Birthdays and holidays

Today's Haydn's 278th birthday, and it turned out that as Cleo and I scattered playing cards and rolled on the big red rug this evening, WBJC was playing the composer's Ninth Symphony. So ordered, so clear - and, in that sense, so optimistically modernist. Such art seems so faithfully organized around that beautiful - and, we now know, potentially tragic - notion that simple logic and order, applied rigorously, can create beauty and improve lives. The very notion, in other words, that was being turned on its head by the Romantics by the time Haydn died in 1809, that was jeeringly mocked by Postmodern architects in the 1970s, and that was being rendered more or less irrelevant by a Cleo tonight, as she plodded smilingly through an utter chaos of toys.

You can play the classical music as loudly, and as often, as you like; having a baby in the house upsets order and creates unforeseen pressures. Cheerios on the floor; extension cords that are suddenly delectable appetizers. The bright cry of a suddenly awake daughter in the quiet still of 4:57 a.m. No, there's nothing exceptional in this, but L. and I are learning an ancient lesson: babies may thrive on routine, but they themselves are wild variables. Which is why, from time to time, we've been reaching out and asking for help, in various directions. Calls to friends, on rainy days, have led to companionship and adult conversation that can make all the difference during an 8-hour stint with Cleo. And a cleaning service, yesterday, was a real treat: suddenly our floors are bright and clean, and remarkably free of hurled breakfast cereal. She can crawl freely once more in the living room, without her marine gear or shinguards on.

But what's really been remarkable is that, really, we haven't even had to make the first move very often. As they say, it takes a village to raise a child; what I hadn't realized is that the village often volunteers to do so, in lovely ways. Or not just the village: the city, in this case, and several family friends and grandparents up and down the coast. Here's what I mean: I mean our nanny, knitting a blanket for Cleo. I mean our neighbor, strolling over to us today as we enjoyed the sun on a blanket, and offering Cleo an unbelievably soft stuffed chick, complete with egg. But that's hardly all. Then, too, there was a touching handmade activity book that arrived in the mail from a friend in Indialantic, Florida. And then the doorbell rang again: it's the UPS man, with Easter baskets from both grandparents. So suddenly Cleo is happily awash in pastels and symbols of spring.

Haydn, more than two centuries ago, left a legacy of light, and clarity, and measure. Cleo, still tiny but nearing her tenth monthday, leaves instead a wake of skewed angles and drool-dewed board books. But both birthday and monthday fall, this year, in the same week as Easter, and Easter, we all know, means rebirth and renewal. So I turned the Haydn up, letting him speak once more, and built a fresh tower of blocks, only to see it knocked down again.