Monthly Archives: February 2012

The Baby

Standard

I love having a baby in the house.

There’s something about a baby that’s utterly mystifying, magical, full of wonder and awe. All the newness, all the firsts. Those soft angles, that flawless skin, the adorable chub, the effortless gummy smiles, the fumbling little movements as they navigate everything for the very first time.

I could watch him for days on end and do nothing else. I soak it all in, yet it still eludes me. Soon each milestone is but a memory, the newborn cry gone, along with the pacifiers. The wobbly neck almost forgotten, along with the tiny diapers that seem more fitting for a doll. Each stage goes so quickly, as they say, even while I slowly bathe in it. One phase morphs into the next and before you know it, you have a walking, talking toddler and the baby is no more.

As I spend many mornings staring in amazement at him, all nearly six months of him, I bury my head into his soft tuft of hair and breathe in, the baby scent we’d all bottle if we could, already starting to fade. I try my hardest to sear it into my memory, knowing I’ll forget, just like I did with his brothers. I’ll forget the exact date he transitioned from the tiny newborn cry to the heartier infant wail, from dragging his legs around in an army crawl on the hardwood floors to a full-fledged crawl, the day he officially outgrew the bouncy seat. That’s the funny thing about memory, it gets blurry when remembering life’s intricate details, probably as a survival skill, so we equally forget the intensity and highs of joy along with the lows of pain. The pain of childbirth, of trauma, of broken bones and broken hearts.

We get back up and do it all over again.

I’m not the best at writing down milestones. I tend to want to be in the moment instead of leaving the moment to document it. My firstborn’s baby book is tucked away in his closet with a series of blank pages after nine months, cut off prematurely like an abrupt ending to a movie. My second son’s baby book is sitting in his closet completely blank.

I have yet to buy a baby book for the baby. This blog might be as close as I ever get.

In the meantime, I’m trying to hold onto his babyhood as it slips through my fingers, one day at a time, his body becoming more agile, as he learns to crawl away from me faster than my swollen heart can catch up with him.

Advertisements

Wild Things

Standard

There were lots of false starts along the way.

I’ve wanted to start blogging for over three years, but something always stopped me. For someone who is an inherently shy and intensely private person, a public blog is sort of the equivalent to stripping down naked and running across the field during the Super Bowl. In the middle of the half-time show. One week after giving birth. After eating three burritos.

In other words: putting my words out there for anyone to potentially read them is anxiety-inducing to say the least. But I am trying harder to conquer my fears these days and get over my phobias. To leave my comfort zone. I mean, after all, how presumptuous would it be to assume anyone would ever read the words I write here anyhow?

Something about blogging always struck me as slightly narcissistic at the core. The very premise consists of writing about your life with the thought that it might be interesting enough for others to want to read about it. My fear of ever coming across as self-important also diverted my attempts at blogging. I am self-deprecating to a fault. I cringe at anything that would ever come across as haughty. I have a soft spot for humility and run for the hills when I smell narcissism. Maybe because I’ve always been surrounded by people with egos large enough to sit next to them in the passenger seat. ¬†After all, I’ve made a career working in television (an industry not really lacking in the inflated ego department). Yet, I have always gladly played the supporting role. It’s a part I’m very comfortable with. But, again, time to leave the comfort zone, as cozy as it might be here, sipping tea in our jammies in front of the fireplace.

So here I am. Slowly peeling the clothes off. Letting my words run wild across the page.

My loves, my heart, my three wild things, they are the boys who fill my days, who feed a large portion of my soul. They will be written about with pseudonyms, yet to be determined. For now, they are 6, 2 and 6 months. They are two Virgos and a Libra. They are equal parts joy and pain, bitter and sweet, yin and yang. They challenge me. They teach me. Mostly about patience and unconditional love.

They are the best gifts ever bestowed upon me. And on this journey, my only hope is that I can do right by them.