She's standing in front of me. Her belly pokes out because her back is bowed forward, and she's looking at me saying,"Innawannagonabed," but her eyes are saying something different.
He's flung across the couch, Nintendo DS beepingandbooping, eyes glazey and glossy.
Her hair is like rabbit fur, so soft it's almost unfeelable. It slants across her face and her left eye isn't visible unless she leans forward, and she's not. She's leaning back, belly still punched out, the small of her small back against my knee.
I'm sitting Indian style (I wonder if that means real India or Native American) in the recliner. My left knee is the one sticking out.
He says, "do we hAVE tooooooo?" because Jason's just told them that they need to brush their teeth. His eyes are big, like mine, hers too, but his head is shaped like his dad's, and bald like his dad's too. It feels like the rough side of velcro, and he says that it's weird to run his fingers through. I think that's funny, because I love to run my hand over it, and he must too--he does all the time, even if he doesn't realize it. He is right now.
"Come here," I say to her.
"Iwighthere."
"No, up here." There's a small space left between my knee and the chair's arm. She climbs up, and in, and fits just so. Her shorts are Minnie Mouse pink with white polka dots and ruffles around the legs. I pull her in with my arms and envelop her, leaning my cheek against hers. She's warm and soft, like a rabbit too, and she wriggles like one. The lamp is on the table behind her, beside me, and it illuminates the white fur across her shoulders and back. She's not wearing a shirt, 'cause that's how she is.
He's not either, for the same reason. "Is your middletoe a badtoe? Like your middlefinger isabadfinger...."
I look up and shake my head, "no."
"Oh," and that's that.
"Iseepin A-dan's woom? I go wite aseep."
"No, I don't think so. He says you talk and don't go to bed." I smooth her hair with the back of my hand. It's still damp from her bath.
"But I don't want to seep in my woom by mysewf." The ends of her hair rolls upward. I stick my finger through and lengthen the curl until it bounces into release. I catch it again and rub the softness between my thumb and pointer, thinking, but not really. I'm breathing her in like when she was really small and couldn't wriggle away. Time is fleeting; she's gone.
I hear her down the hall, "D AHHHH dy," gigglegiggle. He's making her laugh, and she's making him laugh, and now they're choosing a book.
Aidan rolls from the couch, and I think that he's going to hit the floor, but then his knees catch him with a thud. He's on all fours with his limegreenfurryblanket hanging all over like wool, and he turns--eyes big and glossy--and smiles--teeth and gaps.
"Hugga me." I prepare myself, because I've learned that boyhugs aren't usually gentle. There's a noise, like a revving up, and I stiffen my arms, bent but extended. His velcro head rubs my cheek and he leans in like I'm a football sled. He's soft and warm, more like a bear than a bunny, and I lean in. He burps.
"Shew, I'm sleepy."
"Read, tomorrow instead?"
"Yeah...."
"Okay." I squeeze, because time's fleeting, and I don't know how much longer he's going to be cool with this. "I love you."
"I love you too." He burps, again.
I giggle, sort of, and he does too. "Remember to say your prayers."
"I say my amens, k Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaammmm?" Her door pops open, lights on--three of them.
"Okay, I love you much. Goodnight."
"Goodnight."
"NIIIIIIIYYYYTE."
He's flung across the couch, Nintendo DS beepingandbooping, eyes glazey and glossy.
Her hair is like rabbit fur, so soft it's almost unfeelable. It slants across her face and her left eye isn't visible unless she leans forward, and she's not. She's leaning back, belly still punched out, the small of her small back against my knee.
I'm sitting Indian style (I wonder if that means real India or Native American) in the recliner. My left knee is the one sticking out.
He says, "do we hAVE tooooooo?" because Jason's just told them that they need to brush their teeth. His eyes are big, like mine, hers too, but his head is shaped like his dad's, and bald like his dad's too. It feels like the rough side of velcro, and he says that it's weird to run his fingers through. I think that's funny, because I love to run my hand over it, and he must too--he does all the time, even if he doesn't realize it. He is right now.
"Come here," I say to her.
"Iwighthere."
"No, up here." There's a small space left between my knee and the chair's arm. She climbs up, and in, and fits just so. Her shorts are Minnie Mouse pink with white polka dots and ruffles around the legs. I pull her in with my arms and envelop her, leaning my cheek against hers. She's warm and soft, like a rabbit too, and she wriggles like one. The lamp is on the table behind her, beside me, and it illuminates the white fur across her shoulders and back. She's not wearing a shirt, 'cause that's how she is.
He's not either, for the same reason. "Is your middletoe a badtoe? Like your middlefinger isabadfinger...."
I look up and shake my head, "no."
"Oh," and that's that.
"Iseepin A-dan's woom? I go wite aseep."
"No, I don't think so. He says you talk and don't go to bed." I smooth her hair with the back of my hand. It's still damp from her bath.
"But I don't want to seep in my woom by mysewf." The ends of her hair rolls upward. I stick my finger through and lengthen the curl until it bounces into release. I catch it again and rub the softness between my thumb and pointer, thinking, but not really. I'm breathing her in like when she was really small and couldn't wriggle away. Time is fleeting; she's gone.
I hear her down the hall, "D AHHHH dy," gigglegiggle. He's making her laugh, and she's making him laugh, and now they're choosing a book.
Aidan rolls from the couch, and I think that he's going to hit the floor, but then his knees catch him with a thud. He's on all fours with his limegreenfurryblanket hanging all over like wool, and he turns--eyes big and glossy--and smiles--teeth and gaps.
"Hugga me." I prepare myself, because I've learned that boyhugs aren't usually gentle. There's a noise, like a revving up, and I stiffen my arms, bent but extended. His velcro head rubs my cheek and he leans in like I'm a football sled. He's soft and warm, more like a bear than a bunny, and I lean in. He burps.
"Shew, I'm sleepy."
"Read, tomorrow instead?"
"Yeah...."
"Okay." I squeeze, because time's fleeting, and I don't know how much longer he's going to be cool with this. "I love you."
"I love you too." He burps, again.
I giggle, sort of, and he does too. "Remember to say your prayers."
"I say my amens, k Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaammmm?" Her door pops open, lights on--three of them.
"Okay, I love you much. Goodnight."
"Goodnight."
"NIIIIIIIYYYYTE."
Copyright © 2011. Carrie Ellen
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Carrie at: carrieellencampbell@icloud.com.
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