Today I watch Emma Grace through the slats of the window blinds. She is outside in her red turtleneck and new pants, a red bow in her hair, wearing her Nana’s bright pink lipstick and her own red sparkly shoes. She is navigating the possibilities of her new jump-rope, knots tied five inches from the ends to bring it to the right length. The older children play hide-and-seek around and past her, and she watches them, jump-rope dangling, peering at them from under that platinum hair.
William is wearing his full fatigue regalia: camoflage pants and shirt. Can it be the pants I bought in October are too short for him already? He doesn’t notice how the pant-legs hover at his ankles, but he notices that his hair– longer than he can ever before remember it being in all of his life– can now be parted at the side and swept across his forehead. He fixes it like this in the bathroom, using the water from his damp hands, and then crushes his helmet down over it, going outside to play.
Everett comes in from the hide-and-seek game and sits down on the steps. “I’m going to roller-blade, Mom,” he says, and I think at first he has asked my permission; but no, he is telling me. “Fine,” I say. “Good.” He fixes the straps across his feet and then adjusts his helmet; he bought the roller blades today, with his own money. “Is my helmet on backwards?” he asks, turning his head. “No,” I say. “Does it go to a point at the back?” he asks, making sure. “Yes,” I say. “Then it’s on right,” he says, and proceeds to fasten the strap under his chin. “Bye.” He is out the door.
I have a friend who is mother of five. She is far more wise than I, and twenty years older, and she imparts, gently and once in a while, her wisdom: “Your favorite child,” she says, “is the one you are looking at right now.”
