Balmy today and moist. Thick covering of white clouds and pinpricks of sleet on the windshield. Your sister clung to me at daycare today, didn't want me to say good-bye. I know kids are growing all the time, but Thisbe is at an age where I feel like her physical being is trying to unfold. Her face seems to be re-shaping itself: her cheeks are thinner, eyes more hollow, upturned nose is more pronounced. And she takes great care of certain aspects of her own physical care. She's insistent about dressing herself; prefers dresses that twirl, leggings over pants, screen printed Ariel and cheetah patterns over more humble hearts or stars. Today she emerged in her favorite outfit: black dress with silver heart and plaid pink attached tutu. Her hair was plastered to her head with Jergens de-tangler, her special "hair cream" that she applies with the Hello Kitty brush that chimes as she pulls it through her hair.
After meeting with my independent study student I took you to the ECFE baby shower where we got free gifts and reminders of who to call if you're developmentally delayed. I drank hot cocoa out of a styrofoam cup and you looked at your wavery reflection in a rattle and I watched the babies who are six months old: their ability to maneuver on their tummies, their plumb-lined postures, and their slower, surer movements. And you seemed smaller and less certain, your desire and will not yet completely hinged to your actions.
You've been asleep since we got home and I've been puttering. The lights are off and it's dim and quiet. Crow cawing outside. Whirr of the computer fan. Kale and sausage and tortellini soup for lunch. Grandma Gail arrives in a few hours so your father vacuumed this morning and wiped the salt stains from the porch floor. I've cleaned out the refrigerator (hunk of brie, tub of hummus, sweet potato casserole, white face of half an onion and the pocked face of half a pomegranate, watery black bean soup) and soon I'll strap you into the Bjorn and we'll straighten the duvet and put my sweaters into bins and collect the glasses scabbed with red wine. Then maybe we'll go up to the track at St. Olaf and walk and walk in circles until you arch your back and strain your neck for home.
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