It's been two and a half weeks since the start of school, and we are finally settling into the new routine. I find myself startled occasionally by the fleeting realization that one of our children is in school already, and the other is mushrooming into a preschooler.
I'm also getting adept, though not proficient, at seizing the moment when the moment matters, and dropping it when other moments matter more. It's not easy to step back and take stock when the terror at hearing a thump from Raya's room overwhelms the impulse to laugh at the instinctive knowledge that she has finally managed to climb out of her crib. It's also not easy to act casual when I ask Sava whether he played with anyone at recess, when that is the only thing I really want to know about his Kindergarten day.
It is humbling to reflect weekly, if not daily, on the parenting exercise, and to recognize that the questions and worries of today never even occurred to us a few months ago. We did not have the vocabulary, nor the mental wherewithal, to worry about containing a reckless twenty-three month old in her crib early mornings or about helping a sensitive five-year old find a caring soulmate in Kindergarten. We learn as we go, and more often than not, the questions themselves, when examined closely, suggest the answers.
Raya may just be ready for a big-girl bed, however unready we are.
And Sava requested a playdate with a girl from school who, he says, he hopes will be "his first real friend in Kindergarten."
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My students practice "sustained silent reading" (SSR) for fifteen minutes in class each day, and I model the same by reading a book of my own choosing along with them. It amazes me to have this opportunity to recover the power of reading in the middle of the day, which is a luxury that staying at home full-time rarely affords. I reread a favorite essay, "Total Eclipse," from a beloved book,
Teaching a Stone to Talk by Annie Dillard, during SSR this week, and a long-forgotten line about eating eggs after witnessing a total eclipse struck a special cord:
"'It can never be satisfied, the mind, never.' Wallace Stevens wrote that, and in the long run he was right. The mind wants to live forever, or to learn a very good reason why not. The mind wants the world to return its love, or its awareness; the mind wants to know all the world, and all eternity, and God. The mind's sidekick, however, will settle for two eggs over easy."
While eating an egg last weekend, Sava remarked,
"A yolk is what would have been a chicken if the egg had hatched." Annie Dillard was on to something.
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Raya is back on her scooter after the lip-busting accident, and she goes around the 'hood, telling everyone she meets,
"I'm riding my small scooter!" And, as Rado reports, when one neighbor didn't hear her and consequently didn't respond in the adoring manner that everyone else does, she paused for a moment, turned towards her dad, and said in a mock adult voice,
"You're riding your scooter? Yes, you're riding your scooter!"
A "quick" after-dinner walk around the block takes nothing less than thirty minutes, as Raya takes two steps forward and five steps back, checking out snails, feeding ornamental frogs, and accosting strangers, testing even the infinite patience of her brother.
She is
always looking for the moon, regardless of the hour, and we have started to notice, because of her, that the moon lingers late and appears early. When she spots it, she invariably shouts in a voice that suggests she has discovered the proverbial pot of gold at the end of the fabled rainbow:
"Look! There's the moon! Do you see the moon? Mommy, do you see the moon?"
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Sava is really into playing hide-and-seek, now that he finally understands he is not supposed to shout
"I'm here!!" whenever someone begins to look for him. He hates losing, so he runs like hell, too.
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We went to Palo Alto airport day on Saturday, where we witnessed a Stanford medical helicopter take off and Raya got to enter all emergency vehicles while Sava observed and absorbed safely from a distance.
I love how their private jokes happen anywhere, regardless of the background.
Fire helmets were had courtesy of the dashing, courteous, ever-enthusiastic fire fighters, and when I walked into Sava's room at 6.40 am on Sunday morning, he was sitting at his desk in his pajamas, fire helmet on his head, and a pen in his hand, preparing for some imagined task.
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Their play at home is becoming ever more dangerous, involving long jumps from high chairs, wrestling matches between the cushions of couches, fast rides in "roller-coaster" strollers, and many such.
During one such hair-raising moment a few days ago, Sava shouted from the living room, amid irrepressible giggles,
"Mommy, you should just see what your son and daughter are doing!!" I refrained from looking, as I find that the less I know, the better I sleep at night.
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The warm end of summer delivered a couple of outings to the pool.
I hope the children preserve their instinctive capacity for uninhibited joy in things like water and sunshine for a very long time to come.
And it would be such a bonus if they continue to care for each other. (I'm pretty sure I've voiced those wishes a few times before.)
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I had this whole plan to write about commemorating the anniversary of 9/11, which isn't going to happen because the moment has passed and the world has moved beyond the communal pathos of three days ago. We did mark the day by talking to Sava a tiny bit about what the day means and how it relates to his being an American citizen. I spent the day feeling spontaneous surges of gratitude for the opportunity to create a family in a land that to me represents, above and beyond all else, the principle of all literature, which is that everyone has a different story, and all stories are worthy of being told.
I suppose all immigrants to the United States have particular reasons for liking or loving their new home, and mine is, quite simply, the daily opportunity to meet people--young and old--who came from somewhere, or whose parents or grandparents came from somewhere, and then created something out of nothing.
We commemorated 9/11 by visiting a state park, as usual on Sundays, and, as always, we
not-so gracefully failed in our attempt at a real hike, as the kids spent half an hour playing in a creek and then walked a quarter of a mile before begging to turn around and return to the playground.
At least some of the structures were not plastic,
and no one got mortally injured while sliding down the sleek cement wings of an over-sized eagle.
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The seasons are a-changing, but in typical bi-polar California fashion, fallen dry leaves lie right alongside trees bursting with color and flowers at the height of bloom.
The birds seem mostly unconcerned,
and a little boy marvels at flowers in a way that breaks my heart every single time.
Happy hump day, with gratitude and appreciation.
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