Craft Conspiring

Monday, August 15, 2016

I Couldn't Remember the Name of This Blog.

I've written over the last eight months, which feels like one hundred years, even though I don't know what one hundred years feels like, I am pretty sure it feels like this - and these months have been...momentous.  We had a kid, for the love.

I've written over the last eight months, mainly on the Notes feature of my iPhone while rocking in the gloriously smooth glider in the babe's room, praying that she's falling asleep in my blanketed arms, or peeking through her crib rails to see if her eyes are closed; while walking around on each monthiversary, making sure I don't forget a moment of the moments, trying to avoid furniture-obstacles and staircase hazards.  I've written while using the restroom; while breastfeeding; while laying in bed knowing I should be sleeping, but wanting to remember it all.  I've let autocorrect have its way with my fumbling fingers, often declaring I would come back and edit said Notes during the next nap time; but I haven't.  And the entries get printed and lovingly pasted into the monthly plug-and-play scrapbook so that I, like so many mothers, won't forget the millions of changes, milestones, and I CAN'T BELIEVE SHE DID THAT moments that occur daily.  I've written while crying out of happiness and exhaustion and desperation because I know that all of this is ending and all of this is beginning at the same time.  It is miraculous, unique, humbling, humbling, humbling, joyous, exasperating, and really, supercalifrajilisticexpealidocious, if I'm sticking with honesty.  I have never been so mad and so in love with my husband, or my body for that matter, nor have I ever been so insanely and blindly in love with another being.

Her name is Emerson Mayuree.  She is ours.  We call her Squishy.  She is everything.  She is little and so big all at once.  She laughs.  She cries.  She talks.  I don't know what she's talking about.  She jumps like a baby Olympian.  She looks wonderful in her baby dress-up that I (and the Husband, auntie, and grandmas) play with her.  She feels wonderful in her footed jammies, or after her bath, or when I pick her up from her crib after her nap, or rock her, or cuddle her even though she's turning away because she's so smart and wants to see everything in the world.  She moves her mouth to make new sounds and watches intently while we make new sounds to her.  She cries when I leave the room and audibly sighs when I return.  She makes me feel like a superhero and a wrecked, crazed mess all at once.  I do not think I knew the capacity of my heart until her; but she's taught me.  She's taught me all about life without knowing she's a teacher.  I can't fathom life without her.  She takes up a space that we didn't know needed filling.  She takes up that whole space and expands the rest of our existence to a living-fully feeling.  She is an Einstein of babyhood and a genius of loving.  She still poops her pants.

Tomorrow she starts daycare and I really don't know what to do to subside the anxiety, guilt, and tears, so I return to many of the blogs I read pre-baby and realize that maybe if I write here, for a different purpose, I will understand.  She's only attending a couple days a week while I finish never-ending grad school, but really, I feel like I could learn everything from her, so shouldn't I stay home.  There's no question mark there because that remains open-ended, minus my school-debt, so really, it's pretty finite, but I'm not ready for that yet.

So alas, I sigh, dread, hope, and smile because she fills me with warmth, and, after all, the sign in our kitchen says, "Not to spoil the ending for you, but everything is going to be ok."  And that little, wise sign is right.  Everything is ok, beautiful, and miraculous.  We finally had a kid.  The kid to end all kids, if you ask us.  Tonight, like so many other nights, the Husband and I voted.  And, again, it was unanimous: she's the best kid in the whole world.

We are so lucky.