(either the photo or the negative scan is crooked, but it applies to my blog, so it stays. don’t mess with me today.)
Several weeks ago:
At noon in late Winter, the light from the windows is weak, bathing the room with subtlety. Outside, the light is just as subtle. A fog has descended, muting every color, softening every contrast. I cannot see the tall pines at the end of the street. They have been shrouded in grey. Homes beyond those of my immediate neighbors’ fade into the mist.
If there are sounds, I do not know it. I hear nothing. Passing cars, birds, voices–all absorbed by the surrounding fog. The silence enhances the solitaire.
It feels cozy, as if it is just us, just here, just now. I think about how the fog encourages mindfulness. I am forced to see what is directly in front of me. Without distractions, I become completely aware of what is always here, under my nose. The wintered blades of grass, the young tree, the rotting wood of the old swingset; the dimly lit rocking chair, the quiet moods of the children, the red bench in the soft, blue light.
…
Today:
It is a sunny day in early Spring. The rain clouds that have plagued the sky for days have now disappeared. A breeze sweeps down from the saturated blue sky, bending the grass that seems to have come into its color overnight. It is this kind of day that draws children outside to play, mothers with strollers, runners with iPods.
But I am in a fog. I was awake in the night, while those others slept, renewed themselves for the sunshine and activity of the day. Last night it was her hot forehead, chubby arms, sweaty curly hair. Sometimes clinging, whimpering, nursing; other times bouncing on the bed, flopping on the pillow, balancing along the edge of the bed and giggling. Drops of Tylenol, a soaked diaper. The early morning hours taunting me in red on the alarm clock.
And today, the opposite. The hours speed by, taunting me this time with their lateness. It feels like I am still trying to wake up, but the clock on the stove now says 1:26 PM.
1:37 PM.
9:54 PM.
It was not a terrible day. I remained in a fog, despite the ventures outside into the sun, despite the attempts at gardening, espresso-brewing, and jogging, despite pleasant conversations with exceptional friends. These things offered me glimpses of reprieve, but could not save me from the fog of sleep-deprivation that hovered. Plus, a screaming toddler interrupted each attempt anyway. Tylenol gave Shortcake a few (short) stretches of comfort, but she was generally unhappy and needy.
And on cue, she cries from her crib now.
So I type with my left hand as she nurses. It is not the ideal writing setup, but her hand is soft on my face. In this fog, I’ve allowed myself to let go of any ambitions–domestic, artistic, or social. Doing this has freed me to simply be here… to feel that soft hand, however clingy; to smell the top of her head, sweaty from crying so hard; to realize the comfort I am to her.
Today, I’ve felt the emotional extremes of motherhood–elation, fulfillment, and pride; exhaustion, frustration, and futility. I was mindful of them, the fog forced me to be, and I’m glad. But if tomorrow is anything like today…
I’m gonna lose my fuckin’ mind.
