When I tell my children that the wind can howl, they do not believe me. "Wolves howl," my son all but scoffs. "Wind blows." This is my literally-minded child; the boy who questions everything; the one whose first attempted written sentence was "My vanes are in my bode." His sister, of course, takes his side - she is his shadow and echo. "Wolves howl," she reiterates, "like this." She then proceeds to treat me to her best wolf imitation, which, I have to concede, isn't bad.
We are in the kitchen, poring over the science kit we purchased at the school book fair. I am in the process of coiling a thin strand of copper wire around a nail, in an attempt to make an electromagnet. To me, howling wind is no less preposterous a concept than electromagnetism, but my son has no problem believing in electrical currents and magnetic poles. The proof of those concepts is before us, literally in the sharp black text of the science booklet, and physically, in hand.
The next day I bundle up my son and send him outside to play with the boy across the street. My daughter and I, sensibly, stay inside, and watch the boys join the whirlwind of swirling autumn leaves. And then, we hear it. The wind howls.
"Did you hear that?" I ask, vindicated. "The wind is howling."
This phenomenon clearly delights my daughter.
"Listen to that," I say, as the wind continues to howl. "The wind is talking to us."
"Mom, I need my coat," she says. "I need to go talk to the wind."
Her face is luminous with wonder. As I armor her with a puffy parka, her slight body nearly doubling in size, it is preposterous to me that, at times, I have considered motherhood a sacrifice. We stand together on the porch, and she hesitates for a moment. Glorious, golden October has given way to harsh November, but, in the end,the cold proves no deterrent for my daughter. She gallops down the porch stairs and the wind howls its welcome to her, but I can't hear her response, because she's already tripping down the sidewalk, crunching leaves under foot, racing toward her brother. Theirs is a world in which I no longer reside - a world where wind is a playmate. They are my own and yet, my children are what I am not - vessels of concentrated, endless energy. I stand on the front porch, hugging my arms around myself to shield off the cold, and wait until my daughter reaches the end of the walk and takes her place as her brother's shadow.
This made me tear up, Kim. I couldn't take another bite of my Cocoa Cream of Wheat for the beautiful tightness in my throat.ReplyDelete
Beautiful story! I like the "wind is talking to us." My 21-month-old loves to be outside too and crunching leaves.ReplyDelete
Aww, that's my Kim and her beautiful words. You capture life in a way that we can just feel.ReplyDelete
Your children sound delightful. There is nothing funnier than the double your size parka's and more amazing than to see discovery through the eyes of a child.
Kim, I love your writing :) You perfectly captured the moment here.ReplyDelete
Beautiful story! Kids help us see the world differently.ReplyDelete
My goodness, you are a terrific writer.ReplyDelete
What a sweet moment for you to remember with your kids. Someday everything you say will make them roll their eyes, and not with wonder.ReplyDelete
Thanks for sharing!
What Beautiful writing! You've reminded me how magical is it to be a mother and see the world for the first time through the eyes of your children. You're a wonderful writer! Thank you, also, for sharing that quote today! I LOVE it! It's going on my mirror tomorrow! :)ReplyDelete
you captured that scene and made it into a sweet memory story =)ReplyDelete
That is so beautiful! The perfect image of childhood wonder. Thank you for sharing!ReplyDelete
If I print this out and bring it to our playdate, will you autograph it for me?ReplyDelete
Beautiful--I loved the part about your children being part of you--and yet their own entity. I feel that often with my own girls.ReplyDelete
Oh my word! I Loved this post! I need it autographed too!ReplyDelete