Picture this scene: cloying summer evening, kids hanging, parents—two sets—chatting, and without exactly discussing it: impromptu two-families’ dinner. The small girls ate a first course of cucumbers and carrots and strawberries and almonds while the much-anticipated French fries (with ketchup) were in the oven. Within a little while, tofu, squash, scallions and tomatoes were on the grill and a salad was being assembled, and more fries traveled from freezer to oven. These two families are cousinly, so everyone comfortably pitched in.
The wind changed. Anticipation of a storm thrashed outside like so many adolescents refusing to do something.
After fries and playtime, I took the little girls upstairs for stories. We’ve had a few faux sleepovers, sometimes when Arella’s parents are downstairs and sometimes when they go out. She’s four (and a half), just a year (and a month) older than her pal Saskia.
The girls, cozy on the yoga mat by the bed where Saskia tends to sleep, listened to stories and then I told them a story from my childhood that Saskia likes: about the wet Raggedy Ann doll on a camping trip being hung by the fire—and getting a tiny burn on her shoe, which we patched over with a band-aid. Three year-olds love band-aids, that’s a known fact.
Arella listened to the story but didn’t love it with the fervor her pal does (and indeed she does). Arella pointed to a book about being born and I said, “You know, I was right there when you were born. I got to see you right away, and I just loved you from the second we met.”
She smiled. “I came out of my mom’s tummy,” she declared. I nodded. “And Saskia came out of your tummy,” she added.
“Well, I was in the room, but Saskia came out of another tummy. She has a tummy mommy, Caroline, and a forever mama—that’s me.” I said to Saskia, “And you came right into my arms.” I rubbed her tummy and back. “I was waiting for you. We were all waiting for you. One of the first people you met when you came home was Arella. She was only a baby.”
Saskia made her big ‘O’ face. Then, she said, “I have that book of pictures.”
“The one your Aunt Margaret made you?” I asked. “That has some pictures of your aunt and uncle and cousins.”
“Sometimes, there are two moms,” Arella offered. “Emily (Arella’s big sister) is shared between Auntie Karen and Mommy. Then, Mommy and my Daddy had me.”
“Emily was in Karen’s tummy,” I said. “And you share a mama.” Arella shrugged. “I held you all the time when you were a baby, Arella,” I said. She and Saskia giggled. Then, they started to talk to one another rather loudly and I suggested, “Whisper, because that’s what you do at sleepovers.” And for a little while, they did.
The thunderstorm raged through. I turned the fan on to try and drown out the claps to no avail. Michael had fetched the car and the girls and I walked downstairs to say goodnight.
**
There was a moment when Saskia looked sad while talking about tummies and mamas. She’s somewhat confused about who’s who; there are, for example, nine grandparents (and she often refers to Caroline as her grandmother, which to me, means family member who isn’t my parent who loves me). Thank goodness that Arella’s family—like so many of ours—requires a little out-of-the-box understanding (this New York Times article focuses upon how teachers need to be prepared to discuss all kinds of family constellations).
After the storm, I took a walk around the block and realized—as I do whenever we puzzle through these tummy questions together—that those flickers of confusion and even sadness now aren’t going to be what Saskia remembers; what she’s going to remember is that she always knew she was in one tummy and had welcome arms waiting and so much love we were all bursting with it—for her.
