(from earlier)
My first son is resting across my lap as I type this. He no longer naps, except in the most exceptional circumstances, but he still needs quiet resting time while his little brother sleeps. He is restlessly beating one foot against the couch at an amazing pace, unconsciously, just like my mother has always done. He stares across the room at the kitchen window, his eyes bright and translucent from the sunlight hitting them straight on. They are the same shape and color as my own, with long lashes and dewy lids. His brows match the soft, blond hair on his head, which I am smoothing away from his temples between lines.
In these quiet moments, it is so hard to reconcile this thoughtful, introspective child with the bubbly, laughing socialite that I picked up at school an hour ago - a duality that he shares with his mother. Just last night, as his teacher mentioned his upcoming sixth birthday, she asked me where the time has gone. "It was 'monkeys eating yogurt' just yesterday, it seems!" I know. I don't know what to tell her. The barbary apes in Gibraltar so tickled him that he talked about them long after other memories of the trip had failed him. He doesn't remember the Alhambra, or the wine glasses of spicy soup we drank sidewalk cafes, or the gypsy women in the Juderia, or even getting lost in the crumbling medina of a small Moroccan town. But he remembers those monkeys atop the Rock, who dug in the trash for discarded snack foods, and he remembers the Thomas the Tank Engine books that I grabbed him at Safeway before we got into the cable car.
He remembers that, and the buses, and the trains. That is my child. The same child who used to ask if we could call my mother in Oklahoma to tell her that he had sand in his butt, and see if she wanted to get on an airplane and come eat at Moe's with us. The same child who tried to get me to agree to let them drink smoothies in the car by suggesting, "We could tape cups to our chins." The same child who lies in my lap now, patiently waiting for his brother to wake up so they can go to their friends' house for a sleepover. Where did my baby go?
In these quiet moments, it is so hard to reconcile this thoughtful, introspective child with the bubbly, laughing socialite that I picked up at school an hour ago - a duality that he shares with his mother. Just last night, as his teacher mentioned his upcoming sixth birthday, she asked me where the time has gone. "It was 'monkeys eating yogurt' just yesterday, it seems!" I know. I don't know what to tell her. The barbary apes in Gibraltar so tickled him that he talked about them long after other memories of the trip had failed him. He doesn't remember the Alhambra, or the wine glasses of spicy soup we drank sidewalk cafes, or the gypsy women in the Juderia, or even getting lost in the crumbling medina of a small Moroccan town. But he remembers those monkeys atop the Rock, who dug in the trash for discarded snack foods, and he remembers the Thomas the Tank Engine books that I grabbed him at Safeway before we got into the cable car.
He remembers that, and the buses, and the trains. That is my child. The same child who used to ask if we could call my mother in Oklahoma to tell her that he had sand in his butt, and see if she wanted to get on an airplane and come eat at Moe's with us. The same child who tried to get me to agree to let them drink smoothies in the car by suggesting, "We could tape cups to our chins." The same child who lies in my lap now, patiently waiting for his brother to wake up so they can go to their friends' house for a sleepover. Where did my baby go?