Thank you, wind, for your gift of whimsy.
Thank you, wind, for your gift of whimsy.
I hadn’t seen the stars in untold time.
My screen painted in peanut butter. I can’t tell. Is that in focus?
“That’s pokey, mama. Don’t touch it. You’ll get hurt.”
Ah, no, bug. It only looks pokey. Touch it. It’s ok.
No, honey. That’s corn.
“That’s not corn, mama. That’s grass.”
“I planted beads, mama! Patios and I planted lots of beads for you for them to grow.”
“Those aren’t my ‘matoes, mama. My ‘ ‘matoes are at school.”
“I want to take pictures, mama.”
There are so many things people don’t talk about. So many things unexpected that needn’t be. Before becoming pregnant I didn’t know of any possible normal oddities other than nausea, stretch marks, and swelling, and I honestly thought nausea was always in the morning.
It wasn’t until I was pregnant that I learned that it could be nothing or (as in my case) all day every day for months. Thankfully, I was spared stretch marks and the worst of the swelling. I learned about hives though, and bloody noses. Heartburn and insomnia. More effects that the forgetfulness of hormones has erased in the creation of rewired brain power to be more alert for saber tooth tigers and less inclined toward complex thought.
Recovery, too, isn’t discussed. What is discussed surrounds sleep (or the lack thereof.) Let me say this: it’s not the sleep. It’s the feeling like you were run over by a truck. It’s the recompression of your abdominal wall, the realigning of your intestines, and literal loss of an organ, and the contractions to return your uterus to its usual operating size. Meanwhile is the swelling and the leaking, the hemorrhage scare and the mastitis scare, the dripping pools of sweat and the shivers so strong your uterus hurts.
It’s all of that, and the fact that none of us either know or remember or are comfortable providing actual help.
So let me say this: if you’re visiting a new parent (and if the baby isn’t three months, they count, and if the baby is difficult, they always count), remember three things: bring, do, and leave.
Bring something. A covered dish, a muffin, a lemonade. It doesn’t matter, just bring something.
Do something. Casually start folding the towels on the couch you’re sitting next to while you chat. Clear the dishes from the coffee table and run the dish washer. Ask if you can take out the trash.
Leave: Unless you were invited for hours or are seriously cleaning house and cooking, after about thirty minutes, you should start to excuse yourself. Maybe you’re risking the only nap the parents might get that day. Maybe maybe maybe. If they want you to stay longer, they’ll say so.
Some where along the way we’ve lost much of the knowledge we had as a village. We’ve lost the elders’ wisdom being shared and listened to. We’ve lost the tribal knowledge of breastfeeding, newborn care, and maternal care. I believe, resoundingly, that we can find it again if we only, each of us, find our voices.
The roses have buds. Branches glow, casting brisk lines. Cranes blot the sky as the earth sheds the day. The seasons have changed and the world feels crisp, crunchy.
The sog battles the snap underfoot. Giving with one step, resisting the next, I feel the transition dance through my soul.
My timing is off. The beat, I’ve lost. I am not the only one out of sequence.
It’s time I pause to join once again in the rhythm of things.
There’s also a super moon and a solar eclipse today. Busy day in the universe!
It’s been a rough day in the household today with life’s little hiccups all piling on heavy this week and culminating this morning. Nothing catastrophic. Nothing tragic. Just the wearing building and building too long.
It’s cloudy here with a light mist, so likely no eclipse or super moon for me. If you spot either, please do share.
I planted some of the tomato transplants last night with a baby in my lap. She was mesmerized. We helped DH reattach the fence to a reset fence post between plantings. I’ve sown carrots and beets that haven’t come up, and my peas are fighting the good fight against the snails though I’m not sure they’ll come out victorious. Chadwick’s lettuce is proving to be as reliable and sturdy as his cherry tomatoes, as they are the only seeds to sprout so far. And the teeny strawberry sprouts have the most charming little real leaves now.
Now if only the internet could transport scent, we’d be set.
Thanks to Tina, I believe that I’ve learned this lady’s name: Martha Gonzalez.
I managed to weed the three front flower beds the other day during a particularly well-timed (and lengthy) nap, leaving the little yellow flower all the room it could hope for. I’ll need to prune the roses, as they’re a bit leggy and poking their way onto the walk. Rose pruning where I grew up was in September. I have a feeling it’s different here. I’ll have to look unless any of you knowledgeable folk (who seem to have evacuated my area to cooler climes!) might know?
I’ve yet to mow (which I am looking forward to, I’ve always loved mowing) so am finding myself with a solid grasp of where the St. Augustine stops and the crab grass begins. I’ve been eyeing the wind and the shadows, the rain run off and the lengthy hours of sun. Hopefully by the end of summer when I start to build some beds I will have decided on the best spots, but only time will tell.
We’ve been having cooler temperatures (only low 90s most days) and it’s actually rained at least once a week it seems for the past long while. The fire flies started in late April and are still glowing their way through thickets and underbrush. I first saw them this year the day before I became a mother. I told the child in me that they’d better hurry up or they’d miss the fire flies this year. She definitely hurried up and here we are, two months later, and while she cannot yet see them herself, I still point them out on our evening walk. I await the squeals of glee next year when she sees one for the first time.