Crafting Form

The stillness of the early morning wraps me in its tender grip. The quiet of the world refreshes my weary soul as I sit and converse with the almighty. The kitchen table worn from countless family dinners is smooth to my fingers as they run along its edges. My chair creaks and sags from the weight of countless bodies. I breathe in deeply letting the fresh eucalyptus fill my nostrils and awaken my limbs. My mind finds stillness but for a moment. A cry pierces the air. “Daddy! Daddy! I wake!” My rest is over. My day has begun.

A sinking feeling as if I’m missing out on all the world by being stuck here fills me as I slowly stand. “DAD EEE!” I set down my coffee as the weight of my chains pull at every fiber of my being. I slowly push back the chair. “DAD EEE! DAD EEE! DAD EEE!” The screams come like the howls of someone being tortured. I force my mouth to move, “I’m coming Eloise.” I drag myself to the door and my whole body screams at me against opening it. I force my will and then my limbs to obey and pull it slowly open. A toddler stands in her crib grinning from ear to ear. “Dady, I wake.” She says one last time now sweet as a cherub with her face half buried in her favorite fuzzy pink blanket. I have a sudden urge to rush over to her and scoop her up into my arms and never let her go. I walk methodically but my chains are gone, melted by love. I wish for this moment to never end as I pick her up and give her a good morning hug.

The kitchen table is now filled with a smorgasbord of food. I sit in my squeaky chair at the end and sip the once steaming black coffee as one of my fellow diners tells me that when it’s summer here people in Australia are drinking hot cocoa. The other diner is saying “gobble, gobble” while flapping her arms. She then transitions to barking and meowing. Now she says “I robot” as she stands up from the table. She walks over to me and starts smacking me on the arm saying “Robot attack. Robot attack.” The other diner has left the table and is making car noises in the family room. The robot is now whispering to me and saying “shhh” with her finger over her lips as she goes to “attack” the one making car noises. The one making car noises notices the gestures and does a proactive attack of his own coming up yelling “Robot Atttaccckkkk!!” The smaller robot screams and comes running back burying her head in my lap but then immediately lifts it up and says “shhh” with her finger over her mouth again. She tuns and runs towards her brother, little feet pounding the hardwood floors. She’s almost there but her pants fall down. Stopping her in her tracks. Everyone erupts into laughter.

Such is breakfast with two kids on the weekend. One demanded cold oatmeal. The other pancakes. We landed on a frozen waffle with pancakes for one and just pancakes for the other. Bananas all around. The only quiet is when their mouths are full but even that isn’t a guarantee of silence. The six year old boy chitters and chatters telling me about alligators and asking me “do fish sleep?” and “where’s your other coffee mug?” and even “what’s a terrorist?” The two year-old girl is the color commentator chiming in with “Alligator chomp!” or “Fishee!”

After breakfast the two-year old helps me empty the dishwasher. I’ve delegated the silverware unloading to her. She, as a typical gen-z, has her work accommodation demands. “Big ladder! Big ladder!” I go and pull out the two-step stepstool for her to stand on so she can not only reach but also see into the silverware drawer. She starts pulling out spoons and forks and then comes to a table spoon. “Where go? Dad!” I turn from unloading the dishes. “Dad! Where go?” She waves the tablespoon in front of me. It doesn’t match the regular spoons. I show her that it goes on the side. “Yay!” She shouts as she puts it away. Joy and pride in her work radiates from her small round face. She comes to a mixing spoon. She climbs down from the step stool and walks over to the counter where the mixing spoons, ladles, spatulas and other cooking utensils are bundled in a crock. She waves the blue spoon in front of her saying “Dad! Up!” I walk over and lift her up. She doesn’t just want to put it into the container she wants to stand on the counter. I set her down and she puts it away. A little light glows in her eyes. She looks at me and smiles. Then patters her little feet on the counter as she moves to give me a hug. I lift her down. She points. “Bowls.” I take down her bowls and she has me open the old drawer that scrapes and screeches as it grinds in the wooden enclosure – no fancy gliding wheels in this 96 year old house.

I pour myself another cup of coffee. I certainly do not need to be woken up, but it’s my way of relaxing in the morning. The kids go off to entertain themselves. Giggles and stories of firemen rescuing kittens and knights slaying dragons radiate out from their rooms. I sit back down at the table now a little messier than it was earlier, maybe a little more worn, but still just as solid. The table is now my workspace as I bring out my laptop and begin typing as the laughter and then screams fill the air around me.

A teary eyed toddler comes around the corner. “Maymay no nice!” She says in a way that you’d think she had been abandoned on a street corner by her brother. “What happened?” I gently ask. “He take dolly.” I pick her up as I yell to her brother “Mason, did you take her doll?” “No, she threw it off the bed.” I look back at Eloise. A small smirk spreads across her face under the tears. “Did you throw Dolly?” She nods. “What are all the tears about then?” She just looks at me as if I’m her whole world. Those honeysuckle eyes flash with a light erupting with love and pull my heart into them with an ethereal force. There’s so much joy in them; untethered, unabashed, free joy. She smiles a huge face splitting smile and buries her head in my lap. She looks back up flashing a grin and then buries her head again now playing some silly game that has her belly laughing. Her small body shakes like a rattle with the laughter. She can hardly draw a breath. “Daddy! Daddy! Where go?” She buries her face again. To be a child. To be so free with such joy in our eyes and laughter on our lips. All over the simplest of things. And to be the receiver of these gifts while sitting at an old worn kitchen table. I run my fingers along the edge as if to leave an imprint of these moments so I can savor them again and again.