Suzy Q Homemaker

It only took eight months, but Simon finally took an interest in Timothy.  But it’s not in the way you would think.  He could honestly care less what Timothy is doing; he needs to know where he is and what I am doing with him.  The reason is simple:

Simon has a baby.

Two days ago, he adopted an old Elmo doll whom he has named “Baby”.   He takes really good care of his baby, too, when he isn’t carrying it around in a clear vinyl backpack or seeing how many flips in the air it can do.  I gave Simon one of Timothy’s long-outgrown newborn diapers, which is ridiculously too big for his baby, and today he spent three hours with his baby in the high chair, feeding him cans of black beans and evaporated milk with a medicine cup.   If I’m walking around with Timothy, Simon is usually right there behind me with his baby, rocking and patting him on the back.  When I was busy with the fire this morning, Simon sang lullabies to his baby and told me that I needed to stop tending the fire in order to sing to Timothy, too.

Ever since the adoption was final, though, Timothy has lost part of his identity.  He is no longer “Timothy” but my baby.  Simon asks,

“Where’s yer baby?”

and

“Are you nursing yer baby?”

(I wish you could hear the way Simon speaks; we’re convinced he was supposed to be a Swede since all his yours are yers and he has that herdy-gerdy lilt that reminds me of  Cousin Sven on Ren & Stimpy.)

Anyway, Simon nurses his baby.  It’s true.  He lifts up his shirt and sticks that Elmo doll to his chest, but not without comments about my…you know.  Yesterday, he was try to figure out what they were called and he was saying,

“I have little ones.  What are doze things on yer belly?”

I hesitated and then answered him:

Boobs.

“Oh,” and here he pauses to think.  “You have big boobs!”

It’s so crazy to me that there are almost nine years between my oldest and youngest.  That’s nearly a decade!  See, I’m finally starting to see how large families do it, especially if you space your kids out.  Older siblings are so loving and thoughtful, and they’re helpful when you need them most.  I love being able to say, “Go talk to Timothy!!”  if I’m trying to finish up dinner or go to the bathroom by myself.  Corey’s even big enough to pick up Timothy and hold him for a minute.  When did he get so grown up?

Is it a Christmas miracle that I didn’t get sick with whatever stomach virus tore its way through my family like a disgusting hurricane?  I think so!

Is it a Christmas miracle that I have not put on my fancy coat over my nightgown and checked myself into a hotel for a few days without telling anyone?  I think so!

Oh, woops.  I just referenced the Ya Ya movie for the second time in the past week.  I’ve only watched it three times this year, so it’s not like I’m addicted to it.  Heck, I’ve lost count of the number of times we’ve watched available Harry Potter DVD movies, to the point that my friend called me out in church this morning for talking about Dumbledore and his magic wand microphone.

We have completed four out of five family gatherings, the last of which we will attend the afternoon of January the second.  Today’s Christmas was at my grandmother’s house; it is an event saturated with tradition:

• the obligatory “Ooo Ahhh” over each gift opened
• the chex mix
• the mandatory phone call from my transgender aunt from California

and my personal favorite:

• the end of the gathering when my grandmother pulls out a box full of the newest toys from the Oriental Trading Company

Wars have ensued over the toys, and they have almost always involved something that requires launching.  It started one year with a bingo game that turned into an overzealous tiddly wink battle.  Small children had to leave the room because there were chips flying at top speed across the table so fast that you could have lost your eye if you’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time.  Over the years, many things have been seen soaring across the room, from plastic frogs and balloon-powered helicopters, to ping pong type snow balls shot out of Santa Claus guns.

Unfortunately, we didn’t get toys that flew this year.  No, we got a box full of wind up mice and two battery-operated cats.  Only one of the mice traveled in a straight-ish line, and the others spun around in drunk circles.  Still fun, though.  The cats, on the other hand, were odd; one of them worked but sounded like a dog, and the other stopped working after a minute and then smelled like burnt rubber.  We turned it off before there were flames involved.  After all, we don’t need any more danger than there already is at Christmastime.