There are five of them---kids, I mean--and they are all growing at the same time--wouldn't you know it!--and I can't keep up, and am glad I can't.
Ezra has finally, finally, finally started reading for pleasure. The first book to be visited with this honor was vol. 1 of The Littles, a sweet if rather fluffy series about tiny people with tails, which he read on December 1st. Yippee! My little Ez is officially a schoolboy (antics in abundance plus schooling=schoolboy, no?). And do you know what he did today? All by himself, he followed the recipe for Toll House cookies (with oil). After I explained the measuring cups and spoons--he picked up the concept of fractions in a fraction of a minute--I let him loose and he did not disappoint. The came out perfect, and we made plates for six of our neighbors and made deliveries during the twins'/Hannah's naps. Bad mama, but what can I do, sometimes? I was so proud of him.
Naomi, famous (around here) for her nonsensical little stories (e.g. Once upon a time there was a tomato. All his brothers and sisters got burned in a fire. The tomato went for a walk and he died [chortles]. The end!), came up with a joke-riddle. Actually, it was a joint effort, but the bulk of the credit goes to her. Do you like it? Q. What's the shortest story that never was? A. Once upon a time--the end! I like it. It really works for me. I can't explain it. And I love how she calls her stuffed animals "stuffed-up animals." They sound positively bursting at the seams (and some do) with excitingly springy insides.
A bit about Daddy's genius. The twins, I confidently (and rigidly) believed, had been suffering for several months from a series of aches, growing pains, colds, ear infections, ouchy teeth, separation anxiety, and suchlike difficulties, causing them to awaken several times a night thus bringing me (and D.) along with them. Since their fussiness came on so suddenly after so many months of good sleeping, I was more than willing to give them love and comfort and tissues and songs and bottles and fresh diapers and so on, though my sanity and health paid for it. David, however, had no faith in their constant suffering (varied though I claimed the causes to be), and convinced me to sleep-train them with the Rosemond method, which we had never used. It worked! On Nov. 29, we started this new game of patting them every five minutes without giving them much else to look forward to, and within a few days they went back to being good sleepers. Guess they weren't in any real pain after all. Guess growing up is just hard to do, and the nights long and dark. So much for maternal instincts.
Hannah, looking at our two new kitchen pals (identical Chafetz Chaim posters from Morah Esther's "Treasure Chest"): Mom, some wabbis have haiw on dere chins!
Saul: Sings "Twinkle, twinkle, little star" - comes out "Tinkle-tinkle, how rrrrrrrrrrr!" And says, "Heh-woh" for hello.
Yasha runs as fast as he can from the back of the changing table into my arms, not holding out his own arms for a hug till the very end. If I were not to catch him, he would fall without being ready to cling to me to brace his fall. But he likes the speed and the danger, and we play this game over and over again. Is it meaningul? Is it a test of my mother love, and of his ability to count on it? Something in him, and in me, just wants to play and play and play, till my arms are weak and I'm feeling dizzy.
