Thank You, Mr. Fox

I've been alone with the girls most of this week, which makes me painfully aware of how things have changed for Lily since Annika's arrival. When there is only one adult at home, her needs get met second, which means last, and to top it off, I rely on her to help me when I need an extra set of hands. I am short with her sometimes, my expectations are high, and even as I lose my patience I am overwhelmed by guilt and memories, mostly of the two of us, doing the things we used to do when we were all there was.

Before Annika, Lily and I used to read together, every day, sometimes three or four times a day, sometimes for a really long time. We would each choose a stack of books and settle into the reclining chair, my coffee beside us on the bookshelf, her cup of milk at the ready.

We still read, but I am sorry to say that sometimes it is just the goodnight book, and I cringe as I reveal that there are nights--especially when I am on my own with both girls--when I actually tell her "to pick a short one." Tonight, Annika was tired and therefore feeling placid, and I set aside all the notions I'd had of running errands, killing time before I could put them both to bed. The night before I'd tried this, packed us all up to go to Staples, of all places, to buy printer paper: an errand I should have known would have no appeal to Lily. It was not a success. Think fussy baby, knocked over display, long line, no construction paper as had been promised, and the stab in the heart: Smile at me, Mama. Smile at me like you smile at Annika.

My fault. Staples: bad idea. We needed to stay home, I knew that. So I put Annika in the high chair, spread Cheerios in front of her, and paid attention. We strung up the butterflies she'd made three weeks ago "for a mobile for Annika." They'd been on the kitchen counter all that time waiting for me to get to the task. We drew mazes, which was her idea, but I felt bad when she tried to imitate mine, then said, a little crestfallen, "Yours is really good, Mama." At this point Annika had had enough of the chair, but I scooped her out, grabbed a bottle and said to Lily: It's still pretty early. Let's read a long one tonight.

She decided on The Fantastic Mr. Fox, a Roald Dahl chapter book we'd started on our vacation. We'd only read the first chapter, and it had been chaotic when I'd read it, so I asked her if she wanted me to start from the beginning again, and she said yes. "But can we read more than one?" she asked, with a note in her voice that made me think she was expecting a no.

At this point I would have read the entire Dahl oeuvre to her if she'd been able to stay awake, even if Annika screeched through all five hundred chapters of the Great Glass Elevator. But she didn't, she lay between us on the bed, chomping on the end of her bottle and squirming only just a little, and for six chapters--provoking actual tears, uproarious laughter, and lots of reassurance about the ultimate fate of the four little fox children--it almost felt like it used to, like we had nothing but time.