The sauce bubbles on the stove. Pasta boils in the pot.
I taste the sauce and add a bit more wine.
From the living room I hear Ezra’s three-year-old rendition of “Yellow Submarine.” [“An da tiiiiime when I was bornnnn, lived a ma-a-an who sailed da seeees….”] “Jay and Ezra sing it. Sing wi’ me, Jay!” I listen to them sing together. Funny, Jay always sings part of the first verse wrong. I try to figure out Ezra’s pronunciation of “submarine” phonetically. Impossible.
The baby kicks and squirms hitting a rib and encroaching a bit more (!) on my lung capacity.
I taste the sauce and add some red pepper.
From the basement I hear a guy’s voice. It has been going nonstop for probably half an hour now. Greta laughs and the sound of it bounces up the stairs. I don’t know exactly who this new guy is – or even if he is a “new guy” – but I enjoy hearing her. Especially when she laughs.
I check the bread.
Ezra and Jay have moved on to a back and forth game of “Yes, it is/No, it not.” Jay randomly switches his position and Ezra predictably switches his to stay in opposition to whatever Jay says. Their laughs are so different – Ezra’s high pitched and squealing; Jay’s deep and rich. Just hearing them makes me laugh.
I get out the bowls.
Ezra comes in the kitchen to tell me that Jay will not let him do something. He has become quite the little tattle tale. I wonder how that is going to play out when it is a baby brother he is telling on instead of Jay. I respond to his charge with a version of “whatever Jay says goes.” Ezra scowls. Luckily, he has the attention span that comes with being 3, so I turn on the oven light so he can see the bread baking. He is sufficiently awed – and distracted. He asks three-year-old questions and I try to give him answers. He runs back into the living room to tell Jay supper is almost ready and “Yellow Submarine” stars up again. It is obviously his new favorite.
I drain the pasta.
The baby has the hiccups now. He has just started getting them in the last week or so. Ezra used to get them all the time when I was pregnant with him. I try to remember if Greta did, but I really can’t. You forget details like that in 19 years. I wonder which things I will forget over time about Ezra and this baby. It makes me sad to know it will happen.
I take the bread out of the oven and slice it.
Voices drift up from the basement. Greta should tell me if there will be company for dinner. But it really doesn’t matter. There is plenty.
Apparently, Jay has been paying attention and has interpreted sounds from the kitchen correctly. He and Ezra come and start cleaning off the table. Ezra informs me there are still some blueberries from this morning’s pancakes in the chair. This is in no way surprising. He probably wore more berries than he ingested.
I ladle sauce on top of pasta and grate out a generous topping of Parmesan.
Jay pours the drinks and gets the silverware.
I serve up the bowls of pasta.
Greta pops up out of the basement inquiring, “What smells good?”
Ezra asks for bread.
The baby squirms and rolls over.