Sunday, March 21, 2004
Today was Elliott’s first birthday party. Now, his first birthday isn’t actually until Tuesday, so you should expect a long paean to the little guy then. But today was wild enough to merit a little writing.
I drove to Vashon with the sunroof of the car open, blasting music, feeling good. It’s spring. Friday was the first day of the season, and I can think of nothing better. Yesterday, at Greenlake, I stopped under the canopy of blossoming trees by the community center and gazed up into fat, white buds against blue sky. And today, I drove down 99 feeling fine, almost not blanching at the act of steering the car among other cars. When I saw that the Viaduct was closed, and I’d have to go down 1st to pick up the highway again, I dropped my aggravation out the window after only a few moments. Instead, I sang at the stoplights. Traffic detour near the museum didn’t faze me. So I was going to miss the 12:20 ferry. There’s always another one. And there was incipient green in Pioneer Square this afternoon. Out the sunroof, I saw these little green leaves starting to unravel against brick buildings, blue sky behind. And the sky in Seattle, the light. After long months of flat winter light, one day, the light, like liquid, everything expanding--and suddenly it’s spring.
My accident happened just a few days before the winter solstice. Now, spring is here. Finally.
The long, dark winter is over.
So I reached the ferry terminal in a good mood. I always feel better on that long dock jutting into the Sound. The sky is enormous, the water vast, and Vashon waits before me. And I had my iPod, a bag of animal cookies with pink frosting and sprinkles, and a giant book about the history of Monty Python. What could be wrong?
When I reached Andy and Dana’s house, a dozen or so cars followed me up the driveway. Everyone had come on the same ferry--former co-workers of Dana; fellow teaching-program students with Andy; friends with little kids. When I walked in the back door, Elliott was in my mom’s arms. I sneaked in, then started snickering at him, my face bunched up, saying “Elliott!” in my best Pee-Wee Herman voice. His face widened into a smile, then a giggle, and he immediately arched his back and leaned out of Mom’s arms. Leaned toward me. I held him to me, smiling, hearing everyone in the room coo: “Someone’s happy to see Shauna.” I ran him up and down the room, squealing. And delighting in the way his little white teeth showed as we ran, because he opened his mouth wide and just laughed.
I just love that kid.
And luckily for him, so do many other people. Mom and Dad dote on him, entirely. Andy and Dana’s friends regarded him with amusement and close attention. Dana’s mom flew up from Sacramento for his birthday, to bounce him on the orange ball. And of course, Andy and Dana are the best parents I know: devoted without being clingy; attentive without being sickening; relaxed. That’s one lucky kid.
And how did Elliott react to having a birthday party, when he doesn’t even know what a birthday is? When he was sitting in his highchair, he tugged at the clutch of colored balloons tied to the arm, throttling them up and down while chuckling. When Dana brought over the gingerbread cake on this weird green plate that twirled with soft lights and sang Happy Birthday (I don’t know), he exulted and had to put his hands on it. Also, he bounced in his chair as three little kids under three danced to the song. When Mom put a giant piece of store-bought cake in front of him, he poked his finger into the yellow icing, then saturated his hand with the cloud-white swirls. When he opened presents, he went into such giddy spirals of grunts and giggles that it sounded like baby swearing. He loved the soft animal books. The bubble wands entranced him, especially when I threw him up in the air and into my arms, so he could view them from great heights. But mostly, he loved the tissue paper.
So it was damned great. We did our usual routine at times: he investigated my earrings; he clutched at my sky-blue necklace; he squeezed up his face in a silent giggle when I made faces at him; he cuddled into my shoulder when he grew tired; and to everything else, he pointed, and asked, “Dat?” And me? I just soaked it all in, not feeling anything else but awe and love.
But eventually, I felt more pain. Once again, the muscles in my neck bolted against the noise. And oh, the noise, noise, noise. (To quote The Grinch Who Stole Christmas, whom I have no intention of becoming.) I love kids. Adore them. In some ways, I understand them better than most adults I know. But there’s nothing like having seven children under five in a space only slightly larger than my bedroom, for three and a half hours, to make my muscles revolt. Squealing, squawling, screaming, and shrieking--these are not the s words I need in my life. Really, I should probably just go into a sensory deprivation tank instead. I hate that I’ve become such a ninny. But the parents of these children were talking and laughing too, and I can hear every individual conversation, as well as the general din. Even when we all went out to the neighbor’s barn to look at the newborn lambs (ah, it really is spring), I could hear every echo of every conversation off the thin wooden walls.
So I drove home a little dampened, a little dejected. I-5 seemed spooky in the dark, all the cars too close. And I feared a migraine, for the way my neck muscles felt like dense ropes, sodden and tense. But now, it’s not so bad. My mom brought me some lotion her doctor gave her, thick cream with amitriptyline, a topical muscle relaxant. Yep, my mom is my drug dealer.
Besides, whatever pain came from the cacophonous afternoon, it was worth it. To be there for Elliott, this little being who has completely changed my life with his giggles, his curiosity, and his mere presence in the world? Worth all the pain.
Happy Birthday, little guy.
I drove to Vashon with the sunroof of the car open, blasting music, feeling good. It’s spring. Friday was the first day of the season, and I can think of nothing better. Yesterday, at Greenlake, I stopped under the canopy of blossoming trees by the community center and gazed up into fat, white buds against blue sky. And today, I drove down 99 feeling fine, almost not blanching at the act of steering the car among other cars. When I saw that the Viaduct was closed, and I’d have to go down 1st to pick up the highway again, I dropped my aggravation out the window after only a few moments. Instead, I sang at the stoplights. Traffic detour near the museum didn’t faze me. So I was going to miss the 12:20 ferry. There’s always another one. And there was incipient green in Pioneer Square this afternoon. Out the sunroof, I saw these little green leaves starting to unravel against brick buildings, blue sky behind. And the sky in Seattle, the light. After long months of flat winter light, one day, the light, like liquid, everything expanding--and suddenly it’s spring.
My accident happened just a few days before the winter solstice. Now, spring is here. Finally.
The long, dark winter is over.
So I reached the ferry terminal in a good mood. I always feel better on that long dock jutting into the Sound. The sky is enormous, the water vast, and Vashon waits before me. And I had my iPod, a bag of animal cookies with pink frosting and sprinkles, and a giant book about the history of Monty Python. What could be wrong?
When I reached Andy and Dana’s house, a dozen or so cars followed me up the driveway. Everyone had come on the same ferry--former co-workers of Dana; fellow teaching-program students with Andy; friends with little kids. When I walked in the back door, Elliott was in my mom’s arms. I sneaked in, then started snickering at him, my face bunched up, saying “Elliott!” in my best Pee-Wee Herman voice. His face widened into a smile, then a giggle, and he immediately arched his back and leaned out of Mom’s arms. Leaned toward me. I held him to me, smiling, hearing everyone in the room coo: “Someone’s happy to see Shauna.” I ran him up and down the room, squealing. And delighting in the way his little white teeth showed as we ran, because he opened his mouth wide and just laughed.
I just love that kid.
And luckily for him, so do many other people. Mom and Dad dote on him, entirely. Andy and Dana’s friends regarded him with amusement and close attention. Dana’s mom flew up from Sacramento for his birthday, to bounce him on the orange ball. And of course, Andy and Dana are the best parents I know: devoted without being clingy; attentive without being sickening; relaxed. That’s one lucky kid.
And how did Elliott react to having a birthday party, when he doesn’t even know what a birthday is? When he was sitting in his highchair, he tugged at the clutch of colored balloons tied to the arm, throttling them up and down while chuckling. When Dana brought over the gingerbread cake on this weird green plate that twirled with soft lights and sang Happy Birthday (I don’t know), he exulted and had to put his hands on it. Also, he bounced in his chair as three little kids under three danced to the song. When Mom put a giant piece of store-bought cake in front of him, he poked his finger into the yellow icing, then saturated his hand with the cloud-white swirls. When he opened presents, he went into such giddy spirals of grunts and giggles that it sounded like baby swearing. He loved the soft animal books. The bubble wands entranced him, especially when I threw him up in the air and into my arms, so he could view them from great heights. But mostly, he loved the tissue paper.
So it was damned great. We did our usual routine at times: he investigated my earrings; he clutched at my sky-blue necklace; he squeezed up his face in a silent giggle when I made faces at him; he cuddled into my shoulder when he grew tired; and to everything else, he pointed, and asked, “Dat?” And me? I just soaked it all in, not feeling anything else but awe and love.
But eventually, I felt more pain. Once again, the muscles in my neck bolted against the noise. And oh, the noise, noise, noise. (To quote The Grinch Who Stole Christmas, whom I have no intention of becoming.) I love kids. Adore them. In some ways, I understand them better than most adults I know. But there’s nothing like having seven children under five in a space only slightly larger than my bedroom, for three and a half hours, to make my muscles revolt. Squealing, squawling, screaming, and shrieking--these are not the s words I need in my life. Really, I should probably just go into a sensory deprivation tank instead. I hate that I’ve become such a ninny. But the parents of these children were talking and laughing too, and I can hear every individual conversation, as well as the general din. Even when we all went out to the neighbor’s barn to look at the newborn lambs (ah, it really is spring), I could hear every echo of every conversation off the thin wooden walls.
So I drove home a little dampened, a little dejected. I-5 seemed spooky in the dark, all the cars too close. And I feared a migraine, for the way my neck muscles felt like dense ropes, sodden and tense. But now, it’s not so bad. My mom brought me some lotion her doctor gave her, thick cream with amitriptyline, a topical muscle relaxant. Yep, my mom is my drug dealer.
Besides, whatever pain came from the cacophonous afternoon, it was worth it. To be there for Elliott, this little being who has completely changed my life with his giggles, his curiosity, and his mere presence in the world? Worth all the pain.
Happy Birthday, little guy.
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