childrenYou wake up and there they are.
On Mindsay, I usually mention a few words about my children: about their appearance, about their differences, about how much I adore them. But the words always seem so distant, so hollow compared to what I actually feel. I haven't written much about them that isn't purely aesthetic, and I have only one picture of me and Belle from Valentine's Day. There are two reasons for this.
The first is that my children are very precious to me, and I worry what will be said about them if I subject them to the world without their knowing it. I do not want to be a part of their introduction to the Internet. I have already embarrassed them in future years by writing about them in a couple of essays and stories and other publications. They are the biggest part of my life and I could not ignore them in my writing completely, of course, but by writing too much, I would be labelling them, leading them into a predestined future. I would much rather let them figure their own selves out and then write about who they are.
The second reason I don't discuss my children in complete detail is because this blog is supposed to be about me, about taking a break from their daily needs and insecurities, and giving myself some reflection time. By putting everyone in my entries a bit of a distance from me, I am able to look at the situation passively and neutrally. I am able to see where I am making my mistakes, where I am finding the most wisdom. Though my children are part of this discovery, their every fret, their every giggle, their every burp is not material for this particular purpose.
But I thought I would dedicate some entries to them, and here they are: the six entries dedicated to my six loves. I will try to shed a light on them without labeling them.
I know I haven't caught up on all of the things that have been going on in the last few months, but I want to skip ahead to today. Harry was home today, leaning on his pager, wondering when he would be called back to the hospital, wondering if, without warning, he would need to rush to the city in order to take out stitches or something less exciting. As I made breakfast of toast and eggs and tea and coffee, Harry distractedly woke the children up, leaving them all in pajamas and tousled hair.
Christopher is always the easiest to wake. It is as if he starts the morning wanting more, yearning to learn and be taken up in the rush of existing. He is always cheerful, does not mind dressing himself, and becomes the ray of sunshine that kisses me before I can even say hello. I depend on him for a lot of things including stability. In this way, in his loyalty and simple happiness, he is exactly like his father.
Christopher is considered my oldest child. However, the fact has never been proven to me: I was half-unconcious when the twins arrived and so many emotions were running through me I couldn't concentrate on the babies until they were safely in my arms. Harry, too, cannot convince me that Christopher arrived before Christian (known as Tuck in my previous entries--his nickname which is derived from his middle name, Tucker). Harry's teary, foggy, emotional memory renders the twins' first few moments as psychadellic; almost as if he had had a clean dose of peyote before watching them emerge. He only knows that he touched them before me, held them before me, became their father in their first four seconds of life. My own first memory of the two auburn-haired, blue eyed (soon to become emerald green) twins was a large shock of noise in my ears. My head ringing, my body sighing with relief, I looked down and noticed that, in my arms, the loves of my life were crying. They seemed the same, these aliens, yet I could already tell the difference. I knew the bigger baby I had felt in my belly, the one who had kicked more, the one who made the most commotion, was Christopher. And so, it has made logical sense all of this time, to say he is the oldest.
Christopher's auburn hair, which grows quicker than any hair I have ever known, is a bit darker than his twins'. It is this one feature that helps strangers tell the boys apart. You can see in the first seconds of confusion and uncertainty, they latch onto this feature, and my little Christopher is doomed from the beginning as "the darker headed one." With two sets of twins in my house, it is this reliance on appearance that makes me wish they had all been born seperately. They must work harder for independence now, but at least they always will have someone who understands them.
At six years old Christopher's favorite books include a children's book about trucks, Oliver Twist, Kim and Just So Stories by Rudyard Kipling (the one about rhino is his absolute favorite), and surprisingly, bits of Paradise Lost I read to him when I was struggling in literature homework. He does not understand it, of course, but he likes the words, and will repeat them after me sometimes. After I read, I explained the story to him, and, as for all young boys, the idea of good vs. evil appealed to him.
Chistopher is considered a peacemaker, a protector in our crazy household. He deifies his little sisters (except when Belle plays with his trucks), and this quality makes him honorable. If I randomly ask him if he wants to feed one of the babies, it is almost 90% guaranteed he will say yes. If not out of pleasure, out of a sense duty and heroism. I remember once when Gabe was started choking on milk, it was Christopher who was the most worried, it was Christopher who cried and who woke up in the middle of the night to come sleep in my room. He certainly is a "little man."
However, I am already labeling him. Christopher has certain qualities about him that one cannot pick up from writing, certain eccentricities and personality traits that make him who he really is. For example, when he was about two years old, he became deathly afraid of riding in the car, and refused to be put into a car seat. Since I was only about nineteen and I had three children, I was exhausted and ready to drop. It was my father-in-law who finally convinced the little boy that the momentum in the car was both relaxing and exciting, both in control and risky. He restored the balance for my oldest son.
Christopher also has this tendency to act stupid--something he must have picked up from his peers. He will know perfectly well the answer to a question or when asked his age he will cheerfully respond that he "doesn't remember." Sometimes, at school, his teacher will ask him if he's done the homework or colored in his reading pages and though he answers No, she will find the perfectly completed pages in his cubby at recess. Though I admire his humility, it makes me both intrigued and frightened that he creates an alternate reality for himself, one in which he is not burdened with knowledge. Perhaps I have read to him too much: he has taken on the idea that life is exactly like a book.
However, his friends adore it. Christopher's two best friends are from his kindergarten class: James (much to Rev's pleasure--it is his own real first name. He always says, "Just like me and you, eh Harry?" when he sees the two together) and Nathan. Of course, he is inseperable from his twin, as well. Harry always jokes that our children will be hunks and beauties; sexually attractive adults in the real world some day. It makes me incredibly nervous, but when I look at Christopher, I know he will break a few hearts. All mothers think they're children are beautiful, but the universally attractive jawline and broad shoulders will follow him into his adulthood. Though he and his twin share this same attractiveness, I wonder if it will be only Christopher to use it to his advantage.
This morning, in his Hawaiian blue pajamas, Christopher came into the kitchen and demanded eggs and milk. "I want to look like The Rock," he said, and so I gave him a gummy vitamin. And he began his first discourse of the day: "Tuck says he can't get up, it's too hot out. What are we doing today? Can we paint? I finished my milk like you told me. Where's Daddy? Happy morning daddy." Suddenly, he is quiet, and lost and buried among his scrambled eggs, reflective and happy thinking about the morning's activites.
Harry smiles at me after looking at his beeper one last time. He winks at me and kisses Chris's head as if to say, Aren't you proud?
I am.
To explain it would be throwing away its innocence.
