I want to write.
Most all of the blog posts in my mind begin like that…
I want to write…
I want to write about so much.
I want to write about shit that doesn’t matter and shit that does.
I want to write about Lyric’s milestones so that I don’t ever forget them. Like how he sat up on his own for the first time Christmas day. How he started crawling – dragging one leg – at around eight months. How he refused food until his first tooth broke through at almost 10 months and completely skipped eating pureed foods. How he signs “Dog, Bird, Hot” and waves Bye Bye. How he didn’t take a binky until three months and then gave it up cold turkey on our California vacation at nine months. I want to write about being inducted into the Human Pacifier Club for naps – how carefully one tries to break a latch, how he looks like a blind mole searching and grunting and getting the Boob back. How this process takes about 30 minutes until he is in a deep enough sleep for me to slither away. I want to write about how his mouth still suckles without a Boob in it and that I’ve tried to catch it on video.
I want to write about the very real body sensation that courses through me saying “There is another baby…your family is not yet complete”.
I want to write about the juxtaposing brain reaction that screams “Are you fucking nuts?!”
I want to write about the magical fairy cove with overhanging and interwoven tree branches where me and my kids had a picnic. I want to write about the silky river rock and cotton from the cottonwood trees that floated above us. I want to write about how the desert grabs a hold of my heart, even when I don’t want her to, and turns it towards me and says “LOOK. All of it. We are the Same. Love in motion. Love frozen”
I want to write about how Kaia and I have always read each others minds. Over and over again this connection awes me. I also want to write about how she looks more like my mother than me and even MORE like my mother’s mother (her jawline and cheek structure). I love how strong our DNA code can come through.
I want to write about how that same Grandmother visits me in dreams about twice a year. She is always gentle and smiling and we hug and dance jigs.
I want to write before the battery dies on this laptop (3 hr 52 min).
I want to write about the electrical surge that zaps my heart when I hear Indigo say “…my brother…”
I want to write about how, upon going through old files and letters and essays from over ten years ago, I stumbled upon a list of baby names. Names scrawled and doodled over and over on loose leaf paper. Mirandah Shayne, Baylor Knox, Nayah Claire, Elijah Dayvis, Emmah Mayson, Gavin Reid, Spencer Darin, Journeigh Maylyn, Indigoh. INDIGOH. (Can you tell I was on an “h” kick?). Until the day the name Indigo popped into my head (a few days before she was born), I’d never even came across the name. But here, on a crinkly piece of paper from about 15 years ago, was her name, frozen in time, waiting waiting waiting.
I want to write about my baking addiction. Every other day at least.
I want to write about how I am nursing Lyric in my lap as I type and how his foot is extended and pushing up against my chin.
I want to write about how I ache to be near my pregnant sister and how a little son grows inside her womb. How I remember holding her the day she came home from the hospital, me propped up against the sliding glass door of our living room as light streamed in.
I want to write about the missing of a best friend and how two years and two months an atrocious amount of time to be away from such beauty and light. I want to write about how, upon sprawling out on her living room floor, it didn’t feel like the moon had risen and set on so many months and years without each other. We resumed as if we’d just woken from a long nap.
I want to write about birth. About how Lyric finally got to witness a baby born, while cozied up to me in the Ergo carrier. How he moaned as this mama moaned her baby down, mimicking the low tones that he surely must remember. How she sat on the toilet, shaking her head back and forth saying “I can’t do this anymore!” and her toes were pointing down in that unmistakable sign of pushing. How she moved to the birth stool and then to the bed, where her husband received their second daughter into his hands with a smile. The groans and quiet wails of labor were instantly recplaced with tears and shaky smiles and exhales of relief and mama and baby and daddy hugged and cried.
I want to write about how my entire family is napping on this clear Saturday afternoon. Two girls snuggled up to Daddy. And Lyric in another bed.
I want to write about silence. About how I read once it takes a number of days – maybe more like a week – to actually grow accustomed to true quiettude in a remote place in nature. That’s how long it takes for our actual brain to grow silent. I want to write about how that sounds so dreamy and how much I crave it. I want to write about how once, when Jason had to turn off our breakers to fix something, the sound of true silence was eerie and beautiful. No electrical sounds, no whirring of fans, no buzzing of computers, no A/C running. I sat on the couch, stunned and bewildered and blown away by how we don’t know silence. I almost told him to not turn it back on. “Silence is not the absence of something but the presence of everything.” – from this Sun Magazine article called “Quiet, Please”. Another Sun Magazine article on silence.
I want to write about craving a weekend alone. To clean. Just clean, slowly and enjoyably. It’s so hard cleaning in a rush, with a babe in arms and two others whirling around you undoing what you’ve done. This is something I took for granted before I had kids. Clean could stay clean. Clean repels children.
I want to write about how,. on our recent California vacation, we could hear the ocean waves crashing as we slept in our trailer. I want to write about how much I like cranking open the louvered windows of the trailer and letting the salty breeze blow in. I want to write about watching your children enjoy the beach and play with abandon.
I want to write about how vacations are never really vacations when you are a mama.
I want to write about how Lyric is standing up – steadying himself against my knee – and pressing keys as I type. For every word I type, he inserts letters and numbers and characters. And I press backspace and correct the errors. Over and over we do this. This is why Mamas must use a laptop while standing up at a counter.
I want to write. And I’m not sure why I want to write. Why I have to write.
I want to write about how I wish you could be here. Right here, as the afternoon sun dances through the window and onto my face.