Sometimes I am awake in the middle of the night and I write glorious prose in my head, but in the light of day the words have escaped me. So, sometimes I quietly crawl out of bed and I flip open the laptop in hopes of capturing the words before the seep away... but alas, the glare of the screen, the lure of the Internet is all too much. No, if I'm going to get the words down, I'm going to have to do it long hand, on a yellow note pad, with wide, not legal, ruled lines. The pens must be just perfect, even pencil is preferable to a pen that skips along the page, stopping and starting.
If I could only get up earlier then my children in the morning, but it seems no matter how early I get up, 5 minutes after my shower I either hear Lucy calling from her crib or Noah is bounding into the room with a cheery, "Hello my name is _______" fill in the blank with any number of names for the day. Sigh... I have morning children!
These morning children are a delight to be around. Lucy, although still not possessing a complete grasp of words yet, babbles and sings nonsensical words. She'll greet you with a giant grin and a big, "HI!" Every time she says "HI" she beams as if she's just mastered the word for the first time. (and not said it on end for the past several weeks) It is awesome. She toddles around the house with great pride at having mastered walking. Soon she'll be chasing Noah, and there will be no stopping her. I think the only thing keeping her from having a perfect life right now is her inability to open the cabinet where the cereal, crackers and other good things to eat are stored, on her own. If she could crack that puzzle, she would be in heaven. (and I don't mean Iowa)
Noah, sigh, Noah... it's such a wonderful name, Wouldn't you agree? Picked out specially for our first born. But, currently we hardly get to use it. Noah, you see, has turned into a warthog named Pumba, at least it is today. Yesterday he was a Triceratops named Sara, and the day before he was tank engine named Thomas, and the day before that he was a train named Emily. He won't answer if you call him the wrong name. And woe to you, if you forget who he is, or worse yet he's changed his name between the last time you addressed him and the moment you are in now. It's a wonderful, delightful, and exasperating phase we are in. I try to embrace it, but sometimes I just want Noah to come home. Sometimes, I am sure he's living in some world without me and I want him to come back.. now! But, when asked where Noah is, and when he might be coming home, Pumba/Thomas/Sara et al will respond, "Noah can't come home, he's at work." (opening a whole new world of Mommy guilt)
"Will he come home soon?" I ask him.
"No, not for 40 days." He'll respond. And so, on it goes.
I had an overactive imagination as a kid. I used to get so far into my imaginary worlds, whether in reading a book or just playing, that I would not hear my mother come up the stairs looking for me. I would get in trouble for ignoring her... I wasn't ignoring her, I was just gone. I understand the power of the imagination and how it gives you freedom in a world where you might not feel in control or free. I worry that Noah feels he has no control, and it freaks me out. Then I remember that he is three... of course he has no control... that's my job. He is just being three and realizing that while everyone around him tells him what to do, when to do it, and how, there are indeed somethings he can control. He can control when and where he poops (and so far, that's not in the potty. But that's another story) and he can pretend he's something different every day. And that's pretty cool.
And that's just a few of the random thoughts floating around my head this evening, how about yours?
