 8 years old. As beautiful with her teeth all missing and crowded as the day she was born. Mistaken as Private One’s twin occasionally, she’s so mature for her age. She’s sensitive. Dramatic. An artist. Rapid fire quick to tears, and sometimes feel stuck in the middle. She is harumphing now. Put out if she doesn’t like it. Expert eye roller. Begging for wedge shoes and heels and wishes I’d let her bare her bare midriff. Fat chance. She’s so lean and lovely. Yet just this week she said she wanted a body shaper girdle thing like mine to “pull this in” (pinching the one inch of flesh on her upper thigh). I ache to think she would ever think one tiny itty bitty millisecond that she is not just gorgeous. Because she really is. And it’s not just me saying it. So does her Dad, and grandparents. No really. Strangers too. Not that we ask them for affirmation regularly or anything, but sometimes, people just comment. But getting her from here to healthy adulthood will not be easy in the skinny, big boobed, half naked, Hollywood glamore-obsessed culture we live in. It makes me sick. And whether or not it offends anyone else, is a primary reason she is not in public school. Little girls learn all too early how to turn on the sexuality. She is tender. Let her be so until she matures to a ready-stage to take on more. And Lord, let me be able to help her know how to accept and love herself through your image of her.
Bringing up the rear, Private Three. This is the child that makes it all hit home. I have no babies. I watched him today, play outside at his grandparents. As he was coming in another child asked him if he could come back out and play in a bit. As he nonchalantly shrugged his shoulders, tilted his head in consideration, and said so big-like, I dunno, dude, I’ll have to ask, my heart lept. Suddenly I realized there is no baby talk. No toddler talk. No more stutter that he carried for a while. Just kid talk. At 5. I know Private One was less savvy than this at 5. But that’s just the thing about being a second, third or fourth or whatever child. You pick up stuff. You outgrow Elmo faster. You insist on a big boy bed earlier. You refuse to wear Mommy’s favorite blue corduroy john-john with smocked trains on the front a whole lot sooner one Easter morning and instead want to wear some khakis and a white shirt and you’re only 2 and a half, and my last baby and also tell me in the same morning that those little blue white toed Keds are stupid because your big brother won’t wear them anymore either (not that I’m bitter).
This guy, our youngest, is the sort that will either invent a new form of energy to run our planet, and a way to live comfortably in outer space through some sort of molecular disintegration and reintegration travel. Or, he’ll wind up in jail. Some days, hard to tell. But he loves me mostest. Well, probably he doesn’t. But he’s the one that can’t seem to get enough of me, still. Hugs. Snuggles. Kisses. Compliments. Maybe he’s just feeling guilty for something I haven’t discovered that he’s drawn on or broken or taken apart yet. Whatever. It’s yummy. And it does keep him alive. For now.
So. My nest. Full. Busy. Exhausting. Sometimes insane. Never get it all organized, always twigs hanging out somewhere, or grubs ground into the bottom, or poop not scraped away. And it’s at capacity. Right? Isn’t it at full capacity? Didn’t we hatch the last egg like, 5 years ago? Aren’t I overwhelmed with what’s in it right now, especially when the wind blows extra hard and the nest shakes just a bit too much for comfort? Here’s where I’ve lost my ever-lovin bird brain. I could do it again. There. I said it (whatever) out loud. In public. To the internet. Who doesn’t give a rip, but I feel better. And Dad, don’t panic. I’ve had this conversation with Mom. We have no future egg laying plans. Yet. And may never. But I see our life changing. Shifting. Leaving a season to maybe never return. And it makes me think. About the best thing we’ve ever done other than marry each other. The richness of having these children that occasionally make me want to climb in a bottle and never come out (antidepressants, alcohol, zanax, pick your poison) are also the reason I get moving every day. The only eternal thing we’ll ever do. Getting them from here, to there. Whole and ready to fly by themselves.
Maybe you got to be a girly bird brain. Maybe it’s just that estrogen coursing through. But it can be hard to think that who’s in your nest, right now, and rapidly approaching the time to fly, is all you get to get prepared for the flight. Layin’ the egg may not be easy, and Lord knows the baby birds can wear you out. But look how awesome it is to get to watch them start to try their wings.
