Prodded

I received the most remarkable thing in the mail a few days ago: a letter. Not a bill, advertisement, magazine, or postcard. A real, handwritten letter. First, I was bemused, then amused, and then, at last, delighted, rejuvenated, and quite resoundingly prodded. I left this blog hanging on a dour note, for which I apologize. The autumn, as it often is for us, was difficult. Moods shift downward as our span of the sun's nourishing rays diminish. Troubles mount. There are dinners to plan, children to tend, and writings to write. And, alas, sometimes the dinners spoil, the children get wild, and the writing, well, the writing pauses, waiting for wistful moments of wonder and inspiration. Those moments, by the way, don't come. Not even when you bribe them. Trust me, I've tried. Instead of waiting then, I have found another piece of wisdom, of which the letter (mentioned above) reminded me. Be mindful. Do not wait, but mindfully work. Step by step. Inch by inch. If my infant son waited for the perfect moment to crawl, he'd never leave my lap. Instead he wobbles, wiggles, and does everything he can think to do (and that his clumsy, but terribly cute physical form will permit) to reach his goal. We don't walk from the womb, and we don't write without work, failure, and practice. Endless, aching practice. I have practiced. In my own quiet space, reveling in my own words, and terrified of sharing them, even the little ones with outsiders. There is something personal about one's writing, something embarrassing. Like underwear. Everyone knows you have it, but you don't really go around showing it off. Well, then, here is a bit of boxer, or brief, or, well, I think this metaphor has stretched sufficiently.

We spent a delightful Christmas here in Maryland. My parents, beloved abuela, and Fox's parents, brother, and we spent the weekend here in our little apartment, snacking on the cookies my mother lovingly prepared, and the dinner I hesitatingly offered. I cooked too much food. All agree, and so next year I must plan a different menu with more care to portions. Either that or invite more people. Part of me leans toward the latter, since I like food, and food in very great quantities seems a wonderful holiday tradition. Still, there is room for improvement and adjustment. After all, I didn't really need a ham the size of my Christmas turkey, did I?

Fox and I also attended the American Philological Association (APA) meeting in Philadelphia this year. The boys stayed with my parents in New York. A wonderful time was had by all. Fox and I dined at Alice's Tea Cup in Manhattan (Chapter II), and we spent far too much money on books in the APA's book room. The APA is good for many things. It prods, but for some reason not as effectively as the letter I received. There is something remarkably powerful about a personal letter. Perhaps it was always so, or perhaps it is a product of our instant, demanding society. I cannot say, but I loved receiving a letter. I have begun to compose my response, and I will send it out with Tuesday's mail. I, unlike my good friend, will type my letter. His handwriting stood the test of travel, but mine will not. It has devolved to the point where even I am hard-pressed to determine its meaning. My handwriting is a cipher, and I lack key cryptographic skills.

Kit is learning to crawl, and he has started to babble "da-da, da-da." This cheers my heart. He has also become a ravenous little creature, eating two or three times within the space of an hour. Only then will he settle for the night. Is it a growth spurt? Possibly. Whatever it is, it is impressive to watch. Where, I wonder, like a kid before a skilled magician, does he put it all?

Thorn is, well, two-and-a-half. "No" is his favorite type of expression. He even yells at his computerized devices. "Press the button," one device says. "I don't have to," Thorn exclaims! Such are the shapes of his moods. Still, he is my happy, little man. Full of verve and life, bouncing like his much beloved Tigger. His vocabulary increases daily, and the fears I had that he would not speak, or would not speak well, are allayed.

Fox, well, I'll let Fox write her own update. This was mine. Time to close up shop.

Sparrow flies.

Traveling With Thorn and Kit

It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. My imaginings were terribly dismal. I envisioned hours trapped in a moving automobile with a screaming infant and a temperamental toddler. The four-hour drive to New York would last an eternity. I would live and die innumerable times before the New Jersey Turnpike released me.

It was not like that. Not at all. Well, there was a little screaming. But not as much as I feared. We made our first 'long' trip safely and securely, and it only took five hours.

My mother's birthday was Saturday, and as a gift, Fox and I decided to take the boys to New York for the festivities. Mom, Dad, and my grandmother had yet to meet little Kit face-to-face, owing to crazy schedules and my father's continued poor health. This was a wonderful opportunity, and so we took it. Fox and I had a bit of trepidation. We had mastered traveling with Thorn, or, rather, he had mastered traveling on his own, and we were the beneficiaries of his skills. Kit, on the other hand, is still in the stage where life revolves around naps and nipples. He is also not fond of the car seat, preferring warm arms and plenty of snuggling. Still, we wanted to do this, and determined we packed the car on Saturday morning and began the trip.

Kit did better than I could have imagined, and Thorn was perfect. He did not fuss. He did not complain or whine. He occupied himself with cars and trucks, and when automobiles lost their allure, he chatted with Fox and me. His conversational skill has improved dramatically. When he speaks of the cars he sees, or reads the letters on road signs, I am awestruck that less than a year ago his only words of note were 'dog' and 'dada'. So many words are spoken now, from simple things like 'book' to strange words like 'Narwhal'. And he gains more each day.

We had an excellent time in New York. Thorn enjoyed the cake that was made especially for him, and my mother seemed to have a marvelous birthday. Kit was adorable, and barely fussed at all. He traveled from one pair of loving hands to another, and was content in all. We left yesterday, and while the journey home was rougher than the journey to New York, I still have very little to complain about.

These boys were meant to travel. Next trip? Cincinnati.

Work Stations

Kit has...paused. He needs some serious sleep, owing to the fact that he hasn't slept since he woke up this morning at 6:50am. Oh sure, maybe he has closed his eyes for a few minutes. That's it. He demanded constant motion on the partof mommy. I hope he sleeps for three hours. And Thorn, for that matter. I need the break.

A long morning. An impossible morning, in fact, if it hadn't been for two things: Sparrow's adoring notes in the office and dining room, and work stations.

I've come to the conclusion that work stations are essential for any stay-at-home parent. Like we keep toys in every room so as to amuse the boys, I keep some small bit of work in every room so as to make good use of time and limited energy. There are books in the bathroom, by the lamp in the living room, at my desk, and behind my pillow on the bed. My Christmas sock knitting project is on the coffee table. An ancient Greek textbook is currently at my desk, but it is usually at the dining room table by the omnipresent cup of tea. There are portable Greek flashcards to carry around with me. There's a handwritten journal near my daylight lamp. My story idea book follows me, but usually ends up in the office. And of course, the newly-minted sketchbook for character and map ideas. If I had all of these things at my desk, I'd never get any of them done. As it is, I can squeeze in an artistic-intellectual life around my toddler and baby. And that is the first step toward sanity, my friends.

Now to go and meditate until I feel normal again. And then to work on a problematic third chapter. I've playful thoughts in my mind that haven't had a chance to find paper. With mommy brain, it's quite possible they'll fly away before I capture them.

...or Kit could wake up. Arrrgh.

Fatherhood 2.0

I never thought I'd ever be a dad. Children were a mystery to me. I kept them at arms length, even those cousins who might have been dear. I had no sense of their language. They were utterly foreign, and utterly incomprehensible because of their alienness. When Fox and I decided to have a child after four years of marriage, I was terrified. How could I be a dad? I'd never changed a diaper, never held a bottle, and had not the merest notion on how to communicate with a child. Then Thorn was born in the spring of 2009 and I was a dad. No schoolroom, no textbook, no certificate. Just me, a baby, and things that had to be done. I learned to change a diaper. And then I learned to change one quickly. I learned to hold a bottle, to burp an infant, and to settle one when he cries. I learned that I loved children, and that I could communicate with them, could speak to them, and could understand what they wanted to say to me. My son gave me that. He gave me fatherhood, and I am better because of it. Now, I am home. Thorn sleeps. I have tucked him in...twice. I have kissed his lips, his nose, his eyes, and his forehead just below the curls. Kit sleeps, too. My littlest son. My baby boy. He sleeps on my lap as I type this. I am a father for the second time, and I have come to understand at last how much fatherhood has given me. I do not think it has made me wiser, though I hope it will. It has given me more patience. It has given me more stability. Fatherhood has given me eyes to childhood, and to a whole language that I thought would always be barred to my understanding. Thorn's curiosity in the smallest details. Kit's little face when he frowns at a too-bright light. These things bring enlightenment. These things bring contentment. I don't know how my work will go, or what tomorrow will bring, but I do not that tonight I am a father, and that feels very, very good to me.

Feeding Kitling

Fox's milk has begun to come in, and little Kit has taken to it quickly. After a long nap (right now they are all long naps) he wakes and his face is a round o, searching for food. Sometimes he latches on to his sleeves or the edge of his shirt. He rarely cries. A part of me knows that this is still very early, and that we ought to be cautious making judgements about future behavior. Another part of me is desperately hopeful. Maybe these days are signs of the future? Could be. Worth hoping for at least.

I generally feed Kit, although sometimes Fox does, if she is not pumping at the time. I fed Thorn most of the time as he grew, and it is one of the best features of fatherhood. Kit is a gourmet, a term used by the lactation experts to describe an infant who feeds for a brief period, pauses to gather in the sights and sounds, and then, when he or she feels like it, resumes feeding. When mothers nurse this type of behavior can be irritating. Since Fox pumps (exclusively - see earlier posts from Thorn's day) it is only a matter of holding the bottle and waiting for that o to appear. Delightful now. Mildly annoying at 2:00 am, but then everything is mildly annoying at 2:00.

We have one night left in the hospital. The vicodin seems to be helping Fox. We can only hope that it continues to do so through the night.

Kitling

He is here. Two weeks of waiting, worrying, and wondering all fulfilled in a little, healthy, baby boy. Kit was born this morning at 10:07 am. He was delivered by Cesarean section by Doctor D., and by all accounts it was a successful and uncomplicated operation. Kit was 6 lbs and 12 oz at birth. Now, he sleeps comfortably in the maternity wing's nursery. He is bundled tightly in a blanket beribboned with pink and blue stripes. To my eyes, he looks just like his mother. Same nose. Same lips. Same troubled frown.

Fox sleeps. She has needed to for hours, but excitement kept her awake. Now while Kit is cared for, she can rest, and begin the arduous task of recuperation. Our nurses continue to be excellent, and our physicians the very best that one could hope to have. The family has received word of Kit's birth, and the glory of Facebook has spread it around. My paternal tasks for the first day are done.

I now await the pediatrician's arrival. He is going to give Kit a physical, and then I can ask him about my other baby: Thorn. Poor Thorn - yesterday he came down with something nasty, and the folks at the clinic prescribed an antibiotic. Alas, the medicine was worse than the illness, and Thorn's grandmother called me today, letting me know that he was having quite a bit of abdominal stress. We stopped the meds, but we need the pediatrician's guidance on what to do now. We shall see what he has to say. Good things, I hope.

For now, while Fox sleeps, this Sparrow will watch his Kit through the nursery window. He sleeps sweetly, and I love him already.

Odious Waiting

I will not say that our stay in the hospital has been anything but peaceful. Quiescence is the rule. The nurses come and go in an expected rhythm. The machine hum of monitors and IV drips provide ambient white noise. We read. Talk. Write. And wait. Oh, the waiting! Is there anything as odious as waiting and not knowing when the waiting will end? Does Godot arrive in this play of ours? Kit's heart rate continues to show strong whenever they wrap the monitors around Fox. He reveals no hint of his infantile intentions. The doctors say it could still be anytime. Maybe tomorrow? Is our Kit especially patriotic? If so our lads have a red, white, and blue sense to them - with Thorn born around Memorial Day, and Kit potentially born tomorrow on the 4th of July. No one can say. Not for the first time have I wished prophetic powers. Alas, I am too squeamish for entrails, and I haven't the patience for birds. Knucklebones? But we all know that the bones will tell us nothing.

We are comfortable. We have food, books, and a pleasant nighttime nurse who doubles as a yoga instructor. Fox has learned some 'stuck in a bed' yoga moves, and they seem to help her relax. My mother, brother (by one reckoning), and his wife watch Thorn for us. I know he is in the best of care. I hope we can share a baby brother with him soon.

I will share more soon.

Kit's Sneak Attack

We find ourselves on a beautiful July 1 in the labor and delivery section of our local hospital. Last night Fox's water broke, signaling that Kit was ready for the world. A little ready anyway. Fox is not in labor, and the doctors hope to hold Kit in the womb for a few more days. No matter what happens, our baby will have to spend time in the NICU. We are scared, but our physicians are amazing, the nursing staff top notch, and the hospital the nicest we've ever seen. Maybe our roguish Kit will be born on the 4th of July? Talk about fireworks.

Seeing Kit

When a friend's mother told us that you can begin to tell how different your children will be while they are still in the womb, I did not really believe her. How much personality could there be in a being confined to a uterus, lost in darkness, listening to otherworldly sounds from outside? Well, I find myself changing my mind after our most recent ultrasound of Kit. Perhaps it is coincidence? Maybe random chance. I cannot discount that, but the ultrasound experiences that I have had with my two sons are strikingly different. Thorn was bold, always visible on the screen, hamming it up (or so it seemed) for his parental audience. Kit is reticent, hiding his face. When we saw Thorn on the monitor, we were able to detect the slightest of clefts in his little chin. Not so with Kit. We have never seen his face. He hides it away whenever we come looking. I cannot say yet what this will mean once he arrives in our bright world, but I do begin to wonder about the origins of personality. What do we bring with us as we grow from two cells?