full and then not enough


Today not enough sleep. Today not enough bandwidth. Today not enough peace. 



The dishes need to be done. Laundry is screaming to be ironed. Conversations begging to be finished. Visits to the spas, long lost dreams. Takes all my efforts to turn out decently groomed. Arriving at each day, mustering enough grace and humor to be a mother. Diapering, feeding, food all seems now to be a second nature. It always astounds me how life keeps coming back to these things. To bread and dishes. To sleep. To love.


Today I sit on the couch and press my nose into that warm place behind Nirvaan's tiny ear and whisper. I love you. I love you.


It's just that this now is such a blurry tender place. I curl up into the present on the couch, hold him, try to get words down. I listen to the way things hum and chatter in the house: the refrigerator, the birds, the fan. Sometimes I think about how this life, mine, has become so small. The circumference of it just circling this. 
Now.


Sometimes I feel guilty that it isn't bigger, flashier, more. Something. Guilty? Maybe that is the wrong word. But some days I feel the judgment, coming from somewhere. The world pressing up against the thin glycerin skin of this moment, fragile as it is.


I used to love watching clouds float up and away over in the clear blue summer sky. Of course they burst sometime or later or simply vaporized, but in my head I imagined them floating on and on, up, to Jupiter or to the fairyland. 



Such are the moments today. Tired. More tired. The nights still sometimes haphazard, but mostly soft with sleep and pillows, dreams right there, and even when he wakes up more, as he did last night, when the morning comes a small piece of me is grateful for the fitful night, for the broken moments of rest.


I love him so, small like this. Full of radiant smiles and frowns. Before words and sippy cups and defiance.
There is no field guide for this, for these moments, and yet I know I'll stumble through and be fifty before I am ready. So I keep putting the words down. Some kind of record. 


Now. More milk.

...Copyright©nEErs

daggers in your heart for your own good




He is breathless with crying. Wailing with out punctuations, paragraphs of pathos, out. His first ever. And, though on autopilot, I coo and try to sooth; trying and failing miserably in protecting him from the pain. I watch, the mommy me, being a bundle of nerves; inching towards a colossal meltdown.



Giving birth is perhaps the single bravest thing on this planet. Putting your heart for the entire world to tread on; isn’t easy. Nirvaan is 6 weeks old. And, the world has already begun to plague him with pain. Vaccinations!

I feel a lump at the back of my throat when I write those words. When I think of him, the space inside my ribcage hardly feels big enough to contain the feeling I have for him: like a thousand rainbow helium balloons all lifting, lifting skyward.
I want to record every moment with him because every one is fleeting, but I haven’t. There are a few pictures, yes, and only a few quickly scribbled notes here and there that mark the passing of his babyhood —because the truth is this: I am greedy with my time with him.
I want the smell of him forever: soft, inexplicably sweet; the essence of these baby days when we’re curled together in the morning before the world wakes up and the day begins. I want to be able to forever feel the roundness of his soft darling belly, like a little fat moon when he stretches out.
This has been the gift of my son. He has allowed me to slow down and linger in these moments of early motherhood. I curl around him after I’ve scooped him up from a nap.
He nurses, then grins up or frowns and smacks his lips with satisfaction and I whisper to him, leaning close until my lips brush his babysoft cheek. I whisper about how I love him until he falls back asleep for a few perfect moments, a smile playing on his lips.
I have learned that the laundry can wait, and that the dishes and bowls and pots in the sink will return to their state of clean or dirty regardless of whether I do them first, or often, or last. What matters most are kisses.
He hardly cries or fusses, except when he is really hungry and he has given enough cry-less communications.

He is a thinker really. A deep faraway look in his eyes. Eyes which are dark and brooding, eyes with a midnight blue ring around his irises.




He sleeps for a while and when the pain sears through, a huge cry escapes. This intermittent sleep helps apart from his fav music – my heartbeat.

CpRyt@NeerS

miracle month


Now it is night. The house windows show us ourselves. The light is orange.
Nirvaan is 30 days old. It is already dark outside, winter is finally here and our house is tucked into a snug blanket of silence, sprinkled with traffic noise and a certain peace.
He is beautiful, and when he smiles in his sleep his grin makes this tiny world of mine explode with sparklers.
I am delirious. There is a learning curve to all of this for both of us.
First week, first month home with a new babe, is such a fragile, isolating time. You wonder, invariably if anyone else goes through the same things: the stupendous heights of new baby love, and the rocky catapults to below low. I’ve always wondered what it is like for other people. I imagine, now that I am in the thick of it, the moments become wrapped in a protective bubble of forgetfulness.
I don’t want to forget.
I want to write even though the tiredness feels like an animal in the room with me: large and soft and voracious. I want to write so that I can remember what these moments are like: new, and precarious.
Nirvaan is asleep on the couch, tucked into a corner, dreaming. Even when he is being quiet, he stirs the air around him like an oar dipped into the smooth surface of a pond.
House was full for quite a while. Full with people I love. Full with people come to meet him. It was noisy and festive. All the noise startled me and him over and over again for few days, so that I was neither awake nor deeply asleep. Some internal tuning shifts with giving birth, so that every noise filters into my brain differently. I am always on the alert for his breathing, his slightest whimper, his smallest sigh. When I sleep next to him, I breathe in synch with his breath, and the rhythm of us breathing together is like the complex jazz score and anything else, any other sound, disrupts this and makes it harder to sleep.
Now all are gone and its still harder to sleep. The family portrait cozy together, is now looks empty.
It isn’t like I am just tired. This is a different kind of tired that originates in my organs, my muscle tissue, my sore, sore body. Everything hurts. And where adrenaline made the first day and the second a soporific rush of moments; the trauma of labor catches up. My body is stunned.
Outside there is traffic noise. I nurse Nirvaan, then bring him to the couch outside the bedroom and nestle him in the cradle next to me where he sleeps, his arms above his head. I love him. I love him unimaginably, and feel almost surprised by this sweetness and my love for him makes my heart flutter.
Every day is different. Wonderment, a thousand sighs and tears and laughs.
Happy 30th day, my son!

CpRyt@NeerS