3. Clay Pots

May 2021

Caroline, Adam, Jane, Beth, Atticus — a family. No, I tell myself. We are a family. The set is complete. Leave it be. Not now.

Henry’s hands stay on my mind. They torture me as I cut and pack apples and carrots and throw goldfish and a peanut butter sandwich into a box for Jane. Adam stands next to me, mixing a bottle for Beth. His hand rests on my back at the point where it curves south, tethering me to the task in front of me and preventing me from wandering too far away. Jane hops from one foot to the other, listing what she wants to do at the park.

“The slides, Mommy. Let’s do all of them this time. And can we look at the lake? I want to see if there are any baby gooses now!”

“Geese,” Adam corrects. “Goslings,” I reply. He smiles and nods his head.

Jane sings the word to herself happily and runs to put on her shoes. “Goslings. Goslings. Goslings!”

“How about I treat my girls to dinner at Luddy’s tonight?”

“Cheese curds and burgers, oh my,” I coo at him. “Let’s see how they’re doing after the park. But good idea, Hun.”

“I thought so. Let’s get them out for a bit.” Adam rattles a few dishes behind me as he empties the dishwasher. “It’s been a while,” he adds.

“I know,” I say, ignoring the guilt shuffling its way through the door. “We’ve been locked up in Covid-and-a-baby jail for so long now. I’m just not sure how much I want to do with them until they can get vaccinated.”

“I know,” Adam agrees.

“If it weren’t for Beth’s heart,” I want to tell him. “If it weren’t for her age and size.”

There’s no point in saying any of it. We’ve already spoken these lines, and we know the words. I let my teeth sink into the tip of my tongue, just long enough to feel the pain.

“Atticus, let’s go potty,” I call for him. Trusty steed. There he is, already leaning into my side for a hug.

“Leave Mama Bird alone,” I tell him as I snap the hook from the cable to his collar.

“Hello, Mama,” I say to the mourning dove resting on her nest. “How are you feeling today?” The bird stares at me. I laugh. “Same, girl, same.”

Jane has been eagerly awaiting the arrival of eggs. The pregnant bird built it on my little potter’s table, which rests on our upper deck. We greet the mother quietly with each trip outside our back door. The mother built her nest on the table’s top shelf in a spot where she could hide, surrounded by old empty clay pots. I kept meaning to plant flowers and herbs in them. Lavender and marigolds. Rosemary and daisies in the spring. That had been the plan. I didn’t mean to not plant them. Bought the soil. Set the pots out. But the phone rang and so, and so, and so. Too many of those since then.

I glance at the baby monitor and see Beth starting to stir. Adam notices, too, and starts to get her. “I’ll do it,” I say, mid-stride as I head to her crib to nuzzle her and feel her close to me again.

“Okay, Jane, let’s go potty one more time,” Adam calls out from the kitchen.

“Okay!” Jane heads straight for her ‘Big Kid Potty,’ which is pink. We were a bit late to the game, but she’s learned quickly now that we’re preparing her to return to preschool in the fall.

“Hello, my little Sunbeam,” I greet Beth softly, my voice dipping low as she stretches her little body out and squeaks at me. “Let’s go outside for a picnic,” I tell her, changing her diaper and tickling the bottoms of her feet. She grunts and rubs her mouth in reply.

“I know, I know. Your bottle awaits you,” I cradle her against my shoulder and gesture with a flourish, “Ahem, Your Majesty,” doing my best Alice in Wonderland impression.

An hour later, we finally arrived at the playground. The minutia of getting ready to leave the house, getting ready to get into the minivan, getting in the car, and finally, parking and unloading the minivan had tested Jane’s patience enough. She let out a wild whoop and launched her body toward the little kid’s side of the playground. Her feet moved as fast as they could. Her elbows were crooked, and her arms were still, somehow, windmilling as she ran.

“I’ll join her,” I say, laughing with her as I jogged to catch up to her.

“Wahoo!” Jane yells.

“Wahoo!” I echo.

I turn back to watch Adam move toward a shady spot on the grass. Beth is in her stroller, and several bags are slung across his shoulders and back. He grins and waves back at us.

“Let’s be pirates, Jane.” My eyebrows wiggle at her, and she laughs.

“Yes! Shivers and timbers!”

I make a goofy face at her and catch my reflection in one of the carnival mirrors attached to a panel of the playground set. There she is, I think to myself. She’s coming back to me now.

Jane and I zigzag through the playground, chasing each other and yelling about treasure and mermaids. We fight each other with invisible swords and walk the plank repeatedly. The park is ours for the day. We make more noise than usual. A sign at the parking lot reminded us of the world we now live in, and there are rules now about distancing and masks. Halfway through two thousand and twenty-one and the world is still hibernating. Uncertain of what to do. We play uninterrupted, until the goslings pick their way up the hill with their parents, in a neat line, pecking at the grass along their walk.

“Jane, let’s have our picnic now,” I call out as she stands in the sun and stares at her feet.

“Okay, Mommy. Look, I found a stick that looks like a chair.”

She plays with it as we walk toward Adam and Beth, who is attacking another bottle with gusto. Several rattles and toys are spread out on the blanket to entertain her.

Jane sprawls out on the green army blanket, a survivor of my childhood. Concerts and fireworks; ants and popsicles. Forty-one years of adventures.

Adam tickles the back of her knee and passes plates to both of us. We pretend the food is our pirate’s booty. She giggles over the word and wiggles her butt, munching on apples. The juice wets her chin, leaving me a happy, sticky mess to wipe up later. My brain goes there before I can stop it.