The boys were soundly asleep. I had waited too long to venture in to say good-night, and now William lay asleep on his stomach, his arms spread over his head, his face turned to the side. He had fallen asleep while reading The Authoritative Calvin and Hobbes, his favorite birthday present. He has read it at least six or seven times over; his birthday has not been over for a month yet.
Everett was asleep at the other end of the bunk. We bought them bunk beds recently, and tonight they had decided to sleep together on the top bunk, lying, as Everett calls it, top to tail.
Sweet boys, soundly sleeping.
What is it about motherhood that makes bedtime the most desperate time of the day? We enjoy them, or tolerate them, at least, throughout the long waking hours and then, suddenly, bedtime rolls around and we can’t abide these children another minute. Go to bed! we are thinking, or perhaps shouting aloud. Go to bed! Go! Go! Go! Another moment can’t be endured. Don’t ask for a glass of water, whatever you do. Do not need to go to the bathroom yet again. Do not save all of your most philosphical questions for that precious moment when I am about to step over the threshold and Out of your room, into Freedom.
But they were sleeping, and all my affection came rushing back. All my admiration– indeed, more admiration than I had felt All Day was suddenly heaped on the sleeping head of my eldest son. I was standing on the ladder-end of the bed, my nose buried in his thick, short hair, inhaling that woodsy, not quite tame scent that my sons always wear. They acquire it naturally, without exertion, without even going outside. Within hours, maybe minutes, of a hairwash, that wild, live scent has returned. I inhaled again, kissing that dear head. My dear, sweet boy.
And then– Ha! Everett was sitting up at his end, grinning. We tricked you! he was saying, laughing, the deep indent of his solitary dimple showing even in the half-dark. And now William was smiling too, sitting up, closing his Calvin and Hobbes.
Ah, good-night boys. I say good-night to them both, letting them enjoy their joke, laughing at it with him. They fooled me, sure enough. Very funny. Very clever. Very convincing. Very dear.
We went to the movies on Thursday to see The March of the Penguins, and it wasn’t until we were in the theater that I realized that Emma Grace had decided this was an Event. She had bedecked herself in jewelry. Dangling from her lobes: a pair of faux pearl and crystal clip-on earrings, decidedly an out-to-dinner adornment. Around her neck: large plastic beads of a decidedly hot-pink hue. And on her finger: a Very Large Spider-man ring. Just Spidey’s head, you understand, the perimeter of which extended beyond her finger-nail.
And she had asked to wear my lip-gloss, and I had let her. When she borrows it, she has it for a Long Time, and her application seems to be a kind of hit-or-miss, resulting in dabs of gloss all around her darling mouth.
She looked really spectacular. Really, really special. I think the penguins enjoyed her approach to make-up and accessories. I certainly did.
