Late last night Goldie came up to announce (apologetically) that Mette was throwing up.
After cleaning bedding and child (and subsequently cleaning them a second, third, and forth time) I spent an hour next to her crib -- arm through the slats -- waiting for her to fall asleep (patting her little tummy, brushing the hair off of her forehead, and responding reassuringly to her nervous questioning ["sound?"] each time a car drove by or water could be heard rushing through the pipes in the walls).
Eventually her restless thoughts turned to her siblings -- who she began pronouncing firm and final judgements upon. (Well, one judgement really.)
She's been with us a full 20 months now which, one could fairly argue, is plenty of time for a thorough appraisal. Whether any of us received a gentler critique I was unable to discover, however, because at that point her eyelids finally grew heavy, and I was able to escape to my own bed where Hans let me sleep relatively undisturbed (I was fitfully dreaming of borrowing friends’ houses to complete odd, competetive, game-show-like tasks only to have Mette throw up and spread illness to their children) 'til 7:00.
But! There have been happier times than . . . throwing up and “all my siblings are mean”. Case in point? The above pictures. There is little I enjoy more than a track meet. (Is that completely true? That “little I enjoy more” bit? I mean . . . I enjoy a great deal of things quite a lot. So I’m not actually certain about there being little I enjoy more. Nevertheless, I do enjoy track meets; so much so that I strapped Hans to me, stuck Mette in a stroller, held Summer’s hand, and called constantly for Penny, Jesse and Anders to stay close in order to brave Abe’s first home meet.)
The next time I went, however, I cleverly employed Goldie in babysitting (Daisy was off somewhere with friends) and went with just Penny in tow.
For all my enjoyment, I must say, . . . the butterflies! Ohh how it used to nearly kill me – the nerves and stomach churning that would accompany the final calls and then waiting for the guns to go off at my own track meets long ago. And I can SEE those same feelings rippling off of Abe when he is setting up his blocks and waiting for the gun. Once the gun goes off – well then you are running – the nerves are gone and you are simply going. But until then? It’s maddening! And I swear there seemed to be five minutes between “Runners take your mark! Set! . . .” and the crack of the gun in Abe’s 300 meter hurdles.
Speaking of tracks. On occasion we will venture up to the track at Abe’s school (which, conveniently is about a block away) to let our kids run about, jump into the sand pit, and climb on the bleachers (or the pole-vault mat if we’re lucky enough to discover it out). We’re rarely wearing appropriate shoes, and often clad in pajamas, but when we happen to arrive at dusk, and the track is empty, it inevitably ends up being such a happy evening! The track is up high above the city. Our voices carry more than usual in the stillness and chill of the late evening air. Kids are asking to be timed in 400s, racing each other in the 100 meter dash, doing hand stands, and trying to dare leap over hurdles. It’s unaccountably pleasant.