This post is inspired by the twinned meditations of Woodbird and JenniEaton, who both recently allowed a glimpse of their mama mornings. I was moved and inspired by both and while nursing had grand visions of what could become: a series of essays! Nay, even a book!
Luckily, my nine-month-old reminded me that I don't even manage to brush my teeth and hair every morning, or not wear yoga pants, or feed us three square meals--never mind plan anthologies. Yet. Start small. Begin somewhere. This is how a life is built, a block at a time. (One small, hot pink, dishwasher-safe, BPA-free block.)
Anthologies safely unplanned, I still tag SuzanneFarrellSmith, RLK, Lorelle, and Liara (who doesn't maybe even have a blog), because I am nosy and I would love a glimpse into your mama mornings. Perhaps I will take notes on how others manage!
So. My answer to Robin and Jenni, as you can imagine, was written in fits and starts. In fact, it is about 1/4 of what I actually wrote over the span of a few hours, via iPhone, notebook, and computer. It was written with the montage of Waika crawling everywhere, Waika crashing into the stereo and crying, Waika pulling out every book on my bottom shelf, Waika tearing up fall 2012 magazines (which I, nonetheless, haven't finished reading), playing with/ dancing with/ singing to/ feeding solids to/ changing quite a few poopy diapers off of/ nursing Waika a billion times, and--grand finale--Waika finishing the baby proofing of the living room for me by cracking a beautiful bowl that was a wedding gift, thus liberating the three small globes formerly in it. In seconds, yes, he had whole worlds in his hands.
There are so many excuses in the world.
There’s that I didn’t quit editing till 2:30am last night and Waika woke me at 6:30am. That it will happen again tonight.
There’s that being present for every moment that I can is about the most important thing I feel I can do.
There’s that he is just nine months and some weeks old, and separation anxiety is not only normal but heightened right now.
He will wean someday; this is just for right now.
And he naps longer next to me.
And he is not feeling well.
And all these are true, but so is this: I enjoy lying useless in the couch next to him, lightly snoozing or checking my social networks via my phone, hearing the soft snuffle of his breath. Sometimes he lets go of the nipple only to nestle his cheek into the pillow of my breast. Such utter calm, his face. The tiny smile having found again, without waking, the beloved nipple. Sometimes an eyebrow arches, the lashes flutter, sometimes he pushes away hard at my chest and then struggles to move even closer. Of what do you dream, little one?
I like smelling his mamamilky breath, his sweat making his hair dry in strange styles. I like stroking the ruddy plump of his cheeks, the small shell of his ear. I like to be there when his eyes open. To witness him crossing back over from wherever he was to here.