As I was trying to snap some shots of blackberries, these funky (dead?) blooms popped into sight. That's what I love about slowing down to take pictures - the very act forces you to notice, and marvel, in the details.
On my way to work, I pass by this abandoned office building. Once upon a time, they put in a full day's work.
Door to old office building.
Afternoon coffee. I didn't tweak the colors even a little, it was just that bright this afternoon.
He likes to share. Or, perhaps taunt me with things he plans to stick in his mouth.
So, last night I asked my husband if I could have the computer for ten minutes in order to post my picture for the day, and he nearly choked. "I have homework due by midnight" he said tersely, and so I meekly went back to eating my crawfish twice-baked potato. No, I don't know how to do that myself, I bought it at the grocery store. Part of the joy was ingesting all those carbs while watching Work Out, you understand.
Yesterday was one of those rough days, where my child was alternately being delightful one second, and then acting like a small troll the next. I don't know how I managed to brush my teeth, honestly, and if it wasn't a work night, I promise you I would have stayed in my pajamas.
I'll be back tonight with a timely picture. Thank you for all your lovely, reassuring words. And for your viewing pleasure: Thomas, stuck in one of his toy boxes. Yes, I use some of the empty diaper boxes as toy boxes, what of it?
Lately I've been feeling really bummed about my blog. I feel like I've lost my blogging mojo, my point of view, my creative spark. I feel boring, and I've dug deeper and deeper into a "reading blogs" mode instead of a "writing on my own damn blog" mode. I've felt boxed into a corner, maybe one I've painted myself in. Maybe I should take a break, I thought, or at least announce an official break, instead of just ducking behind a corner and not owning up to the suckitude around here lately. I've never really taken a true break, and it's certainly nothing to be ashamed of. But the thought of that...breaks my heart.
Yesterday, as we drove down to the family farm (for a photo session with Rachael!), I brought along my trusty copy of Writing Down the Bones - a tiny edition that I received in my Christmas stocking. I soaked up Natalie's good, familiar advice. I confessed my feeling to Beaux, and tried to make excuses as how I don't have "time to write" and how maybe this summer, I will have more time. You see, I got used to doing my writing a certain way. Quiet. Good music humming through the speakers. Certainly not with a small child shrieking in the background, with paper flying from who knows what and ohmygodwhatisthatinyourmouth and...you see, don't you? He gently reminded me that I have plenty of time to write. And I do have time. I just feel like I don't have anything original to say, or sometimes, anything at all. It is so much easier to enjoy all the good writing out there than to find something of my own to say, it seems. There have been times where I have absolutely no desire to write, and that's what is frightening and what makes me sad. But then I realize that it will come back, I just have to exercise those creative muscles.
Last night, in the haze between sleep and reality, I thought, maybe a photo a day,this week, to jump start my sputtering little blog? And not a photo of my kiddo (unless it's Tuesday, of course). So today as I drove to work, these flowers against a stone wall caught my eye. Obviously, I don't have time to stop on the way to work (what? do you!?) so I made sure I took the same route home. Parking along the side of the road, the baby asleep in his car seat, I snapped some shots and then hightailed it out of there when the dogs of the house (that the stone wall was in front of) realized there was a stranger on the property. There were seriously, about four dogs with their hackles raised. And then they chased the car down the road, the whole pack of them.
And, for extra photo fun, click here to see one shot from our photo session with my lovely, talented friend Rachael. I wish you would all hire her, she is THAT GOOD.
Dear Thomas,
You are now nine months old, you busy boy, you with all your growing and changing and making me fall in love with you deeper than ever before. I'm writing this as you nap in your swing, your feet dangling by several inches, and I realize these days of your textbook babyness are growing short. If I could, I would slow these days and nights down, press the slow motion button on the Tivo remote (the one that you are in love with, and live to possess), and apply it to this waning time. You change as fast as I blink, it seems, and I love who you are becoming, but still. Slow down, dude. Mama can't go that fast anymore.
Here's the cold hard facts: you now have four teeth. The last one has finally broken through your gums, and so you are the proud possessor of two upper front teeth and the lower two front as well. Now that you're not struggling to get through the business of teething, you are a very fun guy. I didn't think that teething was a huge deal, necessarily, I got used to giving you Tylenol or Motrin as a "well, maybe this will work" when you got majorly cantakerous, but I do notice that you seem easier and happier with life. You are definitely sleeping better through the night, alas still in bed with Daddy and I, but we will take what progress we can get. Having four teeth means you have major chewing opportunities, and you like to practice with your new tiny tusks. You've never been one to go for teething rings or anything cold to soothe your gums, but you do quite enjoy chomping on me at any opportunity. Just now you were chewing on my elbow, like I am your favorite bacon flavored snack.
As for mobility, you are always on the move. You "cruise," as they say, with speed and efficiency, and have for what seems like forever, moving along the couch or bookshelves or whatever will be still enough for you to grab hold of. You cling to my legs now, immobilizing me, until I give in and pick you up, incorporating you into whatever it is I'm doing. Up and down you go, and sometimes you try to Army crawl under really low things, like rungs of chairs, and end up getting stuck. Today, I watched you put your head down and peer under the couch. Thankfully, you didn't decide to try to fit underneath, but I did go and fish out some lost toys, so I'm sure you consider that mission accomplished. You have no interest in walking, it seems, though you sometimes stand up and just barely hold on to something that stablilizes you. I am happy to enjoy these crawling days, and watch you increase your speed, as if you are competing for the baby Olympics.
You are definitely more interested in your toys. You play and play and keep yourself pretty occupied, even though you still love to yank books off the bookshelves and spelunk under the computer desk. When we're in the kitchen, I give you an old tin and immediately you turn it upside down and beat on the bottom, a little drummer boy. You also have a collection of spatulas and take great delight in them, so much so that I only have one or two left for myself. I bought you a table to play with, like they have at preschool, and for awhile I kept it in your nursery. You would spy it through the doorway and crawl from the living room like mad to go play with it. It sings and lights up and is happily plastic and only minorly obnoxious, but only because they sing the 123s to the tune of La Cucaracha, which means that I wander around humming stupid La Cucaracha to myself. Lately, you put your face down into the bowl on the table, all the better to experience those whizzing colors flashing, which I'm sure is just fabulous for your brain development, honey. You also love mirrors and put your face right up to them, smiling and curious. I don't know what you're thinking and fervently hope you're not developing a Narcissus complex - but I'm pretty sure you're just exploring your world. Often you leave wet patches on the mirror, and yes you are cute and who could blame you for trying to kiss yourself?
Just a week or so ago you began truly waving in earnest. The first time you actually waved, we were leaving church and your daddy was carrying you, the two of you walking a few feet in front of me. I waved at you, and it was like this waving concept clicked with you, so you waved back. Now you wave quite a bit, not really on command or at the appropriate time, and sometimes with BOTH hands flapping, like you can't contain yourself with this HELLO business, and also, HEY! Also very exciting: you point. You point at your daddy from across the room, you point at whatever it is you notice, it's all a big game to you. We're also very certain that you know "mama" and "dada" when you hear it said, if we say, "Where's Dada?" you look for him, and the same for Mama. I've learned to not even SAY "Where's Dada?" if your Dada isn't home, because you start to cry if you look around and can't find him.
Vocally, things are getting interesting. You are a kalediscope of sound. I love to hear you talk to yourself as you play, this funky baby monologue, your practice time with whatever you have heard that day. You screech with joy, especially when we are out for Thai, it seems. Your daddy taught you to do this hilarious thing, to turn the screeching into something manageable - he would strum your lip with his finger and eventually you started doing it yourself. You mimic us now, and sometimes you and I sound like drunken hoot owls, hooting and oohing back and forth at each other. Now it seems like you actually like for me to sing to you, whether it's for your entertainment while I'm cleaning up the kitchen, or a way to help you chill out before it's time for bed. It seems like I sing the ABCs a lot, it's always my default song to charm you out of a bad mood, or when you protest the indignity of having your diaper changed.
This past month or so, your Pop has been babysitting you on Thursdays afternoon while I go to work. It's been a really good thing, because now you know who he is, and he gets to hang out with you on your turf. He usually takes you on a walk, and a couple of weeks ago you two had quite an adventure. You encountered a big turtle, also taking a walk, and as it went on its way, it lumbered right by a snake! According to your Pop, that snake ran away as fast as he could! Then Pop decided that you would enjoy watching the turtle for a little longer, and he scooped it up and popped in the bottom of your stroller. When Daddy came home, he said the turtle was still there, in the flower bed, refusing to show itself. I get the biggest smile, when I think about your Pop walking along the road with both you and a turtle in the stroller. It just illustrates how deeply people love you, you lucky little boy, and the different ways that love shows itself.
Oh, and for the record, Lovie and Gramps now consider it their mission to bring you a very small alligator. Grandparents can be competitive like that, you know.
I take such joy in you. Truly, every day brings something new, and I luxuriate, when I remember to stay present and watch you explore and make big crashing noises and get into things you shouldn't, in all that you are and who you are becoming. I feel like we're not just mother and son, but friends, buddies together in this great big world. I don't know how such a incredibly awesome child as you found your way to us, but I'm grateful. Our little family of three is so beautiful and whole, and knowing that each day brings us closer to knowing you more and more seems like more goodness than I can handle. I'm happy that in a month, we'll have all summer to play and find new adventures. Oh, and also get back into the habit of napping together every afternoon.
There is so much love for you in my heart and soul, surely it must leak out of me when I walk, like love puddles, a trail of stars, small doses of magic that make this world as good as it can be.
Love,
Mama
Another tidbit to tide you over until I finally finish this dang letter. Here you have all the evidence you need that I'm a terrible parent, as I let my child get THAT close to the television. But I try to make up for that fact by letting him watch really cool, funny stuff, so it all evens out in the end.
See the video for yourself, and don't worry Mom and Dad, they're not really saying what you think they're saying.
Post to come soon, incorporating mostly month eight. Because I am a terrible mother who can't get it together to goopily describe her child's progress in proper time.
This past weekend was Homecoming at my college, the one that I never visit, even though I still live in the same town. I chalk this up to the fact that leaving the safe confines of my beloved college was really hard for me, and I never wanted to be that sad person who just couldn't move on, physically speaking, even after I'd collected my diploma. There are those people, and I am too proud to be one of them. This may explain why it's taken me FIVE YEARS to attend a Homecoming. I know most colleges have Homecoming in the fall, but those colleges have football teams. And we don't. We have baseball, or so I hear, because I am not a baseball watching sort of gal. I think I went to a game ONCE in college, and that's probably because there was free food or maybe a cute boy. Most likely a cute boy.
But you know, there are many other reasons why we shy away from things like Homecoming, or reunion type things, aren't there? Reasons I personally shied from Homecoming: weight gain, no exciting professional life, not being married, no kids - you know, I just didn't relish the thought of going to say, "Well, I do watch quite a lot of TV. And go to church. Yep, and read books. Thanks for asking."
But this year, my dear friend Carrie had a reunion thing to sing at, and she suggested we haul our kids to a festival type activity on Friday, as well as visit all our old music professors. And I was game, if only because I have a cute kid now and feel like I can legitimately claim that I've accomplished something.
Friday came, full of hot muggy rain clouds that refused to rain until I was actually on my way to campus. Bella ended up staying home with her great-granny, and so I was the kooky mama with the big ass stroller and her child, in a building with two floors and no elevator. I ended up stashing the stroller in a practice room and hauling the child upstairs, where I listened to my old voice teacher give a lesson through her office door. Thomas cooed at a poster of Renee Fleming, while I entertained ghosts of College Past, dancing down the hallway by our music theory class. Everywhere I went was steeped in memory, and Thomas owes his very existence to certain corners where I slowly realized that I loved a certain boy with his guitar.
Carrie finally arrived, and we wandered and chatted with whoever we found, until our lovely voice teacher found her way to us. I tell you, within three minutes, she asked me, "Oh, won't you sing Batti, batti for us tomorrow night?" This woman doesn't waste precious time. Now, mind you, I haven't sung anything like that in years. Five years. It's been nearly a year since I left the sanctuary choir, the place where I at least looked at notes on a page once a week.
But because she has special powers that are still able to bend my brain into submission, I said yes. Then it was back up to her office, where we hoovered up each other's news and I restrained my son from pulling miles of sheet music off her shelves. The thing about singing REAL music is that you do need someone playing the piano for you or at least a track of your accompainment, and so my dear voice professor got all high geek on us and downloaded a track OFF THE INTERNET. She is golden, I tell you, and magic all rolled into one.
Next, in a plot twist that had you told me about that very morning I would not have believed you, I took myself and my son into a practice room and plunked out some notes. That is, I practiced. It's funny, how muscle memory kicks in. This is an aria that I sang my junior year, but I loved it and somehow, it's still a tiny part of me. While it took some pondering to remember exactly HOW to pronounce some of the Italian, with each round of practice, things came back. Of course, the runs were weak and rusty, but other than that? It wasn't so bad.
The next night, we sang, not in a fabulous hall or gallery or even a stage, but in the cafeteria next to the ice cream machine. It was a humble enough setting to diffuse any real performing anxiety. Still - Carrie went first, and the whole time I was thinking, "Crap! I have to sing next!" And of course when it was my turn, I totally screwed up but kept on singing. Believe it or not, nobody booed, or threw leftover Italian food at me.
Later on, Carrie and I discussed how that was the beauty of the thing: instead of focusing on how we couldn't do this as perfectly or as well as we used to, we went ahead and did it anyway. Our voice teacher was so pleased, and mentioned how much fun it was to have us sing not for a grade or for a recital (oh, the torture). We enjoyed ourselves, cheered each other on, and relished finding old friends made new, and then a few new ones as well. It was a really lovely weekend. It was good to be back where things were once so easy and yet so complicated, where we were on the cusp of where life begins, in earnest. We enjoyed so much of our days and nights there, and were nurtured and grown with love and incredible patience, bless our longsuffering professors. And while, on paper, what I've accomplished may not seem like much or translate into the standard definition of success, I realized that I'm exactly where I've always wanted to be.
