Lately, hugs are the solution to everything

James and Isabel have decided that the small disappointments in life can be cured by the simple expedient of hugging each other. I can't tell you how many times I've had to unbuckle the straps on one of the carseats when we're in the driveway, because one of them has decided that he or she doesn't want to go to school/wear shoes/be parted from a sopping wet Tigger, and one must comfort the other or dissolve into tears. As any tender anecdote has its less sentimental side, I must in all fairness say that I frequently have to remind them to hug around the shoulders, or the belly, but not the neck. See how successful I am.

Soundtrack to the "wait and see" approach

Our house is mostly preschooler-proof. So, I've got a little leeway before responding to puzzling sounds. I've also got a helpful Spiderman narrator in Isabel. So this is what I heard from the kitchen, while sitting in the living room.

James: (patter, patter)
Isabel: "Hi, James."
James (I can tell this is James because Isabel hasn't learned to do this yet): (fwuhmp (refrigerator door opens), clatter clatter, crash, crinkle crinkle)
Isabel (musically): "Clean up, clean up, everybody do their share, clean up, clean up, everybody everywhere." (Repeated three times.)

At this point I stood up and walked to the kitchen, in time to hear:

James: (click (closes bluberry container))

There is not a single blueberry on the floor.

Isabel (to me): "More blueberries?"

Me: "Sure! I'll get two bowls."

I love that they got it cleaned up before I got there.

Our resident Jeeves

James walked into the living room a few minutes ago, and signed "bread". I said and signed "Do you want bread?" back. He shook his head "no", and walked into the kitchen, looking over his shoulder at me. I followed him, and he stopped in front of the toaster, pointing to it.

"Oh," I said. "My toast is ready." I took the rye toast out and put it on a plate.

James smiled and went back to his room.

!!!

A slim grey volume

I hadn't realized until this evening that two of the books I am reading are slim grey volumes of strikingly similar proportions. It was, therefore, with some shock that I opened what I thought was Mary Poppins, only to find myself in the third chapter of All Quiet on the Western Front. It is, perhaps, safe to assume that when one is in the mood for reading Travers, Erich Maria Remarque is probably not a suitable substitute. I do find, though, that night is the only time I can stand to read All Quiet on the Western Front. I can feel terribly sad and depressed, and even cry, and wake up the next morning with the day fresh and only occasional remembrances of poignant distress and utterly wasted innocence. Whereas, if I read that sort of thing in the morning or afternoon, the rest of the day is completely destroyed. And so I read another twenty pages or so, which is all I can take for tonight, I think. I suppose it would have been funny if I had steeled myself to read about World War I, only to discover that I was about to find out what happened after Mary Poppins left the chalk picture. As it was, there wasn't anything very funny about it.

There was a great deal, though, of insight for me, that I'm glad I don't have to learn the hard way. I've just read the part about the closeness that the soldier feels for the earth at the front--she is his protector, his shield, and even in death she embraces him finally. The gallows humor and strange tendernesses that survive brutality, the magical abilities of Kat to procure bread, horsemeat, a pan, a lump of fat and a handful of salt in an abandoned warehouse visited only by men begging for food, which prompts the narrator to suppose that, plopped down in the middle of a desert, Kat would be sure to procure a supper of wine, dates, and roast meat from the arid waste. It is strange to look forward to reading a book, and yet to dread it terribly, so that the accident of discovering its true contents seems a fortuitous one, even as my spirit sinks.

What they do when they are supposed to be napping

Isabel sounds like the boss of this outfit this afternoon, but don't let the sound of things fool you. I heard Isabel saying "come on" as the kids headed for the other room, and then heard her say it again as they came back in, but to my surprise, it was James leading Isabel by the hand and Isabel hurrying to keep up as she continued saying "come on, come on". Maybe she is narrating for him. She's sticking up for herself, though, never fear. She said "Stop it, that hurts," when he pushed her to the wall, and says "turn, turn" when James has something she wants. James has, thankfully, decided against washing the dishes and has decided to read a book while Isabel slides her boat down the slide.This is the fourth day without naps. Why is it that children STOP napping when they're sick, just when they need it most?

"OHHpm"

James tried to open the freezer door for a popsicle, but it was too high for him to get a good grip on the handle. I said "open?" and as he signed I repeated "ohh" as I signed and then all the sudden, James said "OHHpm"!James clearly feels that he has well-earned his popsicle, and is smiling his way through a blue popsicle on our gigantic blue glider. This is his sixth spoken word that really feels like a word. Though he vocalizes quite a bit, it's usually just one sound at a time. It's especially wonderful, because James has had some hearing loss in the past few months.

In other, unrelated news, look at this spectacular feat of naptime mothering! Two kids asleep in the same bed! If I ever accomplish this again...well. Even I can't imagine the consequences, but I'd probably at least have to gather up a bouquet of big lush peonies and conjure up a slice of coconut cake before falling asleep on the couch.

The rash

Intermittent waves of relief keep washing over Marco and me this evening. I took James in to the doctor this morning for a rash that had spread very quickly over his body, thinking it was an allergic reaction. There had been an outbreak of measles recently, so the doctor came in with a mask. He was worried by the targetoid nature of the rash, and I realized quickly that he was aware of much more dangerous possibilities than hives. James got blood tests and I gave him an antihistamine. I watched him like a hawk to make sure no rash appeared on his face or in his mouth while we waited to see the dermatologist. The rash crept up his neck and hovered at his jawline. After a very careful and thorough examination by two doctors there, I heard that it was, after all, hives, and not what had been feared.

It wasn't, perhaps, wise to look up the possibilities the doctor mentioned, but it was impossible for me not to do so. At "5-15% death rate" I stopped, and took a deep breath. I thought, "I'm not going to think about this until I know for sure what he has. I'm just going to keep him calm and happy with me." And that's what I did, until I knew he was going to be okay. What a tremendous, overwhelming relief.

The strange thing is, it didn't just overcome me once, but every hour or so, it washes over me again, and I feel the stiffness I didn't know I had relax. It's remarkable how much my body worries when my mind has determined not to worry itself. Marco was so worried while we were at the dermatologist's office. He'd prayed about James before we left, and had tried to do something calm while he waited for us to come home, or call, but he couldn't sit down. He ended up installing all of our air conditioners by himself during the hour we were gone. Sometimes you get so used to bad news that it seems no other kind will come. Feels pretty wonderful when everything is better than you'd hoped. We're very grateful for all the people who know the possibilities better than we do, and make sure our James stays healthy.

The rash is now fading away, slowly. I suppose I should have taken a picture, but I'm so glad it's on its way.