Fan-gazing

Today she was lying on the changing table and suddenly pointed up at the ceiling and started to babble—it was thrilling, the first time she obviously tried to communicate with articulated sounds, instead of yelling or babbling indiscriminately. I often feel like relating with her is like communicating with someone from a foreign country. I try to teach her sign language; she stares back at me like I’ve really lost it now. Even the thought of her quietly signing for more peas instead of screaming at the top of her lungs seems rather ludicrous. I try to tell her in this culture it’s rude to pick at other people’s teeth, or fart loudly in bookstores. She tries to feed me pieces of plastic she finds tasty and stuff her pacifier in my mouth. You just gotta try this thing, she’s thinking (I did once, and it is oddly addictive).

She was pointing at the fan on the ceiling. So we lay down on the nursery floor for awhile, her lying on my belly and both of us gazing up at the fan. She lay very still with big eyes. I made up silly stories about the fan faeries. That’s the good thing about being addicted to books all the time; I have a hoard of stories in my head. She will probably grow up thinking that wood sprites and silkies and talking lions are real.

I felt content, and she seemed so too. She has a convicting simplicity in that way: she doesn’t need much, just someone who loves her and a place she feels safe. She doesn’t care what she’s wearing, how fancy her toy is, what I look like or how much I know. She just likes that I’m there, listening to her and being present with her.

She teaches me a lot about contentment. It still amazes me how little contentment is related to circumstances; even when life is going seemingly perfectly on all outward levels, I’m not necessarily any happier. But this is contentment: being in the mindful present; being in God’s presence, lingering and still, and loving someone else. Making up stories as the air fans our faces. Maybe this is what heaven will feel like, when our contentment is complete; like we could never want anything more.

Journal Excerpt

If I had to pick one word to describe her now, it would probably be exuberant. Motion. Exuberant, constant, motion. She does no thing half-way, leaves no pillow unclimbed, no paper unshredded, no plastic item unchewed or unlicked. If this brings to mind unstoppably activity, that’s about right. Today on the changing table she was yawning, then reached up and draped a forearm over both eyes while lying there, and I thought, me too, baby. It’s too bad she couldn’t be like, hey, you’re looking kind of tired today, why don’t you go read a novel in the bath and I’ll just busy myself quietly and safely here for a while . . .

I caught her feeding the cat today. She would lean over and drop a cheerio off the edge, then I’d hear a crunch-crunch. Pinch a cheerio, lean, over, drop it, crunch-crunch. She’s finally figured out how to get Chloe to come. There’s a life lesson: if you want something, offer a bribe.

Home

I have finally dusted off the ice cream maker we got as a wedding gift—it took a few soupy sorbets to figure things out (namely, that you really do have to wait a day for that bowl to refreeze), but I have finally hit upon an amazing recipe, and we are in love. Homemade ice cream really does taste better than store-bought, and the magic of seeing it form is delightful. Not to mention the flavor possibilities.

I was stirring the cream mixture over medium heat the other night, waiting for it to thicken, and wondering when I last did something that required ten minutes of standing there. Making ice cream isn’t something you can do quickly; it’s probably the dessert that requires the most waiting to make. The only other time I wait for anything is for patients to dilate in clinic, and I’m always getting things done in the meanwhile.

I finished my last day of residency yesterday. Four years of taking call, seeing patients dumped by other doctors, returning pages, having no control over my hours or lifestyle. I returned my pager today—I may not even have one this year—which felt terribly odd though wonderfully satisfying.

Being home more has been wonderful. Like making ice cream: time to take my time. Time to think, to do new things, to keep up with chores and sleep rather than playing constant catch-up. Time to be with Ellie: we dance to music, eat new foods, invent games and stories and wave to everything in the house. Time to love on the cats, who are so attention-deprived they rarely leave my side. Time to take care of Dave, who still works a tough schedule.

I begin to see what residency cost. Not so much the work hours as the fatigue, the lack of energy and spiritual and emotional reserve. Now I have time more to remember myself and all the things I liked to do, to think about other people, to feel rested, to practice healthier habits. I don’t regret any of it, and probably shouldn’t underestimate the amount I’ve learned, but boy, am I glad it’s over.