It’s not fair that Chas can nap like this without me. But Ford will have none of it. He meets my exhaustion sometimes with sandpaper to my nerves, and I could just cry. So I’ve started taking vitamins more regularly, and with exercise and a little more sleep I’ve built up a better defense against the afternoon slump. Damon has introduced me to blackberry sage iced tea in mason jars. And I’ve taken up painting the sleeping babe.

I signed up for an encaustic painting class. A while back, I mentioned Amy Ruppel and her wonderful buttery paintings. I love this texture. It’s what I’m craving, more fat. Anyway, I’ve been wanting to learn for years, it’s just been hard to find an instructor. Lo and behold, they have one in Austin at the Laguna Gloria. So I cancelled our Vegas plans and am now sitting primly on the edge of my seat, waiting for two weeks to pass so I can start playing with oils and beeswax.

There are no more caterpillars. I keep waiting for a second generation to spill out of the trees but they haven’t arrived. I jogged along the creek today. The white rocks are dry now and milk-green where water trickled down only weeks ago, runoff from uphill. The pools where the big fish swim are coated with pollen and dust and milkweed tufts. Every big patch of sunlight holds a surprise along the trail. I’ve learned to ignore the scattering spiny lizards and squirrels. At the last minute, before my foot falls on them, they dart into shadows, bark and leaves flying behind them. So I ford through the little forest community, knowing it will all unfold before me.

Unless it doesn’t. My foot descends on a fat snake. Like the recoil of a shotgun, I yank back with so much force that I pull a muscle in my chest. But the snake is safe, motionless, and only as I bend down to study it does it slink into a rotten tree stump. Who knows what else I’ve narrowly missed?

Chas wore this dress of mine yesterday. I had to roll it about six times until it was short enough for him to just barely clear the ground in, and he just barely cleared the ground all over the garden as he trampled the runner bean seedlings and bulldozed through the birdbath. Finally, he returned inside with a little wicker basket and a tiny Schleich lamb at the bottom of the basket, declaring his arrival with a wet pattering across the tile floor and up onto Damon’s chest, where he soon fell asleep.

We went out on date last night. This is not something we do often, but my parents were in town and they decided to relieve us. So, after a quick bite and a paint lesson from my dad:

We left. We drove as fast as we could to make the 7 o’clock reservation. It was still hot outside, and my dress stuck to my legs in the car while I waited to the air conditioning ot kick in. Summer is just getting comfortable; you could see it in the smile of a man in his convertible, sunglasses reflecting the red light: summer is wedging itself back in the seat of the rocker, next to a side table with sweet iced tea and a paperback memoir.

Sunset raked over white table linens at the restaurant. Wine and hands, a sublime filet and the finest long grain rice from Texas; I felt ten years younger immersed in the quiet of our childless space. I mentioned that the restaurant reminded me of the bistro in Mill Valley, the one with the gorgeous hostess, but I realized that the similarity lay not in the setting but the absence of stress. Children have been the bane of our dining experiences. No matter how charming it is when they politely request macaroni and cheese, each good deed is met with an equally annoying faux pas: say, a fork thrown across the table and barely skewering the woman at the table behind me.

We kill 45 minutes atop a parking garage.
And then eat molten chocolate cake a la mode with pints of ale at the drafthouse theater.
My head is heavy and tipping off my shoulders on the winding road home, smiling and satiated but sleepy.

I’m sitting in a freezing lab next to a wall. A lab tech dressed in bright blue scrubs preps my arm for a blood draw, and I look the other way, to face the wall beside me. On it, eight inches from my nose, someone has thumbtacked a cardboard cutout of a meat processing plant. A monochrome logo in fat red ink of a curly-haired bull and the company name blazened around it.
Me: (chuckling) That’s pretty random.
Tech: Random? (smirks) It’s not random at all.
Me: How so? It’s a meat processing plant logo on a piece of cardboard! It’s hilarious. You kill me.
Tech: You know, the owner of the plant was here just the other week.
Me: No kidding?
Tech: She was very pleased with the sign, of course.
Me: (nodding along with the surreal conversation) Then it was worth it, having this sign on the wall.
Tech: Yeah. And then, when she was leaving, she gave me a dozen chicken wings!
Me: (laughing out of my mind) Then it was definitely worth it!
Tech: (laughing) I like you. You come back here anytime!

I watched the monitor as the nurse practitioner glided the sonogram on reconnaissance around my organs. It’s hard not to get technical and revealing with the findings; I keep erasing lines. But I enjoy this kind of detective work, even at my own expense. There was no visible embryo, not yet, only the stage for one. She gently reminded me that it may be too soon to tell, but I’m trusting my gut instinct that there won’t be, this go round.

I disclosed the blood sample more out of courtesy than closure. What gave me those symptoms was most likely a ruptured uterine cyst, which, apparently, is a common ailment in horses. Yes, try googling “uterine cysts.” I got graphic rat dissections and a litany of equine medlines on the subject, but nary a word on uterine cysts documented in the human species. But I swear, the nurse told me they were a common ailment in women!

This I know now: our hearts and home have room for another child, even if our cars don’t accomodate a third carseat.

+++

It’s gorgeous right now. Everything has a crisp surface, the horizon unfolds in blue and purple hills; you can see the outlines of trees several miles away. I forget my camera when a peach-colored sheet of cloud covers the skybowl, reflecting the setting sun. As if the earth has turned off all the lights, the sky beckons the eye upwards. All I notice on the ride home is the linear network of telephone poles and electrical wires, the limestone cliffs as they rove by. I love the sunsets in Texas.

The highs and lows this weekend knotted me and left me wondering how I should feel. I took the remaining two pregnancy tests, the ones left in the package. Compulsively, I had to confirm the positive test; I couldn’t wait until the doctor’s appointment, which is tomorrow morning. And I never suspected they would silently disappoint me! But after seeing two negative results, I steeped in doubt for a while before resurfacing to tell Damon what I found.

The mind has a powerful way. It can wrap itself snug around the possibility of a new baby, no matter how impossible it originally seemed. As the hours pass, a vision becomes clearer and problems begin to resolve, and fear transforms to hope. Then, to release the notion is like asking to grieve. Could this all have been a fantastic head trip? I feel I can relate on some level to IVF patients, who never really know what to expect.

Both of our children were planned. It took an agreement, a basal thermometer, a chart, and a month to conceive each boy, and each time I felt in complete control of my body: I knew the day I was ovulating like I knew the day I was pregnant, and two tests for each child confirmed the latter, in each case. But now, I feel so vulnerable and human, clumsy and blind. And I’m sorry to burden you with this self-pity, but years later I might find this all amusing. I mean, relatively speaking, these are small beans. But they are feelings, nonetheless, and because I’m human I have them.

So tomorrow morning, I go to the OBGYN. I’m anxious. Knotted. And I’ll be a little sad if we don’t find an embryo, but I’ll be okay.

Tonight I have a fun project to occupy the rest of my time: a painting, commissioned for a very special occasion. And I’m absolutely thrilled. Still, I can’t give away any details (well, not yet!).

To all you mothers reading this, I hope you had a relaxing but joyful Mother’s Day…and maybe a glass of wine or a mimosa, for me?

I don’t like to make excuses. I’ve scarcely written a word in more than a week, posting photos instead. Words have sunken deeper, swirling in my subconscience and slowing me down. For seven days I’ve failed to run three miles without stopping short, panting behind a frown for more oxygen. Every time I’ve stood up, the world’s disappeared for three seconds behind a white vacuum. I couldn’t draw, couldn’t paint. I was incubating. Last night, I drove to the store for milk and returned with brownies and dark bars of chocolate, a magazine and a pregnancy test.

The test. Last night, I sat on the toilet and stared at the results laying on the bathub ledge. For fifteen minutes, the little white wand stared back at me with those mute, faint lines. I sobbed in denial. The moonlight poured in; it’s a full moon. The seasons, the changes, the moon: I’ve been more aware of every cycle but my own. I hadn’t had an obvious cycle in nearly three years. And we were taking precautions!

But I hadn’t read the instructions correctly. A crossed line in the oval window, not a single line, indicates pregnancy. I hysterically threw the wand into the trash and went to bed.

When I awoke, I took the test out of the trash. I remembered doing this with Chas’ pregnancy test: there was the negative result, yet all of the symptoms indicating pregnancy. Sure enough, when I lifted it to my eyes, I saw a faintly crossed line. And sighed, wincing, before piling the boys into the car and heading to the gym.

I stopped on the trail to do some knee lifts. Within a couple of seconds, I caught eyes with a whiptail lizard. It watched me from a hole in a tree stump for three whole sets, occasionally turning an eye to a passing jogger. Shortcutting across the meadow, I lunged through high clover, lush and fragrant. My legs felt like lead. When I greeted Ford at the childcare facility, he asked me if he could have a baby sister, point blank. I nearly fainted as I stood up from my bags to ask him if he wouldn’t mind repeating himself.

I wanted to sleep all day, even though I had promised Ford that we’d go hiking. Instead, the television numbed us and I fell in and out of sleep, and my watch would ocasionally chime at the hour. When I had worried long enough, and Damon flattered me plenty on my glow, I bought another test kit and snuck into my bathroom.

Pregnant!

+++

Damon walked into the room, where I was nursing Chas, and I shared my shy, pink grin. After a few tries, he understood, folding red, wet eyes between cupped hands, a happy jaw escaping words. We paced the house in wonderment together, doe eyed and dumbfounded.

Strangely, the only person the news has fallen hard on is Ford. He is heavy with grief. The levity of annoucing the news to family has been lost on Ford, who keeps telling me, “Promise me you’re kidding, you’re not pregnant, Mommy. I don’t want you to be pregnant!” Guilt cuts me with these words, but Damon tells me it will pass. Not to worry.

Meanwhile, Chas is dreaming in his sleep, sprawled on the bed. His frog legs are twitching and he appears to be mouthing words almost imperceptibly. Exhausted, I lay down between him and Ford (who is now asleep, himself). Sandwiched between the kids in the bed, I lay grounded by the mass of a growing family, while my joy flies high from a quiet smile. And Chas begins to laugh in his sleep.

Just like that, we are now FIVE!

Spring covered up what stood bare months before. Under a moonlit sky, dark circles drape the lawn and driveway like velvet blankets, shadows under the unfurled crepe myrtle and ornamental plum. I whack my head in the night’s shade on a low branch that is heavy with young foliage, and walk out, cursing, to my car.

Layer upon layer, Spring spackles up the landscape where Winter fails to slough. Years pass. The prickly pear cactus has budded and bloomed into an agglomeration of ovals, a colony. Little green pup ears stand atop careworn gray sections, each pup is topped with a flaming yellow flower.

There is some serious primping going on.

Night sounds have multiplied. The mockingbird’s soliloquy rambles like a long ribbon across the tapestry of night music, over the tiny drone of crickets and the clicking of bats. Sometimes the Chuck Will’s Widows interrupt the peace with their harrowing calls, hammering from cavernous throats. White Wing dove keep cooing after hours, still love-drunk.

Day sounds too, they have bustled out of bounds. It’s a denser panorama, a flourishing of things everywhere: the chortling of swallows and Purple Martins, hissing wrens, bossy jays. After a rain, the Cardinal leads the symphony with its intense love song. Focused, the calls are sculpted, intricate and metered like gingerbread on a Victorian cottage. And while most female birds silently acknowledge their mate’s serendades, the female cardinal responds clearly, without upstaging her man.

While she broods, I watch the male gently stuff her mouth with little morsels. I wonder if it’s appealing to her, what he’s brought to the table. Does she even care? Before Chas was born, I requested sushi and beer to be delivered bedside after his arrival. Instead, we shared a bag of cold Egg McMuffins. I guess we get whatever’s available in the wild, or at 5am in the hospital.

…You know, he still could have filled that order later that evening, or the next day, damnit. But I never got the damned dinner I asked for. And that’s where I differ from the cardinal…
….I totally forgot where I was going with this.

Put a paintbrush in your mouth for family art time. Take a deep breath. No matter how many times you’ve cleaned up today, this will be the biggest mess. I can’t wait to see more fun at Studio Friday.

In the morning, it’s the last thing I do. I dunk the special black comb with wide and narrow teeth into a tall glass, filled with water. I take a deep breath, forgetting to exhale, and recruit ten seconds and a truckload of patience.

You hear the water running, see me step forward with the glass and comb, and your eyes suddenly spark behind an impish grin. Suddenly, you are tearing through the house, little feet thumping across carpet, patting excitedly atop tile. Unleashed giggles bounce in your wake. I grope for a lock of hair and get nothing but a flurry of laughter and air.

It’s like wool back there: the comb would stand straight if you would sit still, but away you prance and the poor comb bounces in place atop your head like a clinging tranquilizer dart. You disappear behind a corner and discover a forgotten toy.

I kneel behind you as you play with the toy car. Sections of hair at a time, I gently unweave tiny dreads from the night before. Your hair is fine flax. As I arrange it, tame it with comb and water, you begin to look more like a normal toddler boy and less like a normal Chas.

Sloping waves mount each other in back, I swoop longish locks over one another, rounding my way forward to frame your face. The comb easily slides through your fringe in front; it is immune to your rowdy tossing in bed and tantrums in the carseat. I swing the comb down and around your cheek, parting it left. You grin, suddenly noticing me. With both hands, you grab my cheeks and screech! I see your tiny, perfectly round molars in back, and your squinting blue eyes coax me to drop the comb and tickle you.

After we stop laughing, we both sigh. Then, speechless with a hand over my mouth, I watch you tousle your hair up joyfully as a dog on a dungheap. When you are finished, you check my reaction with a curled lower lip and shadowed eyes, trying to mask your grin. But I see it! And we both acknowledge our dueling gumption.

I watched the kid’s sunhats bob and spin in the Twinner this morning as I pushed them up and down the neighborhood hills. Left and right, the wildflowers! Everywhere, embroidering the landscape with color. Like butterflies, we stopped at every honeysuckle to sample the sugar; Ford wouldn’t let a single vine pass unplucked. Australian cowdogs bounded to greet us, licking sunscreen off our hands, as we walked under the arching necks of blooming yuccas, a mature hedge that bordered their yard.

We spent another day at home, but mostly outdoors: pruning trees, training vines, repotting, chasing black bear caterpillars across pavement. In the middle of the day, we watched the storm pass in green darkness, spraying a horizontal rain and dropping hail between the boards of our patio the size of small grapes. Then the sky opened like a vault, and I got a wild hair to drive the kids down to the lake, where I waded into the water with a hand cultivator and a pickle jar, collecting aquatic plants.
I thought it would make the betta happy.

But we survived the last day of the flu: grimacing with every cough that blew my way; washing, washing, washing; spicy seafood soup with lemongrass and mushrooms from the Thai restaurant down the road; iced tea in mason jars with fresh spearmint; bundling up into the down comforter to watch Godzilla movies with Ford in blue twilight. His hair is thicker, no longer baby-like. I’m finding it difficult to snuggle with him, he has grown lean and long.

I laid there, in the rain, remembering cocooning like this in the Airstream. With Ford I would snuggle up in the same comforter, womblike and warm, under the air-conditioning’s permafrost. We’d lay there, wrapped in down and encircled with window: we’d curl up and watch the water crash on the rugged Kennebunkport coastline, or tractors plow by, or passersby swoon at our silver bullet bling.

I ran through the neighborhood again, backtracking alone. This time, to the stopwatch. I started out pounding but eventually glided, like I was pedalling up and down the hills. I have retrained my upper body to assist, my legs to reach higher. My eyes followed the powerlines, where birds were busy preening in peace: cardinals, mourning doves, Whitewing doves, Scrub jays, cowbirds. Above them swooped chimney swifts, and the whole lot of them were in song. A four-foot cedar stump jumped out at me from the bushes, black and damp. I never noticed it this morning, but I imagine it was bone dry and pale, then. But that’s the bunny in the magician’s hat, why I stayed to watch the show and left my gym bag in the car, only two inches further out the driveway.

It’s a crapshoot, this pediatrician’s office business; in my experience, one visit to the doctor’s office has the power to precipitate subsequent visits in the following weeks. Still, I had two kids with a high fever on Tuesday morning and I was forced to take them in to the pediatrician; Chas boiled in the bed at 105.4 F the night before. Still, take one immunocompromized child to an infirmary and he’s bound to pick up another bug. Which is why this visit to the doctor’s office on Monday was not the first visit but our third in the past week.

The previous Monday, I brought a happy, robust Chas into the office for a well-child visit. We walked around the huge lobby aquarium while we waited, patted the glass, scrambled over magazines, dumped jars of otolaryngoscope tips, pocketed tongue depressors for our garden (they make good labels) and dug through the children’s books before receiving a clean bill of health among those agonizing tears of hurt and betrayal that accompany immunizations.

Three days later, Chas was drowning in phlegm, trying to cough it all upwards yet forced to swallow it back down . After dropping Ford off at a playdate, Chas and I kept driving down the road towards the doctor’s office. Presenting with nothing but a happy disposition and a chunky cough, we returned to our car after our quick visit with a prescription for an antibiotic and meds to treat acute bronchitis.

My brother John’s wedding and Easter Sunday came and went, and so busy we were with all the drinking, barbeque-feasting, egg-dying, visiting and mayhem that it was hard to notice both kids getting progressively sicker. On Monday, we were all slumped over. I tripped three times while jogging, and nearly fell over in yoga while trying to find a focal point on a bleak, gray wall. Atticus spun in circles around Ford at the lake, as my poor kid sat on the diving platform, it seemed the entire neighborhood had converged at the lake to revel around him and his blah expression. By Monday night at midnight, Chas had developed the high fever to push us near the edge, on splinters, until morning came and we could take him to the doctor.

Dragging Ford along was difficult, more so than usual. But we made it through the door of the lobby, and Ford found the nearest bench on which to lie. I suggested the nurse to pull both kid’s charts.

This technique works well with siblings: I told Ford to demonstrate for Chas how to cooperate with the doctor’s exam, even though we were at the doctor’s office “only to treat Chas.” And do you know who had the fever? Who tested positive for influenza? Ford. Chas’ results were difficult to read, but we were intructed to treat both kids for the same thing, the flu.

I think I was wiser when I used to take Ford to the Texas Department of Health & Human Services for his routine immunizations. For one, it’s cheaper. The wait is usually less than twenty minutes. The nurses are always efficient, soulful black women with impeccable technique. And the best part? No sick kids to bump into. As for the “well child” portion: who can’t measure their own child’s dimensions and follow a developmental checklist?

It makes sense: $15 for immunizations at a clinic, with a 15 minute wait
vs.
$20 copay + ($100 abx & esoteric meds+ $20 copay) + ($40 copay + $40 addition meds) and HOURS lost. Am I right?