Quiet time

Sam has outgrown naps. This is a total bummer because I’ve always liked the guarantee of free time each afternoon. But there we are, such tiny luxuries fall away like matchbox cars from the hole in the pillow case where I keep them.

For a few afternoons I let him romp around. But then it occurred to me—it takes me awhile to catch on—that of course he could have an hour of quiet time. So after I put Sahara in her crib, I put him in our big bed with a stack of milk and a cup of books. What more could a little boy want? (I see the typo and I refuse to change it. Ha.) For days this has been our new and already cherished routine. But today, Sahara wouldn’t nap either! So I bunched up the pillows and plunked her next to Sam. In a very solemn voice I asked Sam to take care of her. Then I poured wooden blocks into her lap, and left.

A few minutes later, I peeked in.

Sam was reading his books to her. His little voice rose and fell the way a leaf scoots and skips in the air on a windy day. He made monkey hoots and crashing sounds, but most of the time his voice took on an informational, teachy tone. Sometimes he tilted the book towards her so she could see what he was explaining. He also paused to pile the blocks back in front of her. She grasped one in her chubby fist and pounded it zealously into the pillow.

If only I were a painter, I would have sketched the scene. The cavernous room rose around the bed with its soft chaos of mounded pillows and mussed sheets. In the middle sat two little hobbits sharing their provisions of storybooks and blocks, keeping each other company. Sun streamed in through the slats of the bamboo blinds and fell across the bed, transforming their bodies into brilliant compositions of light and shadow. Halos roiling with dust motes glittered above their heads. Light seeped through the thin membranes of their ears until it seemed as if they wore luminous earmuffs.

I stared and stared and stared, speechless at the exquisite sweetness of these two astonishing creatures who have come to live in my home.

Stop it, Sun

So this morning on the way to preschool Sam began protesting loudly from the back seat, "Stop it, sun! Stop it, sun!" I glanced in my rear view mirror and saw him wincing and writhing away from the window. His arm rose up as if a large bird with talons were attacking his head. In a few seconds, I turned a corner and the sun moved around to the back window. Sam straitened out in his seat and sighed, "Thank you, sun."