nighttime prayers

Anna never ceases to amaze me. We've been saying prayers together in the boys' room for a couple of weeks now, and she's a full participant: she remembers classmates, present and former, teachers, friends, our parish priest, and most of the regulars at Faith & Light. Anna reminds me of people we've not seen in ages, and I sometimes wonder whether she knows something I don't. Last night, though, she asked at the end of prayers (when we usually have the Salve Regina--apologies to all the liturgically correct: someone needs to teach me the Ave Regina Caelorum before next Lent) for Michael.

Michael? I wondered. Which Michael? Then it dawned on me: St Michael, as in St Michael the Archangel. Back in Atlanta, we concluded every Mass with the prayer to St Michael. I don't remember whose idea it was to incorporate it into our bedtime prayers, but we used to have it each evening. I think eventually it was squeezed out by the Salve Regina (which Thomas decided he really wanted, especially after experiencing compline at Minster Abbey). I asked Anna, "Do you mean St Michael?' She said 'yesssss' in the way that she does when you've worked out what it is she's trying to say.

Again, I wondered. Does she know something I don't? I will probably never quite understand the way her imagination works. She remembers so much, and reminds us of things at the most surprising moments. It's unpredictable: unlike Thomas, she's not likely to remember the big events that we keep in prayer; unlike Iain, she's unlikely to have something specific in mind. But then there are these moments, when she reveals something to us, reminds us of something or someone we've forgotten or nearly forgotten, and we know that she's been paying attention all along, storing things up in her heart. She may not be meditating on them, exactly, but she certainly keeps them.

I often wonder how that extra chromosome affects Anna so variably. In some areas, the delays in development are pronounced; in others, she grows by leaps and bounds (though also in fits and starts!), making her way forward in her own unique pattern. In her heart, though, she carries so much more than I do: she may be delayed in speech, she may be behind in arithmetic, but she's way ahead in love.

march miscellany

We've had very little of the 'madness' of the NCAA tournament this year, and yet Thomas managed to throw himself into the University of Washington v UNC game as if he had bet his life on UW. I think the sports gene (like the math gene) must skip a generation. Thomas watched with interest, listened to the explanations given, and by the end of the game was able to suggest fairly sophisticated strategies. I know the sports gene skips a generation, because I can't even remember the specifics, just that I was amazed at how quickly he picked it up. Later that evening, as I was saying goodnight to a very sleepy Thomas, I commented that I was impressed at how quickly he'd learned, and that I was proud of him. As if to console me, he replied that he didn't really understand the offside rule in soccer, either.

inspiration?

Iain has decided he doesn't mind saying prayers. He's practically taken over saying grace at suppertime; he learned Thomas' school grace, and surprised us all one day by rattling it off. We thought he wasn't paying attention.

So prayers at bedtime involve more participation. Thomas tends to remember the big events: he's the first to pray for the people in areas of the world affected by earthquakes, floods, famine or drought, or political unrest. Iain is just the opposite, perhaps because he is only 4 and doesn't have current events brought to he attention at school. He asks God to bless his teachers and friends at school. 'Especially God bless my friend Alex', he said tonight, 'so that he doesn't get ill again'. He continued on, naming friends (including 'all the babies'), pausing occasionally in an effort to remember. 'God bless Poppy...God bless Samuel...God bless Sebastian....' and on he went, until he said 'God bless Rachel...'

He stopped suddenly and looked at me. 'Who's Rachel?' he asked.

I laughed. I have no idea how 'Rachel' got into his head. 'Is Rachel one of your students, mummy?' he asked. Fortunately, I do have a student named Rachel: problem solved.

Ash Wednesday

Today, when I picked Iain up from school, he immediately noticed the ashes on my forehead. 'Where did that come from?' he wanted to know. Church, I said. 'Did you do that yourself?' he asked. No, Fr Tony did that, I explained. He wanted me to wash it off. Immediately. I said, a bit too flippantly, that the Archbishop wouldn't like it if I did that, whereupon Iain started to cry. That'll teach me to quote the Catholic Herald to my 4-year-old. So I had to promise to try to get the ashes off once we got home.

Iain and I walked to the bus station, and rode the bus home. (Iain absolutely loves to ride the bus!) About halfway home, a group of teenagers boarded the bus and headed straight for the back, where Iain had insisted on sitting. One of them, a boy, stared at my forehead. He tried, without success, to get his schoolmates to join him in staring at my forehead.

I think there was a time that might have bothered me. But that feels like a very long time ago now.

High culture

Lewis hates opera. Well, too be fair, he doesn't hate it all: he says he likes Verdi, and he likes Wagner. Still, he usually turns off BBC3 during the metropolitan opera broadcast on Saturday evenings. Apparently, Anna takes after her daddy. 'Scary bit!' she insists, whenever she hears opera on the radio. It's not scary, I tell her.

So a week or so ago, I was with the children in the dining room, and the opera was on. Anna was complaining, as usual. Not only was it scary; she insisted that she couldn't like it. (That's Anna: it's not that she doesn't like something, it's that she can't like it.)

'Of course you like it,' Iain interjected. 'It's lovely.'

That's my boy.