Sometimes when I drive to Shekina Garden by myself, I notice the cows that graze at the bottom of the hill that leads there. I almost always notice if the baby blue-eyed buffalo is there, but sometimes I’m in a hurry, or I’m sad, or I’m thinking of other things I need to do and I don’t really see the cows. If Isaac is with me, on the other hand, the issue is settled. I will notice the cows, or I will notice the fact that there are no cows, like the other day. We drove down while the three oldest kids were in Thai class. Isaac was on his kid’s seat on the Pegasus, (our motorbike that is not the chariot,) and Solo sat on the back, and as we drove our conversation went something like this:
“I’m going to see cows! No cows! Where are the cows Mama?”
“It looks like they didn’t come today.”
“They didn’t come today! Where are they Mama?”
“I don’t know, they’re somewhere else.”
“I will call them. Cows… where are you cows? I’m calling them, now they will come! Where are you cows, come hee-re!”
And it went on like that, and I was thankful for Isaac, because no interesting thing escapes him and he never frets. He never frets about big life issues, anyway. He frets about plenty of things like whether or not I allow him to look at the dog’s poo before I throw it in the toilet.
We went to the garden to retrieve the three bottles of kombucha that I had left in the fridge there, and when we arrived, I said hello to the workers who are building our new workshop, the amazing new place that will allow us to separate garden and building tools from kitchen stuff, as all such things should be. Separate, that is, and in their own happy buildings. And any building looks better if it has a grass roof, so it was nice to see the builders building, piling brick on brick, getting the window frames ready. It's nice to see these things progress.
Solo turned seven last week and Kai turns thirteen on the first, and suddenly I’m this kind of Mom, the kind that has all these big kids with long legs. Kai is man-sized now, not nearly as tall as he will be, but as tall as many men around here, and he is still learning about holding himself back, not playing with full strength when he’s wrestling with a nine-year-old. I’m feeling stirrings of unrest as I wonder if I am skilled enough to parent teens, but the truth is that I wondered the same thing when we strapped Kai into our community’s shared car and left the hospital the first time. Why does anyone trust me with this? I thought then, but somehow we stumbled along together until I’m staring next week in the face, and my beautiful firstborn is nearly thirteen.
Like Isaac, he has his own way of pointing things out to me. Mostly ironies or silliness or grammatical errors made by his siblings. New buildings, differences between countries, the hilarity of being asked in his school book to try to imagine spending a week in India, the things we sometimes miss out on, the perfect additions to pasta (pepper), moments in books we have both read, new kids fantasy that I should read (because he knows I love it.) Soon he'll be beta reading my new book, and I can't wait to hear what he says, because he's so perceptive about literature. ("Villains always make two mistakes. They brag about what they're going to do when anyone can hear them, and they monologue.") And, like with Isaac, I am thankful for what he helps me see.