“For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction” Newton
Half laying, half sitting on the couch. It has become a paralyzing yet satisfying position for me. One that I enjoy without a significant level of guilt/self absorbtion. Call it what you want. Call me a couch potato. I don’t care. I also relish, yet loathe, having quiet coffee and my thoughts to myself. Wrapping a soft crimson blanket around my rounded shoulders at the end of a long winter day, while hiding my face and rubbing my tired eyes. The smell of cinnamon and sweet baked something-or-other still lingering in the air. Walking through fresh grass, pointing out every new flower that beckons spring, as the newly revived, fat bumble bees dart in and out, back and forth. Rocking on the porch as the summer crawls in, waiting for yellow fireflies as night falls and bluebirds with fluttering wings as dawn arrives. Stalking hummingbirds. Noticing the simple changes in the autumn leaves and forming my mouth around a pretend cigarette, blowing rings, just to see my own breath, in the crisp fall air.
I still run a busy house. I still feel like I am the Captain of the Enterprise
I have run around, mentally and physically and emotionally for a while now. We all have. From the day my first child was born. My now 16 year old son, who is a just about to topple over into being known as a man. A strong, confident, hairy man. He has such soft brown eyes, just like one of the deer that linger on the outskirts of our property at purple dusk.
As a brand new mom, his introduction into this world was a marathon of body, mind and soul. My baby boy was born 6 weeks early, a healthy 5lbs even. My water broke 7 weeks before his due date in what was supposed to be April. It was a bitterly cold February. Except for the day that he was born, it was an unseasonably 70 degrees, in Boston
For each of those 6 days while I was hospitalized before he was born, I was told that every day mattered. We were told that his lungs were not fully developed and that 2 rounds of steroid shots would hopefully help, a set of shots that had to be 24 hours apart. My husband did not shower. He did not eat much. My husband slept beside my hospital bed in a cot made for a much smaller person. I went in and out of labor for 5 days. I became irrational amidst my longing, desperately wanting to see my baby. To physically lay eyes on him. Because I was being told repeatedly “One more day. For the welfare of your baby. Give it one more day.” By the time he was born, and those days came and went, I was reduced to toast with crazy jelly spread all over it. On the morning of his birth, my husband wept tears of joy.
By day 3 into our journey, I had abandoned all modesty. If you wanted to see my butt now, I would probably show it to you, from the residual effects of this experience. An entire medical school graduating class from one of the top medical schools on the planet (hey, only the best!), has seen my butt, too. I was so used to everyone in the room seeing my bottom, there is a secret exhibitionist living inside of me. One that I keep successfully at bay. My labor was induced on day 6. Within 30 minutes of being given the medication, as it dripped into my veins, my son splurted out, after 6 pushes. At my first glimpse of him, my heart burst wide open, in addition to other things, and I couldn’t help but think at the sight of him that he was searching for something to hold onto. Both skinny arms outstretched, his torso wide open. His arms twitched to both sides as his little body tried to find balance. An equal and opposite reaction.
My second child, my daughter, came 2 years and 8 months later. 10 days early and a meatier, 7lbs 5 oz. Sweet and angelic. She seemed to come into the world in a much calmer fashion. Only 4 hours of labor from start to finish, one out of body experience on my part, and the “firing” of one labor and delivery nurse, in the middle of the second quarter (don’t mess with me, during labor). We polished it off with another 6 primal pushes, some scratches on the top of her peach fuzzy head and a broken clavicle (poor thing!) and then there was a second round of tears from my husband (he only cries when I give birth), patting his cheeks with his sleeve to soak up the tears, looking at his hands in an unfamiliar fashion, wondering where the moisture was coming from. My beautiful daughter, who today has the sun in her sweet smelling hair, no matter what time of year it is.
I often refer to my daughter as the grazer when she eats. My little bird, because from the get go, the poor thing has been unaware of what it feels like to have a complete meal. My son, my copper-headed fiery toddler, my buzzing bee, always chose when I sat down to nurse her, as the time to push my buttons. He became the little master. The charade was all his. The jester of the court to the unwilling queen.
We were always on the run. Filling our days up with nonsense and fun, books, messes and stuffy noses. I can see it still, through a sticky, smeared, crystal pathway, somewhere in my brain. Play groups, Mommy and Me classes. Cute little giggles and songs. Lego’s. Naps. Diapers. Crackers and juice. Walmart escapades. Down right silliness. Leaving a grocery cart full of groceries and apologizing to the store manager. My daughter telling everyone in line at the deli counter that her penis hurt. The whole usual, thing. And, of course, melt downs. For both the kids and the adults.
This gave way, to tae kwon do. Violin. Best friends and enemies. Poor bathroom habits. Dance recitals. Horseback riding. Chores. Football. Smelly Football Equipment. Trampolines. Overnight trips and sleepovers. Popcorn and movies. Make up. And secrets, that only the truest of confidants would know.
Sometimes, the tooth fairy didn’t come for days. A lesson in patience, I rationalized. Sometimes, dinner was ‘eat what you can find’ instead of a home cooked meal. Sometimes, my husband and I barely spoke to each other. Sometimes, my children hated each other. Sometimes, when my son and daughter laugh together alone in the kitchen, my eyes fill with tears. I can see the adults they will become soon in little nuances and facial expressions and body language. And I am truly happy.
Now, we need less and take less. The crew have their own agenda when they are off the clock. We often go our seperate ways, finding solace in our seperate sacred spaces. Coming together at the quiet times to say I love you and give a hug and a kiss. I hold on tighter. I smell them more. As if I have to store the smell in the corners of my soul, for safe keeping. The mail is full of college bound material. The days are danced through with texting and guitar riffs and thuds as the lacrosse ball hits the side of the house followed by the yell from the yard "I'm sorry!"
So I walk around and take it all in. The smell of wood burning from my neighbor's chimney. The creak of the rocking chair from the sudden gust of breeze. The hint of red on the hawks tail flying overhead and above the evergreen. Gray becomes a predominant hue on the color wheel. I give up my chair and let others sit there. I release my grip on the controls of the ship and wait for the equal and opposite reaction.
