Hello, and greetings from the 23rd month of the Covid-19 pandemic, depending on how you count, and whether counting still feels worthwhile. When I began writing this blog, I waxed on about sleeping and feeding patterns. The pace and season of life have shifted. I still aim to capture something of each child in each post. We are still relatively green parents--Ellie is now 5 and Myles will turn 3 in April--but already we have witnessed many period of extraordinary transformation in each child. I hoped to keep an objective, detailed, consistent record of childhood for both children in this blog. I did not realize how difficult it may sometimes be to modulate my tone when I wrote through exhaustion, or a pandemic, frustration, sadness, disappointment heavy on my old shoulders. These are not all of the moments, but these moments are here, insistently, demanding their due. The start of writing anything is honesty.
Perhaps I should not have chosen to write tonight. The kitchen has been fully cleaned thrice today and demands cleaning again. The floors, professionally cleaned yesterday, are inexplicably gritty. The laundry has yet to be put away. A dozen Christmas presents require wrapping. And a dark mood hangs inside me. A country that knew it was not quite healthy had been living as if it were collectively in remission from the COVID pandemic and word is arriving, for those who are listening, that another grisly wave waits in the wings. New York City recorded a record 22,000 new cases today.
The research, the headlines, and the doctors we follow on social media are all over the place. We do not need a newly formulate shot for Omicron, or we do. The booster provides ample protection, or one third of Omicron infections have been found in boosted patients, who account for only 17 percent of the population to begin with. Omicron causes more mild illness, or there is no evidence to to support that conclusion. The booster is helpful, but only for the first two weeks after it is administered. And so on.
By the way, we still have two small, delightful children whose lives may possibly be upended again. Would they like to spend January alternating between watching television and sitting on my lap during Zoom meetings? But first, Christmas. A trip to Target today and shopping for a dress for Ellie to wear at the White House on Monday morning, as we plan for one of my brothers to fly in from California and the other to drive down from New York City with his girlfriend just after large Christmas gatherings with her family. When I scroll the news at night, my body clenches with dread and I realize we need to batten the hatches again. But I have not done it. It is like a diet that starts tomorrow.
So this is is a part of the kids' history, too--living through a historic period that they may be curious about someday. You are welcome, future children, for capturing the terrified, exhausted zeitgist of the Covid-19 -- er 20, or rather 21, whoops 22 -- pandemic.
However, a brief frolic away from my harbingering. (Isn't that lovely? Harbingering is actually a word, and the perfect one for the moment. I think it is a word. Maybe do not use it on a Scrabble board just yet.) The children:
Ellie rang in her fifth year with her first Covid shot at 9:30am on the morning of her birthday. She celebrated with a donut and a full school day. As I have mentioned, she is one of the big kids on campus this year. The big kids have named themselves Team Llama Shark Chompers, and go by Chompers for short. Ellie remains more reserved at school than she is with us, but she has grown out of her shell this year socially. She is besotted with her best friend, W, who she calls a "cutie sweetie," and spends much of the school day with. She is still often anxious and slow to warm up around children she does not know well, but over time, she does warm to new friends.
We joke that Ellie is the third forty-ish-year-old in the house, and it seems apropos. Ellie noted recently that she had woken up feeling tired and immediately implemented a earlier bedtime for herself. Both her problem-solving skills and her resolve are admirable. She is well aware of the rules and finds it unsettling when they are stretched or broken, whether by Myles or a child at school. She has asked her Dad to set a 7:30am alarm for her so that she can dress herself and brush her teeth in time be downstairs by 7:45am so that she can have an omelet for breakfast. She writes thank you cards, with me dictating spelling, with admirable penmanship. And she is great at reminding me about all manner of things, including when it is time to fill our aging Honda Civic with gas.
And in many ways, she is very much five years old. She sometimes boils over with intense frustration over slights that may seem small to an adult. She still puts clothes on backwards sometimes or wears her shoes on the wrong feet. She has the tremendous capacity for silliness that all five-year-olds should have. She carts her small Peppa stuffie with her most places, though Peppa waits in the car while Elllie goes on her adventures.
She is excellent company in an older kid way these days. She loves to hit the consignment shop and run errands with me, and grab bagels with her dad on weekend mornings. She helps me put away laundry and clear the table. She shares her own perspective so articulately. I often wonder if I was as intelligent at her age. I doubt it.
And Myles, who I really should describe first more often. Myles began preschool in October and the first few weeks, as expected, were a challenging transition. Preschool must have felt like such a stark transition after being the sole charge of his Nani, a nanny, or a babysitter for most of his life--most of which was spent in very close proximity to Nitin and me. Myles is essentially an adaptable kid, as I suspect that second children are apt to be. He enjoys school--particularly the firetruck climber and his friend R--these days. He runs enthusiastically to Ellie and me at pickup, more so than Ellie did at his age.
Myles, like any two-year-old, also copes with his share of big feelings. He has an incredible capacity to get into things--quietly unwrapping and momentarily sucking on dozens of cough drops or tossing raw eggs at the floor one by one. He is enamored with the toilet--not using it for its intended purpose, but casually dropping a roll of toilet paper in, or simply flushing it repeatedly. In M's defense, we have been anything but consistently committed to potty training. We would like very much for M to be potty trained, but we have done little to bring it about. This may be an experiment regarding whether a kid eventually potty trains himself if his parents wait him out. Will report back with progress in next post.
The things I love about Myles are so distinctly Myles. His unbridled sweetness--he squeals "Mama!" when he hears the particular cadence of my footsteps on the stairs. The weight of his heavy head on my shoulder at bedtime--one consequence of the school transition was a stint of longer, more cuddly bedtimes which were hard on my schedule but good for both of our hearts. His cool guy dance moves, bouncing and gliding with rhythm in a way he surely did not inherit from Nitin or me. His lovely, lilting singing voice that somehow can already carry a melody. I admire his athleticism and am terrified of his bravery--he can scale a seemingly sky high climbing structure in no time. Ellie would have hung toward the bottom, possibly requesting help without fully being fully committed to climbing higher.
A dear (adult) friend of mine who does not have children quizzed her parent friends about whether they really have a favorite. I do not, have not, could not. I never believed this from my own parents, and Ellie does not believe it either. It is hard to explain. I could say it would be like having a favorite eye or lung or kidney but that does not capture it; those pairs are indistinguishable to me, and my children are highly distinguishable and deeply known and specifically loved. There is no perfect analogy except this love that consumes me and that love that consumes me, equally and completely.
And so those are the children. I wish I could be the holiday spirit for them and with them. I was shocked to overhear Ellie and my mom determining that Christmas is a week from today. We have visited the holiday trains, donned our Christmas jammies and sent 100+ holiday cards. Naturally the day itself must be near. I have hardly listened to Christmas music this season. I used to guiltily begin sampling my favorites after Halloween. I have been whirring instead of pausing. Three items replace each task I strike off my list. The motion keeps the feelings at bay--the blue ones as well as the others. I feel less loving and lovable. I feel less. It feels difficult to really connect.
The nights grow longer until Tuesday. We must sort out the holidays this week. I have not written very much about Nitin and me as ourselves. We spend most of our lives 20 feet from each other but opportunities to connect are scant while raising two small children, holding two demanding full-time jobs, and doing what each of us must to hold ourselves together. In his case, keeping his head down and running dozen of miles per week, and in mine, shorter runs and walks, audiobooks and novels, chats with friends and family, and the never-ending to do list. That is not precisely about the children but the state of the marriage of their parents is not especially not about the children, either. There is love there, and exhaustion. I could be referring to so many things.
This is as good a stopping place as any. I finished my tea and warmed the chill that sent me to my desk and my heating pad to tap out these reflections. These are long days but I will remember parts of them in a rosy glow.
Quotes
Ellie, for a time, took to calling me "Ms. Understandable Mama." Or "Misunderstandable Mama." Unclear, but said lovingly.
Myles, of the age of fecal obsession, began calling mosquitoes "poopy-squitos."
Ellie, chastising Myles for not sitting at the table: "Myles, in a rotten second, you'll be a villain!"
Ellie, while hiking: "Outside is a great place."
Ellie, to me: "Why don't you want a party on your birthday? Oh, I get it. You only want peace and quiet on your birthday. That's no fun."
Ellie: "I made a new best friend in the little class -- Myles!"
Myles, while learning his colors, would respond when we asked him what color something was: "Maybe...red. Maybe...green." A lot of maybes.
Ellie, in a turn of phrase I know she'll grow out of, but hopefully not soon: "I'm interested of," instead of "I'm interested in..."
I served Ellie pho and raisins for lunch on a day she was home from school with a cold, and this conversation ensued:
