October 2, 2009

It is raining and at home you are crying. I came to the coffee shop because I was reaching the end of my rope and now all I can do is think of you crying and Daddy moving you up and down through the air on his forearm and growing steadily more impatient.

I am tired. My breasts are huge and none of my shirts fit. My pants also do not fit. Two days ago I cut off 10 inches of my hair. I am not positive the new haircut fits either.

We moved so quickly from weeks of mid-70's weather following your birth to this evil stepchild version of fall: 50 degrees and rain and gray. This is the second day where the light is the same at 8am as at 1pm as at 5pm. Then finally there is a darkening and the rain is light enough that we cannot hear it if the windows are closed. And the windows are closed.

Yesterday, after I snuggled you into the Moby Wrap, you pulled your head out and looked around. I took picture after picture as you used your neck muscles for the very first time. You looked like a heron or a crane, a bird whose neck is long enough that the head seems somehow separate from it. After a few minutes, your head grew too heavy and you had to plant your cheek against my chest again, where you immediately commenced gnawing on my collarbone.

I can hear you crying. I can see Daddy's patience wearing thin.

What else? You will be one month old tomorrow. One month already. And truly it seems like we brought you home yesterday. Dear Thisbe, I see now how quickly the rest of my life will go now that I am consumed with watching you grow. I worry that I will die and you will lose your supply of breast milk. In the car I contemplate whether they could keep me alive just to pump the milk. I contemplate whether I should write a living will with that stipulation in it. I imagine myself laying in a hospital bed, numerous wires hooked to my chest, an intubation tube in my mouth, and a stalwart nurse holding the two suction cups to my breasts while milk drips into the tiny bottles below. Then I worry that I will die and thus never get to see you grow older. This terrifies me more than anything else I can think of. Besides, of course, the fear that trumps all fears: that you will die and I will have to grow old without you.

I can hear you crying. And so it's on with the raincoat and into the old Honda. Wipers on low. Ricki's leftover pot roast for dinner. We will snuggle on the couch to eat, Daddy's computer on the coffee table, "Revolutionary Road" playing, Kate Winslet and Leonardo DiCaprio and their unhappy marriage filling the screen. This afternoon we put you in your boppy and placed the boppy in the easy chair in the corner of the bedroom. Then we undressed. Over Daddy's shoulder I watched your open mouth. Afterward, I lay in bed with you, our heads bent together. Your tiny nose was cold. I pressed my nose against it and you slept. How many more days of this will I be given?