Two points for Him!

When I was younger, summer days at my house meant doing “productive”, educational things: reading vocabulary-building books, piano practice, a few pages of journaling each day.  As much as I whined about “never having time to relax”, I’m thankful now that my mother was as adamant as she was about these things…because years later, I’m a logophile and a songwriter, and it’s largely because my mum planted those seeds and was wonderfully stubborn about watering them.

Since my brother started school, summer days mean teaching him to do the same “productive”, educational things.  Thankfully, he loves to read.  And since I’ve only been home a few days, piano lessons will have to wait until I find and go through the books I started with.  However, the discipline required to sit still long enough to write a full page eludes him.  He’s not crazy about writing.

As much as I’ve always adored this little boy, I used to have a short fuse with him, especially when I didn’t understand him.  Case in point: I love to write.  Writing is a large part of how I understand my world.  How could anyone not love to write?  How could my perfect brother not love to write?  (And the real questions, lurking beneath it all: how could my brother not be perfect?  Am I doing something wrong?)

Over the past few months, one close friend has been setting me a wonderful example of how to care for small children, especially when they try her patience and threaten to wear her out.  This lesson was never one that I consciously watched for, but I realized that I’d absorbed it when I got home a few days ago and suddenly had an unreal amount of patience with my brother.  I’m quicker to gently admonish than I am to raise my voice.  I give more encouragement than ultimatums.  My brain has finally seemed to understand that he’s eight – that he’s going to fidget at the table and need more encouragement than I may think is necessary and push the onions aside, because that’s the way eight-year-olds are.  Most importantly, my heart has wrapped itself around the fact that he’s not perfect, and it’s wrong of me to expect such a thing.  Come to think of it, his sister is just as imperfect, and that’s because only God is perfect, and neither of us comes anywhere near that standard.  This is all Him – more specifically, “a gift by His grace through the redemption which is in Christ Jesus” (v. 24).  He planted the seed (my friend and her example), He gave me an increased measure of patience, and He is showing me how He works in my life.  He’s using so many tools to teach me about His grace, and it’s awesome!

I’m reminded now of something I prayed for just two weeks ago: that I would learn to love my brother “right now, to love him more, to love him exactly as [God] loves him”, and a continual prayer: that God would answer me in ways that I can see and understand.  Two points for Him ;)

Living the professional life

R turned eight today.  When did that happen?  It seems like yesterday that he was lying on his back in the bassinet, and my mum had to shoo me away so he could sleep.  I used to push the little light-blocking fan away from the top and surprise him by appearing upside-down...that giggle was infectious.  Pure beauty, like bells when the storm has calmed and all is still.  I miss that.  I love him more every day, but I miss those early days so much...the days when he so blatantly depended on me.  I miss feeling him go limp in my arms, or on my shoulder, as he dropped off to sleep.  I miss that baby smell.  Why does he have to grow up?  Oh, Father, help me to love him right now, to love him more, to love him exactly as You love him.  Memory has a way of paralyzing even the most earnest of lovers, even the most well-meaning of big sisters.

Oh, I have to move on...I could write all day about him, but I must move on.  Most of my thoughts from today are in the journal entry, but I can say one more things that I didn't include there: after the rigor and stamina-draining awfulness of sitting through straight lectures all morning and afternoon, it was a great relief to go upstairs (to a room with windows, no less!) and be addressed by Profs. P and B like the young adults, the students we really are - not the adult professionals we must deign to be when we are among the older graduate students.  It was so, so relieving to hear even offers of help with the presentations, with the journal assignments...to be asked such an elementary question as, "Are you guys struggling with anything?"  (I mean, I don't know about the other LIM students, but that's how it felt for me.  Despite my obsession with doing all things adult, I do, in a lot of respects, want to be a child forever.)

The KBH.

Sister: I haven't seen her for ten weeks, so naturally, most of our conversation over the past few days has revolved around whether we snore (each sister maintains that she sounds quite ladylike at night while the other sounds like a freight train) and who's more up-to-date with the latest slang (she insists that the word "failure" is so out as of, like, months ago.)

Brother: I can't get enough of him.  As usual.  Has his six-year-old brain been shocked by the ten weeks' worth of love that has been spilling out over a matter of days?

A model in the making.  He put this outfit together all by himself...from our dad's closet.

He invented a new acronym to add to the archives today: KBH.  A KBH describes the act of charging into another person, head-on, and flinging one's arms and legs around them as tightly as possible.  Ladies and gentlemen, the Koala Bear Hug.

Parents: As we settled into these old, forgotten roles, the foundation grew a few cracks.  I am slowly learning to fill them in with measured conversation and heartfelt music.  I am slowly learning to allow the balance to shift, because I am home.  There was a time when I would marvel bitterly at how quickly a pleasant day could turn sour and terse.  I am slowly learning to notice that with some patience, the converse can happen as well.

P.S. I wonder whether it is possible to upload my songs to this blog.

Opposite sides of the planet

My baby's on the other side of the planet.

I remember feeling this same dull ache in late July, when he left a few days before I could.  And among my half-written posts waiting to be molded into full compositions, I just came across something I drafted that day while I was working at my summer internship:

He left.  I've been left...left with memories of smiles and high-pitched chatter, swathes of camouflage fabric, a jug of clownishly purple detergent, and Big Ben nagging me from outside my remarkably large window.  Go away, Ben; you're no substitute.  Although my baby's certainly old enough to understand what a plane is and how it works, he's not ready.  (Or perhaps I'm not ready.)

I'm so proud of his cognitive development, in only a way that an overly protective big sister can be.  What a mama hen I've turned out to be.  He knows that today he had to wake up early and that he couldn't fuss - not that he fusses that often anymore.  But even so, he knows that today was no day to fuss because his mother was running around frantically trying to tie up all kinds of loose ends before they could leave.  (I should note that this is actually how my mother exists, even in the absence of an impending flight.)  And he knew that after he buckled his seat belt, things would soon start to rumble all around and his ears would twinge after a few thousand feet.  But all the same, I hope he wasn't scared.  I hope someone thought to unwrap a piece of candy for him so it might hurt a little less.

This can't be good, that I can't deal with being apart from him for three days.  I could always go find some candy so it might hurt a little less, I suppose...but I suspect that sugarcoated remedies lose their potency after the age of...say, six.

It's a month later, and this same ache has returned, although it is dampened somewhat by the constant stress of entertaining a guest in this house all alone.  I've never done this before, so it seems that I learn a new lesson every few hours.  For example, I usually don't do the dishes this often, as there are usually others around here who share the responsibility.  But I've been toting a bottle of moisturizer around all day because after the first round of dishes this morning, I extracted my hands from the sink and cringed.  I'm not used to my palms feeling so...sandpaper-y.

I did thank the kitchen staff at West (the first-years' dining hall at Union) every time I dropped off my plates this past year...but the past two days have given those rushed "Thank you"s a whole new meaning.  I'm a little ashamed of myself, honestly.  I just hope they all have enough moisturizer.

My baby's on the other side of the planet.  There's no changing that.  But at multiple points since I got home, I've caught myself fantasizing about practicing his times tables with him, or reading together, or taking him outside to ride his new bike in the cul-de-sac, or just talking to him.  That would be enough.  In some incomprehensible way, he takes care of me.  His smile is a balm for these tired hands, his hug a rejuvenator for this tired soul.  I can't wait until he comes bursting through the door, even if he notices his long-lost toys before he notices his sister.  To see him would be enough.

Vanilla ice cream

He must really want the ice cream.

I mean, seriously.  He must really want it, because he's turning the charm way, way up.   Remember when sugar was all it took to make you happy (and much too hyper before bedtime, I might add)?  Between vanilla ice cream and summer vacation, I don't think the little one even remembers what a bedtime is.  But he's so happy that I understand why my parents are humoring him and not shepherding him upstairs.

This is the age of ice cream, for sure.

This is the age of charming smiles and innocent honesty.  What I wouldn't give to keep him here, so he never has to make a mistake.  He would be saved!  He would never know the blunt sting of that moment...that instant when you know that you messed up.  He would never know the sharp but persistent compulsion to fold in on yourself in case you get to vanish for a little while.  He would never know the ache of deferring the tears...downright rejecting them so you can rationally deal with the fallout and contain the damage.  He would never know the sudden fear, the rapid heartbeat (a physical confirmation that this is very much real and happening now, now, now).

Why should a child who only wants dessert ever have to find out that people lie and manipulate?  Why let him find out that there are countless shades of gray between marching him upstairs right this minute and giving in, just for today?  Why can't I just absorb everything, anything that could ever threaten his happiness?  Why taint him?

After all, he's perfectly content with his vanilla ice cream.

This quiet isn't absolute.

This quiet isn't absolute.

The soft snoring in the next room sends puddle-ripples through the air, around the corners of the walls.  I consider the familiar view.  In the summer months, I would sneak out in the early morning, greet the treetops as I lay on the swing, and try to pigeonhole the swarming colors in the east.  But when the mornings grew cold, I compromised and sat before the windows in this room, straining vainly for the same experience.  Of course, my eyes saw colors, but it was never the same.  It couldn't be the same, not while I was in this insulated house with the snoring next door.

This quiet isn't absolute.

The house is creaky.  It complains, although no one has spoken for a few hours, at least.  No one runs about asking if he may please have an Oreo because he's been really, really good today.  No one sings with gay abandon from the shower upstairs, thinking the water will muffle the sound enough.  No one bounds down the carpeted stairs, eager to root around in the fridge for munchies.  Still, the house whines about the fire and brimstone beneath its foundation.

This quiet isn't absolute.

Oh, my baby, I didn't mean it.  I didn't mean to lash.  (It's such an ugly word, so reminiscent of a whip.  But you'll learn that when you read some Melville and learn about how awful people can really be.)  All you need to know for today is that sometimes, big kids do things they don't mean, say things they want to take back as soon as you've heard them.  I was wrong on all counts, love, and you're so good at following the rules.  Of course you can have an Oreo...but don't tell Mum this time.  I don't think she'd be too happy if she knew I gave you one before dinner.  Our secret.  And remember, secrets are only okay if I say they're okay.  Normally, you shouldn't keep secrets.  Sometimes, a secret can hurt worse than the truth.

This quiet isn't absolute.

In fact, there is no quiet.  There is only crashing silence, crippling loudness as the quiet screeches, metal scraping against metal.  I'm told I should get some rest.  I guess it takes something special to be able to sleep through a trainwreck.

Nostalgia

Today was exhausting.  I've put off work I should have done tonight because it's taking an unusual amount of energy to hold my eyelids up.  And I've discovered that lethargy very easily begets nostalgia, even if it is nostalgia for just last week...

I crept up on the little one to say good-bye as his tiny chest rose and fell.  It would have been harder had he been awake.  I found myself wishing we were fused somehow, so I would never have to leave him.  I marveled inwardly at how painfully paralyzing it is to love someone so much. 

I crept up on the little one to say good-bye in the quiet of the early morning.  I placed one hand on his head and hoped that he would always want to hold this hand as we crossed a street...and that even if one day, he shoved my hand away, that he would know I loved him all the more for it.

I crept up on the little one to say good-bye and it was so humid that he'd slept shirtless.  As I leaned over to breathe him in before tearing myself away, my cheek grazed his bare skin.  It was...immaculate, as if he'd been born just yesterday.  And despite myself, one tear did escape, just one.  It suddenly occurred to me that this child loved a kiss on the tummy when he was smaller, and so I gave him one.  Wrong move.  He didn't open his eyes, but it was clear that I'd woken him.  The baby smiled sleepily and wrapped his arms around my neck until I relaxed against his innocent, now-tear-stained tummy.  "You're not going anywhere," he said.  "I'm not letting you go."

Every week, this child manages to snatch a piece of my heart and shred it to slivers that fly away with the wind.