we're just fine

let's start out nice and slow, because i've got a toddler boy asleep in a crib 15 steps to my left and there's very little in the world that will pull me to my feet right now. this is it for me, nice. and. slow.

life is streaming through my fingers - tiny, microscopic crystals, sparkling and smooth. life is rushing on huge gusts of wind that come out of nowhere and drag me yards away before i have a chance to brush the unkempt hair from my face. life is sweet, glorious kisses from my two most beloved gentlemen, one hobbles over on unsteady knees, the other is holding his hand. life is this dream of mine that looks enormous, minuscule, terrifying, and extraordinary all at the same time. life is wonder, evolution, love. life - life is fast.

we get home in the evenings, henry and me, holding tightly to one another with our arms full of things. henry's neon green bag and blanket. mommy's purse, keys, and phone. sometimes we hardly make it through the door. most of the time our entrance is henry's body, folded in half so that his dangling feet hang just below his outstretched finger-tips, mother holding on for dear life. all the things fall, henry's head brushes the hard-wood floor. it was a close one, but we made it. we're just fine.

henry is upright, dashing towards the opened closet where we store coats, shoes, winter hats, toilet paper (too high for henry to reach). the shoes are great fun at 16 months old - henry can reach the shoes.

"oosch?"
"oosch?!"
"mama?"

he wants me to put on his shoes. the shoes he has in his hand are 10 sizes too large for his thick, baby feet. he loves shoes. he has 15 shoes outside of the closet now (dirty shoes. shoes i would have never let him touch in my other life.), piled on top of his legs. none of them have a match. it doesn't matter. "oosch!"

the shoes are cleaned up, neatly piled high on top of each other again in the closet. none of them have a match. it doesn't matter.

i have one minute to unpack henry's neon green bag, full of dirty clothes from daycare and a white, copied report that tells us what henry did all day. it's identical almost every day. i glance at it to be sure we're not out of any supplies - diapers? wipes? sunscreen? we're not. i have thirty seconds left to throw the dirty clothes into the washing machine before henry's hands skim the toilet seat, before he's found the cupboard he's not allowed to open, before he's got a hand/nose full of potting soil. damn, the potting soil. it's all over him. his clothes, his hair, the floor. damn the pretty plants - the bright, splashes of color i have in my home that remind me i am a woman, a person, i can keep a plant alive. henry's eating its soil.

his clothes are off, he's in the sink. his hands are spreading black dirt onto the formerly cream colored wall above the sink. the sink is now full of all the dishes left to dry on the counter beside the sink. they're dirty again. i throw them into the dishwasher. it's okay, we're doing it. we're just fine.

he's out of the sink, spread out on the kitchen floor, sobbing. he didn't want to get out of the sink. clear, thick snot is flowing from his nose, his tears are wetting the tips of his freshly cut hair. his cheeks are red, further highlighting their round fullness. he's got the most doughy cheeks. he's mine. he's a miracle. he's loud.

three things sit snug in my arsenal, ready for launch: 1.) tomatoes, 2.) cheese, 3.) bath-time. options 1 and 2 are most often used interchangeably and/or paired to steady a mad, red henry. in this moment, i choose to pair 1 and 2. to lure him into his high chair is an art i want you to know has taken months to craft. it's still not perfect. henry will remain on the tear-stained kitchen floor while i sing-talk calmly about how nice it would be to have a snack with mommy. tomatoes. cheese. all lovely things to ease the pain of evacuating the sink before henry was ready. i will cut up the tomatoes and cheese. i will have a bite. oooh, delicious! the first offer to henry is calculated, precise. not too pushy. nice and easy. denied. he wants nothing of it. that's okay, it's not over yet. i keep eating. i have an affinity to cheese and tomatoes myself, i think that's where he gets it. i place two slices of bursting, baby red tomatoes on his high chair tray and hand him a bite of cheese. he takes it. internally, streamers are falling from the rafters. he's 40 seconds from sitting calmly in his chair like a gentleman. he's in my arms, his face is glistening with every trace of transparent liquid his body has just expelled. it doesn't matter. we're just fine.

we spend the next 13.5 minutes in the kitchen together, chatting over the goings on with old mcdonald and his farm, the various noises mr. mcdonald's farm animals tend to make, the wheels on the bus - we have lots of hand motions for this one. i'm beaming with pride. this kid, he's a blessed genius. he's mine. we're just fine.

the door slams hard, rattling the door knocker. joey always lets the door slam. it's okay. we're just fine.

henry's face shoots to the location of the sound. the door?! dad!

"hi!"
silence.
"da!"
silence.
"dada!"
silence. excruciatingly l.o.u.d silence.

joey and henry have this game together, it involves a lot of creeping, sneaking, tickling, and high, screechy giggles. henry is reaching far from his perch in his high chair, neck craned, fingers taut. silent. beaming. he's like a enormously overflowing water balloon, every piece of him is stretched. the anticipation is starting to seep out of his finger-tips.

"da!"
"hi henry!"

such glee. such perfection. henry's face is dripping with tomato juice. his hands are speckled with cheese, the floor around his high chair is littered with clumps of tomatoey cheese. he is happy, eating, and talking loudly about daycare? shoes? the monkeys that are always falling off the bed? who can be sure? joey and i watch in wonder, busily making a supper we will both stand to eat. this is life. this is us. they are mine. we're just fine.