Inner restlessness

From time to time -- frequently, really -- I get this inner restlessness. It's writing related. I need to write something, I just don't know what. Work is helpful -- when I don't know what to write, they give me something to write about. Often it's terribly uninspiring, but that's not their fault. It keeps the restlessness at bay. But here, on a Sunday night, I sit unable to go to bed until something comes out, I don't know what.

* * * * * * *

This evening I lay in bed with my child. "Tell me a story" he says, after the light has gone out. So often he wants stories about animals, various animals, in strange situations. I ask; he says no. I ask if he wants a story about a boy with his name -- children, they tell you, like to hear about themselves. He always says no. He will listen to me tell him about when he was a baby, but ask him if he wants a story about himself, and he always says no.

I ask next if he would like a story about the baby. He is enthusiastic about this. So I do. I tell him a long rambling story about how the baby is excited to be born, because there is someone very special waiting for her (in his words, the baby is always a girl. We don't know, but I'm going to use female pronouns because he does.) This person is her big brother, and I tell him all the things she is looking forward to doing with him. He smiles. He laughs a little. He looks pleased. His cheek dimples here and there, with each passing sentence.

My heart overflows.

We are trying to make this special for him, to start off their relationship as best we can so that it ends up better than mine, with my sibling. We have no control over this -- my own observations tell me that it's personality, more than anything else, that decides sibling relationships. It's not years apart, it's not gender, it's not how the parents do it -- some siblings will just click, and some won't. Perhaps you are more likely to click with a sibling, given your genetics, than a random stranger, but it is left up to fate. As it will be with the two of them. Part of the reason I want two is to give them a chance, a chance to have a close relationship with someone who will know them longer -- and maybe better -- than any friend or any spouse. Someone with whom they will share a past. It may not matter in the end, what I do -- they will choose what kind of relationship they have. But at least I want to start out as best I can.

* * * * * * *

After that story, he wants another one, about the same thing. "Tell me the one about how when she arrives, she looks for her big brother. And she comes into this [his] room and the big brother isn't here. And he's gone shopping with his dad."

I don't delve into the likelihood of the baby arriving without a father present, because (God willing) he'll be by my side the whole time. But The Boy is three, and hasn't asked how the baby comes out (although he has his theories*) and so I haven't talked about it. Neither has he asked how the baby got there. I'm a big believer in the idea that kids will ask about what they are ready to hear, so I haven't said anything.

I ask him what they were shopping for. He pauses, considers.

"A turnip!" he finally answers.

I try and keep the astonishment from my voice. "Why do we need a turnip?" I inquire.

"For dinner." he says matter-of-factly. And the story is over.

* * * * * * *

* Not so long ago while we were driving to daycare, The Boy mentions to me that the baby is scared, the road is bumpy. We have a conversation about this, and the topic turns to when she will come out. "She'll burst out of your belly!" he tells me. "She'll burst out of your belly, but then she'll put you back together." A pause. "And I will help her."

I'm hoping that he isn't prescient -- I'm hoping that I can get away without having a c-section. And I'm certainly hopeful that if it is necessary, someone more skilled than a four year old and a newborn will be there to put everything back where it came from.