Pancakes with Spirits

When George first learned how to wave, he would walk around the house waving. It was so very cute to watch his enthusiastic motions and excited smile. He began communicating with the world, and he knew it. I admired his pride, and would share stories of his expanding knowledge, “You should see the way his forearm sways!”

In the mornings, George and I kept ourselves entertained. Me sitting at my computer and George sitting on the floor with his blocks or singing computerized toys. I’d catch him looking at the cream-colored brick wall, and he’d be waving. Throwing his arm with the same enthusiasm as if I were sitting  in front of him. I’d say something encouraging like, “Oh Georgie, you are such a good waver. Look how hard you practice. My hard working little baby!” and he would keep going.

After turning back to the computer screen, I’d get the chills, thinking, “I wonder if that baby is talking to spirits and shit.”

Sometimes I ask questions to my daughter that she would have no idea the answer to, like my living Magic 8 Ball. She responds with such conviction, I scrunch up my eyebrow, and think, “That girl sounds like she is telling the truth!”

Over breakfast I might ask, “Kiki, are we ever going to move to Berlin? Or, maybe we will move to New York? What do you think?” And she will say, “Berlin!”

If I dare ask her for more details like, when does she foresee this happening, or if we will be living in a fabulous apartment that could be pinned on Pinterest, she will shout back to me, “Berlin!” I decide I should be happy with her answer, instead of prodding her till she screams, “Albuquerque!”

We made pancakes this weekend. The weather was rainy and windy, so the house creaked throughout the storm. There was a loud creak from the back of the hallway, and Kiki stands up straight, her eyes widen, and she says, “Is there something here?” I told her, "no, it’s the rain." Her eyes shift from my face to over my head, digesting the information and listening for more noises.

Maybe it’s my spirit guide she is looking at. Can my kids see the afterworld looming behind me? They might have a relationship with whatever is tallying up all my good deeds, as well as my lies, cheats and times of masturbation. With this thought, I put my forehead in my hand, and shake my head. It is all too embarrassing to handle. Is masturbation count being shared with Grandma Dee? She would understand, but oh lord, this is the kind of thing I like to keep buried under my down comforter.
Occasionally, my son randomly blurts out a family members name as we are driving down the road. When the baby shouted, "Matt!" my reaction was, “I have to call my brother! This baby is trying to tell me something.” There was no reason to call my brother, other than to say hello. The best I can do in times of supernatural seeming behavior is to admire my kids inhibitions and respect their space. 

I can only hope spirits have the same respect for me.

If she starts to ride a broomstick, then I will really start to worry.