As I clear away some of the cobwebs, I can start to see this
old blog again.
If I take out my oil can
and give it a few pumps, I may be able to get it to move and bend some of its
rusty joints.
I started this blog when
Finny was ten months old as a gift to him and a gift to myself, a way to
process the miracle that was unfolding, a way to connect with other mothers, a
way to share the most challenging, most rewarding experience of my life.
There were times when I’d blog daily, more
often I’d try for weekly, and lately I’m lucky if I get a chance to sit down
and slow down long enough to write something once a month.
A funny thing is happening to me and my boys—they’re growing
and I can’t keep up.
As they’re mother,
I’m also their historian:
the keeper of
the finger-paintings, the camerawoman, the videographer, and the record-keeper
all in one.
I have taken thousands of
pictures of them, but I haven’t printed a single one from last year.
With a 35 mm, I used to have fewer pictures
and some of them captured blurry faces, red eyes, and a blink or two, but after
I took 24, there was the guarantee that I could drop them off at Walgreens and
pick them up in an hour.
Now I have
thousands of digital pictures that require cropping and editing, uploading and
ordering and so I share them in an instant on the World Wide Web, but they
never make it into an album that Charlie can paw through with his sticky
fingers.
I have lost wonderful videos
that I never took the time to properly store and organize on the PC.
And this blog, well this blog has become a
list in my head of things I’d love to write down, if only I could muster the
time and energy to do it.
But I have to cut myself a little slack because the only
reason us mamas get so behind in keeping up with the past, is that we’re so
completely immersed in the present.
There are mouths to feed, bottoms to wipe, batteries to replace, books
to tape, clothes to fold, and bonked heads to kiss.
There are pictures to color, play dough to
roll, grilled cheese sandwiches to grill, bellies to tickle, and a dishwasher
that always, always needs to be emptied…again.
And the nap, it’s vanishing before my very eyes.
The nap and I have had a good run.
I recall certain days when Finny the baby would
nap for up to five hours, and in the past couple weeks there have been days
when I could still get three hours out of Finny the four-year-old.
But he’s too old for that now.
A three-hour-nap often means a 10:30 p.m.
bedtime, and the past couple days there has been no nap at all, just quiet play
time, which generally lasts about an hour.
And that’s just Finny.
Now that Charlie’s in his toddler bed, he performs circus acts in his
room unless I go in and pin him to the bed while I fall asleep on his rug.
And after all that, there’s just about enough time to
respond to a couple emails and pay a bill or two.
But to compose a blog entry, to process the
big picture?
That’s a luxury of a bygone
day.
So, here’s my chance.
Aunt Celeste is keeping an eye out, so I can sip some coffee and eat a
muffin, while I try to conjure all the joy and wonder that is right now. Here’s a small piece of our big picture:
Charlie, you run through the house in your PJs and rain
boots wagging your strawberry curls.
You smile at us with big teeth and say, “I
gonna getchoo!” and then you dive head first into the couch cushions and wait,
giggling.
I want to swallow you whole
and then lick my fingers after.
Finny, last night while I was doing the dishes, you suddenly
dashed into the kitchen wearing only your undies and snow boots.
You wrapped your arms around my legs and
kissed my thigh, and then you ran away again.
You told Daddy and I we’ll be your valentines forever.
We know these are the inexperienced promises
of a four-year-old.
We grip them tight
and stuff them in our pockets.
We’re holding
onto them for a rainy day ten years from now when you hate our guts.
Charlie, when I ask you if you love me, you smile and say, “No,
I love Daddy,” and when I ask you again, you say, “No, I love Finny.”
At Target last week, you taunted me from the
cart, saying “Ah, come on, Man!
Come on,
Mommy!” to the great delight of the other shoppers.
You were incognito in your superhero cape
with Daddy’s old Notre Dame golf hat falling over your eyes.
You were hassling me about riding the
escalator and pushing the triangle on the elevator.
Finny, at four-years-old, you still run from me any chance
you get.
I have to wrestle you to the
ground to get you dressed everyday and I have to bribe you with Flintstone
vitamins to put your coat on in the morning.
If Charlie is doing something he shouldn’t like unroll all the toilet
paper from the roll or throw markers all over the floor, you don’t stop and
redirect him.
You throw your head back and laugh.
And then you join right in.
Charlie, you have a mild obsession with the “Mumber 2” which
is in more places than I ever would have realized without you in my back seat
wherever I go.
“I see Mumber Two,
Mo-mmy!
I see Mumber Two!”
You know where every handicap accessible doorway button is
around town.
You call it “the bwue button”
and you put in your request to press it before I even put the car in park.
“I press bwue button, Mo-mmy!
I press bwue button!”
You also repeat everything you say at least
twice until someone repeats it back to you, “You wanna press the button,
Charlie?”
If I repeat it back to you, you
say, “No, I telling Grandma” or “No, I telling Daddy.”
Fine, then.
I’ll assume you’re telling Grandma when you want me to pick up your
dropped graham cracker, toy car, sunglasses or water bottle from the backseat.
Finny, you are pointing out rhymes and patterns and pulleys
everywhere we go.
And you memorize lines
from movies and repeat them at the most unexpected times.
You’re latest is “Yeah, Baby!” and we’re all
wondering when you saw Austin Powers.
Charlie, you hide in my leg when we’re meeting new people
and if I try to take off your boots, open the door or hang up your coat, you
scowl and say, “No, I do it myself!”
Finny, you make friends with the monkey bars if there are no
kids at the park and if I try to ask you to do something for yourself, you
change the subject and tell me I am supposed to be Kitty Softpaws or you kick
and scream until I do it for you. This
week, I have been everything from a baby lion, to Gertie from ET, to Dorothy,
to Superman’s mommy. Yesterday, you were
Zoltra-Zon, a superhero of your own creation who can turn into any animal or
sea creature he wants, and Charlie was Zoni, Zotra-Zon’s sidekick. You pulled Charlie around the house and he
bobbed his head and followed, just happy to be beside you.
We are busy now.
We
are tired.
Daddy and I are always
looking for more time to ourselves and with each other, and we are behind in
all the things we need to do, meant to get to, wanted to organize, figure out,
clean up.
But we delight in you.
Four and two.
Destructive, but funny.
Annoying but precious.
We’re exhausted but still talk about maybe…maybe…just
one more.
This can’t be over yet, our
little lovers.
When we get enough rest
to enjoy you, we actually start to remember that we’re really glad we had you.
And if I don’t get much time to write it all down these
days, I’ll just have to scoop you up and tell you right there in the
moment.
And I hope that even though you
likely will not remember our days together at four and two, you will still have
this overwhelming sense that you were loved...
Madly...
by your mommy and daddy,
who are incredibly tired
and unbelievably blessed.
Adore.
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