Thursday, Aug. 13th
10:45a.m. During the homily at the Mass for principals and pastors, Nicholas decides to compete with the Bishop by giving his own homily. “Geh-yeh, ach-eeeEEEeee!” (My friend the priest says he was interpreting for any other babies in attendance. Although there weren’t any.)
6:40 p.m. As he’s dog paddling and jumping around the shallow end of the pool, Alex throws me for a loop. “Mommy,” he says, “Nicholas has Down Syndrome. All little babies have Down Syndrome, right?” He looks kerflummoxed when I correct him.
7:15p.m. Christian brings Julianna to the big pool. She walks across the concrete toward me, giggling uncontrollably, and without hesitation, she leaps off the edge into my arms. It is the start of twenty minutes of Julianna alternating between laughing gleefully and shrieking to make sure I understand that the instant she gets into the pool, she wants to swim back to the edge, pull herself out, and jump in again.
Friday, Aug. 14th
10:25a.m. at the library. Julianna howls when I try to push the stroller past story time in progress. We go inside. She is so enthralled that she crawls all the way to the front and sits beside the storyteller. When they pull out the “parachute,” she is the first of the children to dash out underneath it, and spends ten minutes walking around, looking up at the kalaidescope of colors over her head.
11:30a.m., the circulation desk lady pulls out the “Batman” book that we put on reserve, and Alex does a little dance, singing, “Yayayay!”
12:45p.m. Nicholas, who’s been crying for half an hour to get my attention during lunch, finally gets a diaper change. As soon as his tush hits the changing table, he becomes a different child, all gummy grins and wheezing giggles. I’ve never seen a child who so likes to have his diaper changed.
4:00p.m., Alex who’s lying with Nicholas on the basement floor while I teach voice lessons. It’s uncanny, looking at the two of them—like time-warped mirror images of each other.
4:20p.m., finished with lessons, I go upstairs to wrestle with Julianna, who is hanging out in my nursing chair by the window. She wants to bounce, play itsy bitsy spider, and giggle at me. Who needs Daddy?
7:50p.m. Julianna and I are horse playing at bedtime. I’m chewing on her cheeks and giving her raspberries on her neck when she shrieks in protest. “Do you want me to stop?” I ask, and back off. She grunts at me expectantly. It takes me a minute to see that she’s lying with her shirt pulled up, waiting for me to get her belly.
These are the moments that make it all worthwhile.
Kathleen M. Basi 