I haven’t blogged in over a year. I got my feelings hurt – and got a little gun shy. I have since rubbed a little dirt in it, and put on my big girl pants. The other thing is – I harbor bizarre guilt about not finishing my kid’s birth story, and I worry how am I supposed to talk about the newbie without finishing up the big guy’s. I can hear him in a voice that sounds much like mine, except it’s deeper, much richer, twenty years from now saying, “you’ve always liked him better, even from the beginning, you never finished my birth story.” And at that moment, I will silently apologize to my mother for any like sounding accusations I threw her way about my baby brother.
Today, instead of some slow peel on the band- aid, I’m just yanking it off, and jumping in. I’m going to play catch up later, but for now I’m going to try to be mindful of where I am right now. Mindfulness is not a game I’m good at. I dwell too much in the what if’s and the should’ve beens -but today I’m trying.
This was a morning that was without a doubt the first day of school. The air breathed of it. It was that kind of crisp that lasts just still the sun shines through the leaves. Summer is undoubtedly loosing its grip, and fall is pushing his way through the door. First day of school was written all over this morning, except that, for only the second time since 1982, I’m not learning or working full time in a school right now.
Ritualized shopping was not on my agenda this year. I do not have new outfits to show off, or a new trapper-keeper in my backpack. My alarm clock skipped right over 5:50 am and I didn’t wrap an English muffin sandwich in a napkin while furiously tossing my new bag of shiny lessons plans over my shoulder in a mad dash out the door.
This morning, I woke up to the snoring of my 11 week old just an arm’s reach away. Did you know that infants snore? It’s not the kind I’m used to to. You know the earth shaking nonsense that makes you want to tear out your eyes because you just. want. to sleep. No, this is cute, insanely so. As with most recent mornings, I have but a moment to gulp in the morning before the sound of my eldest son’s feet on the wood floors reaches me before he does. No longer does his two year old self need help into our bed. He jumps with more zealousness that should be allowed at 7:56am, the kind of joy only a toddler can have without coffee, climbs under the covers – and asks “you wake up mama? we watch noggins mama? you love me mama ?” And somehow, the fact that everything in my life is different than it’s ever been before, doesn’t seem to matter much anymore.