It’s lunchtime. Riley is sitting happily in the highchair, for once, gnawing his way through a teething rusk. Hi-5 music is playing in the background and when the synthesised melody of Keira’s favourite song “L-O-V-E” comes on she hops off her chair and, like an obedient automaton, begins to do the accompanying actions.
I stare at the kitchen table before me. It is scattered with the usual suspects: playdough in all forms of consistency, unsharpened pencils, and magazines for cutting up. If I’m lucky, I’ll be able to locate a stack of notes on whatever I’m working on at the moment. Currently, it is a heavily highlighted copy of Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own.
The two-minute-odd peace may afford my ability to read a page or two. Scrape the pen through some wonderful sentence of feminist thought. Or, more likely, my mind will wander to other matters: is that cauliflower in the fridge going off? What shall I make for tea? Is Keira’s throat sounding scratchy? Is she getting sick? Do we have medicine?
And if I’m really going to be honest, I’ll admit my mind turns to my first two written novels, currently gathering dust on the bookcase in my bedroom, resigned to their drafted fate. I’ll rewrite a chapter in my imagination and tell myself that one day I will pull them out again.
It is usually in such moments of reflection when Adam looks at me and asks, “What are you thinking?”
And because it is exhausting to pick a place to begin, let alone recount the story in its entirety, I usually say, “nothing” because it is easier.
Today, no one presses me for my thoughts; yet they were interrupted when I decided to watch, truly watch, Keira’s dancing for the first time.
I hadn’t noticed how she tries to sing along with the “L-O-V-E” song, but she can only manage to place every third word or so because it is hard to concentrate on dancing and singing at the same time. Yet, when the chorus is coming to an end, she knows what the last word is and shouts “LOVE!” at the top of her lungs and that makes up for the previous handicaps of the tongue.
Her movements are still erratic; stumbled. She reminds me of a miniature tinman, all lock-kneed and stiff. She is capable of making the ‘O’ shape by reaching her arms over her head and clasping hands but is lost (as am I) when it comes to making and ‘E’ shape for it involves lifting the leg at precisely the right beat before you need to put it down again. Yet she continues, and practices. She is getting better and she knows it. She beams. The song finishes and she scampers back up into her chair to eat her ham and cheese sandwich.
Behind me, I hear the sound of solid food hitting tile. The ‘clang’ means Riley has had enough of the teething rusk and I wait for the inevitable grunting as he begins to fight his way out of the restraints. I turn to him; he gives me a toothy grin and slaps the food tray with his hands. His face says, “You’ve got ten seconds before I lose my temper”. Normally I rue his dramatic ability to change moods, but today I decide to embrace the moment of gladness I’ve been given and unbuckle him, pull him out, and give him a mama bear hug. He squeals, giggling; Keira squeals because she loves the sound of anyone’s laughter and we all laugh at each other. At nothing; at anything; at ourselves.
It’s not Valentines Day; it’s a thousand times better. It’s L-O-V-E, lunchtime style.
