I have a confession. I have baby fever. Badly.
I have had this condition since the moment my J was born. Perhaps it was that I didn't expect her to be here for at least 3 more weeks, perhaps it was her impatience and insistence on being born in the fashion she was. But man, I want another baby.
My children fulfill me in ways that are indescribable. Everything has the potential to be fun, exciting, terrifying, and a new life experience for us all. A trip to the grocery store, a day at the mall, breastfeeding my little baby as I browse electronics. Our secret, sweet, intimate moments on full display (because that is how I get down) and yet when I catch her shimmering, happy little eyes in mine, everything else fails to exist for that moment. I get to relive my favorite childhood moments through them, and its even better this time, because now I know how precious and amazing and temporary those moments are. And I do my best to lock at least part of it away in my brain so it may someday be a flash, just an instant in time, where I can see their faces frozen in time until the end of mine. All I want is to collect these internal photographs, as many as I can. And for what I can not store in my head, I take thousands of pictures. That is not at all an exaggeration, either. I take, and develop, thousands. They are amazing. I cant imagine loving anyone else as much as I love them, and yet, I know I would if I had another baby.
My relationship with my girls is unique and special to each of them. But, it is a very different entity than my relationship to them while they grew inside me. It feels different, it was a different life, a different being. After they were born they were different people to me than the ones who first fluttered and turned, then eventually evenly violently kicking and jerking. Those sweet hiccups, rhythmically soothing my nerves. The luxurious rolling as they learn to twist and stretch tiny limbs in their dark warmth. All of these moments, memories. Before they ever saw me, and I them. Heart aching moments that are gone forever, and as much as I love these amazing beings that fill my days and nights with laughter and happiness, I still do mourn the memory of our most intimate growth together. I long for that again. I want it back so badly, even though I know how fleeting that time truly is.
I thought she died. So many times. 6 weeks. 8 weeks. 10 weeks. 12 weeks....and more. I thought I lost here every time. I look at her today, and think, how could this amazing little person, who laughs, and sings and counts and loves animals, how could I ever live if I had lost her? Because I knew I lost her, so many times. Seeing all the blood, feeling the pain, knowing she was gone, would never be born, be here, sing a song and dance around the room. She died so many times to me. But she never left me. I know I never could have enjoyed much of my pregnancy with her, but I still regret that I did not let myself love her more as she slowly took over my body. She deserved so much more than I could give then, and she gives me so much more now. I am so sorry, baby. I am sorry I ever doubted your strength, sorry I couldn't love you enough to believe you would stay, sorry I didn't just enjoy you more when I could have. It's nothing you will ever remember, but I always will.
My two girls. My dream come true, not just once but every day I spend with you. Every word you say, and every laugh that escapes your perfect little pink mouths makes me soar. I can't even start to take credit for you, for you are far too special to ever have been created in my mind. You couldn't have ever been imagined before you existed, because I had no idea what was possible.
And now I want more. Selfish, perhaps. I have the two most beautiful, amazing, happy, wonderful children. I am so happy, I am fulfilled completely. Except.
I want more. You give me so much love and happiness, its addicting. I want that feeling again. I know I can't hold it forever, but I can't remember it now. I want to be reminded of it. Maybe if I feel it just once more I will be able to hold in that feeling, lock it away and access it whenever I want to feel that connection. It's like trying to remember the exact feeling of a hug, not the face of the hugger, not their smell, but the actual hug. I can't do it. I don't know if anyone can. I know they were in me, I know I grew them, I know I felt them, all the time. I have the photos, I have video...but I am missing the feeling.
It isn't my time. Someday I will have my light, but not now. Probably not even soon. But I will have that feeling again, I will enjoy it, hold it, capture it, and then, eventually...
set it free.
Friday, December 9, 2011
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Homage to a Power Outage
For the second time in two months, we have found ourselves in the midst of a week long power outage due to storms. The first, a hot summer hurricane which toppled eight of our old trees, though sparing our house, cars and possessions. The second, an October snowstorm which robbed us of our Autumn and blanketed all remaining red and gold in heavy, white snow. So heavy, that trees that have withstood hundreds of years of unpredictable weather, thousands of pounds of snow and ice, and winds strong enough to topple houses, bent to the ground, bowing to the strange storm. Many snapped and crashed through houses, on cars, taking down power lines in a domino effect, leaving the vast majority of our state in unseasonably cold darkness.
Being without power is difficult. Having children you cannot explain this too make things more difficult, the first day. Then there is a second day, and a third.
I remember hurricane Gloria. I remember the excitement I felt as a child, taping up the windows and staring through the small space in the basement, looking up at a greenish, whirling sky and watchings the silvery undersides of leaves whip furiously around each other and tear off. I was in the dark, with my parents, and it was fun. I remember eating food that was cooked on our wood stove, playing board games by candlelight and sleeping on our bellies on blankets in the living room. This is one of my fondest memories as a child. I felt completely safe, and warm, and happy, and loved. It was exciting, different, and an opportunity to be with my family like I never had before, and haven't since. I am reminded that these things which annoy adults to no end, are likely creating happy life long memories in the eyes of our children.
Now my children will likely not remember these days. They don't care if that have been bathed, what they look or smell like, if they have clean clothes or what they play with. My daughter spends much more time playing with food and laundry and my shoes that any of her toys, even combined.
People are so angry. They are cursing each other out, throwing hot coffee, raging at complete strangers who actually are trying to restore normalcy. Did we not survive as a human race before electricity was in every home? Did we not find ways to entertain ourselves for centuries?
I was bored. I missed my internet, my DVR, long hot showers, doing laundry. But it is nothing but electricity. It is essential, I know. But we have witnessed not long ago a significant part of our country ravaged by hurricanes, tornadoes and earthquakes, and we are fortunate to have lost only electricity. I still have my house, my cars, all my possessions and above all else my family. A week without lights? I am reminded too often of how good life is to curse my neighbors. (I also highly recommend a generator, which seems to take the edge off).
There is just something that can't be duplicated about the taste of food cooked over a fire, or the beauty of a child when they dance in candlelight. There is a rejuvenation that comes of being unable to access the internet no vacation can bring. Or the fun of playing cards and drinking wine with my husband, instead of spending nights bent over computers with reruns in the background. There is no amount of oil that can warm me as much as my family of four huddled in one big bed together, sharing a blanket. A week without electricity has taught me only again, how amazing life is, here and now. How fortunate we are to have all we do, and how we have no control over so many things.
A week without electricity. That is just fine. Because I have all the power I need.
Being without power is difficult. Having children you cannot explain this too make things more difficult, the first day. Then there is a second day, and a third.
I remember hurricane Gloria. I remember the excitement I felt as a child, taping up the windows and staring through the small space in the basement, looking up at a greenish, whirling sky and watchings the silvery undersides of leaves whip furiously around each other and tear off. I was in the dark, with my parents, and it was fun. I remember eating food that was cooked on our wood stove, playing board games by candlelight and sleeping on our bellies on blankets in the living room. This is one of my fondest memories as a child. I felt completely safe, and warm, and happy, and loved. It was exciting, different, and an opportunity to be with my family like I never had before, and haven't since. I am reminded that these things which annoy adults to no end, are likely creating happy life long memories in the eyes of our children.
Now my children will likely not remember these days. They don't care if that have been bathed, what they look or smell like, if they have clean clothes or what they play with. My daughter spends much more time playing with food and laundry and my shoes that any of her toys, even combined.
People are so angry. They are cursing each other out, throwing hot coffee, raging at complete strangers who actually are trying to restore normalcy. Did we not survive as a human race before electricity was in every home? Did we not find ways to entertain ourselves for centuries?
I was bored. I missed my internet, my DVR, long hot showers, doing laundry. But it is nothing but electricity. It is essential, I know. But we have witnessed not long ago a significant part of our country ravaged by hurricanes, tornadoes and earthquakes, and we are fortunate to have lost only electricity. I still have my house, my cars, all my possessions and above all else my family. A week without lights? I am reminded too often of how good life is to curse my neighbors. (I also highly recommend a generator, which seems to take the edge off).
There is just something that can't be duplicated about the taste of food cooked over a fire, or the beauty of a child when they dance in candlelight. There is a rejuvenation that comes of being unable to access the internet no vacation can bring. Or the fun of playing cards and drinking wine with my husband, instead of spending nights bent over computers with reruns in the background. There is no amount of oil that can warm me as much as my family of four huddled in one big bed together, sharing a blanket. A week without electricity has taught me only again, how amazing life is, here and now. How fortunate we are to have all we do, and how we have no control over so many things.
A week without electricity. That is just fine. Because I have all the power I need.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Two years...
Two Years.
Two years ago tonight, large, fluffy snowflakes were falling silently on grass that was still vibrantly green. I was experiencing waves of pain unlike anything I have ever felt before, and have only felt once more since. I had no idea what to expect, or what life would be in the next two years, I only knew things were about to change forever.
In two years, I have learned more from you than any number of years spent in school. No amount of money could buy anyone this type of education. Life, as a young adult without children, is quite static in general. Small variations here and there, but in two years of my twenties, little changed. Different relationships, different friends, a different job. Even leaving college to start my next chapter seemed less significant than it should have been, even at the time. Two years is nothing in the lifetime of mine until you were born. Now, I truly understand the significance of two years.
In two years, I have watched you grow from a helpless, albeit, large and quite loud infant, who incessantly screamed her demands in an untranslatable language to her tired parents who felt helpless and useless. No amount of baby books, classes, reading or even advice from be-there-done-that persons could have ever prepared us for you. We spent many of those first nights clinging to fleeting moments of silence and sleep and wondering when it would all change. We counted the days until we could regain normalcy...and now I long for a moment back in those sleepless months to look at you again, memorize your face, your smell, your laugh. I have many pictures, thousands really, and even hours of home video capturing your first steps, words, giggles and smiles. But I still long for the nights of moments I would have never thought to record.
In two years, you have become a little person, physically, but your personality is as big as it will ever be. Your sweet demands make me smile, and I stare at you wondering when you became so smart, so descriptive, so communicative. I think back over the past few months, how much you have changed since the winter, since your sister was born, since yesterday. I feel so proud for you, so proud of you.
But it also makes me realize how unchanged I am. You understand most of a language you have taught yourself by observation in less than 2 years. I could never do that in my adult life, ever. I still only remember the bad words from four years of Spanish class. But you, you know what to say, you understand even more. And my mind is powerless to learn in comparison to yours. I often hear of the young mind described as a sponge, which sounds metaphorical, until you see the literal version. It is enough to blow my non-absorbent mind.
I am most amazed by you as a sister. I watched you so closely today, your long blond hair blowing in wisps as you sailed back and forth on your swing. When did your hair get so long? You have amazed me most with your incredible growth since you sister was born. There was no transition for you, you took to her as though she had always been there, and though I know you may never remember life without your sister, it was there. The day she was born you instantly lost any interest in my once swollen belly, I know you knew that your sister was here in the flesh and my womb no longer carried any more importance. You loved her from day one, and I have never seen siblings act as you do together.
I am fascinated by you. The way you are selfless, as a two-year-old, where selflessness does not typically exist. But then there is you. A two-year-old who is concerned about where her sister is, when she needs to eat, be bathed and cared for. A two-year-old who sacrificed her time on a swing today so she could push her little sister gently in her swing and extract bubbly giggles. I know I loved you even before you were born, but watching you take care of your baby sister, watching you love her with this selfless unconditional, pure emotion, makes me feel so incredibly inadequate. Because I could never communicate through any medium the feelings I have for you today. Its not just love, not even close. It is not a word I have ever known. I am sure one doesn't exist.
All I can do is tell you I love you over and over, hoping words have some exponential value that add up over time and if I can just say it an infinite amount of times you will someday understand. But you won't, I know, until your first baby is two years old, and you try to explain to her how you feel.
And all I can do for now, is look forward to your tomorrows, and try to slow down time, lock in these memories and hope I am everything you need me to be, because you are everything thats gives my life meaning.
Happy birthday, my baby girl...
Two years ago tonight, large, fluffy snowflakes were falling silently on grass that was still vibrantly green. I was experiencing waves of pain unlike anything I have ever felt before, and have only felt once more since. I had no idea what to expect, or what life would be in the next two years, I only knew things were about to change forever.
In two years, I have learned more from you than any number of years spent in school. No amount of money could buy anyone this type of education. Life, as a young adult without children, is quite static in general. Small variations here and there, but in two years of my twenties, little changed. Different relationships, different friends, a different job. Even leaving college to start my next chapter seemed less significant than it should have been, even at the time. Two years is nothing in the lifetime of mine until you were born. Now, I truly understand the significance of two years.
In two years, I have watched you grow from a helpless, albeit, large and quite loud infant, who incessantly screamed her demands in an untranslatable language to her tired parents who felt helpless and useless. No amount of baby books, classes, reading or even advice from be-there-done-that persons could have ever prepared us for you. We spent many of those first nights clinging to fleeting moments of silence and sleep and wondering when it would all change. We counted the days until we could regain normalcy...and now I long for a moment back in those sleepless months to look at you again, memorize your face, your smell, your laugh. I have many pictures, thousands really, and even hours of home video capturing your first steps, words, giggles and smiles. But I still long for the nights of moments I would have never thought to record.
In two years, you have become a little person, physically, but your personality is as big as it will ever be. Your sweet demands make me smile, and I stare at you wondering when you became so smart, so descriptive, so communicative. I think back over the past few months, how much you have changed since the winter, since your sister was born, since yesterday. I feel so proud for you, so proud of you.
But it also makes me realize how unchanged I am. You understand most of a language you have taught yourself by observation in less than 2 years. I could never do that in my adult life, ever. I still only remember the bad words from four years of Spanish class. But you, you know what to say, you understand even more. And my mind is powerless to learn in comparison to yours. I often hear of the young mind described as a sponge, which sounds metaphorical, until you see the literal version. It is enough to blow my non-absorbent mind.
I am most amazed by you as a sister. I watched you so closely today, your long blond hair blowing in wisps as you sailed back and forth on your swing. When did your hair get so long? You have amazed me most with your incredible growth since you sister was born. There was no transition for you, you took to her as though she had always been there, and though I know you may never remember life without your sister, it was there. The day she was born you instantly lost any interest in my once swollen belly, I know you knew that your sister was here in the flesh and my womb no longer carried any more importance. You loved her from day one, and I have never seen siblings act as you do together.
I am fascinated by you. The way you are selfless, as a two-year-old, where selflessness does not typically exist. But then there is you. A two-year-old who is concerned about where her sister is, when she needs to eat, be bathed and cared for. A two-year-old who sacrificed her time on a swing today so she could push her little sister gently in her swing and extract bubbly giggles. I know I loved you even before you were born, but watching you take care of your baby sister, watching you love her with this selfless unconditional, pure emotion, makes me feel so incredibly inadequate. Because I could never communicate through any medium the feelings I have for you today. Its not just love, not even close. It is not a word I have ever known. I am sure one doesn't exist.
All I can do is tell you I love you over and over, hoping words have some exponential value that add up over time and if I can just say it an infinite amount of times you will someday understand. But you won't, I know, until your first baby is two years old, and you try to explain to her how you feel.
And all I can do for now, is look forward to your tomorrows, and try to slow down time, lock in these memories and hope I am everything you need me to be, because you are everything thats gives my life meaning.
Happy birthday, my baby girl...
Thursday, September 1, 2011
30
I am 30 today.
I have all the grandparents I have ever known. They are still alive and well, and I talk to them often. It took me nearly 30 years to really appreciate their insights. To admire their amazing commitment to their lives and each other. I love to hear their stories of the old days, how they struggled for food, made 30 cents a day, worked a week for a days worth of food, lost their lovers to war, and suffered from diseases that have long been eradicated.
I am 30 today, and I am humbled.
I have best friends in the form of sisters who can always make me laugh, and who are always around to talk and whom I share so many wonderful childhood moments. I have parents who understand me, love me unconditionally. Who have guided me through the best and hardest parts of my life. Offered sound advice for every challenge and who made me feel I would never be unloved, or against the world on my own. Parents who make me want to be a better mother, who have taught me about real love before I knew anything of it. Parents who light up when they see my children, and children who can't contain their happiness when they see their grandparents.
I am 30 today, and a mother, and still my parents' child.
I have transitioned from a completely dependent infant, to a carefree child, to my teenage years where even admitting to having parents was embarrassing. Weren't we so cool that we simply generated from our own awesomeness? Did I not try, behind closed doors, to explain to my parents how uncool they were, and their very existence was eroding my own coolness. I think my eyes rolled into my head for 4 years straight, no wonder my vision sucks. Determined never to be like them....though sometimes they were right.....OK, a lot of times they seem to be right......I need to talk to my parents before I make this decision, they will know what to do....
They don't embarrass me now, not even a little. Not even when my father introduces me by my name, profession, the number of children I have, their ages, how high they can count, something cute they just did/said, and (if he hasn't yet been cut off with a faux phone call) my sisters' names, professions, Alma Maters and children (even in their absence), often to complete strangers.
I am 30 today, and I am still so cool, but my parents are even cooler.
I have experienced pregnancy, a life being formed within me. I have grown that life, nurtured that life, dreamed of these lives, and birthed them. I have birthed a baby in a hospital, surrounded by doctors, nurses, and family. I have birthed a daughter in my car alone, with nothing but the voice of my husband and a thick fog to guide me. I have two daughters whose beauty overwhelms me, whose intelligence astounds me, and whose love envelopes me.
I am 30 today, and I am surrounded by love.
I have the house I want, in the town I want, bought and paid for with a job I love. A job which shows me the very worse parts of life, and allows me to experience the best. A job that fulfills me in a deep way, but makes me look forward everyday to holding my family at the end of every day and reminding me to be very grateful for all that I have. A job which allows me to spend most of my time at home with my family, a husband who would do anything for our daughters, which is all I ever wanted. Two girls, who can stop me in my tracks, even on my busiest day, to just stare at them. I am addicted to their faces, the sound of their voices, the smell of their hair, and their sleepy eyes in the morning, goofy smiles, and eyes that dance with happiness at things that instill chills of disgust in my over stimulated adult mind, spider webs, zig-zagging earwigs, slimy worms. Gross critters that turn my stomach, can make my kids giggle. They are fearless, wanting to touch, hold, and even taste. I am full of fear, thinking of all the diseases they could catch, all the holes that could be invaded, all the night hours I am not watching that my children, my husband, myself, could be covered in disgusting, segmented bodies. But my babies, they see none of the bad. They only see fun bugs. When did I lose that? Well before 30, I am sure. But now, I have my own silly bugs, and I too watch them for hours, giggling at their silliness and wanting nothing more than to pick them up and touch them, smell them, kiss them and wait for the next amazing thing this life has to offer. I have a feeling, it won't be long.
I am 30 today, and I am fulfilled.
I am so very happy.
I have all the grandparents I have ever known. They are still alive and well, and I talk to them often. It took me nearly 30 years to really appreciate their insights. To admire their amazing commitment to their lives and each other. I love to hear their stories of the old days, how they struggled for food, made 30 cents a day, worked a week for a days worth of food, lost their lovers to war, and suffered from diseases that have long been eradicated.
I am 30 today, and I am humbled.
I have best friends in the form of sisters who can always make me laugh, and who are always around to talk and whom I share so many wonderful childhood moments. I have parents who understand me, love me unconditionally. Who have guided me through the best and hardest parts of my life. Offered sound advice for every challenge and who made me feel I would never be unloved, or against the world on my own. Parents who make me want to be a better mother, who have taught me about real love before I knew anything of it. Parents who light up when they see my children, and children who can't contain their happiness when they see their grandparents.
I am 30 today, and a mother, and still my parents' child.
I have transitioned from a completely dependent infant, to a carefree child, to my teenage years where even admitting to having parents was embarrassing. Weren't we so cool that we simply generated from our own awesomeness? Did I not try, behind closed doors, to explain to my parents how uncool they were, and their very existence was eroding my own coolness. I think my eyes rolled into my head for 4 years straight, no wonder my vision sucks. Determined never to be like them....though sometimes they were right.....OK, a lot of times they seem to be right......I need to talk to my parents before I make this decision, they will know what to do....
They don't embarrass me now, not even a little. Not even when my father introduces me by my name, profession, the number of children I have, their ages, how high they can count, something cute they just did/said, and (if he hasn't yet been cut off with a faux phone call) my sisters' names, professions, Alma Maters and children (even in their absence), often to complete strangers.
I am 30 today, and I am still so cool, but my parents are even cooler.
I have experienced pregnancy, a life being formed within me. I have grown that life, nurtured that life, dreamed of these lives, and birthed them. I have birthed a baby in a hospital, surrounded by doctors, nurses, and family. I have birthed a daughter in my car alone, with nothing but the voice of my husband and a thick fog to guide me. I have two daughters whose beauty overwhelms me, whose intelligence astounds me, and whose love envelopes me.
I am 30 today, and I am surrounded by love.
I have the house I want, in the town I want, bought and paid for with a job I love. A job which shows me the very worse parts of life, and allows me to experience the best. A job that fulfills me in a deep way, but makes me look forward everyday to holding my family at the end of every day and reminding me to be very grateful for all that I have. A job which allows me to spend most of my time at home with my family, a husband who would do anything for our daughters, which is all I ever wanted. Two girls, who can stop me in my tracks, even on my busiest day, to just stare at them. I am addicted to their faces, the sound of their voices, the smell of their hair, and their sleepy eyes in the morning, goofy smiles, and eyes that dance with happiness at things that instill chills of disgust in my over stimulated adult mind, spider webs, zig-zagging earwigs, slimy worms. Gross critters that turn my stomach, can make my kids giggle. They are fearless, wanting to touch, hold, and even taste. I am full of fear, thinking of all the diseases they could catch, all the holes that could be invaded, all the night hours I am not watching that my children, my husband, myself, could be covered in disgusting, segmented bodies. But my babies, they see none of the bad. They only see fun bugs. When did I lose that? Well before 30, I am sure. But now, I have my own silly bugs, and I too watch them for hours, giggling at their silliness and wanting nothing more than to pick them up and touch them, smell them, kiss them and wait for the next amazing thing this life has to offer. I have a feeling, it won't be long.
I am 30 today, and I am fulfilled.
I am so very happy.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Blind
I am not, nor have I ever been a religious person. I do believe in some semblance of order in this life. There is too much symmetry, too many infinite patterns, too much perfection, for me to believe any differently.
I cringe at phrases such as " all things happen for a reason", in part because I feel it is a copout, in part because I believe it is true, and in part, because I know it isn't, but desperately want it to be, need it to be.
What good can possibly come from anyone with cancer, a child who never makes it through childhood, or is robbed of it,made to grow older than possible in a short life. Or one who is fated never to make it even to birth. How can we hide behind a mysterious "reason" for any of that? How can we justify the worst things that can happen with an assumption that there is some entity, some power choosing this? Some order we know nothing of but must accept as fate? Is there a lesson in all things tragic? Are we supposed to find a glimmer of hope and happiness in all things that devastate us?
Maybe we are. Perhaps it is our responsibility, to our own selves, to find that reason in every instance of sadness. To create a place where we are safe, even if we can not see, or feel it. That reason, behind all things, being something we create ourselves. Is this what I am to teach my children, to find the good in all bad, the wonder in all things sad, the beauty, in all things that make us cringe with discomfort, and to use their own minds to create happiness, and contentment?
I don't know. I haven't a clue, except, perhaps..., well, yes, I think it just may be.
I cringe at phrases such as " all things happen for a reason", in part because I feel it is a copout, in part because I believe it is true, and in part, because I know it isn't, but desperately want it to be, need it to be.
What good can possibly come from anyone with cancer, a child who never makes it through childhood, or is robbed of it,made to grow older than possible in a short life. Or one who is fated never to make it even to birth. How can we hide behind a mysterious "reason" for any of that? How can we justify the worst things that can happen with an assumption that there is some entity, some power choosing this? Some order we know nothing of but must accept as fate? Is there a lesson in all things tragic? Are we supposed to find a glimmer of hope and happiness in all things that devastate us?
Maybe we are. Perhaps it is our responsibility, to our own selves, to find that reason in every instance of sadness. To create a place where we are safe, even if we can not see, or feel it. That reason, behind all things, being something we create ourselves. Is this what I am to teach my children, to find the good in all bad, the wonder in all things sad, the beauty, in all things that make us cringe with discomfort, and to use their own minds to create happiness, and contentment?
I don't know. I haven't a clue, except, perhaps..., well, yes, I think it just may be.
Monday, August 15, 2011
Blind Hope
My children amaze me, everyday. I never thought I wanted my babies to be this close in age, never planned on this, but life changed my mind.
It really is literally indescribable, how much I love my babies, but I will try to do so, after all, this whole blog thing is for my babies. So that they might know one day, maybe when I am gone, how very much they filled my life with love, happiness, and a desire to give up everything I ever thought I wanted in life, to watch them enjoy theirs.
I never understood. I couldn't. How a mother could become hypnotized by a toddler's babbling lips, the blue crescendo of a newborn's eyes, the glow of satiny skin that disappears into deep crevices of soft flesh, only to mound up again into hill after hill of chubbiness. The effortless beauty and innocence of a child. Absolute perfection, so far from what I have become, so much potential in this little life.
I long to replicate the feeling of the all consuming embrace of warmth I felt the first time Jada's sweet, chubby face curled into a smile so big her eyes disappeared beneath folds of soft, smooth brown flesh and her little noise wrinkled up into her downy forehead. Her black-brown hair refused to stop at her forehead, and grows sparingly, but steadily down her face, combining into her eyebrows and connecting her temples. The small swirl atop her brow, a genetic gift from her auntie. The way I have to slide my hand up to the knuckles under her chin to reach her neck..another signature of my Italian family. My husband's genetic contribution, a completely contented personality, and one very distinct eyebrow that rises slightly only to give way to a concave curve, rise up to the summit of the brow and crash down again. Only hers is on the opposite side of her father's, so they match up as they face each other. Incredible.
The way my children came from the same two people, and can be so completely different. Di has translucent skin, so light I can trace the paths of her veins from head to toe. The one trait from my bloodline, a quirky pinky toenail that grows straight up from the tip of her toe, just as my mother's does. That nail is impossible to paint. She is going to hate that nail when she's older...I will always love it. Her wispy blond hair, so fine and feathery that no clip or ponytail holder can manage to contain it for more than a minute. Her hair rejects all accessories and styling efforts, curling and twisting in different directions and ways throughout the day. I don't have the heart to cut it, even a little bit. I want to let it be free and wild and natural, as she is. Her blue eyes actually taper to brown at the border of the pupil, spiral out in flecks of yellow and green to the sapphire border of her iris. The whites of her eyes are blue tinged as well, and the corners turn down, which certainly works to her advantage when asking her parents for a treat.
J's eyes are blue as well, but distinctly different. The blue is lighter in the center, without a trace of any other color, and light, early morning sky blue which ascends and descends simultaneously around her inquisitive pupils to a thick, deep sapphire ring. That ring holds her big eyes in place beneath her slanted, almond lids. I get lost in her eyes. The way she stares at me, and returns my admiring gaze with a huge, toothless grin. She even stops suckling on me for a moment or two just to let me know she sees my face, she smiles at me and I know, despite the fact that it will be many months before she and I can converse in a traditional sense, these moments are our very first mother daughter "talks".
Pretty basic. Me: "I love you baby, you make my world everything I could ever want, and I can't believe you are my baby"
Her: "I like boob".
They astound me. Every moment of my day. How much I can love, how happy I can feel, how little you really need to make life worth living. How they can fulfill my life to absolute completeness and contentment. How they could replace any other dreams and aspirations I ever had, because they are more than enough to satisfy any aspect of my life. I could give up eating and be nourished with their smiles and laughter. (Well...for a few minutes, anyway). I could give up television and internet and be perpetually entertained by their antics, they way they eat food, read books and interact with each other. Of course, my children sleep, and I do not find my husband eating quite as intriguing, so I utilize the DVR nightly.
"Love" doesn't seem strong enough. I can't replicate with a word the warmth, the joy that effervesces from every part of my body when my baby laughs with me, or my big girl asks to hold her sister, or kisses her when she thinks I am not looking. When her baby sister cries and the look on her face is pure concern as she rushes to her sister's aide, not a hint of annoyance or irritation. Just love. "Amazed" doesn't ignite nearly the same feeling I get as I stare at them, asking myself and them, "you do that? when did you learn to do that? Are you really mine?" Even photographs, they do not do my babies justice. A moment, captured, still forever and even that, it can't give me the same feelings I get when I hold them, smell them, feel their skin on mine, their hair in my nose. I need to memorize them, they way they smile so purely, from only joy, not obligation. They way they smell of natural sweetness, like a breeze on a summer night, not of perfumes or colognes. They way they are so breath-takingly beautiful, without a touch of makeup, hair dye or skin product. They way they are perfect people, who use their bodies for what they are designed for and don't question any of it. The way they live recklessly and love unconditionally.
My children have so very much to teach me.
It really is literally indescribable, how much I love my babies, but I will try to do so, after all, this whole blog thing is for my babies. So that they might know one day, maybe when I am gone, how very much they filled my life with love, happiness, and a desire to give up everything I ever thought I wanted in life, to watch them enjoy theirs.
I never understood. I couldn't. How a mother could become hypnotized by a toddler's babbling lips, the blue crescendo of a newborn's eyes, the glow of satiny skin that disappears into deep crevices of soft flesh, only to mound up again into hill after hill of chubbiness. The effortless beauty and innocence of a child. Absolute perfection, so far from what I have become, so much potential in this little life.
I long to replicate the feeling of the all consuming embrace of warmth I felt the first time Jada's sweet, chubby face curled into a smile so big her eyes disappeared beneath folds of soft, smooth brown flesh and her little noise wrinkled up into her downy forehead. Her black-brown hair refused to stop at her forehead, and grows sparingly, but steadily down her face, combining into her eyebrows and connecting her temples. The small swirl atop her brow, a genetic gift from her auntie. The way I have to slide my hand up to the knuckles under her chin to reach her neck..another signature of my Italian family. My husband's genetic contribution, a completely contented personality, and one very distinct eyebrow that rises slightly only to give way to a concave curve, rise up to the summit of the brow and crash down again. Only hers is on the opposite side of her father's, so they match up as they face each other. Incredible.
The way my children came from the same two people, and can be so completely different. Di has translucent skin, so light I can trace the paths of her veins from head to toe. The one trait from my bloodline, a quirky pinky toenail that grows straight up from the tip of her toe, just as my mother's does. That nail is impossible to paint. She is going to hate that nail when she's older...I will always love it. Her wispy blond hair, so fine and feathery that no clip or ponytail holder can manage to contain it for more than a minute. Her hair rejects all accessories and styling efforts, curling and twisting in different directions and ways throughout the day. I don't have the heart to cut it, even a little bit. I want to let it be free and wild and natural, as she is. Her blue eyes actually taper to brown at the border of the pupil, spiral out in flecks of yellow and green to the sapphire border of her iris. The whites of her eyes are blue tinged as well, and the corners turn down, which certainly works to her advantage when asking her parents for a treat.
J's eyes are blue as well, but distinctly different. The blue is lighter in the center, without a trace of any other color, and light, early morning sky blue which ascends and descends simultaneously around her inquisitive pupils to a thick, deep sapphire ring. That ring holds her big eyes in place beneath her slanted, almond lids. I get lost in her eyes. The way she stares at me, and returns my admiring gaze with a huge, toothless grin. She even stops suckling on me for a moment or two just to let me know she sees my face, she smiles at me and I know, despite the fact that it will be many months before she and I can converse in a traditional sense, these moments are our very first mother daughter "talks".
Pretty basic. Me: "I love you baby, you make my world everything I could ever want, and I can't believe you are my baby"
Her: "I like boob".
They astound me. Every moment of my day. How much I can love, how happy I can feel, how little you really need to make life worth living. How they can fulfill my life to absolute completeness and contentment. How they could replace any other dreams and aspirations I ever had, because they are more than enough to satisfy any aspect of my life. I could give up eating and be nourished with their smiles and laughter. (Well...for a few minutes, anyway). I could give up television and internet and be perpetually entertained by their antics, they way they eat food, read books and interact with each other. Of course, my children sleep, and I do not find my husband eating quite as intriguing, so I utilize the DVR nightly.
"Love" doesn't seem strong enough. I can't replicate with a word the warmth, the joy that effervesces from every part of my body when my baby laughs with me, or my big girl asks to hold her sister, or kisses her when she thinks I am not looking. When her baby sister cries and the look on her face is pure concern as she rushes to her sister's aide, not a hint of annoyance or irritation. Just love. "Amazed" doesn't ignite nearly the same feeling I get as I stare at them, asking myself and them, "you do that? when did you learn to do that? Are you really mine?" Even photographs, they do not do my babies justice. A moment, captured, still forever and even that, it can't give me the same feelings I get when I hold them, smell them, feel their skin on mine, their hair in my nose. I need to memorize them, they way they smile so purely, from only joy, not obligation. They way they smell of natural sweetness, like a breeze on a summer night, not of perfumes or colognes. They way they are so breath-takingly beautiful, without a touch of makeup, hair dye or skin product. They way they are perfect people, who use their bodies for what they are designed for and don't question any of it. The way they live recklessly and love unconditionally.
My children have so very much to teach me.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
One Year
One year. Yesterday was one year from the day I found out about my mother's cancer. One year, from the day my world as I knew it, crumbled before me and my mind raced as I scrambled to cling to the pieces. Denial, a wonderful defense mechanism, which at first feels good. To have a belief in waking from a nightmare is possible, though denial only truly disguises another gut wrenching, heart dropping reality. One year.
In one year, my mother had discovered her cancer, had surgery, chemotherapy. Her hair has fallen out and grown back, erasing the scar. With the growth of hair, comes the growth of new hope. All the useless, and now potentially deadly organs that once housed myself and my sisters, created and gave life to, gone. Diseased and useless. The first time I ever had to see my mother sick, lying helpless in a hospital bed, too weak to move, wondering if this was the first of many nights I would spend there. Now, my mother calls me daily, breathless as she manages to hold an hour long conversation while exercising rather vigorously between her full time job and countless errands and phenomenal grandmothering. One year.
In one year, my Jada was dreamed of, conceived, carried in my womb, delivered in my car, and is now the amazing little smiling creature before me. One year. My baby girl, my first born, has transformed into a little girl, from a baby who could barely crawl, to a child I can barely run after, speaking in full sentences, caring for her new sister, painting pictures, signing and singing about a hundred songs I never knew she knew. Just one year.
One year. We made the move from Massachusetts to our dream life in Connecticut. Bought the house we loved in the town we adored. Painted the walls with my own two hands and started our life here, planted the roots of our young family, among the roots of the many trees that have been hear for decades, some maybe for a century. All this, in one year.
So many amazing moments, most that I will vividly remember all my life. From that terrifying night I realized my life would never be the same again, all security ripped away, to now understanding that same terror is liberating. Because now that you are here, cancer, we can fight you. It is the unseen enemy I fear most, and I see you, clearly. I do not fear you now. You have been revealed. And we have conquered you. All, in just one year.
In one year, my mother had discovered her cancer, had surgery, chemotherapy. Her hair has fallen out and grown back, erasing the scar. With the growth of hair, comes the growth of new hope. All the useless, and now potentially deadly organs that once housed myself and my sisters, created and gave life to, gone. Diseased and useless. The first time I ever had to see my mother sick, lying helpless in a hospital bed, too weak to move, wondering if this was the first of many nights I would spend there. Now, my mother calls me daily, breathless as she manages to hold an hour long conversation while exercising rather vigorously between her full time job and countless errands and phenomenal grandmothering. One year.
In one year, my Jada was dreamed of, conceived, carried in my womb, delivered in my car, and is now the amazing little smiling creature before me. One year. My baby girl, my first born, has transformed into a little girl, from a baby who could barely crawl, to a child I can barely run after, speaking in full sentences, caring for her new sister, painting pictures, signing and singing about a hundred songs I never knew she knew. Just one year.
One year. We made the move from Massachusetts to our dream life in Connecticut. Bought the house we loved in the town we adored. Painted the walls with my own two hands and started our life here, planted the roots of our young family, among the roots of the many trees that have been hear for decades, some maybe for a century. All this, in one year.
So many amazing moments, most that I will vividly remember all my life. From that terrifying night I realized my life would never be the same again, all security ripped away, to now understanding that same terror is liberating. Because now that you are here, cancer, we can fight you. It is the unseen enemy I fear most, and I see you, clearly. I do not fear you now. You have been revealed. And we have conquered you. All, in just one year.
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