O Evabird, life moves so much faster in Oklahoma than it did in Brooklyn. Suddenly, your firsts are all slipping through my fingers; now you’ve done, done, done. You’ve sipped on Nana’s Diet Coke–when mama wasn’t looking!–and tasted cookies and petted a dog and fed yourself Cheerios and been through a carwash and spent all day by the pool and tried to steal a pacifier out of little Helen’s mouth and tasted lemon and gone underwater.
I’d think in heat this thick that the world would move so much more slowly, but every time I turn, you’re new. Happy seven month birthday, little bird. I promise I’ll try to savor all these moments; I’ve been told it goes far too fast.
Zumba with mother-in-law.
Tie baby to antique highchair with dishrag;
feed her squash and blueberries.
Stop by great-grandmother’s house
to listen to tale of man
whose eyeball was hanging out of the socket.
Baby gets mesmerized by “Thriller” on the television.
Four o’ five:
Baby squawks at Billie Jean.
Baby crawls(!!!) to Elmo.
Baby is fed
(smelling of apples, apricots, brown rice).
Baby to bed.
[Pictured: Baby tied to chair.]
Evabird, on your 213th day, you woke at five a.m., and I brought you into bed with dad and me, and you nursed, and I worried that I loved you too much. All night, I had jolted up in bed, afraid, but then you were with me, and I told you it was okay, and I pleaded with you to sleep more, but you kicked and riled and stared at the fan. Finally, we all woke and had breakfast, and then the nanny, Martha, came and you jumped–fast as a fish–into her arms. I sat in my office and stared out the window at you two, watched you laugh with her, and I couldn’t even write a sentence, and I wondered why I ever even try.
Just after noon, we wandered to the rose garden with dear friends, and you slept and loved and smiled and slept again. O the roses! Thousands and thousands of them: Moonbeams and Keepsakes and French Perfume, Golden Wings and Honeymoons and Silver Jubilee. Dusk was still a long time coming, and we walked home, and I fed you, and you went to your crib where you stared at your aquarium and finally slept (again).
It’s not even 9 o’clock, my little love, and already I’ve gone in to check on you more times that I can remember. Your eyes flutter, and I think of the other roses we saw: Candy Stripe and Lemon Sherbert, Summer Snow and Lady Reading, and I hope, Evabird, that your night is flooded with the scent of them, that you will sleep and dream, that when I go in to check on you again (and again), you will be so deeply peaceful that my hand on your chest is as light and fleeting as yesterday.
There are times when it just feels like I’m playing house, feels like my “mommy” friends come over with their “dollies,” and we sit around pretending popcorn is bonbons, pretending we’re sipping on martinis, and and oh, we say, maybe baby needs a diaper change or uh-oh, looks like baby is hungry!!!
There’s working mom (click click clicking on her blackberry) and Pilates mom and single mom and Weight Watchers mom and crazy, lazy mom and oh-too-hungry mom and hippy-dippy-where’s-the-sippy mom! (And most of them are me.)
Makes me wonder if playing house is not so different from house itself.