Writing Time

The rain held off until 5pm today, and when it fell the first drops were fat and warm. Halle and I gathered up the orange ball and the wooden walker toy and stepped into the kitchen. We took off our shoes and looked at the cabinets. Quinoa salad, I decided: carrots, kale, feta, green onion, raisins, almonds. Banana, Halle decided: banana.

It was the perfect quiet close to the best Mother's Day of my life. Last year's was a wash, because Tom was at the theatre all day and both of our families were out of town. I took then 4-month old Halle to the park for a picnic, and it was fun enough, but lonely. I felt conspicuous. Today the men made a huge brunch, which we ate on the wrap-around porch of my parents' new house. Tom left early with Halle to do the cooking, and for the first time since Halle's birth I had two Sunday morning hours to myself. 

I listened to NPR upstairs and downstairs (simultaneously!).

I tidied up, but it was nice to do it alone, without feeling guilty.

I took a long shower, and afterwards I straightened my hair and put on eyeliner and lipstick.

I wore a wonderful navy dress with white horses and a deep orange ribbon, from my friend Erin.

And I walked to my parents' house, the grandmothers' gifts on my arm, enjoying the air and the knowledge that I was walking to the place where my family was.

In the late afternoon Tom took Halle on a stroll so that I could play with my new iPad and drink hot coffee by the window. When they returned I took her outside to play. And then it rained, and we had dinner, and I rocked Halle to sleep. 

My laptop's been out of commission for a little while now, but it wasn't until last week that I suddenly realized how much I had been missing writing. It was instructive for me, because I believe it was the first time in my life that I felt an intense need to write; as if, perhaps, there is some part of my destiny tied to writing after all. That sounds very dramatic, but there you are. 

Don't you all have something like that? A tiny, deeply-rooted seed of specific intent: "One day I'm going to do something amazing, which has been inside me all this time, and that thing is..." My problem has always been that I can feel the seed, but I have no idea which plant it's for. Literary criticism? Teaching? Being a mommy? At 32 the searching's getting a little old. I'm not implying that I can or should write professionally, but the realization was a nudge: write, write. And people, the nudge felt good.

Ah, but this blog is supposed to be about a baby, and here I am discussing tiny seeds and nudges and even quinoa, but not the child.

The child is lovely. She picks up new words every day, though much of the time we sound like a bilingual household.

Me: Halle, would you like to read a night-night story?

Halle: Ah da bloog a Hiyee mamamama.

Me: (Grabbing a random book.) Good pick!

She meows, woofs, ba-bas, and roars; two days ago she started asking for the "itshy bitshy" spider, and wiggling her fingers; tonight she ate quinoa and then threw her daddy's underwear into the bathtub. This was a minor improvement over last week's obsession with throwing everything into the toilet, but Tom hasn't seen his soggy shorts yet. We're almost done nursing, which is both sad and a relief.  I love the way she holds my hand as we walk. She's very serious about learning the world, and also fairly naughty. We like her. We love her. 

Being someone's mama is exhausting, and being parents changes a marriage. But what I worried at first was a pulling apart from each other, I realize now are just the growing pains of becoming three. As Halle would say, "Mama, Dada, Ha-yee." And as I aways respond, "Family."