Three Things

Child Number 1 has a small doe-colored freckle in the middle of his forehead, just below his hairline. My husband and I nicknamed this freckle after a feisty terrier we encountered one day long ago at the Bunker Hill Monument in Charlestown. Martin and I were lying in the grass one sunny weekend (long before kids, long before anything resembling the present) when a woman from the neighborhood walked by with her wiry little dog. The dog came up to sniff and check us out, wagging and wriggling the whole time. We pet his fur; he licked our hands. Upon parting, the owner called out in her thick Boston accent, "Come ahhn, Chahhh-lee! Let's go!" We resolved to one day have a dog as good as little Chahhlee. After Child Number 1 was born, and we came to know his personality in bits and pieces, we found the naming of that one lovely freckle after that happy, tail-wagging terrier to be a perfect fit for our small boy. Sometimes I lift the blond hair on No 1's forehead when he least expects it, when he's eating cereal--his eyes still full of sleep and dreams, and greet "Charlie the Freckle." I give the boy a kiss, and with my best Boston accent exclaim, "Hey Chahhlee!" I know I've performed this small ritual correctly, if he wiggles away, gives a withering look, and sighs "Maahhhm!"

Child Number 2 is both observer and observed. He points out plastic bags in trees, the shape of shadows, airplanes passing through cloudless skies. His focus is always on some object, or movement, or idea out in the world that captures his attention for the moment, the day, the week. And that object/movement/idea in the world that captures him so wholly is then discarded just as quickly-- becoming merely an empty nest, an overturned jar sans cricket, a page of a book already read. It is the project, the process, the movement itself that is of interest to my smaller boy. It is not the toy car; it is the road he finds to drive across. It is not the box, rather all that the box might become. (I wonder, what child is this?) What child is this who refuses to move along lines more solid, more objective, less subjective? What child is this, who is so often occupied by some other more alluring world? He is his father's son. He is the butterfly moving from leaf to leaf, beautiful to watch, undeserving of capture.

Child Number 3 is moving now; practicing pushing/standing/touching/ grasping over and again and again; grabbing fistfuls of grass in dimpled fingers; rolling and laughing (some ancient chime is sounded in the heart at the tiny-strong sound); vocalizing. Bahh-baaa, she says at the door. Bahh-baa-baa. Baby teeth below (just two) and two more tiny tooth nubs at the top. Tiny baby gums gum-gumming at crackers, berries, cheese. Stretching toward brothers and brother's plastic toys; (No-No Baby. That's Not For You. The big brothers scold softly at first, then more seriously.) Holding picture books; tearing pages; grabbing at the world with two chubby hands. Hands that form tight fists in frustration; hands scratching toward familiar faces; hands fluttering and twisting to some orchestra sounding its final note, and only baby girl holds the baton. Bravo, baby girl. Bravo.