Sometimes I imagine what it would be like if she started talking. It would be totally unreal, like reading a book where the main character suddenly reveals he’s a werewolf and you’re like, oh yeah, this is science fiction. I can’t really even imagine what her voice would sound like. I look at the older kids who go around babbling and have a hard time believing she is of the same species. Clearly they are mutants, I tell her. Don't worry if you're not like them.
She is able to sit up by herself now, even wobble down to pick something up and then right herself again. What is striking about the whole thing is her perfectly proper posture, rim-rod straight back at a perfect ninety degrees from the ground, even while her hands move around. She could be doing yoga or balancing a cup of water on her head. One gets the sense that the slightest shift in her center of gravity, and she’d topple right over. I catch myself straightening my own chronically hunched back when she’s around.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Journal Excerpt
Sometimes I imagine what it would be like if she started talking. It would be totally unreal, like reading a book where the main character suddenly reveals he’s a werewolf and you’re like, oh yeah, this is science fiction. I can’t really even imagine what her voice would sound like. I look at the older kids who go around babbling and have a hard time believing she is of the same species.
She is able to sit up by herself now, even wobble down to pick something up and then right herself again. What is striking about the whole thing is her perfectly proper posture, rim-rid straight back at a perfect ninety degrees from the ground, even while her hands move around. She could be doing yoga or balancing a cup of water on her head. One gets the sense that the slightest shift in her center of gravity, and she’d topple right over. I catch myself straightening my own chronically hunched back when she’s around.
She is able to sit up by herself now, even wobble down to pick something up and then right herself again. What is striking about the whole thing is her perfectly proper posture, rim-rid straight back at a perfect ninety degrees from the ground, even while her hands move around. She could be doing yoga or balancing a cup of water on her head. One gets the sense that the slightest shift in her center of gravity, and she’d topple right over. I catch myself straightening my own chronically hunched back when she’s around.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Journal Excerpt
I could probably be certifiably psychotic based on all the horrible tragedies I worry about befalling her. D once admitted he got worried about her waking up from sleep. I was like, naw, that doesn’t bother me. I’m too preoccupied hoping she doesn’t get bit in the face by a dog, lose a hand, develop autism or Asperger’s, tumble down the stairs. It’s really quite macabre. I never knew I was capable of such fanstastical fears until now. Whereas I used to watch sad romantic movies and cry, now I watch sad movies about children and cry.
Someone once said, “my mind is a bad neighborhood I try not to walk into alone.” Someone also said, “having a child is like having your heart walk around outside of you.” It’s a bad combination.
I think the cats think she belongs to them. They are always hovering. In every picture or video of her, there are these black-and-white furry forms gliding silently in the back. When she sits in her baby chair, Winnie curls up at her feet. When she’s flailing her arms about, Chloe maneuvers herself so she’s inadvertently petted. They don’t seem to be bothered by her random banshee squeals, or by the fistfuls of hair she pulls from their hides. I figure this lasts until she starts running around pulling on their tails.
Sometimes she reminds me of a very old woman. Particularly when her head flops forward and the lumpy back of her neck is exposed.
Someone once said, “my mind is a bad neighborhood I try not to walk into alone.” Someone also said, “having a child is like having your heart walk around outside of you.” It’s a bad combination.
I think the cats think she belongs to them. They are always hovering. In every picture or video of her, there are these black-and-white furry forms gliding silently in the back. When she sits in her baby chair, Winnie curls up at her feet. When she’s flailing her arms about, Chloe maneuvers herself so she’s inadvertently petted. They don’t seem to be bothered by her random banshee squeals, or by the fistfuls of hair she pulls from their hides. I figure this lasts until she starts running around pulling on their tails.
Sometimes she reminds me of a very old woman. Particularly when her head flops forward and the lumpy back of her neck is exposed.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Thankfulness
I have discovered how it happens that second children get born. Right around now, babies get so adorable that you forget all the earlier, harder times and suddenly want to have more.
I think I may objectively say that right now E is about the cutest she’s ever been in her life. She’s just the right amount of chubby: not enough to be overly plump but enough to have plenty of softness to kiss. Her cheeks remind me of silken tofu. Her limbs are just active enough to be interesting, but not so out of control as to be bothersome. She can sit up in a baby chair on her own, but not crawl everywhere yet. She’s wonderfully expressive and responsive, grinning and squealing when she sees us, laughing out loud when we tickle her. When D comes home, she beams and beams, smiling and squealing, clasping her hands to her mouth and punching out her belly.
The things that made life harder when she was younger are mostly a thing of the past: she goes to sleep quietly, takes a pacifier but isn’t addicted to it, is quiet when we go out and even when exhausted rarely makes a fuss. I can’t even believe I just wrote that.
Best of all, she is happier at daycare, now the sick season is over and perhaps now she’s older. She sits in the book box flipping through books, plays in paint, eats her food, occasionally even throws in a longer nap. And I get the sense folks there adore her, are getting used to how she communicates, which eases my mind. I spend pretty much every other available waking moment with her, sometimes even toting her to grand rounds so we can hang out longer. Perhaps it’s our time apart that makes those together more poignant. I feel able to truly be present with her when I can be.
I am deeply grateful for these things, in the way one is grateful for sun after a long rain, or the first robin of spring. I realize these things aren’t necessary for my happiness or a result of anything I did, but in it I sense God’s grace to us, and I am grateful.
I think I may objectively say that right now E is about the cutest she’s ever been in her life. She’s just the right amount of chubby: not enough to be overly plump but enough to have plenty of softness to kiss. Her cheeks remind me of silken tofu. Her limbs are just active enough to be interesting, but not so out of control as to be bothersome. She can sit up in a baby chair on her own, but not crawl everywhere yet. She’s wonderfully expressive and responsive, grinning and squealing when she sees us, laughing out loud when we tickle her. When D comes home, she beams and beams, smiling and squealing, clasping her hands to her mouth and punching out her belly.
The things that made life harder when she was younger are mostly a thing of the past: she goes to sleep quietly, takes a pacifier but isn’t addicted to it, is quiet when we go out and even when exhausted rarely makes a fuss. I can’t even believe I just wrote that.
Best of all, she is happier at daycare, now the sick season is over and perhaps now she’s older. She sits in the book box flipping through books, plays in paint, eats her food, occasionally even throws in a longer nap. And I get the sense folks there adore her, are getting used to how she communicates, which eases my mind. I spend pretty much every other available waking moment with her, sometimes even toting her to grand rounds so we can hang out longer. Perhaps it’s our time apart that makes those together more poignant. I feel able to truly be present with her when I can be.
I am deeply grateful for these things, in the way one is grateful for sun after a long rain, or the first robin of spring. I realize these things aren’t necessary for my happiness or a result of anything I did, but in it I sense God’s grace to us, and I am grateful.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
In Celebration of Spring
Let's face it: bundling her up is a pain. Little baby onesies and dresses exposing chubby, soft, nibble-able arms and feets are adorable. For these reasons alone, I can't wait for spring to stay.
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