Nancy Atherton - Aunt Dimity Digs In

For the Bubble Brigade, friends indeed

1.

I had two infants at home and I was drinking heavily: two pots of tea before noon and another pot before nap time. For some reason, I was having trouble sleeping.

It wasnt the caffeineas a nursing mom, I stuck to herbal teaand it wasnt the twins fault, either. After three grueling months of round-the-clock feeding, Will and Rob had discovered the joys of sleeping through the nightand given their parents a chance to rediscover those same joys. My husband and I now had a full six hours of blessed silence in which to recover from the rigors of the day.

But while Bill used those golden hours to full advantage, dropping off still fully clothed and usually on the sofa, I catnapped restlessly, listening with a mothers ears for the softest cry, the tiniest cough or gurgle.

It wasnt new-mother jitters alone that kept me awake all night. Will and Rob had been born too soon, in March instead of April, and theyd spent their first full week on earth entombed in incubators. At four months they were strong as bullswith the lung power of pearl diversbut the fears attending those first uncertain days had never truly left me.

The world, which for the most part had treated me with kindness, now seemed a treacherous, threatening place in which every corner of every coffee table had been fashioned solely for the purpose of battering my boys brains out. It was up to Bill and me to protect our sons from lurking coffee tables, and we took our responsibilities very seriously.

We fled Bills family mansion back in noisy, bustling Boston and brought the boys to England, to a honey-colored cottage in a tranquil rural corner of the Cotswolds. The cottage had been left to me by my late mothers closest friend, a woman named Dimity Westwood, and I could think of no more perfect place in which to raise a family.

Bill bicycled each day to Finch, the nearest village, to an office on the square where, via fax, modem, and telephone, he conducted business for his familys law firm. He traveled to London once a month, and farther when necessary, but for the most part he was home for lunch and rarely late for dinner.

It wasnt the food that drew him. Meals at home hadnt amounted to much since the early days of my pregnancy, when Id brought my culinary skills to bear on the creation of wholesome baby foods. Bill had grown accustomed to mealtimes spent taste testing samples of mystery mush.

William Willis, Jr.my own sweet Billwas the kind of husband every woman dreams of, the kind of father every child deserves. He changed diapers, gave baths, sang lullabies, and heroically rode out hormonal tidal waves of the postpartum variety that had me wobbling unpredictably between laughter and tears. He shared my absorption in our sons and seemed to understand my need to envelop them in a danger-free environment. He said nothing as I swaddled each piece of furniture in cotton batting, and didnt utter a word of protest when I secured the kitchen cabinets with latches so complex that neither he nor I could open them for days.

But when Bill came into the master bedroom one evening in early July to find the boys watching from their bouncy chairs as I wrestled with the mattress on our football field-sized bed, he must have thought Id well and truly lost it.

Lori, he said softly, standing in the bedroom doorway, what are you doing?

Taking the mattress off the frame, I grunted, tugging ineffectually at a recalcitrant corner.

Why? Bill asked, very gently.

I rolled my eyes at him, as though the answer were self-evident. What if Will and Rob crawl under the bed and it collapses on top of them? Much safer to have the mattress on the floor.

Bill surveyed four dimpled knees and tiny waving hands that had yet to touch the carpet, and said, I see.

Something in his tone of voice made me pause. I stared down at the mattress, glanced over at the boys, then recoiled from the bedding, as though it had burst into flame. Bill, I whispered, shaken, what am I doing?

Its more what youre not doing. Bill took me by the hand and pulled me over to the armchair by the dresser. He nudged the mattress back into its frame, squatted for a moment to gobble Wills belly and snuffle Robs chin, then sat on the footstool at my knee. Youre not sleeping, he elaborated. Youre not eating right. Youre not getting enough fresh air and exercise. He looked pointedly at the mattress. Its no wonder youre going overboard.

I whimpered. B-but the boys

The boys are fit as fleas, Bill broke in. He swung around to make a face at his bright-eyed, drooling sons. Look at them. Dr. Hawkings said hes never seen pree mies rally so well.Youve done a magnificent job, Lori.

I smiled weakly. Weve done a magnificent job.

Ive done what I can, Bill acknowledged, turning back to me, but Im not here all day, the way you are. Taking care of one child is enough to run a full-time mom ragged, and youve got two. Lets face it, loveyoure outnumbered.

I sank back in the chair and nodded miserably. I have been more tired than usual lately.

And more strung out, Bill asserted. Now that weve gotten the boys up to speed and started on solid foods, its time for you to take a break.

Leave my babies? I gasped, horrified.

Of course not, Bill said hastily. But Ive talked things over with Dimity

When? I demanded. When did you talk things over with Dimity?

Last week, when you padlocked the medicine cabinet and hid the key so the boys wouldnt find it, Bill replied. Have you remembered where you hid it yet?

Er . . .

Never mind. Bill pulled my feet into his lap and began kneading them gently. The point is that Dimity thinks itd be a good idea to hire someone to help you with Rob and Will. And I agree.

I blinked at him, incredulous. You cant be serious. Id never let a stranger take care of my boys.

Then she can help with the laundry and the cooking and all the other housework, Bill said reasonably. Anything to give you a breather. Lori, he added, grasping my toes firmly, Aunt Dimity says that you have to start taking care of yourself or youll be no good at all to our sons.

Bill had spoken the magic words, and wisely refrained from saying more while he waited for them to take effect. He knew that I never quarreled with what Aunt Dimity saidrather, with what she wrote, since her conversation was confined to sentences written in a small blue leather-bound book, which we kept in the study. Id been too busy to consult with Aunt Dimity since the boys had arrived, but shed apparently been keeping watch over meand worrying about what she saw.

Had I really given her cause for alarm? I closed my weary eyes and thought back over the past three months. A few scenes stood out with pristine clarity: Bill and his father changing diapers side by side during one of Willis, Sr.s frequent visits; the boys first splashy bath in the padded bassinet; a hushed, golden morning with Bill rocking Rob while I nursed Will, both of us pajama-clad and drowsy and besotted by the bundles in our arms. Most of my memories were blurred, though, one day running into the next without shape or distinction, like a watercolor left out in the rain. It was not how I wanted to remember my sons childhood.

Maybe you and Dimity are right, I conceded at last. Maybe I have been overdoing it.

Bill choked back a snort of exasperated laughter and pulled the rest of me into his lap. Have you ever done anything without overdoing it? he asked, nuzzling my dark curls.

I smiled sheepishly. Okay. I admit it. I could use some help around here. I pushed away from him to ask, But how do we find the right person? I dont know anyone in the village.