Mom has come and gone. She concocted a reasonable weekly meal plan that requires little to no thought or time. She dazzled me with the kind of patience and professional distraction techniques that I must have taught her back in my baby days. She even got on the floor and crawled through an empty stroller box to hijack a tantrum. She walked Maltsby, washed dishes, slept on the floor, donned her one dollar Coors tank, strolled through the tangled streets of our hood daily, got lost by following signs for what she thought was route 30 but were instead speed limit signs and judged nary a thing. And when we said good-bye two weeks later my throat was tight and my eyes watered and I could barely look her in the eye for fear of the noises and snotty mess I'd make. But when I did look I saw her see me as her kid. A look I couldn't have recognized pre-Eli and Henry a mere eighteen months ago. I saw violent bottomless love and the strength it must take to walk away from your kid as they face uncharted life.
This motherhood gig is tearing me down and building me anew.
All this silence might give you the impression that I've sunk deep into the motherhood vortex. I could give you that impression if I wanted to but that would be a big, fat lie because Henry is as easy as pie or the multiplication tables or staying in the shower for just five more blissful minutes. He sleeps with champion precision while I nurse with the same excellence. It is a calm and tearless dance at the moment. No corner of our twelve day relationship is wrought with tension or even fear. We are happy.
Eli,our lovely, indulged first-born, is not as happy. He's in a bit of a funk. Happy and sad. Hitting and hugging. Banging and patting. Groaning and pointing. Kicking and flailing. Throwing and splashing. And ignoring me almost entirely so much so that Joe is now Mama. I am Eli's sloppiest seconds. So sloppy that I don't even get a name anymore. I have cried about it lots. It hurts my feelings and worse it hurts that I'm hurting his feelings. I know he won't remember this and that he won't remember life without Henry but I may always remember the first time he turned to Joe instead of me when he got hurt or needed a moment of cuddles. My memory is wretched enough that I just might could forget in due time. But for now there are tears upon tears. I know what you're going to say. Hormones. Yes, you're right, the hormones do rage.
Amidst the carnival of tears and poop and breastfeeding and tantrums, Joe pulled the plug on Eli. The binky has been retired. Done and done. I wouldn't have done it now because of all the turmoil and for other selfish reasons like I don't have any anything that trumps the binky. It's my final card. The grand master cork. It's sure to always soothe and silence and return peace to my heart. And so truth is that I was addicted to the binky. Of course, I said I'd NEVER do the binky because it's not cool or good or down with the mothering techniques of the moment. But I did give in with Eli. The first time they carted him into my hospital room with a package of unopened binkies in his bassinet in fact. The moment he cried, I plugged him up. The crying caused visceral panic in me then and it seemed like there was absolutely no alternative. All that seems impatient and humorous now. The crying doesn't get me nearly as much this go round. Also Henry doesn't really cry so I am allowed to be preachy and wise. Karma is sure to kick me in the buttocks presently. And mountains of props to Joe for pulling that plug. It seems clear now with how easy Eli gave it up that I was more attached than our boy to that perfect rubber sucker.
Thanks to each of you for all your kind words and thoughts. You do me real good. I am percolating on the birth story. It's not the story that I imagined so I'm less connected to it than I had hoped to be. I need to put words to it so go ahead and hold me to it. I double dog dare you.
Also here are our boys showing off all their mad skills. Dig in.
