food, farm, fishy

Last night we all sat down together at our tattered dining room table and, for the first time, shared a meal. I made a stir-fry–zucchini and summer squash, eggplant and onion, carrot and mushroom and basil and tempeh. I went light on the seasoning, offering a touch of sweet and savory and vinegary, before pulling pieces out to cool for you and putting them in your little blue bowl at your spot at the table.

You poked and picked, delighting in feeding yourself and recognizing that we were all eating the same food. Your dad and I ate dinner before we were exhausted and didn’t care (which is too often what happens when we eat after you go to bed). And, for the first time, we all paused at the same time to eat, coming together over a warm and healthy meal. It felt so good; it felt so whole.

***

Yesterday we went to the farm. It was warm but breezy and your dad dressed you in overalls and a flannel shirt (farm chic, you know). You were so interested, hesitant but registering in ways much different from the last time we visited the animals a few months back. You gripped my fingers and meandered around a bit on your own, beaming and chattering. Over dinner we talked about the pile of baby chicks we saw cheeping around inside the barn and the little lamb that took a liking to your dad and the piggies taking baths and the lumbering cow who stood so still for us, patient and reassuring in your nervous presence.

***

Bedtime has become a struggle. You get sleepy, fists mashed against eyeballs while you issue low grunts and high whines, and we do the routine that we do every night. Pajamas, stories, lullabies, bed. Except, now once the bed part arrives, you stand up in your crib and scream. SCREAM. Hanging backwards, pushing your face against the slats–you are a thrashing, refusing little fishy of a girl come bedtime.

It sucks.

And so we leave the room with you standing there hollering. And in ten minutes one of us goes in and comforts you. And you are comforted–you are sleepy after all. And then whoever’s gone in leaves. And you stand up. And you scream.

Sometimes we have to go back in in another ten minutes. Sometimes you sort it out. But regardless of how many visits it takes us to help you get to sleep, it leaves us all a little harrowed.

Last night your dad told you that everyone sleeps. He told you that even your Buppy sleeps. I like the stories your dad tells you. I like the way he renders the world.