Just A Look

Monday. And Russell had awakened at 4:30 a.m. whimpering and burning with a fever. Before the day had even begun, I knew Jared and I were going to be exhausted, weary, and short-tempered. Moreover, this evening was our church's monthly parish council meeting; a council on which Jared serves. It may seem insignificant for him to be gone once a month, since he assumes child duty for me more often than that, but what it meant to me was an evening where he dashed in, inhaled his dinner while simultaneously attempting to feed a disinterested, still weepy Russell, and dashed back out again, gone for hours, while I remained with the children. Admittedly, these are not my favorite evenings, and I certainly wish Iowa City was not an hour away. I just needed to get through the next few hours and then I would be free to blog, pick up the Jane Austen book I am currently reading, and savor a cup of decaf before crawling into bed.

All day I have been running over in my mind what to relate in this blog installment. After all, I just returned from a fabulous girl's get-away weekend in South Haven, MI, with four of my dearest friends. Leaving last Thursday evening, after much preparation for both myself and Jared (Thomas kept requesting that I add "watch television" to the schedule I was writing; isn't 1 1/2 hours a week enough?), I returned late Saturday night - the longest I have ever been away from any of the children - energized and deeply happy. After all, I ate out every meal (and absolutely never shared a meal) and even saw a movie. And so I considered writing on my need for others. That despite my frequent attempts to go it alone, I am in desperate need, not only of my friends specifically, but also of people in general. "No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main," the poet John Donne wrote.

But then I also wanted to write about how moved I was at church on Sunday, as sweet Thomas stood like a statue while our tiny community sang "Many Years" (an Orthodox "Happy Birthday" if you will, sung on occasions like birthdays, anniversarys, and name's days) in order to commemorate his name's day - the day his Patron Saint, Saint Thomas the Apostle, is remembered by the Church. Journeying through the dark years of infertity while watching and rejoicing with other families as they celebrated momentous occasions, causes events like these to be even more profound for me. I hoped to write about the life of St. Thomas, who through his honest expression of doubt provided us with a greater proof of the reality of the bodily ressurection of Christ. Who, according to Church Tradition, traveled to India following Pentecost in order to preach the Gospel. And who ultimately was run through with lances by five soldiers for baptizing the wife and the son of a local prince. And I thought I might conclude with how we celebrated Thomas' name's day last Monday evening by sharing a meal and a traditional name's day cake with family members and friends.

But in the midst of my evening, which I had prayed to "just get through," a beautiful moment presented itself. While rocking Russell (and yes, he was all swaddled up in the fleecy, Pooh Bear blanket) and singing what has become our family song, "If I Had Words" (If you are having trouble remembering the song, the tune is originally from the fourth movement of Saint-Saens' Symphony No. 3 and the words were developed in the movie Babe. It occurs when Farmer Hoggett sings and dances to cheer up the disillusioned pig; we cry every time - seriously.), I looked down at Russell, whose cupid mouth was trying to mimic mine, and then glanced over at Thomas and Elliot, who were playing together in Elliot's crib, a.k.a. The Millenium Falcon (Thomas was Luke and Elliot was "Han-when-he-was-a-baby") and saw Elliot looking at his big brother. Elliot's eyes shone, and he was laughing. In fact, they were both laughing. And maybe it was because I am somewhat sleep deprived, or because the night had been long and there were still dishes to be cleaned up from dinner, but I became a bit weepy, just seeing the way my youngest son looked at his eldest brother.

And now, as the smell of garlic from tonight's bulgogi dinner still lingers on my fingers, I must face the reality of the kitchen, throw some diapers in the dryer, and hopefully settle down with my book and coffee.