Aurora cries when she’s hungry, and when she’s tired and not tired, and when she wants to be changed, and when she wants attention, and when the music-playing mobile in her crib stops playing music, and when Avery is too close to her face (though, mostly, she laughs at her brother), and when she is bored, and when she doesn’t like the music I’m playing, and when she’s frightened, and when she’s startled (once, just once, she’s rolled out of my bed; I hadn’t known she could do a 360), and when she wants to cry, because Aurora is a baby and babies have no language.
But babies have language. Da-da, followed my ba, followed by ma-ma, followed by a series of syllables that, one day, will help her form words. Avery’s first word was cat, and, for a while, for words he didn’t know, he’d use the word aba, and I learned his language and the reasons why he cried (mostly the same things that make Aurora cry make Avery cry) and the way he’d tuck his head between his hands when he was asleep, and how he would rub his eyes with the back of his left hand when he was tired but not wanting to admit he was tired (and he still rubs his eyes with the back of his left hand, which remains my cue to force him to lay down).
Can I play with Rora?, Avery asks, now, right now, while I’m at my computer, listening to Biophilia, and Aurora, right now, in her bouncie, is chewing on a tiny game of Life that Avery got in what passes for a Happy Meal from Wendy’s maybe 15 months ago. He and I and — were on our way home from New York, a day in Central Park, or maybe Free Comic Book Day, or maybe those events were the same day, and the three of us had been hungry and we had stopped at a Wendy’s and I ate a baked potato with my hands because I had been driving. I always drove.
Avery didn’t like the game because it didn’t make noise, and because he couldn’t easily turn it into a gun, and because we would tell him that his toys were not guns but were something other than guns.
Do I or should I or have I craved miracles? – Bjork in Thunderbolts. She is singing this song, now, or, not now, but when she recorded the song, and I am listening to this song now, right now, and Aurora is in her bouncie, chewing on a toy (she’s teething), and Avery is in his room wrecking havoc, and the rain has stopped, and I miss the rain, mostly because I like seeing how long I can stay outside without getting wet.