Right now I am also listening to a Rafi cd my friend Meg gave us. I tell ya, it is rather pleasant listening. Right now we're enjoying a song about bowling.
Right now I'm coughing - well, no, right now I'm TYPING about coughing. But one second ago I was coughing. The kind of cough that hurts. I caught the cold that Woodworker and Buckaroo had. I held a moral high-ground for some days because I was doing saline washes (up the nose) diligently, which Woodworker poopooed; yet, I seemed to avoid the yuck. But there are only so many days of wiping your son's wretched snotty face without having some impact on your immune system. Anyway, I feel pretty crappy and this is my first time feeling this sick while parenting. As I've said every day since he was born (practically), I don't know how people do this over and over. But, I'm reminded of what my sister Liz said to me during that first newborn week: all those moments when you don't know how you're going to do it, you ARE doing it.
This year, the holidays have precipitated in me a yearning for my youth. I'm certain this is because my entire reality, my entire existence has been modified by motherhood. And I hope that doesn't sound like I'm resenting my new reality, but that I'm often puzzled by it. Or perhaps I will invent a word: buzzled. Because I'm constantly buzzing around, chasing after the baby and my mind, puzzled and befuddled. I'm trying to remain faithful that future Christmases will have more opportunities for quiet moments by the glow of the tree. Surely. For instance, future Christmases probably won't involve Buckaroo sleeping (sort of) in the pack-and-play while his parents try to sleep (sort of) in the same room - that being my brother Sergei's room at my parents' house. Thank you a jillion times, Sergei, for cleaning your room and offering it to us!
It is becoming clear to me how attached I am to the cozy, sweet magic of Christmas! I think I spent so many years as a single adult with my own quiet independence to embrace the magic moments of the holidays that this very buzzled version seems like an intrusion at times. I'm adapting. Besides, how many of those solo Christmases did I feel the woe of singledom? Now I have what I always wanted!
But it WAS a magic couple of days that we all shared sleeping at my parents' house. So much bounty of love and babies and laughter and snot and presents and cookies and everything! I want to share some of it, but I'm waiting for photos.
In the meantime, here is a photo of me and the Buckaroo from what feels like 57 years ago:
Update: Right now the babe is napping and I'm reclined on my bed. These are my moments of rejuvenation. Resting in the quiet.
Look at this little goofball. Is he not delicious? He looks so little to me here. Look at his teenie fingers curled. So silly. Ahhhnnn. Back when he was a blob and didn't crawl away from me when I changed his diapers.
Currently I'm trying to master how to change a very poopy diaper when the wearer will not stay still. These are the moments that make me think of very cold martinis. But, at the same time, I have a sense of satisfaction for his healthy elimination. How disgusting is that?
Befuddled,
Nellie
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