Love.June 26, 2012 at 9:37 am | Posted in A Year of Mindfulness, Choosing Happiness., IVF #6: Quiet Hope, My life | 10 Comments
Charlie Brown is teaching Lucky how to cook. Every day when he makes dinner, he asks Lucky, Do you want to help me make [insert foodstuffs here]?
Cooking for me is a chance to focus on one thing. I’m abysmal with knife safety; if I try and hold a conversation while I’m chopping I invariably end up bleeding. I am also a worrier when it comes to the stove and my kid getting burned.
I really want Lucky to experience the joy in making a meal for our family, though. I just know my limits and that, at this point, I’m not the person to help him.
So I happily allow Charlie his bonding time with Lucky over making a meal.
I love how patient my husband is with our son.
I love listening to their conversation.
I love watching them work, two heads bent over bowls and cutting boards and the sink.
For all the burgeoning independence Lucky is being insistent on, he still needs my reassurance and love, especially at the end of the day.
He climbs up into my lap whenever I’m seated and folds himself into a comma, resting against my chest. And I get to wrap my arms around him, all angles and limbs, and kiss his hair.
We still use baby shampoo whenever he showers, a product of buying the massive three pack at BJ’s a year ago.
That’s the only thing that still smells like baby – his hair.
I love those moments, the time where our bond and connection is tangible, palpable in the summer air.
I haven’t been sleeping well these past few weeks. The likely combination of hormones and the summer warmth, I wake up in the middle of the night hot, and it takes a long time for me to fall back asleep.
My wake up time in the morning has crept backwards, what with the monitoring and traffic to my client and birds starting their call at 4am. Right now, I’m generally up for the day at 4:30.
So I’m tired at night; so tired. And I end up in bed before Charlie most nights now.
But whenever he gets into bed, careful not to wake me, I roll over and rest my leg against him. And he rests a hand on my thigh.
Always, every night I fall asleep grounded in the solidness of my husband beside me.
Every night before bed, I go into Lucky’s room to check on him before I head to bed myself.
I tell myself it’s to check the temperature in his room and adjust his covers for him.
But every night, I look down at his sleeping form, otherworldy in the dim light of his nightlight.
Who will he be?
And how did I get this lucky?
I’m struggling, emotionally. Physical discomfort, the timesuck of waiting for my monitoring appointments, and the hormones make me irritable and always on the verge of tears, it seems.
Back in the car, I NEED to talk with someone.
I call my sister. Even though I feel a blinding guilt for complaining about trying for my second child when she doesn’t know if she’ll ever BE a mom.
I choke out how hard this is, how greedy I feel, how much I hate cycling and that I don’t know why I’m doing it. And how much I hate myself for keeping at this when I SHOULD be happy I am a parent in the first place.
She always knows what to say; her voice is a hug over the phone. And I am so, so thankful that she’s my sister.
I collect these moments like when I was a girl and used to collect fireflies. I kept them in a mason jar with a special cover my dad helped me make so that the fireflies were able to breathe.
On days like today, where I am in danger of drowning in the muck dredged up from actively cycling, it’s what keeps me from being overwhelmed.
I can’t wait until this part is over.