Fuzzy, hazy world of wonder.
You don’t like to sleep.
We sit around the table
Shuffling spoonfuls into our open mouths
In awe at the weight of our eyelids
And the cuteness that sits next to us.
Weary, yet born to the joy that is before us every moment again.
Married for two years today.
This morning you woke up before me, made coffee and got ready.
Just in time to snuggle back in bed, baby in the middle as he wiggled and stretched and grew before our eyes.
You ate your Honey Nut Cheerios while I did my first breathing treatment of the day. We watched the morning news and agreed to try not to be anxious about Election Day.
While I got ready, you got the sleepy baby prepped for our day: cheered him through his medicine-taking, talking him through a diaper change, buckled him safely and happily into his seat. Simon and I left in time, with my warm coffee in hand and a few extra kisses in the driveway of our new-to-us home.
We will spend the day apart, each working, but looking forward to our dinner in PJs tonight and undoubtedly staying up late to watch our favorite candidate become president. Hopefully with a glass of wine.
We will wake up tomorrow again, snuggles and laundry and work and appointments.
This is the love of our marriage.
Stable, imperfect, self-giving.
In the scope of it all, still new.
We are growing together, with the help of people who love us so well.
We have done much, at times overwhelmingly too much in our short time together: married, moved to a new state, 2 new jobs, left one job, started grad school, high-risk pregnancy, beautiful baby, new house. So much changes, yet we cling to the same rock together.
We laugh along the way and we cry and we fight, too. But in the end, we love each other better for it. We challenge one another to be more authentically ourselves.
That is the love that I need in my life.
This is the love that will get me to Heaven.
*Late addition: Hillary lost that night and we both were very sad 😦
Today is a tired day,
For you and for me.
You want to nurse a lot, so we lay on the floor of the den
As the rainy day light trickles in
And the time passes
And the to do list isn’t done
I remind myself almost every moment
It’s okay not to finish things
Like this poem
Oh my gosh, Simon. One of my favorite moments of ours just happened. It’s late at night, 11:41 p.m. to be exact. I just turned in an assignment for school. You woke up. You don’t typically cry, just gripe and grumble through sleepiness. I could hear your dad shushing you through the baby monitor. Ha! I went back there and your eyes were open and you were excited to see me!
You kicked your legs and flailed your little arms in your fleece polar bear pajamas. I’m so glad you sleep in our room. I don’t even mind getting up with you. You’re amazing.
Anyway, you grumbled through your diaper change but I got you to smile a few times once your eyes peeked open. You made a bob-bob-bob sound, seeming to say mom, please come on and feed me I’m so hungry!
As I nurse you, sometimes you pull off, lean back and smile. Wow, does that melt my heart. You show me your sleepy, toothless grin and laugh. I can’t help but laugh out loud too. You go back to eating, but I’m still laughing, so you do it again. And again. And I can’t stop laughing!!
And we are just staring at each other laughing. I see it in your face, a sparkle of myself. I see your personality and your light shine through. I feel our bond grow before my eyes.
Now you’re asleep again. Nestled right across my whole body, your head bobbing every now and then and milk trickling out of your mouth.
I’m not in a hurry to get to bed. This peace is the perfect rest. I’ll nod in and out of sleep; finally let the pillow drop from my lap and place you into bed. Your pack and play next to me. Until about 5-5:30 when our tiredness is too much, and I’ve already gotten up 2-3 times, so I’ll remove all the pillows from bed and place you in the middle.
Goodnight Simon. I love you my son.
Sometimes conversations with kids teach me something I wasn’t expecting.
Small human: What are you doing?
Me: Taking my baby on a walk.
Small human: Why are you doing that?
Me: Well, he likes to be outside and moving. It helps him sleep.
Small human: Why do you have a baby?
Me: Well… I guess God wanted me to be a mom.
Wow. Right in the heart.
The hum of the vacuum
The empty new home echo
You’re snuggled up to my breast
Lulling in and out of sleep
I’m feeding you in a lawn chair next to the window.
This is the place we will call home
Our future memories
Hope-full-y many things
Siblings, first steps, laughter and flowers
New pets, broken vases, and finished projects.
This is the place
Welcome home Simon Nicholas.
4:30 a.m. the baby cries for food
Eyes stuck shut
I pry them open with the light of my phone
Yesterday, black men died.
Apparently today, 10 police officers.
I don’t read. I don’t click the details.
I don’t want to know.
My best friend sleeps over, she stirs.
I could wake her, tell her, not be alone
I think of my husband, tired too from the gore.
But I am so done.
So don’t want to know.
I want them to wake up and not have to deal with more casualties in this American war
We live in a war.
All of those men were innocent.
The black and the white.
Once they were babes in arms like my boy
Both tired and awake
In the middle of the night.
From their vaccine shots the day before.
An innocent smile dances on and off his face
He laughs only because he knows me
He knows not of the world tumbling around him.
Those men shot, black and white
Felt this innocence once before
Smiled at the one they recognized.
The world did this to them, taught them to hate and be hated.
Kill and be killed.
Tonight they are the same, innocent and free again.