jayniemoon

Day Two

P crept into the bedroom this morning just after the cell phone alarm, giving the impression that he’d been waiting for such a cue to rouse me. He was all dressed and very excited about it. In another minute it became clear that he hadn’t waited for any cues to wake Julian, whose howl bespoke his brother’s recent desertion.

I trusted Verdi to ease Hazel into consciousness. His Dies Irae could wake the dead. At breakfast we talked about our magical bodies, The Big Bang vs. God, H’s dream about finding a hole filled with toys and what happens when we die. P made up a dream about Lightning McQueen just to contribute and it fit right in.

After dropping Hazey at school we came in to find that the computer had inexplicably moved from Verdi to Serge Gainsbourg and his lascivious French purr rose from the basement like a dirty secret. I put the boys in the tub and tried to get a handle on the sweeping.

In a few days I’ll become the Tidiness Gestapo, but for now the squalor has been allowed to pile-up in corners and between stairs. Crushed cereal, miniature cars, bobby pins, dishes in the sink.

I’m cursing all Walnut-stained wood and chuckling at the awkward contrast of the chirping boys in the bath and the creepy, French dude downstairs, whispering his unique brand of unintelligible perversion as the soundtrack, when I can hear one of the boys’ wet feet dancing on the bathroom tiles. I go to investigate and find Pars executing said dance outside the tub, the which contains Julian, a host of toys, and a new greenish-brown substance that bobs in pieces about his chubby thighs and little boy parts. I don’t remember putting that in there.

J won’t nap. I just visited again, pleading with the smallest words I know for him to just have mercy on his poor dad. I didn’t use the word mercy thinking that I might gain more traction with nice. He’s heard you say that so many times in that voice where you sound exactly like your mom. “Be naw-eece.” But I don’t commit to the impersonation and, therefore, don’t get the sale.

And I think for the 700^th time today how much I’d like to hear your voice, even if it’s just to complain about Julian not sleeping. And I feel a quick pang for every time I only half listened when you poked your head in the door to tell me something or to ask me how I’m doing.

We get so used to each other, you know. To the other just being there. When the butterflies go away, there comes a peace just in knowing where you are. In seeing your shape around a corner or smelling you on the children after you’ve held them.