My baby sister had a baby. It was a week ago right now, actually. Geoff and I were at a prix fixe restaurant in Old City. (The only reason I mention that is bc once you are seated, they're stoking the stove for your entree.) I get a call from my Mom telling me not to worry and not to go see my sister who was trying to hang on to her hat after a castor oil milkshake was racking her system. Of course, I took this to mean I should worry and go see my sister. I called her and she proceeded to throw up during the conversation. While listening to her, Geoff, knowing labor, was explaining that I was on call and how to box up our filet mignon.
When Clara and I arrive at their apartment, my sis is flustered and winded and in full-on first stage labor. She's pacing, JP is timing contractions. I'm standing in their hallway thinking, "It seems like literally yesterday, she was taping shows on Nickelodeon with the Betamax." They'd just spoken to their midwife. She says call back at 10:15 describing the contractions. Not to make a long story short, because it is a rather short story, but to preserve their dignity and privacy, my little sis and her husband were amazing. When I teach childbirth class, I say that a woman gives birth the way that she lives her life. When I was describing the birth to my bro Mikey, I said this and I added that Shessy was all-business, a little curt and 100% correct. But also, she was so strong. Lela emerged at 11:33 in just 6 contractions after we got there. She tuned in to her bod and was able to keep up mentally with the intensity of her labor. We were telling her she needed to open up to 10 centimeters and to picture that actually happening. That girl's mind is amazing. After a harrowing ride down Lancaster Ave, she arrived and was found to be 9.5cms and nearly ready for pushing.
A million thoughts, that funny mix of deep profundity but then thinking how the midwife was a dead ringer for our old neighbor Tita Dorothy, a zaftig Polish woman and also this staggering sense of pride in my sister. I mean, I've been proud of my sibs before, but to be a woman and witness your sister give birth, is primal. It's raw and real and we could be on a dirt floor in the hills of Visaya howling and groaning those gutteral songs giving birth. Anyway, little Lucia Elizabeth (named for my dad and JP's mom) crowned and emerged with this teeny ruddy body and jet-black anime hair. Clara witnessed everything, wide eyed and game at that hour, I think knowing that this was beautiful and rare, knowing in her soul, that she should take this all in. For her first Valentine's she got a front row seat to people making sacrifices for love, which I think is the whole point of the day.

This afternoon, we were at IKEA. You must understand, I was schooled in the rote tradition: repetition yields mastery. So, I guess it's been since we moved to Philly, so two years now, at least once a season, we go to IKEA. Just before a good nap window, I strap them in with their sippies, a few picture books and expect the half hour car ride to be some chill headspace. Then we get there, we take the escalator up to the show floor where they play in the ball pit, which is designed to look like a giant basket of blueberries. For upwards of a half hour they swim in the balls, jump off the sides, juggle, throw them over the basket handle arch. I have worked it down to a science, this errand. I like this level of predictablility we have achieced. After giving the 10, 5 and 2 minute warning, I have to tantalize them with promises of Cinnabons and almost wrestle them into their shoes to get them to move on from this spot. Usually, I make a list at on the bench, chat with other moms, call Geoff. Then we go on through the store, what have you. Well today, my goodness, today after two years of the same predictable pattern, it broke. They got their shoes off, I said, "Boys how bout 10 good jumps then we go, okay?" I look over and the balls don't even cover their legs, and Manny says, "Mom we're done." I look at Benici who agrees, "We can go." I was thrown off. I didn't know what to do with myself. I had started to nurse Clara but was flustered. My boys have outgrown the ball pit. My boys refused to frolic in the ball pit. Maybe you don't get it. At this stage of development, the milestones are not as distinguished. They are no longer toddlers who are trying to navigate the world of upright homosapiens. They are pre-schoolers, potty-trained, fickle and opinionated as John Stewart. I think I spend a lot of time thinking about answering immediate needs that I don't notice these physical and developmental signs of growth. This reminds me of Benici and his trains, how he loves the heft and finality of something hurtling forward, steady on its tracks, pulling its cargo, moving onward somehow staying together. My sons are this way, hurtling ahead. My God, may I keep up.