…do some real writing here.
Then I think: “That’s not writing, that’s typing,” which is what Truman Capote quipped when he heard that Jack Kerouac wrote On The Road using a giant scroll of paper fed through his typewriter.
Being neither Kerouac nor Capote, I think I’m safe.
So type away I will, if you don’t mind.
And if you do…click! It’s the Internet.
A real live ESCAPE button you can press whenever you choose.
It’s naptime for Silas boy. And, so far, it’s a good long one. I am past my 45 minute get-the-house-looking-like-a-home frenzy…so here I sit, my shoulders relax, my thoughts jumble and stretch out and look around and go every which way.
Today has been moody: stormy this morning, humidly grumbling one moment, then a burst of sunshine and 80 degree heat at lunch…and then here again, Mother Nature fumes and turns her back.
It’s a day to write, to bake, to have good truthful talks. A day to curl up like a cat and sleep until you are warm and limp and have to remember hard where you are when you wake up.
Silas wakes up two ways: insta-crying or coos and smiles. It depends, I guess (will I ever have any knows concerning this mothering thing?), on the hunger-factor.
Or maybe he doesn’t remember where he is either. And for him, all eight months out of the womb…does he ever think he’s inside again? Floating freeform and safe?
Yes, I ask myself those questions. Motherhood, this season, this rest-of-my-life creative journey lends itself to so. many. questions: some worrisome, some silly. I get frustrated most often with all of the unanswerable: “what does he want?” “why is he upset?” “does he spend enough time with other people?”
I realize as I type this, the real question behind this running query is simply “what is he thinking?" I’ve never spent this much time with a person who cannot verbally communicate. I mean, come on—I was an English teacher: I preached on the power of words, and here I am spending the whole of my days with only the tiniest flicker of words.
(I think he knows the meaning of both of these. Bust my buttons, I’m proud.)
The other question I can’t answer but just have to feel my way around, bumping into corners, hands out and open grasping for some hint some clue some thread to guide me along is:
Am I doing okay at this?
The inkling of comfort I get is that my son goes to sleep each night warm, full, and happy. And when he wakes he seems to have learned something in his sleep: a new sound, a new way of grabbing an object, a new expression.
And we get there, to that crib moment, day after day, week after week.
And now we are four months facing an entire year.
We’re barreling into walking (he crawled three weeks ago: first a Sahara-parched drag with one elbow doing all the work, then a mud-run Army crawl, and now his knees pump and his little bent arms pound and he’s EVERYWHERE.), talking, and being.
I’m gonna know what he’s thinking before I may be ready.
But oh, I can’t wait to hear what he has to say. To follow him around as he explores, and messes, and discovers this world of ours.
I get to be a child again, I get to be this new person, this mother, this guide, this learner, and giver and comforter.