It’s mid-afternoon and I’m trying, for the third or fourth time today, to wash the dishes. Baby Louis is in his Jolly Jump Up, vibrating with breast milk belches. Occasionally he emits one that threatens to become a geyser but, today, at least, it seems the front of the Jolly Jump Up will stay dry.
I tell Clara the story of when I was sitting up in bed breastfeeding her when she was just born and I was so tired I fell asleep and she rolled out of my arms like a little sausage and rolled down a long pillow that was against the bed and ended up on a bunch of pillows on the floor.
“And I woke up and said, ‘Eeeek! Where’s my baby!’” I finish, looking up from the pan I’m scrubbing.
“Heh heh heh,” Clara chuckles.
“Heh heh heh,” Louis chuckles, because Clara did.
“Mom, read me a book,” says Clara, climbing out of her chair. She wipes her butter-greasy hands down the front of her Hello Kitty shirt. There are long smears of blackberry jam at the corners of her mouth, making her look like the toddler version of the Joker in Batman.
“After the dishes, and go clean your face,” I say. Miraculously she doesn’t protest.
Later we go downstairs and I put Louis on the floor. My hands are still kind of wet from doing dishes, so I duck into the laundry room for a towel. When I come back out Clara is lying on top of Louis, holding his little fists against the carpet so he won’t grab her hair (one of his favorite things to do-Ever) and smashing her nose against his. Louis is on cloud nine. He opens his maw and tries to get her nose with his drooly gums.
“Hey, hey!” I say, grabbing at Clara. “Don’t lie on top of the baby!”
She sits up and begins to gently sock Louis in the gut. He gurgles at her in delight.
“Okay, especially don’t do that! He doesn’t know any better.” I say. Wait, I think. That doesn’t make any sense.
“What I mean to say is, he’s little and delicate,” I amend. Wait, that’s not exactly true either. He’s about to grow out of his infant carseat and is almost as tall as she is.
“Well, he’s young. Younger than you.” That’s not it either. Don’t karate-chop your brother’s stomach because he’s younger than you? I can see myself in future years: “Don’t chase your brother with a chainsaw because he’s younger than you.” “Don’t back over your brother in the SUV because he’s younger than you.”
What I really should have said is, “Don’t punch your brother in the gut because it’s not nice.”
Why can’t I think of the thing these days that’s exactly the right thing that I want to say in that specific moment? It reminds me of the time, a month or so ago, when we were walking down the sidewalk and Clara asked me to carry her and I said I couldn’t because I was carrying Louis because he didn’t have any legs. In my defense, I was so foggy from lack of sleep I could barely concentrate on brushing my teeth that day.
“He does have legs, Mom! He does!” she had yelled.
‘No, no he doesn’t,” I had replied absentmindedly before amending, several steps later, “Oh, oh, you’re right! You’re right! What I meant to say is, ‘He can’t walk.’”
“This is how you roll over over,” Clara says on the playroom carpet, after finally ceasing her jabs at Louis’ tummy. She gives him a shove and he overturns slowly, like a reluctant iceberg. “Holy cow!” she says, for no particular reason. She takes his hand in a spectacularly wrenching fashion, bending it back and splaying his fingers. Surprisingly, he seems unaware of the terrible pain this is inflicting.
“Ok, you’re not playing nice, so you need to go over there and find something else to do,” I say, pointing to the other end of the room. She goes for her Cinderella Legos.
Louis watches her leave with some disappointment. Then he forgets about her and begins to Indian leg wrestle with one of the nursery chairs. Unable to topple it, he grows frustrated and uses it as leverage to roll. He tumbles over, directly on top of a bunch of his toy cars. He groans in frustration. He meant for them to go in his mouth! Now he must figure out how to skooch down the carpet so he can get them in range. Alas, linear movement is, for the moment, beyond him. He decides to roll over again and crashes into Clara’s toy baby stroller. He wrestles with it for a moment, making all sorts of determined noises. After a small, lamenting moan, he begins to chew on one of the wheels.
