Loons

I caught sight of the shadowy form of myself in the mirror - long neck, hair coming down from its bun, round little baby head weaving about on my shoulder - and sighed.  I was holding my 1-year-old before bed, soothing her in room, lit by the dim tones of her frog night-light, and recalling the pangs of despair I felt earlier when I contemplated what life was like before our children came along. 

It was easy.

I remember the first day of fishing season, 2005.  There was still plenty of snow on the ground, but my husband and I didn't mind.  We drove to the convenience store and paid for our fishing licenses and bought junk food.  At home, we packed our snacks and the worms dug from my FIL's earthy garden and our fishing rods, donned our lined rubber boots, and headed out through the woods.  We weaved through trees, crossed powerlines, and slipped down an old road in the woods.  We came to the top of a ravine, and - there! - the stream below snaked along, burbling its hello.  I took a photo of us by the water's edge, snow around us, winter coats on, fishing rods in hand.  We fished and laughed and talked.  A nibble here and there - the trout weren't terribly bitish, and we'd had better, more memorable fishing trips, but this is the one that stands out in my mind tonight.  I suspect we came home, took a nap, ate sandwiches and chips, and went for a long, meandering drive through the rural back roads my husband grew up exploring.

It is soon to be the first day of fishing season.  We will head to the same stream, but our 5-year-old son will carry the tackle box. I'll carry the fishing rods, and my husband will have the baby strapped onto his back.  We will fish for 30 minutes while our son chucks rocks into the water and the baby squirms and shouts nonsense and grabs at branches.  We'll go home, exhausted from our short adventure (it's harder climbing that ravine with a 59-pound kid on your back, you know), and remove muddied pants and nurse cranky babies and stand, dumbfounded, while looking into the fridge, wondering what on earth to throw together for a well-balanced dinner.

I hardly remember what it was like to have time that was our own.  Today, my husband and I did not spontaneously take off for the border to get some cheap groceries and detour off to the closed mines.  We didn't drive 2.5 hours to a lake and camp out on the shore, listening to the loons at 3am and shivering with delight.  My husband scrubbed at the counters while I dressed the kids and took them to playgroup.  I fixed the eldest a sandwich after I put the baby down for a nap.  The headache that throbbed behind my eyes was not sated by a 30 minute nap.  We entertained some friends while my husband ran errands and tried to fix his chainsaw.  I made supper while the baby carried clean utensils all over my house and my husband got ready for work.  After he left, we visited my grandparents and came home and that was when I sighed, because I still had to put the other kid to bed and clean the kitchen and exercise and finish stripping the cloth diapers.

But my son just emerged from the bathroom, toothbrush in hand, and said, "Mom, what is the name of that bus in "Convoy"?  I mean, what kind is it?"

"It's a chartreuse microbus."

"YES!  That's it!"  He turned on his heel, murmuring the lyrics under his breath, one hand in his mouth wiggling his loose tooth. 

I told my grandparents about the loons tonight, but they barely listened, for they were smitten with my children.  I think they have forgotten the ache one has for the sound of the loons, but they reminded me of the delicious ache of being somebody's answer.