Ghosts

It's so quiet, I only hear crickets.

In 18 years, the only time we ever left our two children both at the same time were four days in 2000 when Bob and I traveled to a conference in San Jose, California. 

Until today.

We were not the type of parents to take trips together without the kids. I didn't even like to do dinner and a movie without the kids, unless they were both together. I couldn't stand the idea of a kid at home alone. It ruined the potential fun to me. Before we went to San Jose, we wrote a living will with instructions on how to raise our children should we die on the trip. We have preferred to travel separately, ensuring that at least one of us would be available for the kids.

To be clear, we didn't leave our children but they left us. Presently, they are traveling to Red Lake Reservation in Northern Minnesota for a church do-gooder week. "Left" is too melodramatic -- they are together with friends and trusted adults, embarking on an incredible cross-cultural opportunity that will be mediated in a most excellent way by their leaders.

We are home alone in the quiet. To be honest, I feel like its the first time I've exhaled since 1996 when I stood in the shower gulping in sobs of grief, mourning the loss of freedom after Amanda was born. At the time, I was contemplating if in fact my new baby was an independent human being or an vile appendage of my own body. (Do not underestimate the power of postpartum depression.) My blood pressure feels normal.

Today, it's quiet.

Crickets chirp.

Distant jets roar.

Neighbor dogs bark.

But mostly, it's silent.

However the universe speaks. A baby arrives. At 7 a.m. this morning we received a telephone call to alert us our godson would be at our house shortly, because his mother was having contractions. We knew this was coming up, but today is two weeks early. Today, our first day sans children in 18 years, we played Thomas the Train, read "Where the Wild Things Are," served mac-n-cheese in Jake the Pirate dinnerware, went swimming in the shallow end, and played catch with baseball gloves and tennis balls.

Then we all went to the maternity ward and marveled at a brand new baby swaddled in a striped hospital blanket. "That child was inside your body just a few hours ago," I said to the mother, who looked far too beautiful and alert for just bearing a child. (My births were difficult, or maybe I was just difficult.) "I know!" she replied. It's such a miracle. You already know that, but still.

A short story by the fabulous Tobias Wolf tells about an irritated parent who drives his kid to military school, kind of hoping to get rid of him. The parent drops off the son, drives away, turns around to look back and the entire campus has vanished. I haven't read the story but I had the privilege of seeing Tobias Wolf in person talk about the story. It gave me chills. Of course it's a metaphor for parenting. One moment you're children are driving you crazy, the next moment they've disappeared. Poof. Magic. Dust. As if they never existed. I should probably dig that story up and read it.

Tonight, the ghosts of my children and I sit by the pool. The gnat catcher next to me is a hack devised by Amanda -- a glass of white wine and dish soap. I hear a younger Aidan echoing in the water, "Mom, watch me!" demanding eye contact all the time as he plays by himself. A dress of Amanda's still hangs with clothespins, blue with white polka dots. And for the first time in months, I blog. Is this not what I've always wanted to do?

The water is still. We will help with the baby tomorrow.

Thank you for coming over to my blog.

With love from yours truly,

Natural Born Bleeding Heart