I have a clanging head and a sense of displacement, because I’m at work after a snowed in four day weekend, most of that time without S, who was snowed in himself, away from us, at work.
I’m really tired.
And still in the stage where I actively resent the lack of sleep, self-government, and out of the box spontaneity that life with a baby has brought. Oh man, a blizzard without a baby would have been so different. Wading through the snow banks, diving down deep. Sleeping in late, watching movies, reading books, putting together a 1000 piece puzzle. I’d probably have baked bread, which I do about once a year, on a snowy day. There may have been too much wine and hiking over to a good friend’s apartment up the hill to share it, and the bread.
With a baby, especially with THIS baby, at THIS time, I was sleep-deprived and deep in poop-covered laundry instead of snow drifts, down on my knees on the kitchen floor picking up chunks of sweet potatoes, stuck inside.
It’s still ok though, actually. It was very ok.
I watched the clock and thought to myself: 42 more hours of solo parenting, 33 more hours of solo parenting, 17 more hours of solo parenting, 5 more hours of solo parenting. But by the end, when S finally made it back home, I was still ok to keep on loving, being a primary lover, being the reader of signs and soother of tempers. I hop out of bed right away.
We sat by the window and watched the snow plows. He’s wonderful, you know. He has wispy hairs that stick out over both of his ears. He’s so curious, so wiggly and wily and sweet. He’s got such a great gummy grin and he can do things like pick up and feed himself peas. He naps the best when I hold him. It was so good to have the time available to hold him. Rock in the glider for an hour, and then two, while he snuffled and sucked his thumb in sleep. I hold him until my arm falls asleep and then keep holding him because that’s how I get to watch him in stillness. I try to count his eyelashes. He’s mesmerizing. He’s so kinetic while he’s awake. He can’t quite crawl but tries really hard. He rocks and he rolls and he lunges and grabs and dances and can pull up from his belly to his knees to a sitting position on his own. He splashes in the tub, he kicks his legs on the changing table. He cackles and yells and demands and giggles and coos and pulls hair and comes at my face with his mouth wide open, conking into my nose or my cheek or my forehead with what I’ll call a kiss, though it’s borderline abuse. He wakes up noisy and hungry with every muscle in his tiny body taut. He’s insatiable. He’s beautiful. I really just can’t even quite believe he exists.
The pull in both directions is about equally strong—I want to always be with him. I want to still be my own person. It might sound like this is balanced, but it’s not. It’s impossible. I’m doing it anyway.
He is a hard thing. He is the hardest thing. He’s impossible. We're existing anyway. We're really lucky.
