Late Summer Fall

“Nothing that is worth knowing can be taught.”

- Oscar Wilde

I have seen the signs. The peaches we bought recently were mealy, and the geese flew over the playground in a V formation. I closed the windows the other night, and dug through the cedar chest at the foot of the bed for a warmer sweater. To someone else, these might be good things. But summer is waning.

I watch the little yellow school bus turn the corner, lights flashing, stopping at the neighbor’s house to beep as a little girl runs into its open doors. Zoë is playing Animals on the floor, elaborately lining up the two teams to face each other. This time, it is mammals versus dinosaurs. What would it be like if she were instead racing around to get ready, running outside to meet the bus, gone for six or seven hours while I puttered around on the computer, simultaneously bouncing Sabine into submission, only to come home tired and grumpy and wanting to watch TV? I would miss watching her struggle to understand how to do addition on her fingers or remember a phonics rule, witnessing her heartbreaks and triumphs on the playground. I would miss the war of the animals.

There was a letter from the principal of our local grammar school in the mailbox the other day, saying my IHIP met the standards and inviting me to contact him to discuss any aspects of Zoë’s education at any point. I felt relief to open it and see that I had passed the first challenge and, simultaneously, a sense of weight. It is up to me to carry this out. I pinned it to the bulletin board near the fridge. I can feel it hanging there as I walk by, like a breath. If this gets to be too much, there is the way out. I am not alone.

II.

I have been disconnected from Z. It was almost instant when it happened. Not in the birthing center, when I was all blissed out. But over the course of that first week that Sabine arrived. Zoë was in camp all day. When she came home, we had visitors, or I would fall asleep. I didn’t know what she’d experienced. I didn’t even know enough about her day to ask leading questions that would prompt her to tell me more than “It was good.” My physical space was almost always taken up with Sabine, whom I would accidentally call Zoë, whom I would gaze at and remember Zoë when she was that small. Zoë herself was suddenly a foreign object.

I would look at the girls in their beds. Sabine’s tiny body, still curled up in babyness, more familiar to me now than Zoë’s, which seemed to almost reach from tip to end of the twin mattress upon which she lay. Her body was so big in comparison. It was a shock to me. They are both my babies.

My physical space with Zoë has been interrupted. My lap is shorter, my arms are full. I offer my lips - they are outstretched over the bundle at my breast, my arms paralyzed in holding. Zoë doesn’t mind. She doesn’t blame. She skips off to bed. Her world is bright and cheery. I am impressed with her resilience, how she understands me better than even I do her. She knows when to stop asking for something, right before I snap. She picks the baby up and comforts her while telling me about something she’s discovered or thought up. She has already overcome her jealousy, resigned herself to the ways of this new life, and come to terms with the inherent differences. I have much to learn from her. Her resilience is like a gel around her, bouncing her around the world. I run my hand down her back, hoping some of it will rub onto me.

III.

When the Verizon guy showed up to fix the phone a day early, just as I was getting home from so many errands that Sabine was on the brink of explosion (and had, in fact, exploded in her diaper and was about to roar with hunger), and Zoë wanted to wrap a friend’s birthday present right then and there, with or without me, I decided to experiment. I made my voice sound the opposite of how I was feeling. I answered each person softly and kindly. My hands calmly changed the baby and my voice chatted with the Verizon guy while my insides were in an uproar and my head exploded with all the things I wanted to yell. In the end, everyone else was nicer, people were cared for, the phone was working, and I felt held together.

I’ve been trying this experiment more and more. When I feel disconnected from Zoë, I watch her intently. I speak to her softly. I can’t give her time with me alone anymore, but I can give her my full attention. And when I can’t give her my full attention, I can sound like I am.

IV.

I didn’t know what to do one day. We had no playdates, no classes, no projects, no chores. We had done our morning lessons, and we had nowhere to be. I suggested we go for a walk. Usually Zoë likes to walk down to the Strand to get icees, but I was tired of icees. I suggested we walk across the bridge to get milkshakes. We used to go for walks all the time at our old place. We would discover, discuss and debate things. It’s been a while since we’ve done that.

The weather was perfect. The air was absent of any August humidity. The sun was left naked by a cloudless blue sky. I was wearing Sabine in a wrap and holding Zoë’s hand. As we walked across the bridge, we spied a spider preparing to eat a cricket. We talked about how high the bridge was, how far away the water. We spied boats and islands and imagined people among them. We played naming the magical creatures that would hide among this set of flowers or within this stand of rocks. The milkshakes were thick, and we ran inside the diner in order to dodge the jealous bees. On our way home, we began a conversation. It was between Zoë and Sabine. I spoke for Sabine, answering Zoë’s questions. And Zoë told her everything, as if I myself wasn’t there. I became a fly on the wall, listening to my daughters, learning them.

When Zoë was a baby, and I would have to go out for a day of work, I would feel the disconnect when I got back. I couldn’t read her as well, couldn’t decipher her signals. I would have to study her hunger, the first signs of tiredness, decode her grumpiness. That was the first time I thought about homeschooling. I knew someone who had been as a child. Our daughters were three months apart. She told me she had already looked into the eyes of her baby and told her she would homeschool her. And I agreed. The idea of being physically apart for so much of the day, five days a week, would make it much harder to mother. All our precious and rare time together would be spent relearning each other. I am grateful for it now. Even in transitions like the year we’ve had so far, we shift together because we know each other.

Zoë invited me to a look at a page of her journal – the diary we got for her when Sabine was born. I’d taken out a bunch of books on being a big sister, and one of them was a diary. Zoë and I thought it’d be fun for her to keep one, and I thought it’d be a good way to invisibly practice handwriting, spelling and creative writing elements. On the page, Zoë had written, “I love you. Funny you. Happy you. Don’t be sad.” She said, “See how I made the letters? Are they good?” The letters were all the same size, capital and lower case, and the l only reached as high as the o, v and e. I quickly decided that over-correcting her diary would be a bad move. “They’re fantastic! They’re all facing the right ways!” “Yeah, anyone can read them, don’t you think?” she asked. “Yes, they’re very clear. And everything is spelled correctly! That’s a great apostrophe.” I said. “It is?” she smiled. “I’m really getting it, huh?” “You really are.” I looked at her knowingly. Her face shined like a moon.