Pieces

Whenever some gal at church arranges a newborn in my arms, the same two thoughts seize my brain, unbidden.

First: What if I break it? This is a ridiculous thought for the mom of four children, but still it’s there.

And clipping at the heels of thought numero uno comes this one: I have absolutely no recollection of my children at this age. Not even a skinny shred of memory.

So every once in a while I like to transcribe a bit of who my kids are right now, because as deeply as I’ve memorized them, I’m apt to blink ten years from now and not remember this child at all.

Yesterday Em and I went for a walk. My, that boy can talk. He’s got this smile so infectious that, even when he’s a whole bunch of sweaty kid, you just want to squeeze him. He was telling me that Daddy said not to get lost, and he said he won’t get lost but if he does maybe someone will find him. It was an adorable conversation, one I didn’t entirely follow, but that worked out okay since it was coming along nicely with very little input from me.

Elle’s birthday is a few weeks away. Someone needs to tell her she’s not yet two. She’s got the arm-crossing, hmmph-ing thing going on in earnest, and she bops on down the hall like she owns the place. She’s quite accomplished at reaming out her brothers with a bunch of angry pointing and indecipherable syllables peppered with the word no. Nobody knows exactly what she’s saying, but we get the point. Today she felt the need to argue with Em, so she held onto my arm and told him, “My mommy! Mine!” which Em found wildly funny.

Zee made a Lego sword this morning, then ran to the couch wailing when his little brother smashed it with a sword of his own. A few minutes later, he emerged from the bathroom with a self-applied toilet paper bandage around his hand. (I did try, folks, but I wasn’t allowed to take a picture.) He’s got two wiggly teeth up front, leaning forward in a way that can give you the willies. Behind them are the permanent teeth growing in, but he braces at the mention of losing the little ones. He’s firmly opposed to blood.

Bee showed me around his school last night. He zips ahead, weaving through the crowd out of sight, but then hurries on back to be sure I’m not lost. Much of life—math, soccer, drawing, making friends—comes easily to him, so when he’s not good at something from the start, he thinks he can’t do it, doesn’t want to try. He’s in that big-little boy stage, on the brink of some serious growing up, which is exhilarating but also, for me at least, a bit sad. He’s still proud that his class has collected the most Box-Tops; his definition of “cool” is having his hair spiked—and I think, Just one day longer, please. Don’t let it end just yet.

So there you go. A few pieces of daily life, bits of nothing and everything.