Cover-Up

My mom often says there's only so long you can lie about your age before you have to start lying about your kid's age. I like this. It means in her world I'm only 27. I've started feeling the same way about under-eye concealer. There's only so much you can use to mask the fact that you're not getting any sleep before you have to start dabbing under your baby's eyes as well. Oh Evabird, looks like you may be a Covergirl long before you're due!

Fear

I've never been afraid of much. I love heights and falling and flying; I consider spiders to be good luck; I can speak in front of large groups without having to picture anyone naked. Because of this, my transition into motherhood has been particularly strange. Suddenly, there's so much to fear: choking, drowning, kidnapping, sure, but then there's even more. Am I kissing her too much? Not enough? Feeding her too much? Not enough? Is all this crazy singing making her happy or scarring her for life? Does she feel pressured to learn the alphabet? Should I not have flicked the Roly Poly away? A couple of nights ago, I tried to watch an episode of Law & Order but had to stop after ten minutes because I got so scared that something would happen to her, that she'd be dealing pot at 14, that the creepy neighbor would "help" her, that she'd never even make it to 14 because the video monitor was broken and delivering an old "sleeping" picture while she was actually upstairs sprawled on the floor because she had climbed out of her crib. I guess I'm wondering what to do with all this fear, wondering if it goes away or becomes half-remembered or if--and I, uhm, fear this might be the case--I should get used to plucking all these grays.

Day 246

O Evabird,

Let today be known

as the day you pooped in the pool.

I'm sure your friends

(pictured below)

are glad it didn't happen

on Day 245.

Summer II

(Or: Vat O' Babies)

My New Office

(They even serve eggs.)

Summer

We were very gay; we were very merry;
we had gone back and forth on the Staten Island ferry!!!

Need a New Home?

Buy my sister-in-law's place:
here.

Dream 717

In the dream, Eva was floating in the water and saying, Lullaby, lullaby, lullaby. Lullaby? I said, because I was so surprised she was speaking. Lullaby! And so I sang about bottles of wine and shining diamonds and cradles rocking. For months, I've been trying to get K. to have a baby too (They smell like apples! I say. And they make you see your world like you're standing on your head!), but I think she wants to write instead. Sometimes, I think she's right: that you can't do both, or even if you can, you can't do both well. These days, I can't even remember all the words to a lullaby. Right now, Eva's napping fitfully in this too-warm room; later, I'll point out letters to her. A for apple; B for blue. Mama loves letters, I tell her, because letters make words. And mama loves words, I say, almost more than anything. But it's always Eva I return to: my love for her. I know there will come a time when we don't consume each other so completely, but, at this moment, I can't imagine it. And this is a C, I say, and D is for dream, and E is for you, little bird. As if all the letters aren't for her; as if, these days, I'd even be able to recognize the shape of my own name if I didn't have her near, couldn't still smell her on me, couldn't turn my head and find her resting, finally, more peacefully; the fan (F is for fan!) doing its work on this thick, hot day.

Day 235

O Evabird, 235 days in this world, and for at least 1/100th of those days you've had a tooth. A tiny one, on the right side. Smaller than a dime or a ladybug or a pink peppercorn.

In all your blue-eyed wonder, that tooth has managed to escape the camera, but today, I had to give it a little shout-out.

Ah tooth, may you have many years of biting into fresh plums and shining for flashes, and when the time comes for you to say Goodbye, may the fairy leave quarters & glitter & all sorts of hope in the place you used to be.

Mid-July

Somehow, it's happened. Winter turned to spring turned to me holding Eva in the sprinklers at the park, and soon--so soon--fall will peek her pretty little red head around the corner, curl her finger up like a comma, and say, Come hither, please.

I have visions of being in the classroom: I sit attached to a pump, and my students pretend not to notice. Worse yet, all my metaphors are linked to motherhood. We must nurse this exercise for all it's worth, I tell them. A good beginning, I say, is the epidural of all essays--it makes for a far less painful experience for your readers!

Then, of course, is the fear that I've actually forgotten how to teach, that I'll stumble into the room ten minutes late with a latte in my hand and say things like, so, uhm, what exactly is an essay, and does anyone have a pen I can borrow? (All the while, I'll be checking my cellphone to see if the nanny is calling and looking down to make sure I haven't sprung a leak.)

I guess the good news is summer's just getting started. I have eight full weeks to replace all my dropping-the-baby dreams with uhm-hello-I'm-you're-uhm-"teacher" dreams. Now, if I can just start getting some sleep...

In Chicago

A dragonfly on the sidewalk. All glass and metal and sand and roses. I'm ready to be home.

Words that Satisfy Me

bookkeeper

I just love the way the letters are so beautifully shelved:
the o's, the k's, the e's,
so perfectly paired.

Day 227

Evabird, there are mums on the table and fresh fruit in a bowl, and all I can hear is the wind through the trees and the clack of these keys. This morning, you and I went with friends on a long walk through the country, rounded our way on the edge of the lake, saw a deer, a crane, clapboard houses, red maples. The crane, M. said, is a good sign. Much of the night, I rubbed your swollen gums with my fingertip, felt the sharpness beneath, felt the teeth that will cut through any hour now.

(How do I say this? I want you to carry the sound of this wind inside of you; I want to carry it inside of me.)

At this moment, the clouds are passing across the silver square of window, and you are sleeping beside me, and I think of last year when I was at this house with these friends, how you were still inside of me, how I hardly knew you, how I knew you completely. I don't remember these woods being so peaceful then. Months ago, I was talking to a friend, another mother, and she said that her whole life she had never felt like she was enough; how becoming a mother changed that; how she is finally enough; how she is now all that she ever needed to be.

K. has filled the birdfeeder, and now the wind is interrupted by a song, by K. waving from the pool, by Lorca barking and D.'s laughter and S.'s wondering the world blue. The square of light has moved from the carpet to the bed, and still, you sleep, and still, I settle my hand on your back to feel your breath, and still the wind goes through the trees. I wish I could name the birds for you, wish I could keep you from the pain of your teeth cutting through, wish I could explain to you that this breeze through this screen feels as good as any breeze has ever felt. The crane, M. said, a very good sign, indeed.

On Lazy Summer

New post up at PBQ. Read it:
here.