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Maria Gets Some New Jewelry

Keeping it Interesting

Morning After

When Edward woke that morning, he heard noises from the kitchen, odd, when his sister moved like silence. But then they were expecting. Had it happened?

Slipping on an oversized white shirt and some flannel pants, he walked into the kitchen. The scene was worth a picture, and he promptly regretted not having a camera on him.

The infants, and there were two of them, were on the floor on their stomachs, looking up at Maria. The girl had brown hair, and she was gurgiling happily her little feet kicking at the air. The boy, with bluish-gray skin, was still, watching his sister with thoughtful interest. Maria, meanwhile was trying to feed them. They'd picked up baby food when preparing for the children, obviously they should have picked up high chairs as well.

The boy was having none of it, his mouth firmly closed against Maria's offers of carrot puree. The girl opened her mouth obediantly whenever the spoon was offered, but promptly allowed the food to drool back out again, refusing to take any nourishment. Maria was gritting her teeth, and simply repeating the same useless motions.

"So, children." He said, to get her attention.

"Last night, in a dream." She responded, without looking up from the girl, who was happily spitting out another mouthful of carrots.

"Difficulties?"

"They won't eat."

"Maybe they don't like carrots." He knelt beside her then, gently stroaking the boy's hair. The child looked up at him with serious eyes.

"Carrots are perfectly nutricious. There's no reason for them not to eat them."

"Yeah. But maybe they don't like them. What are you calling them?"

"Boy and girl."

"Huh. They need names too, then. Go to work, Maria. I'll feed the kitlings, and give them names."

"No junk, Edward."

"Right."

She stood then, and her eyes were so full of exhaustion and confusion that his heart hurt with it. His poor, strong sister. Unable to even admit that she needed help.

"It'll be fine sis."

"Of course."

Dinner Time

The warm scent of baking bread filled the house when Maria pushed the door open, braced for another encounter with her newly gained children. The smell was unexpected, as was the image of Edward in the kitchen, stirring a large pot, as if it were normal for him to be making dinner while she was away at work.

"You made it back." He looked over his shoulder at her and grinned, all casual and friendly, then returned to stirring the soup. Maria was still braced for the chaos that had not come.

"Where are they?" She asked, searching for some sign that last night, and the morning that followed had actually happened.

"The twins are napping." Again, nonchalance, as if this were the life they were living.

This is the life we are living, Maria reminded herself. There would be no going back.

"And you decided to make dinner?" She couldn't quite keep the disbelief out of her voice.

"And I decided to make dinner. Go look in on them, Sis. And then set the table."

She'd never seen him take control before. It put her off balance. And so she did as instructed, as if she were the younger sibling.

The nursery was dimly lit, by a nightlight that only Edward could have picked out. A butterfly.

Lovely.

Picking her way through the room, careful not to make any noise, she approached the crib, and gazed down on the slumbering children. The one that Edward had dubbed Laroan had her tiny fingers in her mouth, and her curls fell about her like a halo. The other, the one he called Nasiir, slept as if troubled, his hands balled into fists, his legs kicking out at seeming random.

Reaching down, she touched his cheek lightly with the back of her fingers. This seemed to settle him, his unconcious struggles calming.

What did infants dream of?

And what of the dreams of gods?

But dinner was waiting. She left them to their wanderings.

Toddler Quest

If it had only been that Edward baked a pie, there wouldn't have been a problem, not really. The problem existed not because the pie was baked, but because Edward left after making it, leaving it to cool on the counter, and fill the house with the scent of sugar and strawberries.

Maria, left home with the twins, ignored the pie. It was Edward that had the sweet tooth. Sitting at the kitchen table, she stirred her tea and watched the brats play with some silly, brightly coloured mobile that one of the neighbors had brought over. They liked it so, for reasons that she couldn't understand.

Had Edward been like this? She remembered him as a quiet, distracted child, easily entertained, needing little more than the reassurance that she was there. Maybe memories bred fondness. Maybe all infants were so dull. If nothing else, when they aged they'd be worth interacting with. She hoped, at least.

When the children began to fuss, Maria quickly ran through what might possibly be irritating them. They had just napped, so exhaustion was out. Their diapers were fresh changed, and they had already been fed. Neither of them showed any signs of being ill. There was no reason for Laroan to whimper, or Nasiir to stubbornly throw his pacifier across the room each time she placed it against his lips.

At a loss, she picked them up, an infant in each arm, bouncing lightly with each step, in hopes of distracting them from the threat of tears. A giggle, as she neared the kitchen. A giggle from Laroan, but a shriek from Nasiir as she began to walk out again.

Alright, so the source of the fuss was in the kitchen, right? She returned to it, earning coos and giggles from Laroan, and blessed silence from Nasiir. Good. Her ears were ringing.

"What do you want?" Was it a sign of insanity to speak to those who certainly wouldn't be able to understand her words? Well, at least she wasn't making the irritating little coos that some made with children. There, justification. Children needed to be spoken to if they were to learn how to speak. "I won't play this game for long."

She stood in the middle of the kitchen, and as she did so, they squirmed in her arms, reaching and fussing toward the counter.

But they couldn't be hungry. Looking for the source of their fixation she spotted Edward's pie. Well, that was it then.

"Not a chance. Unhealthy, and too old for you." It was important to be firm with children, and avoid reinforcing bad habits. Quickly, she placed them back on the floor, ready to return to her tea.

But it was hard to drink tea while Nasiir shrieked. Laroan too, was crying, a thin, pathetic wail, the sound of hearts broken. It was rattling. She picked them up again, and the crying began to taper off, as both infants once again struggled toward the kitchen counter.

Perhaps she could distract them?

Setting them in their individual high chairs, she got a can of peaches baby food down and opened it, filling a spoonful and offering it to Laroan. The infant girl whimpered helplessly, and recoiled from the spoon. Nasiir slapped it from her hand with his clumsy fists.

Well, this wasn't working.

For awhile, she let them scream. Yet, the combination was too much. She could have walked away on Nasiir's screaming, but not on Laroan's broken whimpering. And while she could have tuned out the whimpering, or simply tried the comfort the girl, Nasiir's screams were driving her nuts.

She returned to the pie, reluctantly, and cut it open. A small scoop of the filling was all she took, and that was put in the food processor, the children were not so good at chewing, yet. All the while, the crying continued.

She fed them slowly, listening to Laroan's gurgling laughter at each bite, observing Nasiir's silent joy.

This was not how it should be. She was not to give into them, not to teach them that she could be defeated. It wasn't right, that they should win this battle, so small and fragile as they were. If they could win now, it said little for her abilities as a parent later, when they were older and more clever. Together, together they had been too much to take.

She thought of that, and frowned. Soon, perhaps, it would be time to get them seperate cribs, or seperate rooms. She thought she could see how they might play off each other, make each other stronger with their kinship.

A memory of what the woman had said, of their lives and deaths.

They had made each other vulnerable as well.

So perhaps, perhaps, it would be important to teach them to be strong alone, without each other. For their sake.

And for hers.