e and I had our worst day yet. He was mad at me. I was mad at him. He screamed. We both cried. Naps were a bust. It was just really really bad. Can’t say why. I can say I shouldn’t have been frustrated or angry or mad. This kid is clearly going through a lot and has so many huge feelings and is such a small small person and I should have held his hand and gave him a hug and helped him work through them instead of having to take a time out of my own. I shouldn’t have taken it personally, because it wasn’t personal. I have so so much to learn. I have so much growing to do myself.
Super Bowl Sunday has arrived again. Last year, Bradley class was cancelled and I was curled up on the couch studying the cardiovascular system: the cardiac cycle, I think. E was safe inside and boom was likely to my left, my belly to big to share my lap. Now I sit and type, struggling to get in a post before e wakes and I go to comfort him.
What a sweet boy he is. I do everything in my power to raise him the best I can. I read endlessly: child psychology, child education, sociology, cultural studies, anthropology. Most importantly, I love him the best I possibly can and he helps me to grow in love each day. He reveals God.
e’s offered me a selflessness I did not realize was possible. Yet I find that I continue to abuse myself in entirely selfish ways when placed under stress. It was my prerogative to avoid stress, but with e and the new social constructs surrounding his arrival, such avoidance measures are no longer plausible. So I stuff my piehole when I’d rather scream and shout. Ah well, it’s time to finally sort out my problems rather than merely bury them, I suppose.
The croup nights caught up to me, climbed atop my shoulders with about 500 pounds to each of then, and commanded me to entertain a smiley (thank God) baby on a rainy day. Sadly I haven’t been training much and wasn’t prepared for this unexpected challenge. There goes my honorary Boy Scout status.
Poor bean suffered an utterly boring momma today. I did nothing much but look at him and carry him. I crooned some songs but my heart wasn’t in it. Even my automatic everything’s-alright-weapon is giving out. All signs point to thrush: every time the bean latches, and for the duration of his meal, and for a little bit afterward, it feels like someone is rubbing me with fiberglass. Hopefully the midwives will help and this won’t go on for too long. Also hopefully bean isn’t feeling any pain on his end.
And so, good night.
well hello there interwebzzz
This…this exhausting, consuming, vexing, bewildering love…this is real.
All those resume-able ambitions and material pursuits seem wasted time, years spent looking in the mud for diamonds while the sunshine gleamed rainbows from above. My guilt over my failures and derelictions is squalor, buds of thought squandered on barren land.
Not that my life was completely absent of joy. I found it in the ocean, glinting off the waves as I learned their shape and song. I played with it when I sang and danced on stage, when I practiced piano day and night and night and day, when music was my philosophy and religion. I walked it on those early Oxford mornings, trekking the city parks and cobblestones from sunrise to church to class to sunset. I wrote it as I composed my thesis, as I scratched out mistake after mistake in optics and topology, as I was trapped in that paradoxical quantum-mechanical box. I exalt in it when I am weighed down by ever-heavier weights, feeling lighter with every extra kilo on that iron bar.
I feel joy in my dad’s smile, in my mom’s persistence, in my big brother’s hugs, in my sister’s wit, in my little brother’s unflappable innocence. I feel joy in my husband’s touch, in his glance, in those moments he listens and in the chances he takes, in the way he makes me laugh. I feel joy when I watch him read, when I watch his happiness, when I watch him be a great poppa, when I watch him live.
I have had a joyful life, but I focused on the wrong things and was dissatisfied. This little bean has replaced my lenses, and the world has become a Kandinsky of color and whimsy. The joyous times, though of short span in my young life, are in relief. Suddenly my life is beautiful.
I deemed this year my year of living: what life bean has brought to my life! These days, so unassuming, inscrutable from one to the next, are filled with such love and confusion it seems that I am wholly these. Love, my action; confusion, my state.
I know I cannot begin to imagine the brilliance of my future. I can hardly believe the magic of my present.
the wind and the chill rival south quad’s cruelest midwinter gales.
ushered in with the smooth, foreign terrain of blanketed snow, this bitterly long, cold week continues even as the white shrinks into islands rising from patches of brown grass and gray dirt. so too this post languishes; an idea that was pure, driven, whole and encompassing now in remnants, battered by time.
but there is some beauty yet in its memory.
that first night, this first draft, the warmth kindled within while my fingers and toes and nose all froze. sweet boomer, in her tiny ferocity, battled the wind which threatened to bodily carry her scant eleven pounds. she walked back and forth across our new landscape, seeking a place to relieve her bladder. i’d brought her out unleashed, following A’s example for nighttime excursions and warily trusting that my great blessing, my best friend, would not run. time stretched, and boomer continued to search for that elusive perfect spot. i could not tell if my shivering was due more to cold or fear: each passing set of headlights burned into me the sad image of my pup caught between wheels, me too late, too slow, to save her. i shadowed her, of course, but she is ever so fast when she sees squirrels.
when i thought i could take it no longer, she finally deigned to squat. there, as her water steamed the snow, so too it warmed my heart. i was so proud, so relieved. it rivaled the joy that overwhelmed me at her first outside pee. she was so small, probably half her weight and less than that in length and height. a fluff of fur, she had rung the bell on the door and i raced her down the hallway to the patch of grass in front of our window. she squatted and i let out the biggest yell and holler i had; watching her tomboy success (that right leg is always up when she goes) i swelled with motherly delight. what strange, small things bring me such exultation.
other small fires in this frigid air:
- bean, dancing around in this belly of mine
- m.e. swings with A
- forgetting myself for a bit with knitting and studying
- sleep, which is all i want to do these days
- burning quads from positioning squats
- the space left from happy memories too quickly lost