Saturday, March 8, 2014

End of an era?



Today I pick up the pen because there is nowhere else to go. In early February, I learned I was pregnant; in mid-February, started having horrible cramping (comparable to labor) and large amounts of blood loss; in late February, spent a long evening in the ER confirming I had miscarried; still felt tired and nauseated and fat and ... well, pregnant; went back to the dr. for confirmation that my HCG levels had gone down; in early march, they hadn't; we repeated the test; they went up; and then yesterday learned I had an ectopic pregnancy, would need to undergo a chemotherapy shot to "get rid of" the embryo still growing in me--albeit in a very wrong spot, and because of the drugs, I'd need to stop nursing for at least 2 weeks.

To say it's been a rough month or so is a wild understatement.

So we went back to the hospital last night, I got a needle to the ass, and I feel generally shitty today, and I feel drained because I'm trying to kill what I hoped would be my next child, but honestly it all pales next to the abrupt weaning. 

Look, I know W is almost two, and I had stopped offering but almost never refused him. He's almost two and I don't think any of his friends nurse anymore and that makes me feel awkward and like I've done something wrong. He's almost two and I'm often impatient with nursing, but some rare afternoons the sun streams through the blinds just enough to paint him in golden light, and we lay there and lay there and breathe and doze and nurse and cuddle, and I have nowhere I would rather be. He's almost two, but it took us so long and much anxiety and pain to choreograph that nursing dance that I am loathe to be the one to end it. He's almost two, but I had intended to let W lead this dance, to taper and taper until he felt he didn't need it anymore. Or want it.

My heart is breaking. You can try to explain at 8pm to a 23-month-old that mama is sick, that her milk is bad, is poison, that mama has something growing in her that could really hurt her so she had to take medicine to get the bad thing out, that we can't nursy until the poison is gone because it could hurt him, and he may say he understands. But it's another thing when he's run into your room at 4 am and his whole face is crumpling because he's tired and needs comfort and needs to feel close to his mama. 

I'm trying to pump in case we want to resume after two weeks, but the pump doesn't get a letdown like the mouth of your beloved baby, and I'm freaking out that my milk supply will dry up.

I'm writing this because I must; I'm sharing it because I crave comfort, because I want to believe everything is gonna be alright, because my therapist is in South Africa for a month.

I am in mourning. It feels like the end of an era.

Thursday, November 14, 2013

Snapshot.

Harden your heart, harden your heart—this is my chant, tonight and so many a night. We feed W dinner, we bathe him, we read him two books, he kisses and hugs me goodbye, and then he watches a few “movies” (music videos on the iPad) with Dave while I go downstairs to work. I edit furiously but never fast enough, because before I know it, it is 11 or 12 or unluckily sometimes 10, and there is a whimper, two, a thudding of feet, and a “MAMAMAMAAMAMAMMAMA.”


Then my chant begins.

Saturday, November 9, 2013

This came in the mail today and confused me utterly and wonderfully.


Pictured: A Sarah Lawrence College toddler T-shirt and an incredibly thoughtful note from the Office of Alumni Relations--with whom I remain in contact, especially when pulling together my 2002 classmates' class notes for magazine publication. 

I've been quiet here for all the usual reasons … no time, in my head so many thoughts, and feeling all of the feelings (I finally am coming to understand Tao Lin's aesthetic, I think). Because I wrote too much/just enough last time and wrung myself dry. Because I still toe the line of what is appropriate to share about this life that is and isn't mine, for it is Waika's, and when I'm not toeing the line, I'm tiptoeing over it, and when I'm not tiptoeing, I'm straight-out faceplanting on account of it, legs akimbo, ass in the air, face scarlet, the whole bit.

I'd recently made peace with being quieter, more private, with letting go of the monthly letters to W. because I didn't know if they belonged here, if such a letter belonged to anyone but him--but if a letter is written in a forest with only a toddler to read it, will it fall to any eyes or ears, loudly or without a sound, and more pointedly, without an audience or a deadline or a reason to write beyond the childsoul-scrapbooking intended by so many an earnest new mother, would such a letter ever get written at all?

So the letters lived as rough sketches in various notebooks:






August 3-September 2: 17 months. A switch has flicked, and out come all of the words. (Naturally there was a list of words. And, duh, many pictures.) 











September 3-October 2: Hawai'i trip, followed by grandparent duty while Mama is on deadline. Most importantly: Turned 18 months. A year and a half. Mama forgot the day! What does this MEAN? Thoughts, feelings, berating self for sucking at motherhood, et cetera. 










October 3-November 2: Holidays and traditions. Holiday-themed food and books and pjs, not to mention Halloween costumes and the bedazzling/beglittering/painting of gourd fruit: mass-produced guilt-mongering that forces everyone with a child to get thee to a pumpkin patch and in general to spend a lot of money, OR the curation of childhood, the instilling into little persons of rich tradition and a solid sense of family? Both? Neither? Reading too much into it?










Oh, there were notes. There were lists, false starts, and (as we know) far too many pictures. There were definite thoughts and feelings and emoting of emotions grossly all over the place. But there had not been words.

And then a small package came in the mail, consisting of a toddler t-shirt and words to warm me. Telling me that the package's sender read and enjoyed this blog--pictures, joy, angst, grace, ordinary life as lived here.

This was supposed to be a post confused about whether I should post anymore, but I guess it became a post about how sometimes I won't and then all of a sudden again I will. Because there I was, feeling as close to zen as I get about the fact that I am living a mothering life--that is, not an artist's life--that I don't even manage to write privately, for my own damn self, as often as I'd like … and then something in the universe shifts. Or someone shifts it for you. And isn't it crazy and beautiful how we are all capable of that? Of shifting something for someone else, without even meaning to? It's the butterfly effect: we think we're just stretching our wings, but half the world away we've stirred up a tsunami.

Monday, August 19, 2013

16 months (and a half or so).



 
If I were to base my recollecting of July—leading up to you turning 16 months on August 2—on pictures alone, it’d go something like this:
 
Water. Friends. Horses. Playspaces. Stubbornness. Silliness. Popsicles. Dada.
 
And as I’ve tried and tried to write this letter, I’ve wondered many times whether that's where I should leave things. Focus on joy. Meditate on gratitude. Remember you bringing me a pair of my shoes and asking “Pretty?” Recall the pure wonder in your eyes when soaked to the bone at Alondra Park splash pad or astride your first pony at Irvine Park or the first time I threw Nahe in the bath with you. Laugh fondly as I cast even your stubbornness with charm: You hate vegetables! I can’t believe I have that kid. Haha! Exclaim over your strength and temerity: I can’t even get a clean diaper on your butt unless I (a) throw a leg over your middle or (b) just change you standing up in front of your kiddo-karaoke machine. Talk of Gymboree and swim classes and play dates galore. Detail here the dreamy mornings, the sweet cuddles. Keep life seemingly bright and breezy. Polish that surface version of us.
 
But July was those beautiful bits knotted carefully in place along a month-long string of tantrums—yours and mine. More notably mine. I never thought parenting would be easy, but I wasn't prepared for it to get this hard this soon. Lately, my empathy tank has been running low. I go from zero to sixty quick. After a beautiful morning out adventuring, if you whine “mamaaaaa” one too many times in the kitchen while I’m trying to fix your lunch, I snap: “What do you want from me?!” And then, when you start to cry, I feel terrible and ashamed—and, yet, I still feel irritated. I put a lot of thought and effort into making your days fun—planning our days around outings and adventures and social calls with your friends, not our family’s needs or my own desires—so when we go home and I need to be able to make your lunch or load the dishwasher (or, ok, keep it real, Instagram six photos), I tend to take it personally that you don't let me. You get needier at home, but I think it is because you must. Out in the world, my focus is you and our adventure; at home, my attention is divided.
 
I have even become impatient with nursing, when before I could have lay beside you all day, brushing the hair across your forehead and staring into your gorgeous eyes, watching your cheeks grow ruddy with nursing and sleep.
 
It’s not you, it’s me—it’s that I need a break, I need family to live closer, I need to not feel like I’m betraying you or failing you or abandoning you or scarring you when I leave you with others. (And by others, at this point, I only mean Dada, as I’ve been too scared to leave you with anyone else.)
 
It’s not you—except sometimes it’s you, you wonderful, willful, stubborn, demanding darling of a boy.
 
After my last few therapy sessions with Aubs, I realized that the reason—at least partly—that I struggle so with your tantrums and recent irritability is that they are the antithesis of the PURE JOY I’ve watched burgeoning in you since you first started emoting—so much so that one of my first nicknames for you was “Joy Boy.” In July, you were not filled with joy. Perhaps it was a growth spurt, or you didn't feel good, or … well, god, it couldn't be teething still unless you’re working on a second set …. whatever, I don't know. Since July, I’ve thought so often of your Auntie “Hee” and her personal arguments against bringing new life into “this world of suffering.” Since I’ve known it about her, I’ve held tenderly and up to the light, examining, her bald statement that while she would not want to kill herself, if she were an unborn soul being given the option to live, knowing what is ahead, she would say no thanks. On a conceptual level, this used to totally puzzle me. I can try to understand: pain, hunger, suffering, poverty, disease, heartbreak, cruelty, etc. Still, knowing all that, I’d choose life. But Hee comes at life as a Harvard-educated, animal-rights-champion, environmentalist, anticonsumerist, philosopher-thinker-baker-wonderchild-writer-BRAIN, so her set of variables are different from mine. My inability to agree with her grew more indignant once you were here in the world, and especially once you went from a bundle of reptilian need to a living, breathing, emoting human animal. I hadn’t lived, loved, or experienced such pure joy until I saw you learn to smile, to laugh, to show pleasure, to express your love for us, for Nahe—but especially for your mama. Oh, how you loved me in the last year-plus! How you delighted in my presence, constantness, my opening for you the doors of the world … and, later, boosting you up so you could try those handles yourself … and, later still, letting you do it yourself but standing behind just in case you fell.
 
Thus, the difficulty of witnessing your displeasure with my person, with entire stretches of days, with living itself, it seemed, on a few days. Thus, my discomfort—near panic—at being unable to fix things for you. My exasperation so easily followed: Kid, do you even know how hard I try to make you happy? Why can’t you just be happy like you used to be? But all of that would be paired with or alternate with empathy and chagrin and really soul-crushing stuff like more panic and doubt and … well, anyway, I was plagued by this horrible feeling of O gawd, would you also not choose to be alive if you had the choice? Am I not making life beautiful enough for you? Basically, AM I FAILING YOU?
 
This brings me to the crux of the problem of writing about July. I’ve been having an existential crisis about my performance of motherhood. The daily doing of it—the work-life balance, the troubles with tantrums, the daily quandary of what to do with your active little being, this refillable chalice of your soul—as well as the Instagramming of it, the blogging, the Facebooking. The bright neon flashing sign that seemingly proclaims: SEE! SEE! NOW I AM MOTHER. RAWRRRRR.
 
I am alternately shameless and ashamed. I am shameless in the photographing, in the selecting and editing and posting, in the checking-in at this place or this other. I am shameless in the reaping of likes. But comments more often than not shame me:  as well-intentioned and complimentary as they are, they call my bluff. They say, I see you pointing out your performance, so, fine, here you go, you are doing an awesome job. Should I feel ashamed? Don't we all go around, putting in effort after effort and being secretly let down when the efforts aren’t noticed? I think always of Wife advising me that I must throw my own parade. And this is my parade: your every step forward. On the eve of you hitting the sixteen-months mark, I browsed my Instagram account from its start. It begins with you and gets incredibly more and more detailed. A picture per week to six or more per day. Not every day, but still. But you know what? It didn't shame me; it filled me with gladness. Seriously, what a life you are living. I am turning out to be a mother in the mold of my own in many ways. Oh, the adventures you’ve had! And the beauty of your little face beaming in so many of the photos. I get to watch your person BECOME. A lifetime of this witnessing. How lucky I am. How lucky, how lucky, how lucky. It’s like a mantra. It's like breath.
 
But the posting. Why do I need to blog these letters to you? Why do I need to relive every adventure through a fancy filter and with a round of applause? I’ve been worrying and considering taking a step back on this blog, on Facebook, on Instragram. Pulling it all back in, making life private again. I got into a brief, somewhat heated discussion on Facebook with some other writers about oversharing—especially as it pertains to children. What about our children's privacy? What constitutes “sharing” and “over”? How does posting too many photos or bitching about difficult parenting or sharing cute anecdotes differ from the writers who write essays about their children’s lives? I have no idea where I stand on any of this, only that it’s all percolating in my brain and SOUL and it has been crushing my ability to write, and not writing has in turn been crushing my ability to cope and exist in a non-tantrumy manner. I am so filled with doubt. Yes, it is more than my own life being represented; it is yours. And you are your own ship, except that I'm in charge of captaining yours until you fully can. Am I doing the best job as temporary captain as I can? Am I doing the best I can for you--or for me? People “liking” everything I share about you sometimes fills me with camaraderie but lately has more often been filling me with embarrassment, shame. Why do I need people to “like” me so much?
 
It is a dumb question. I know exactly why. I am still living down a year ago to myself.
 
A little over a year ago, when you were so new to the world, I had baby blues. Baby blues that quickly took a sinister turn such that I missed an entire week of your second month of life because I was hospitalized with panic attacks so severe and all-day that I--new mother who had never been so in love as with your gorgeous child self, devoted partner who would never want to leave your father with the grief as well as a family-sized share of burdens--wanted to kill myself.
 
So now, I want to take you to every zoo and aquarium, I want to show you fine art and dinosaur skeletons and eighteen species of orchid. I want to take you for long walks; I want to carry on long, mutual talks in a pidgin made up of English and dreambabble. I want you to see how bright the stars are above, and how far away, and I want you to test for yourself how tenacious roots are in soil, and how they flourish if planted well. I want to boost you up and cheer you on and be there every time you wake, while you sleep, if you fall, if you don't, when you say this word, or do that cool thing. I just want to be there and be there and be there. 
 
For now, all I can do is promise that your mother is thinking about all of these things. I don't have the answers. In that heated Facebook exchange, my writer friend cautioned that there is a fine line in writing about our children (let’s add: and parents, and friends, and loved ones, and even enemies, probably). I agree. But I think we get to toe the line, trip on it sometimes, be on the one side and then the other and then the other again as we figure out where we stand—which continually fluctuates. For now, I need the freedom to carry a big fucking flag that says: I fed my child three times today and he took two naps! And he saw dinosaurs, and we made art, and we’re still breastfeeding at almost 17 months! And though a year ago, I could not be much of a mother for a while, though there were times I couldn't even hold you or look at you, though I wasn't sleeping or eating or managing to not vomit, times I couldn't get out of bed or finish hysterically crying or stop thinking of ways out of this horrible feeling, a whole week where I was in a psych ward trying to just settle my nervous system, nevermind figure out how to mother … now I can. Now I am. RAWR. ((It’s a very large flag.))

There. I finally said it. Some of it, anyway. I haven’t and I haven’t, but then at a baby shower this past weekend, one woman said her husband didn't believe in postpartum depression, and after I finished freaking the fuck out, I was left with a vibrant reminder of why I write. I write to understand my own life. I write to hear back from others that my words, my experiences, helped them through their own experience, helped them find their own words. I write to share stories. I write because people are what matters, people and the fine filigree that strings us together—connections we often don't know about unless we open our mouths and share what to some seems like too much and what to others is just enough.

Saturday, July 6, 2013

Fifteen months: a treatise on hair, rad dadness, and becoming a brain.


For the last week or so, I have had both a post-it on my desk and a Word document open concerning hair. The musings began even earlier, when I’d notice Waikā’s hair knotting at the nape of his neck, when I talked with moms of other sons, few of whom could bring themselves to schedule or do that first cut, when I read my friend Lorelle’s meditation on her son Kamal’s hair. Lorelle solved her dilemma with what I like to call “a samurai topknot”—and it is undeniable that Kamal (and his mama and papa) rock this look.


This is what I wrote to Lorelle and what I’d been musing on leading up to the haircut: “What is it about the hair of sons? I can't cut it yet either. You just know it'll grow back—but as boy hair, not baby hair. A rite of passage—passage to boyhood—happening every day in little ways. Some I celebrate, some I mourn, and some I stubbornly resist.”

The day of the haircut, I was nervous, subdued.  But then the first few babysilksoft locks lay on the floor, and a new boy started being excavated, and I was too excited to stay bittersweet.

Since then, I’ve tried to write several times about the haircut, but since the moment passed, my emotions don't remain constant between stolen writing sessions. Some days I’m all acchhh, the sweet silk of his hair on the floor, shed, outgrown, babyhood gone, now I have a toddler with a spiky faux-hawk, et cetera. Other days I’m like: It’s. Just. Hair. What was I all worked up about? Still other days, I feel that he’s such a big boy, so able, so independent, so strong-willed, and I love it all. And other, other, other days, while he is in the middle of a big-boy, super-able, independent, strong-willed tantrum, Waikā stares back at me with his spiky hair and spiky eyelashes, with the angry eyes of a seventeen-year-old, and I feel very frightened of the future.

On July 2, he hit fifteen months, but of course this is the reflection of the weeks leading up. So appropriately, during the month of June, it began: Waikā became all about dad. When Dave is at work, and I am tired and having an unempathetic moment, he gets mad back at me, says dadadada. At the end of the day, strapping him into the carseat for the seventh time (or so it feels), I say we’re going to get Dad, and reflected back at me is DADADADADA! We get to the parking lot at Dave’s work and I let dog and boy out of the car, and when W sees where he is? DA! DA! DA! DA! DA!!!!! Dad kicks the ball cooler, Dad encourages W to climb and trusts him not to fall, Dad doesn't hover, Dad makes the wildest faces and the funniest sounds, and Dad’s shoulder makes the comfiest nap nook.

Meanwhile, there I am all day, doing many of the same things I’ve been doing: I … love … you!, pointing in the mirror; W gives me poker face. Whiskers! Fishgills! Elephant trunk! Not even a smile? Really?? I offer to help him climb stairs, he swats away my hands. I offer to catch him at the bottom of a slide, and he just barely deigns to accept this offer. Fifteen months and mama is lame.

Tantrums and lack of appreciation for my sense of humor aside, though, I love it, have loved it, keep loving it. Every month forward in time brings new things about Waikā to embrace. His growing independence, his sense of adventure, his beautiful and graceful ability to adapt, to trust and to surrender to the day as it unfolds. That latter ability means some days one or two or three naps; sometimes sleeping solo and sometimes with mama; sometimes lunch at 11 or 12 or 2; sometimes three square meals, sometimes what looks more like snacks every few hours; sometimes enduring four car rides (to/from D’s work) and sometimes double that (add on excursions and errands); waking early on the weekdays and adventuring right into the day versus waking later on the weekends and adventuring later in the afternoon; and sometimes staying up late for special reasons: Game of Thrones on Sunday nights (sadly on hiatus for now), or the starry sky above Joshua Tree National Park, or fireworks on the Fourth of July. Pretty much through it all, he rolls with it with the same good nature—ready to be delighted. When I really think on it like this, I guess I do still have my joy boy. Just a joy boy who also has a temper now.

What a gift it is to watch Waikā unfurl. To watch him grow his brain. I mean, I know that earlier he had a brain, but it was an animal brain of need. The more he grows, the more it becomes a human brain of desires. Dave figured out that W often melts down in the kitchen while we try to cook because he wants to see what’s going on up on the counters; now W will point to the step-stool, Dave moves it to the counter, and W is as happy as can be playing with Tupperware, or water, or dirty dishes, or the Melissa & Doug cutting board set we got him (similar to this one). 

At this awesome indoor playspace in Torrance called Silly Goose, I literally can see the wheels turning as W watches the older children. They climb the ramp; he wants to climb the ramp. The first time, I help place his feet and hands and push his bottom up to give him the sense of climbing; the second time up, he can do his hands and feet alone, I just give little pushes up; by the third time up, seriously, I am down to holding my hands out just in case he falls. I mean, that is one big, beautiful, amazing brain. 




It is a brain of imitation, experimentation, sometimes social conformity, and yet, thankfully, at this stage, so often shaking off those shackles with rhythm and badassedness and some deep shoulder action. I celebrate and share these things with the understanding and empathy that the world has not yet shamed him into being embarrassed about them: My son can wear my platform heels better than I can. My son loves to wear bracelets—will turn any round-rimmed object into a bracelet. My son gives the sweetest, cuddliest hugs to his stuffed kitty, stuffed bunny, and real-life dog Nahe. The rest of the time, he is doing the things society would deem gender-appropriate: slamming trucks into each other, banging things against each other, knocking down blocks, throwing things across the room or at people.

I doubledare the world to try to stamp any of these things out of him. But if you try, you better know mama dragon hovers very close (too close) behind. Breathing some serious fucking fire. 

Monday, July 1, 2013

Half-light.

Monday, July 1, 2013 @ 5:06am.


The half-light of morning. You sleep, again. This, the third time I’ve crept back to my office from where we lay together on a papasan cushion on your nursery floor because with me is the only way you fall asleep. Nursling. My yearling. Not certain I’m awake. 3am, begin Freeman obit. 3:15, you startle awake without me, cry for me, deadrun into my next-door office. Shhhh. Log out my hours, close my computer, turn off the light. I hold you, you nurse, you sleep. Half-hour later, I tiptoe away, finish Freeman, edit all of Trouillot down to the last reference, but don't manage to send it to the author before again you note my absence. I answer your call, I hold you, nurse you. Another half-hour of lying there while you sort-of nurse, while I calm my heart rate but hopefully not so much that I fall asleep. Disetangle, creep away; begin again. In between, my eyes dilate and constrict: bright task lamp, soft room lamp, dim nightlight, and room black. Neither awake nor asleep, I dream strange things. Something about a serial killer and his protégé beginning by killing her own mother—and I swear it’s not too much crime drama TV because I haven’t watched any for months, since February, since we came back from Hawaii and you no longer would sleep alone. Each night we eat, you scream bloodymurder while we change you for bed, we sing you your bedtime book, you fight sleep by playing with every toy you can find, I get exasperated and panicky and mad (c’mon, baby, I have to get you to sleep so I can do any work!), then off the lights go, and you frantically search for a nipple. Some nights I fight off sleep, creep away to work the evening hours, crash the rest of the night once you come for me. Some nights I sleep till you wake, frantic, and go looking for me—even though I’m right beside you. I have to call you back, you lunge into my arms, and we both calm this way. You nurse, you slip into sleep, and I, in tiny increments, slip away: unhook the arm from under your head, secure the comforter between us so that you still feel nestled in, roll away a little, and a little more, and more, and then tiptoe away, opening the door hopefully only enough that it doesn't creak, hopefully avoid the nosy spot in the wooden floors. And it’s 5, and 5:20, and 5:30, and I should be editing, will feel guilty for this later, but I need this half-hour for me. To clear my head.

Aubrey thinks it’s this anniversary—not of you being born, but of me being hospitalized. That you remember those five days mama was not home. Good god, I hope she’s wrong. 

Wednesday, June 19, 2013

You, at 14 and a half months(ish).



written on June 19, 2013 @ 3:11am

Oh, little one. I try to keep my finger on the pulse of you, but you are fast changing and the solo moments to write are fleeting. When I start to feel bad about how seldom I write, I tell myself that I am a multimedia artist—that right now pictures are worth more than words. And do you ever exist in the world of pictures. Instagraming, friends, can easily be done with one hand while someone hangs off your nipple—that tenuous, dreamy connection sometimes all that suspends him in sleep. Writing longhand, not so much; keeping up with the velocity of my thoughts, forget it.

When I say that pictures are worth more than words, sometimes I almost believe myself.

The other thing I tell myself is that you are my greatest artistic project right now. Collaborating on your person is a pleasure and privilege, little boy. Little big boy.

Tonight, you thought Mama was hilarious at dinner because I started mimicking you, your gestures. I’d throw my arms wide like you, then smack them together into a rapid crescendo of applause. We gesture “I love you” to each other—at least I do the “I love” part, you just like the “you”—in the car rearview baby mirror, at stoplights over my shoulder, when you wake from a car nap while we’re parked, whenever you wake, really, before you sleep… whenever you’re giddy and giggly. I point to myself, “I,” cross my arms tenderly and hugely exaggerated, “love,” and then thrust both arms fully extended, pointer fingers indicating “you.” You point your arms, fully extended, pointer fingers out, back at me. I bring my arms back in, thrust them back out, over and again: “No, you. No, you. No, YOU!!”

We laugh.

This is hilarious. Clearly.

I know you are saying some things I’ve forgotten to remember. But I note especially that your ability to understand what we are saying grows exponentially, daily. You are not very verbal with this understanding; mostly you are pointing at this stage.  “Curtains” in your goodnight book versus “curtains” on your bedroom window. “Nahe dog” in the painting on the wall vs. “Nahe dog” shedding hair all over the once-cream-colored couch. Pointing politely at a breast, then jabbing it repeatedly when the breast’s owner doesn’t move quickly enough. Or, recently, it’s been pointing at the couch as shorthand for “let’s go there now, it’s time to nurse.” You don’t yet have a huge vocabulary—because, bad writer-mama, I don’t read to you every day because I immerse you in the world instead. Because your attention span is pretty short, and you only like a few books, and I get bored reading them all the time. Because, frankly, you’re not yet that interested—you’d rather be climbing something, driving something, crashing something, busybusybusybusy boy. Because …

No. I WILL read to you more. Starting tomorrow.


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