To my second-born

Reading: A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith

Listening to: "Suit and Jacket" by Judah & the Lion

Outside: Summer drizzle dances on the dandelions

Mudpie!
May 3, 2023

Dear Indiana, 

The world spun slower the year you were born - in fact, for many, it came to a stop. We stopped going outside, in every way "outside" could signify: work, school, fun. Outside was a threat. You, who floated blissfully in the water of my womb, grew just the same. For you, the world never stopped spinning. 

You, who will get a side-glance, a raised eyebrow, a tiny smile, when you grow up and you're standing at the counter at the bank to deposit your first work pay, or to open a mortgage account. "A Pandemic Baby," they will say, speaking of a history that is printing dark and wet in the world's Modern Civilization textbooks right now. You'll get that comment when you hand in any form you fill in, everywhere you go. Everywhere.

For you, I was already a mom. Your sister made me one. She made me a person I had never been before; she made me new. She gave me the confidence, almost seven years prior, through trial and error, in bathing a baby, feeding a baby, swaddling a baby, singing to a baby. She taught me all those things, and you experienced the results of that tuition. We can thank her for that. At least we had that going for us.

For you, I was hurried. Overwhelmed. A baby does that - as, too, you may find someday. Oh yes, a baby does that! It doesn't matter if it's your first or your fifth - a baby keeps you on your toes! Morning slides into night, with a long span in between consisting of bottles, diapers, laundry and naps. 

But lo! I was already on my toes: I was not the same mom I would have been had there been no such thing as Coronavirus. I would have been steadier on my feet, less panicked, less breathless, my hands resting here and there longer, my soap-cracked hands not so busy bleaching groceries and washing door handles and clearing and labelling a quarantine shelf in the back room. I was preparing and overseeing Lena's home-school-work, uploading photo evidence of learning, processing a new way of life. I was setting timers on the microwave, stove, and phone, and surprised every time each one went off, unsure which thing (Lena's gym-class equivalent? The bottles in the sterilizer? The baby?) the alarm was for.  I was answering phone calls from Lena's teachers, checking up on "how things were going." (What was I supposed to say? That I felt unhinged? Vulnerable? Incompetent? That I didn't even know what day it was?) I was answering phone calls from the doctors, a six-week baby check that took place over the phone. I was telling them all the truth. "Yes, he's doing fine. He is ship-shape." I was worried, exhausted, opening the fridge door and forgetting what I was looking for. I was shaking a rattle at you and telling Lena how to spell "circumstance," and forgetting what was in the fridge. I was needed too much.  I was burning dinner. 

Indiana, 2 months old
December 23, 2020

You are no longer the tiny baby we welcomed into a scary, uncertain world. You left that baby behind sometime last year, and I have already mourned the last time I held you for a nap. You are simply too big, you complain you're too uncomfortable, to lay across my lap. (But oh! Oh, honey, you are always welcome. Always welcome.) We said goodbye to your bottles, your crib, your bibs, and diaper rash, and teething, said hello to big-boy-underwear, and your school uniforms are in your closet, ready to go.  

And the world's changed. Groceries no longer terrify me. We go outside to school and work and play. And I've changed - dinner no longer burns, there are no more alarms, and I'm no longer rushed. I feel even in the world, balanced; the cares are still there, but fewer. They're lighter; I carry less.

Indiana in the sunshine
May 20, 2023

As you run across my back-yard view, showing me your mud pies and climbing into the swing yourself and asking politely (!) for a push, I am hoping I am making it all up to you. I hope you will remember how I build building-block castles with you, and how you knock them down. I hope you remember blowing bubbles in the bath, how you insist I'm not feeling very well but magic water well help me (it does!). How we sing "Bonny Portmore" together every night at bedtime.

Now you're almost three. Three years old.

As you laugh and nap and scoop ice cream and dig big sand holes at the Filey Beach and grab for bubbles along with your sister, who ushers you through your summer carefully and almost mother-like, I hope you know I will miss you when you start school, and that these days, these days-just-you-and-me, are numbered. It will be crippling, this missing-you, and it will be altogether different from the missing-you of Lena's first day at nursery. It will be the knowledge that you are the last one, that are no more coming after. 

Those baby-steps will be turned into flashes of leather-shod feet, so big and so small, so sure of themselves, running down our front walk, bright backpack bouncing with intensity. Into the wide world you will go, for the first time, without me. 

Everywhere you go, son, 

I'll always be here. 

Loving you.

Always amazed by you.

Being even in life's uncertainty,

And

atoning for lost time. 

An expectant me 
and the Indiana that will be
August 23, 2020

Happy Sunday, everyone.