Every few nights we skype with Ethan, who is in Idaho with my in-laws. He’s been away from us for just over two weeks, and has just under a week before coming home. (Man, I miss him.)
If there was any doubt just how much Miranda and Henry adore their big brother, it is put to rest by watching this video:
Ethan is at Camp Grandma and Grandpa’s in Idaho right now. He’s been there for a week and a half already, and he’s got just under two more weeks before he comes home. I miss him terribly, but having your five-year-old away from home for several weeks is not without its merits. I’m getting some things done that I haven’t had time for, like actually cleaning up my office instead of trying to artfully arrange piles of junk to go through at a later date. Not doing the afternoon school pick-up everyday affords me more time for work and household chores while I have Christine at the house, and I’m getting some quality one-on-one-but-mostly-one-on-two time with Miranda and Henry.
But I miss Ethan terribly. I miss his incredible brain, and his fierce hugs.
He is having a grand time — the kind of time that creates lasting memories — but I miss him. We get on Skype every few days and his little brother and sister go bonkers for seeing him, squealing and dancing and laughing at their big brother on the computer screen. When Ethan comes home, they are going to need sedatives.
Tonight, on the phone, Ethan interrupted our conversation about state versus federal government leadership (I am not kidding) to say:
Mommy? Daddy? You know what? I love you more than Space, and more than what’s more than Space, and more than what’s more than that… I love you. No other person in my love chart can go past you.
Man, I miss that kid. I love him more than what more than what’s more than Space. I’m thrilled he’s having such fun. I can’t wait for him to tell me about it in person.
©2010 Blabigail. All Rights Reserved.
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Every once in a while I look through my past writing and dust off something from the vault. This piece was originally written on July 4, 2008, a couple of weeks after one of our cats, Gustav, disappeared.
Uh… Happy Fourth of July, yeah yeah and all that. Let me tell you what happened last night.
Two thirty in the morning I awoke to plaintive meows. My first thought was “Uh-oh, this is it, Mozart is in distress. I’m going to lose another cat.” Then Jack said ten words I wasn’t expecting.
“Oh my god, there’s a strange cat in our house!”
I didn’t believe him. Surely that was Mozart in the throes of a diabetic death? My eyes tracked the figure of a cat in the dark of the bedroom.
Jack was insistent and got out of bed. The cat bolted downstairs.
Mozart and Gustav in their leaner years.
I, incredulous, whispered, “Is it Gustav?” Knowing it wasn’t. That wasn’t a Gustav meow. I got out of bed and followed Jack.
“I don’t want it to get under the beds,” he was saying. He closed the door to Ethan’s room and I closed the master bedroom door behind me. We both looked down in the doorway of the middle bedroom at our large, lounging, unperturbed cat.
“Good job, Mozart.” Jack joked, prodding Mozart into the bedroom and shutting him in. He headed downstairs and to the bathroom (Two thirty in the morning and the man had a lot of water to drink last night. Cut him a break.)
From the almost-bottom of the stairs I quietly called, “Strange Kitty? Strange Kitty, where are you?” I saw a shape in the living room plop down and curl its body up and over, exposing its belly. At least I thought I did. It was dark.
Thinking Jack was going to save the day, I stayed on the stairs for a few moments, but when I realized that he was adjusting the cat door (which had been changed weeks ago to the Hotel California you-can-come-in-but-you-can-never-leave setting in case Gustav miraculously came home) so the cat could go out the way it came, I realized I was expected to participate.
I could hear the cat at this point, but could not see it. Standing on the cubbies by the front door I peered over into the living room. The cat peered back, meowed twice, and bolted toward the dining room. Mostly white. Marked face. Dark bushy tail. NOT Gustav.
“Come here, strange kitty!” I cooed, percussing my tongue the way that I do to call Mozart. I opened the front door.
“Abi!” Jack admonished from the other room, thinking I was still perched on the stairs. “What are you doing? Come downstairs!”
The cat had now wended its way around the kitchen and was in the playroom. I hopped down from the cubbies and locked the screen door in the open position. Hopping back up on the cubbies I called out again.
“Come here, strange kitty! Come here!”
It approached. Jack admonished (he was still fiddling with the cat door. What a handy guy).
“Come here, strange kitty,” I purred. “Come on, go on outside.” It meowed one last time and dashed out. I closed the door as Jack was admonishing me again.
I walked over to where he was crouched. “I let it outside, silly. I guess Gustav used to keep this very thing from happening.”
“Oh,” Jack said, looking up at me. “I thought you were still on the stairs.”
No duh.
After agreeing to set the cat door on the nothing-is-coming-in-or-going-out setting (and cleaning up the recycling, which had been knocked over before we came down), we headed upstairs.
“This is my exact nightmare,” I excitedly exclaimed.
“What is?” Jack let Mozart out. (”Way to be territorial, Cat,” he muttered.)
“A strange cat coming in the house!”
“What exactly is nightmare-ish about it?” Logic Man retorted, climbing into bed.
“Okay, well in my nightmare there were multiple cats.”
“Well then this wasn’t your EXACT nightmare, was it?” Gah! The Logic! I got in next to him.
“Okay, well, then… this is something akin to something I have dreamed.” Somehow that just didn’t have the right ring.
Jack teased in a sing-songy voice. “Strange kitty, where are you?”
What was I supposed to have said?
“I’m just glad it wasn’t a possum,” he muttered, drifting off to sleep.
Indeed.
©2010 Blabigail. All Rights Reserved.
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Henry and Miranda have been interacting more and more lately. Sometimes they will reach out to each other from their high chairs. Often they will fight over a toy.
Just now Henry handed Miranda a toy and Miranda signed “thank you.”
I think I might just pass out from the adorable-ness.
©2010 Blabigail. All Rights Reserved.
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One night back in April, while I was cleaning up in the kitchen, Jack came downstairs from putting Ethan to bed and told me that I should, if possible, delay going downstairs in the morning.
“Um, not really an option for me, honey,” I replied. “I’ll have two little mutants begging for milk. Why?”
He told me Ethan had something “planned,” and deduced that the two of them could achieve the goal in the dining room if I stayed in the kitchen and playroom.
“I have to set my alarm so I can get him up early,” he said. “He’s pretty excited. You need to know that this was all his idea.”
The next morning when I came downstairs with Henry and Miranda, Jack and Ethan were sitting close together at the dining room table, heads close in concentration. (Yeah, of COURSE I peeked at them!)
“DON’T COME IN HERE, MOMMY! Um, PLEASE!”
I went about my morning routine, preparing breakfast for the kids and getting Ethan’s school lunch ready. I had just gotten the little ones in their high chairs with sippy cups when I was presented with this:
The front
Jack told me Ethan dictated what he wanted the card to say so Jack could write it out for him to copy. Then Ethan came up with the idea of having Jack make the checkboxes.
Needless to say, I started crying. Ethan hugged me, looked up at Jack, and said, “Awww… Mommy’s crying happy tears.”
Indeed.
©2010 Blabigail. All Rights Reserved.
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