A week of parting.

Hamilton Heights corner.


Colette flirting with a tiny garden hiding on 87th Street.


Final weekend. This week has been like a vacation in the place we love, celebrating with all we've come to know and adore. I left work a week ago and have just rollicked in our New York life since then. Last night at least 13 kids hid under beds and scattered through the house for Colette's final game of hide and seek. It came and went. In the lead up it felt far off. But now our departure is gaining on us and my heart feels like it is up near my tonsils. I peep into each room in our house before I enter to hold it in my head - leave with the scene wrapped up for me when I close my eyes. A memory cache. The pictures aren't it. It is a sensation - the smell, the aroma and feel of the air just after the girls leave a room. The sound of the bath water. The smell of Harlem air coming through the windows.

We've been wandering around the city with the eyes, ears, senses for taking in. It is a basic lesson but not easily digested. If only we were always on the verge of heading out - it would all be so concentrated. I am so sad to leave I bought my first real pair of sunglasses and stash my tears behind them every day now. But as Colette says with wise eyes, reassuring: "we will probably be back, Mommy."


Convent Avenue.


The Lion and the Mouse. Rome's favorite - wants to read it every single night.


Popsicles in the backyard. (Romy: "papa-school")


Sister chat in early evening light.


The cast of hide and seek.


Jumping contest.


Morning nestle.


"That's you, Mama." Colette


Romy Danda.


Typically odd place for repose.


Rain dance.


My 8am meeting this week. Such a nice development.


Park days.


Peony carnage.


My NYC brothers.


Contented X.


A band of friends.

A Farewell to Our House.

(Beautiful photos of the house by Stephen Johnson)



The story of our house in Harlem is a story of pure grit. Xavier is made of it. When we moved back to New York from Paris in 2010 he was convinced we needed to buy a house in Harlem. I was not. I was adamant about being free, unattached. Spending my money on travel and experience, not on something literally immobile. I was convinced my priorities were right and his were both old-fashioned and extreme.

Our house has turned out to be the best investment we may ever make in our lives. Six years ago, before Colette and Romy came along, I had no idea what the house would come to mean to us.

In the early days, I felt swallowed up by the space. Whole sections of the house were almost cordoned off – just ask my brother Marc, who occupied the third floor. We never went up there. The first winter, the house felt cold and drafty and Harlem was a world I didn't want to come to know yet.

Xavier persistently examined each corner of the house, deciding how to proceed. He vanquished all of it, tackling every surface in the house – drenched with sweat and grime, carrying on long after I dropped off to bed at night. The remarkable part is what he was doing was pure restoration – not renovation or gutting or replacement.

This house welcomed our babies’ tiny souls and has contained moment after moment of their and our unfolding: chalkboard drawings of family portraits and chateaux; piles of stuffed animal kingdoms; doudous hidden away inside secret cabinets; dreams of snow and sledding; the ghost of Mr. Hamilton looming across the street; tulips, peonies and cherry blossoms; Marguerite’s “Boite aux Lettres” (mailbox) – outside her bedroom door (into which I would drop goodies late after work); the arrival of new sisters; bubbles in the backyard; Colette's tantrums and wit in almost every zone; Romy’s giggles; leaps and pounding and sister shrieking; bath water bursting beyond the tub; rolls of 1920 player piano jangles setting little bodies to motion; backyard bulbs; shadow puppets; soft tales of Maisy Mouse and Mike Mulligan and the Little Red Light House; January galettes des rois parties; Thanksgiving celebrations; birthday balloons; bathroom tiles; oversize Christmas trees; Totoro; séances under the gas chandelier; our Star Wars Halloween; dressup; couch bouncing; sits on the front stoop; sun baths on the roof; shoe shining with Papa; secrets in the window seat; backyard payphone calls; thunder storms booming; Colette's 'hello to the sky' tribute to the universe; our Harlem community garden across the street; hide and seek – little bodies under furniture, beds, in closets, cupboards.

These are the moments that made our house great – that transformed the space and made it a character in our lives and not just an immobile investment. I’m converted to Xavier’s outlook. Our solace is knowing we are going to do the same thing in another place, with another house. Knowing that Romy, Colette and Marguerite’s spirits will leaven the house and make it animate is enough inspiration to jump off this cliff.

As a goodbye, we are having all the neighborhood kids come for a final game of hide and seek. Colette’s idea.

Chicken.

Romy and Colette have finally been playing. Interacting without anyone necessarily getting hurt (Romy). Mostly it goes like this:

Colette: "Come here my little one. Sit down here. Take this. Be good my little one."

Romy: "OK mama"

Colette: "I'm not your mama. I am Lily (or Alexa or Samantha or babysitter)"

Romy: "Ok Lily"

Colette: "Don't cry my little one. Take this umbrella; it is going to rain today. Now you be good today while I am gone."

Romy: Making baby noises, "OK mama."

Colette: "I am not your mama!"

Romy is asserting herself a lot more. She screams back at Colette what Colette is screaming. It shocks Colette – she stares at Romy with disbelief: her expression reads, “Sheer audacity!” But Romy carries on being cheeky.

Romy is also living up to her age. Everything is about independence. “That is my decide,” she announces when she thinks it is her turn to choose. She has also taken a strange liking to chicken. We actually rarely eat it, but when asking her what she would like to eat, invariably she responds, “chicken” (sounding like her French papa with a ‘cheeken,’ a hard e sound where the i goes).

Romy continues to take hard falls – undaunted by fear. Xavier wonders why she doesn’t learn to be scared, but I think the thrill of ascending just dominates. Paired with her triumphant/showy little laugh when she gets to the top, it is a good show.

She has also gotten into the bad habit of going silent and getting into trouble (des bêtises - as branded by her papa). e.g. smearing desitin all over her favorite stuffed animals. The soft fur of the penguin, her own hair and face totally covered. Now when we change Romy’s diaper, she says with sincere eyes and nodding head for emphasis, “Cream for Romy’s skin, not for animals. Not for fur.” We emphatically agree.







One morning last week, I was dropping Colette off at school. It was a frenzied morning, where sock seams and the milk level in the cereal bowl were all wrong. I had an early meeting and was already going to be late, so was taking little micro breaths trying to keep the pressure I felt in. Finally got out the door, up the hill, around the corner and into the school. I walked Colette to the central drop-off spot for her class and as she entered the space, all the kids lining the benches of the lunch tables started chanting,

"C O L E T T E,
C O L E T T E,
C O L E T T E..!"

The stress instantly cleared. Big smile on both our faces - Colette's teacher's too. Such a great start to a day.

A great Colette quote recently: "Can I feel my soul in my chest? (Concentrating) Oh! I think I felt it - kind of jumpy in there."

She's also been asking about death. One good question on the subject: "Is bumpy or smooth?"

Good news. Bindia is back. I frequently find Colette in intense conversation with someone. Arguing, but there are pauses for a response to the points she is making. One time I asked her who she was talking to: "Bindia. She is back! I don't see her anymore, but I do hear her. All Bindia talks about is poop now," (with a disappointed expression).



Colette is a very serious artist.




Our grande Marguerite – leading them all. Tall and lithe, lines of a dancer, she headed back to Paris this weekend after one of her visits. Colette dreams of time with Marguerite, imagining moves she wants to show her or dreaming up how Marguerite might react to an idea. After Marguerite headed to the airport, Romy spent all day yesterday asking where Marguerite was. In the middle of the night, “Where is Marguerite?” Vanishing act – after good time together.

One Saturday morning we went down to the kitchen and found all three girls sitting, eating breakfast together. Marguerite had quietly herded everyone down the stairs, gathered the bowls and spoons and served cereal to her sisters. Xavier and I stared at each other, raised our eyebrows and said bravo! She had also unloaded the dishwasher. Loves order. Wonder where that comes from.



I love the 10-year old moment – curious, super creative, dying to help and so sweet. Especially Marguerite. She is really delightful. Memorizing beautiful French poetry and gracefully dancing along. I marvel at her independence, her emotional balance. We celebrated her birthday with a treasure hunt and her good New York French friend, Brune.

Colette is convinced Brune’s name is Broom and can’t be persuaded otherwise.

A great moment from the birthday sleepover with Brune. We were eating rotisserie chicken for dinner (a rare, fulfilling moment for Romy).


Colette: Why are there bones?

Brune: We have to kill the chickens to eat them

Colette: So they are not alive, Broom?

Marguerite and Brune: No.

Colette: But how do we kill them?

Brune: With a pistol

Marguerite: NO! We just break their necks

Colette: (crying) OK I am not eating chicken then

Romy chimes in: Cheeken


Xavier and I just sat shaking our heads.

Winter.

Inside. Long-standing sink sessions. Protracted sun baths - marinating our winter skin. Piano playing, naked bums. Hiding. Winter rites - a galette des rois. New rooms spawned by Xavier bricoleur. Winter blooms.

















And the stairway complete with our picture project.



Little Mr. Fox waiting for spring outside.