Sep
22
5-year-olds and double rainbows
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We were at the store earlier today and on a whim I decided to buy a couple of sturdy plastic magnifying glasses for the boys. The instant I handed one over to Riley, he held it up to his face and shrieked with delight. “MY HAND!” he yelled. “MY HAND IS SO HUGE!”
He was so loud, people from adjoining aisles were peering over to see what was going on. I smiled and made little frantic hushing motions.
“My hand is like a MONSTER HAND!”
“Yes, it’s—”
“MOM CHECK OUT MY HAAAAAAAAAND!”
“Yes. Um. Shhhh.”
“Wait a minute! MOM! MOMMMMMM! Guess what? Guess what Mom? MOM GUESS WHAT?”
“What? Shhhh. Remember about using your indoor voice, okay? What?”
“Mom this glass actually makes everything big!”
“Yes, well um . . . yes, it’s a magnify—”
“MOM I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS!”
People were standing around laughing and grinning, elbowing each other. We’d actually attracted a small crowd.
“MOM IT MAKES EVERYTHING MONSTER BIG!”
“Okay! That’s great! Time to go.”
“Mom? MOM?”
“Yes.”
“Mom, this is . . . blowing my mind.”
“Ah, is it? Heh. Well—”
“MOM I CAN’T WAIT TO TELL DAD ABOUT THIS.”
“Yeah? Me either.”
Sep
20
Bubbles
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When Riley was little we bathed him in one of those no-slip baby tubs, which we hovered around nervously because a tub could be formed of superglue and canvas straps and a baby would still slip around it in because wet babies are, in fact, the most slippery substance on earth.
By the time Dylan was born we had a larger tub and I took him in the bath with me, holding his tiny body in my arms and carefully resting his head away from the water.
When he was bigger, I sat in there with both boys, still holding Dylan, who couldn’t be trusted not to slide suddenly beneath the water as soon as my head was turned. Sometimes all four of us would get in together, and for all its discomforts (for instance: someone’s small toe, suddenly rudely intruding in your personal area) it was wonderful. Splashy, ridiculous, a whole family in a bathtub.
We quickly outgrew the ability for four people, and soon it was no longer possible to fit three. The last bath I took with both boys was pure insanity—water everywhere, a soapfight breaking out over my head, shrieks and giggles and sharp bony knees driving into my belly—and I was driven out before I even had a chance to rinse the suds off.
Now they take baths together, just the two of them. I look at these two small boys thrashing around in the tub together and think how we have these different ways of noting the passing of time. How some things hit you in a particular sort of way. Outgrown baby clothes, faded height markers drawn on a wall, an old photo that is all squirrel-fat cheeks and Cupid-bow mouth. The memory of bathtimes, and how they’ve changed.
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