Happy 9 Months.
Somewhere in this whirlwind of a brain your mama’s hiding, standing stunned, hands up in an old peaked attic as a tornado winds up all the pages from today’s memory banks and twists them out the broken window. Busy, busy day. Busy, busy week. A whirlwind, as they say. We’re nearly living out of our poor, overworked Chevy (well, a suitcase and diaper bag and my pump and your pump at least) and we’ve got to get back in her tomorrow and travel north. We’ve put 8,000 miles on that car since January. Can you believe it! All that greening I did when you were in the womb doesn’t even come close to making up for all the environmentally harmful yet personally salvatory (well it’s a word now) things, events, and actions we’ve taken or used up or needed multiple replacements of since you were born.
Love, dear, sweet love. You’re so sleepy. I rocked you to sleep like a newborn tonight because you squealed in pain, crunched up your little face, and cried and cried and squealed. It’s tough – I don’t know if you’re teething, have a belly ache, have post-surgery ache, have intolerance to feedings or the new meds, or what.
It’s so hard to see you in pain. I just want to hold you and curl up with you and wish it all away. So I did, and you fell asleep, with me singing one of my old songs (stand up honey child step from that quicksand you’re deep within arise now honey child and let those dusty lungs breathe straighten up honey child and untwist those winding sheets they’re burlap torn and muddy I’ve got some softer I’ve got some clean it’s all silk Chinese brocade you can feel it wrapped around you so walk tall honey child and know we’re with you alive now honey child you only needed to unwind so revel in each moment it’s all there for you if you just noticeetc) no longer surprised at how that Then song matches up with my Now life.
Ah, baby. You do look healthy, though, everyone comments – fat and pink with lots of smiles, and you giggle out loud now when I pretend to chew your side. Animal sounds are absolutely hilarious, too. Sweet little kiddola, I need to follow you to sleep. I wish you’d show me whatever door you took to find it. And yes, I’m so tired. I haven’t slept a wink. The old adage. Nine months in, nine months out. There should be some kind of magic or chart or woven text that makes meaning from this depth we’re in, this moment in time, exactly 18 months alive you are, half in, half out, not waving and certainly not drowning, but hovering somewhere in between, staring at the papers and dust and debris rioting in the could-be-if-their-mood-shifts threatening winds.
-Late May 2007
Tornado Alley
