These are the days

For Moravia:
These are the days of black velvet dresses and a water pistol---hunting tigers in the basement with Noah.

These are the days of play-do abandoned for coloring abandoned for beads abandoned to reenact the tiger hunt with the nativity scene which quickly turns to painstakingly wrapping the wise men in yards and yards of toilet paper---- they were cold. And then of course there are all the sick dollies to attend to. Sometimes they are throwing up, need band-aids, medicine for their eyes.....or to be wrapped in yards and yards of toilet paper.

These are the days of “happy cereal” (rice crispies) at every meal, every snack.

These are the days of dress-up and stickers and scarves. And hundreds of tiny little drawings on hundreds of tiny little post-it notes, scattered through every room of the house.

For Zafaran:
These are the days of emptying. The pantry of cans. The drawers of kitchen items. The toy shelf---emptied onto the floor. Ditto the bookshelf. All Daddy's papers on the table? Better on the floor. The box of play-do accessories from the last play-do moment is emptied onto the floor. The box of crayons, oh yes. The dish of beads Moe thought about stringing. This cup of water---What happens if I dump it onto myself?

Oh look, Mommy is getting dressed. Seems her sock drawer needs to be emptied. What happens if I dip her underwear into the toilet? Oh dear, water on the floor. I'd better tell mom: “Abba gabba babba hey!” Look, mom is trying to say something while getting tangled in her jeans. I'd better help with the water. I'll empty the towel drawer and use those....

These are the days of banging, too. The wise man that didn't get wrapped in toilet paper, bang-bang on the mirror. The wise man that did. Both wise men on the coffee table, the oven, the toilet----oops!

This hammer sounds great on the window. When I throw marbles into the humidifier, it makes a great banging noise. (Clatta-clatta-clatta-grind...) “Music, everybody! Let's dance!”

These are the days of suddenly, for no reason known to anyone, of sleeping through the night as never before.

These are the days of building things with toys meant for children twice my age. Of creating a steering wheel for a chair out of trash, a motorcycle out of a workbench, a car from the vacuum....

For Mom:
These are the days of never getting fully dressed, or finishing a meal, a task, a thought, a sentence.

These are the days of hearing a sneeze across a crowded room and leaping into action---Wonder Woman with Kleenex. 40 times an hour.

These are the days of picking up scraps of toilet paper in one room while water is dumped in another. Of running for a towel and slipping on crayons rolling around the floor. Pushing the crayons under the table while rescuing two wise men getting concussions on a mirror. Oh wait, that one doesn't have a head so I guess he's alright. I'll sweep up the beads later. Better unplug the humidifier until the marbles are put away on a high shelf. What is that sloshing sound?

These are the days of opening a kitchen cupboard and finding a row of dollies neatly tucked in, staring solemnly. Then where are the kettles? Oh, the bathtub, of course! When I do find the kettles, I often take off a lid and discover small toys tucked carefully inside. Or my cell phone.

These are the days of reading stories. Lots of stories. Stories about dogs (“Woo! Woo!” from Zafaran), bears that inevitably talk and live in houses like ours, or reading over and over the mystifying Myth of the Magic Flute that even I don't understand. And of course, no naptime is complete without “all 'bout Jesus bein' dead” from Little Eyes. Oh dear, The Giving Tree again? I have read it so much I don't even cry at the end anymore. No, I won't read it twice in ten minutes. No, you can't kick the book. It's okay if she calls the zebra a dog, maybe zebras “woof”, too.

These are the days of stories. Leaned back in my big chair in the afternoon sunlight, two little warm bodies growing heavier beneath the menagerie of dogs and dolls and elephants, two little blond heads tucked under my chin. When I finish, Moravia cries “Another one!” and Zafaran claps her hands.

Ah yes, these are the days....



Editor's note: All incidents mentioned are completely true, or will be soon.