I've been rereading books again. Can't seem to get to the library for anything new, though an overdue book is simmering in the diaper bag. (luckily, not simmering the way laundry and / or sippy cups full of two-week-old orange juice do -- ha) It's not that there are no books in the house I've never read. I even have a few that I've borrowed and haven't read yet. (sorry!)
I still read as if I'm correcting a vitamin deficiency. Always have. I reread to put myself back into a previous state of mind, whether better or worse depends on my mood. I read Margaret Atwood when I feel hollow and need to be rung, a clapper in a dull brass bell. Ellen Gilchrist when I need to respond more vividly to my problems, whatever they are. Her characters don't take things lying down. Fantasy and scifi when I positively, absolutely must get out of my head. Historical fiction when nothing else is working and fantasy is getting on my nerves. I ought to start some new grooves in my head. The old ones work, and that's something.
Charlotte is asleep with her head under my elbow as I write this. (longhand, take that, backdating one day to type it) I'm not putting any weight on her and my hand is cramping up badly. Doing that annoying routine where my thumb & forefingers try to stick closed. humph.
I feel like an unwatered plant (mine) in a home (mine) where nobody opens the windows. (well, it's December, what do you want?) Physically, anyway. Having a baby has been good for me healthwise (I've lost 25 pounds off my pre-pregnancy weight -- not bad) but terrible grooming-wise. All the little things that grown-up women do to get ready for work, to keep from looking like the generic copy room weirdo with ladder-tracked pantyhose and a unibrow -- well, stay at home moms generally don't bother with a lot of that. Mentally, I'm doing better than normal at this time of year. I love snow but I definitely feel the lack of sunshine. Two years ago this winter, I was newly pregnant and too overwhelmed by that to notice the lack of light, and last year, I was toting a 3-month-old around, even more overwhelmed. This year, I am pretty much myself.
We'd like another baby, and right now I'm wondering, what for?? Heh. I got so annoyed with baby C just now, as she stirred and wanted a nurse back to sleep. Now I know why I've hardly written a word since she was born, or even beforehand. The thought I had was nearly gone by the time she finally dropped back to sleep. She is a sweet seashell, curled against my side. A warm blob of muffin in a pink striped sleeper.
It has been funny to track my changing attitude toward childbirth as the year has gone on. This time last year, I wasn't sure I ever wanted to do it again. I haven't forgotten it -- the old wives' tales say you do, but I don't think I could possibly. Maybe I've photocopied the experience a few shades lighter, bleached out the finer details. I want to get back in there and face it again, try to handle it differently, avoid clenching down and trying to get away from the pain. Makes sense that it feels like your whole body is being torn apart, considering that the womb goes approximately from your ribcage to your knees, when you're that pregnant. Supposedly, if you can train yourself to accept what you're feeling and work with it, instead of trying to make a break for it, (I would have been running away, if I could have gotten up) it goes better. I wonder how well it would go next time if I took a hypnobirthing class and got an epidural. I'd be golden. Hehe.
When Charlotte was still in there, I couldn't imagine her outside. I felt like I already knew her, from the mysterious shoves, kicks, and flops. I remember that one night I turned over to get comfortable, for the fourteenth time, and she immediately flopped the other way, so she was facing in the same direction (I assume) in her dark, warm little pool. We'll just show you whether you can tell me what to do or not, no ma'am. Things have not noticeably changed since she could play the inside of my ribcage like a harp, each tiny toe plucking away. Except now, she sticks her fingers up your nose and pulls.
It's getting to be time to night-wean Charlotte. I'm not looking forward to the inevitable tears, from me and her both. It's nearing ridiculous, how many times she nurses at night. I don't count, or keep a clock on my side of the bed, because I'm not a total masochist. I know she's old enough and then some, but I still feel like she should be untouched, like a wild animal that doesn't yet know it's in the zoo. I wish she didn't have to live in the zoo, but heck, we all do. In wildness is strength. I'm pleased and proud to be breastfeeding her at 14 months, even if we have had some kinks lately. (in one word, thrush) She is getting more demonstrative about her nursings, which I like, because it shows more appreciation for my "cooking." Not like a newborn, who assumes she will be fed just because the earth goes around the sun, and woe betide thee if the sun doesn't come up on schedule. Toddlers can understand and express love, which is probably why they survive to become preschoolers. ;) I'm getting big hugs and smoochy kisses now. It is the best.
I go through spells of thinking I've done everything wrong, that I've ruined her and certainly my own next several years, and spells of congratulating myself on what a great job I've done. My husband and I believe in attachment parenting -- an unfortunately forbidding shorthand for what I feel is the way most people actually do raise their kids, "crunchy" accessories like slings and bedrails aside. There is nobody more secure than Charlotte. As soon as she gets her bearings, she's off to play with the big kids, and only occasionally checks on me. Or, when I have to rescue her from kids who are much too old and too big to be in the toddler area at the local play cafe. Charlotte didn't particularly care about being pushed down and trodden upon, but I went into mama lioness mode. It's going to be hard to let go. I guess it always is, no matter how old they are.
I think I'll feel a lot better just knowing this door is open. Raspberry pink (at the time of this writing) and inviting. Don't expect coherent parenting essays -- but come along for the ride, it ought to be entertaining.
"Ringing in the ear"
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