Langston cracks jokes now. I mean, I suppose he always has, but these recent jokes are surprising, and original, in his special Langston way. Every day, at day care, they begin meals with a "Bon Appetit, it's time to eat."  And while I'm not sure if they regularly cue friends with a "1-2-3..." beforehand to recite this in unison, I was told by one of L.'s teachers recently that after she jokingly inserted "Pickle!" instead of the usual chorus of "Bon Appetit," Langston divined his own invention, "1....2....3....SAND CASTLE!" he announced one day, riffing in his own way on the pickle joke.

Another time, Langston made some comment about diapers, that I didn't quite make out initially. I was surprised to hear him mention diapers, as he hasn't worn them in ages. "Whaaat?" I intoned, a la, "Say WHAAAT?" minus the "say" part. Now, Langston repeats the the scene, complete with my incredulous, "Whaaaat?" and he bows in laughter, over and over, until I declare that our enjoyment of the bit must, sadly, be all done.

His expressions of love have also increased. He loves greeting people, hugging them firmly, and has more and more frequent reminders: "I love you, Mommy."  Apparently the other day he told a little girl in his preschool class, "Love you?" and she told the teacher right away, astonished, "He just said he LOVES ME!"

Oh, Langston.

Open Windows and Minutes

The windows have been open all day today. They’re open, even now, and the thermostat reads seventy-three degrees, and the train’s whistle sounds more like a wistful fog horn, like Coleman Hawkins’ gorgeous entry at the beginning of “My Man,” that moment that just undoes me.  And this was one of those days. Those days where you think that if eternity were a real thing, and a record skipping on the same song of one day, repeating over and over, this day would be sweet and real and a million things to notice so you would never regret the seamless transition from one bar to the next of the same, persistently perfect tune. 

Our morning began with baking chocolate chip cookies together in the kitchen. Langston hauls his step stool out, and we trip back and forth to the pantry, pulling out ingredients as he names them: “White sugar! Brown sugar! Shortening!” He scoops and plops the dry ingredients in the bowl, and counts off my cracking the egg into the bowl with the precision of the French chef in Sabrina: “One…two…three…CRRRACKK!” 

After warm coffee (for me) bananas (for him) and chocolate chip cookies for breakfast, we immediately headed outdoors into the woods. I’ve said before how beautiful it is to walk out the door, around the driving circle in our complex, and right into the trail’s beginning across the way. For two and a half hours we met no one, save a courteous mountain biker at the very end.  Collecting pinecones and interestingly-shaped sticks, pausing for the occasional cheesy photograph, we relished in the sharp blue sky, the little bridges and huge rocks, and all of the other minute sensory details. 

How often in our busy workday, do we pause to measure roots with our feet, to trail our fingers across rough bark or any other texture which slows us down?  Remember that scene in Amélie, where she sinks her hand into a sack full of grain, and taps the crystalline surface of crème brulée with the tip of her spoon? It’s like that.

We returned with our coats slung off, draped through the strap of my bag, cheeks reddened and legs all stretched out. A quick nap (two hours, naturally) and we were off to Langston’s weekly speech/physical therapy appointment, at a new fancy-schmancy building in Epping.  Not too long ago, I decided to attend these appointment with my ratty sneakers on and music at the ready. I ran for forty minutes today, and my legs propelled me effortlessly up hills, with farms, fences, and landscape rising and ebbing with the road.

Arriving again home not too long ago, dinner started, I took a first, cold pull of a Smuttynose IPA. Pita bread filled with hummus, tofu, steamed broccoli and a handful of salty crackers.  Langston is now drowsily munching on his dessert, a final chocolate chip cookie from our batch this morning. After I tuck him into sleep in just minutes, I plan to draw a long bath with eucalyptus bath salts, a lazy book of travel essays at hand, Coleman Hawkins on the mini-speakers in the bath room.  It’s that moment, just at the beginning.  You’ll hear it.*

Hawkins. My Man.

*But if for some reason, you’re not sure…it’s at one minute and nine or ten seconds. There. Now you know.