Monday, January 09, 2012
In the chilly morning I’d pulled baby into bed to nurse with me while Proximo snugged in on the other side of Lulu. The three of us under a pile of warm covers and bright eastern light.
Lulu stops nursing, turning around to laugh at Proximo’s little tickling fingers, his now lanky arm crossing her chubby tummy and wiggling into her sides. One laughing meant the other would laugh, which meant that I would laugh, all of us in a triad of soft happiness.
“Let’s go camping!” Proximo exclaims, pulling the white sheet over our heads until the cotton brushes our cheeks and fingers.
“Is this our tent?”
“Yes!” Lulu reaches out with her dimpled hands and touches the sheet, rolling between us, little toes tucked into a sleeper. She grabs at Proximo’s glasses. He giggles and says, “No, baby.”
She turns her attention to my glasses, smears them with tiny prints.
“I want to lay on your belly,” he says.
“Because it is soft. Move over so I can have the warm spot.” (This warm spot is his obsession, the place our bodies have heated, if we get up from the couch, or a chair, Proximo rolls into a ball and claims our seats.)
I oblige, moving to the colder half, a baby on one side and a child on the other, laughing over me, under a sheet, in a cozy house, the cold January winking at us from outside the window.