Quiet Cricket

Archer and I have been spending a lot of time at my parent's house. It's been pretty back and forth for us the last two weeks and I thank Heyzues my parents are so close. It helps. Especially when everything decides to happen all at once.

This has been one of the most emotional rollercoaster-ing months of my life. There has been so much going on, most of which I've blogged about and I feel like my head is about to explode most days. I'm back and forth between elated, frustrated, depressed and totally overwhelmed. I stare at the computer screen. And the wall. And my pillow-case, counting stains.

In between births and deaths and weddings and first-words and anniversaries and book-deals, Archer has decided to take up reading. He no longer waits until bath time to read One Fish, Two Fish. In fact, he could care less about bath books anymore. Dude. Mom. Soooo last year.

And it feels like only yesterday Archer was sitting in my lap, in the shower, reading bath books and peeing on my feet.

Bath-time is now just for bathing. And afternoons/mornings and evenings before bed are for reading. EXCEPT, only one book will do: The Very Quiet Cricket by: Eric Carle.

But nothing happened. Not a sound...

My father (who, if you are not familiar, is one of the greatest fathers/grandfathers of all time) loves to read books.

Growing up, I'd carry a stack of my favorite books to bed with me and we'd read them together. One by one. My dad was always patient with me. He would answer every question I had about every character and when the stories got old and boring, he would make up new ones. With new characters. Always silly.

His voice would change according to the character he was reading and his eyebrows never stopped dancing above his eyes like fuzzy-caterpillars.

Reading with my dad was my favorite time of the day.

Several times in the last couple of weeks, I have come home to my parent's house to find my father reading to Archer. The exact same way he used to read to me. And it makes me all teary-eyed and full of joy. Because that's my Daddy. And he gets to do all of the things he loved to do with me, now, with Archer.

But nothing happened. Not a sound...

Over and over my father would read. A hundred thousand times with as much enthusiasm as the first time. And Archer listened, quietly.

When the book closed, Archer would open it again.

I'm pretty sure I would get annoyed after, probably, the 20th time reading the book. "Come on, dude! Something else! PLEASE!" But my dad is a patient dude. And for an entire week... every night... over and over... he would read to him:

But nothing happened. Not a sound...

No more reading in the shower. Archer is on to bigger and better. Books and first-words and bonding with Grandpa. And holyshit. I can barely take it all in without choking on my heart.

So much has happened. So much is going on. I've been trying to catch my breath. Just give me a minute. I'll be right there. Hold on.

But watching them together has been like stopping to smell the roses. Slow down. Breathe. Calm down. Enjoy...

Then he rubbed his wings together one more time. And this time...

There is a lot to be said for patience. It's what The Very Quiet Cricket is about. And being a parent. And a grandparent. It's about waiting until the time is right. To make a sound. It's about being able to step away from the complications of life to enjoy the simple moments. Which I am making an effort to do.

... he chirped the most beautiful sound that she had every heard.

Because the greatest joys are always in the smallest things. Like bedtime stories that never end and fuzzy-caterpillar eyebrows that can't stop dancing.

GGC