A Pattern of Words

All I want to do is bake. Which is weird for middle of the summer hobbies, right? But I scoop cookbook after cookbook off library shelves and plot which chocolate-y mess we’ll make next. The kids aren’t complaining.

This might be the last summer her hair turns white blonde and I’m trying to soak it in while I can. Each strand gets wiry from endless pool time, sun soaking, and hasty shower and then contrasts sharply against her rapidly deepening tan. Sunscreen and mosquito repellent lays thick on all of our skin and bare feet stay somewhat dirty at all times.

Their legs look so long, their expressions so old. Suddenly I don’t have a baby anymore and it feels really disorienting.

Everyone else complains about there being too much singing, but I secretly love it. Elena agrees with me.

Wilting wreath: check. Light colored dress: check. Cold front requiring hoodies and hats? Who would have guessed.

It’s hotter than an inner circle of hell outside, but they keep insisting our inflatable pool is “too cold!” and laying on the sweltering, black asphalt. I have a niggling fear I’ll have to scrape them off with a spatula if they stay there too long.

As June flies through our lives, the heat gets turned up and suddenly it’s not so nice to be outside again.

The heat and stickiness of the day, the endless whining of the kids, the long drive to the nursery. But now: other, more vivid memories crowd those out. Wandering through a small forest of trees to pick the perfect Maple, picking out more flowers to plant in the backyard, talking in the car as the heat-spent kids quiet down, luxuriating in time spent together as a family – something we never seem to do enough. My mind can’t twist around the fact that we’ll get to watch this tree grow in our yard – that in ten years it’ll be big enough for the kids to climb and to cast a shadow.

By the time you were born, Mom had embraced her back to the earth, hippy side and decided as your older sisters, we should be allowed to attend the birth: that it was a beautiful, natural thing. Our twelve-year-old sister was hesitantly agreeable to the idea, but at ten, I was ecstatic. What an adventure! I enthusiastically packed and repacked my shiny gold backpack – one of those of the mini purse variety that was so popular in ’97. Mom warned us that go-time would likely fall in the middle of the night, so every single evening I laid out a “hurry to the hospital” outfit with care, making sure even my shoes were ready. “IT’S TIME! SHE’S IN LABOR!” my sister would screech every morning into my ear and then watch with devilish delight as I’d rush around the room, bleary-eyed, pulling clothes on haphazardly only to realize she was joking.

The actual night Mom went into labor, I have no memory of being woken. I don’t recall driving to the hospital or checking in, vague impressions of trudging down corridors flash through my mind, as do interminable stretches of waiting. I finally decided with disgust to get comfortable, because nothing seemed to be happening. The labor and delivery room was long with one of those hard, vinyl couches on one side, where I curled myself into a ball and fell asleep watching mom lay in bed and make progressively louder noises. I was shaken awake to mayhem – I didn’t know birthing a child would involve so much yelling and my sister was repeatedly urging me to WAKE UP BECAUSE IT’S HAPPENING. I peeled open my eyes and watched my youngest sibling slide into my dad’s arms (the doctor was in the other room, assuring the nurses he’d come in a minute – a big game was on and he just wanted to see that last shot. The nurses came back to tell my mom that “you still have plenty of time – the baby isn’t coming yet” only to have my dad ask “then what am I holding?”). Once she was born, my older sister was leaping around the room, laughing that I “slept through it all”, but I didn’t – I definitely didn’t – I protested, then rested my eyes again while the doctor and nurses bustled around and did more boring things. You were skinny, wet, red and unimpressively squalling. My warm bed seemed far away.

Your infancy blurs in my memory. I mostly remember posing you on my doll bed, fighting with our older sister about who gets to pick out your cute outfit each day, constantly trying to make the playpens seem more interesting so you’d stay contained, dragging fingers through your mouth to pull out any and all small things you’d inevitably find in corners of rooms – most notably those gross little centipedes that curled up and died everywhere in South Florida. I shared a room with you for a while, your crib taking over the area where I had my art desk, until you broke one too many toys and Mom convinced our older sister that it would be fun to share a room with me, instead of making me share a room with you.

When you were four or so, you were adorably cute: you had finally grown into those huge ears and your eyes didn’t seem quite as waifishly large. We took you to the portrait studio in the mall for that classic crossed legs, fluffy dress, and baby doll in your lap photo. Your thin brown hair curled beautifully. At home, you got into everything, climbed shelves to reach our more interesting toys, ripped stickers off the cool dollhouse mom got you, clattered around in giant toy heels, and had perpetually scabby knees. Your Godmother bought your a cowgirl dress and you wore it daily for months.

At five, we moved to North Carolina and you were no longer a baby. I remember realizing you were old enough to hang out with a neighbor friend with no actual supervision, although that first time I also remember Mom making me hang around outside, making sure you guys didn’t get into trouble. At eight, you had skinny legs and bad teeth. I’d drag you to the Blue Ridge to keep me company as we zoomed around the mountain roads and stopped to take endless photos. At eleven you were a bridesmaid for our sister, wearing the long iridescent gown proudly, while optimistically pushing at the rouching on the chest to make it look like you had some curves there. I wasn’t around as much during those teen years – your crushes and friend groups morphing from one to another quickly in my mind. Suddenly you were eighteen and heading off to school – the University of Greensboro of all places. But a year later it was UNC and that seemed more right.

Now you live in Chicago and have flown to more places I could ever hope or dream to. You pop in and out of town, the fun aunt with the exotic treats. Our lives are still – as they have always been – not quite on the same timeline, a solid decade apart. Me with kids, you with a full-time job and calendar full of fun destinations. I wonder each year if that decade will eventually seem less, if our lives will slip into more parallel tracks. You’re starting to talk and to dream about weddings and a paired off future. Not quite there, but almost. You’re not calling mom frantically begging her to help you find your car, although you still finagled your way into getting her to do your taxes. You’re reaching adult status at 27, though you still act like a kid when it comes to teasing our kids.