He jabbers on about his dreams last night in that soft and wise voice that my son has.
"Ah bah bah baaaaah bah" he informs me as I'm wearing trails in the carpet, moving here to there in our small apartment.
The conversation grew quiet, and not in that peaceful way, like when we are staring into each other's eyes, discovering what's there. No, this was a mischievous quiet, one that is usually followed by the clang of the dog bowl tipping over. I find him around the corner of the bed with a wad of soggy paper in his mouth. I shake off the anxiety that tells me that paper is going to block him up for days. I scoop him up and pull the electric bill out of his mouth. The irony of my crazy baby eating my energy away is laughable.
My coffee is hot, but if my calculations are correct it will only be the right temperature for approximately ten minutes and within those ten minutes there is a 70 percent chance Uriah is going to need to nurse... or shit his pants. That's what microwaves are for though, for the two to three ounces that will inevitably grow cold in my abandoned cup that I placed somewhere ridiculously high and pushed back on a shelf. Somewhere away from sticky fingers. When I do find my cup again, the microwave will be there for me.
Mornings are peaceful this way. Peaceful in a predictable way, not in a calm or relaxing sort of way. I probably won't shower, but if I do I'll probably have a baby in there with me, taking his time in tearing all the bottles of soap and shampoos off the shelf.
My stale hair actually does the "mom bun" better on day three of not getting washed. But it's all flopped over to the side, and the back of my hair fell out of the bun from yesterday. I gather it back up on top of my head again except this time I'll add a head band. There is a pile of hair on the floor from my postpartum hair loss that I have to pick up so it doesn't get picked up and eaten by the baby. The baby who doesn't like food, but does like eating hair.
Those hunger pains start hollering at me reminding me to eat. Usually the caffeine quiets them for awhile when I actually get to drink it. It's funny because before pregnancy if I would get hungry, I only really worry about myself suffering. When I am breastfeeding every meal is mandatory to keep up my milk supply. Then there is this lingering guilt when I only eat Rice Crispies for breakfast. There is nothing in there for me. Not for me and certainly not for Uriah. I know how important nutrition is for the both of us. I do my best, but when people comment on how much weight I've lost I know I should be rounder. The weight that does or doesn't cling to you isn't a health report, but an observer doesn't care about that anyways.
This is nine months postpartum. This is a funny place where I still feel like a brand new mom and I still do brand new mom things, but my newborn crawls around and gets into trouble, and shouts "Mama" at me, and I beg him to slow down.
No comments:
Post a Comment