Parenthood: The second week

It’s been a full week since I’ve even thought about writing for the blog, longer since I’ve thought about writing at all. Our little one is 6 months-old, but the energy required to care for her saps all the strength out of me. At the end of the day, the last thing I’m thinking about is sitting here to pen a few words. That needs to change. I find myself not wanting to reflect on the day, the week, find it easier to just let the sun fall away and each day bleed into the next and not let myself ponder the events that shape them. That’s not the way I want to raise little m, though, not the way I want to live the rest of my life. I need to reflect, need to record, need to write. It’s what I am, part of what makes me tick. Big M told me I was no longer allowed to post so much on FB, but that can’t stop, either. Recording and sharing are what I do, what I am. It would be easy for me to retreat into my own world, to pretend that nothing exists outside of my home life, my family–I’m so thrilled to just think those words–and work. It would be easy to pretend that what goes on inside my head doesn’t matter, but it does. I can’t hide from myself, just like I can’t hide from the world. And those things go together, like it or not. I have to work at it sometimes, though, and force myself to do it, to do the hard work of spending an hour just writing down thoughts, jotting notes, blogging, recording. It’s for the sake of my sanity.

Tonight we sat at the table eating dinner, little m in her Bumbo on the table next to big M who was playing Itsy-Bitsy Spider. Everytime the rain washed the spider down, little m giggled with those cute little dimples on both cheeks so deep I could store laundry money in them. I looked up from my plate and saw the two of them and realized again that this little girl is my daughter, that this is my family, and this little girl, and this big girl, are both going to be with me until I die. Some days, on the bike on the way home from work, the realization hits me that I’m going home to see my little girl and suddenly I’m afraid on the bike, for the first time ever since I started riding in the city. Afraid of the car coming around the corner, afraid of the taxis and the buses and the trucks. Afraid someone will barrel out of an intersection and hit me from the side and I’ll go flying off the bike and lay sprawling on the macadam, and as the blood dribbles from my mouth I’ll think about my daughter and my wife and wish that I could watch them grow old. I’m suddenly afraid of getting hurt. I haven’t felt that in a long time, haven’t felt that kind of fear, the fear of dying. I find myself with the strong desire to live, to see tomorrow. To see my little girl grow. It’s a good feeling.

Milestones for the week: she’s started to talk a lot more, forming consonant sounds and babbling more around other people. Yesterday morning she rolled from her stomach to her back, the first time she’s done that without the aid of one of us or the downward slope of a pillow on the bed. M and I both jumped off the couch and cheered as she did it but little m just looked up at us with a confused expression, unsure what to make of her parents sudden enthusiasm. She is getting attached to us, coming to us for comfort, for succor. At my lab’s annual cookout, she was passed from person to person and she handled herself with aplomb, not once crying. And when she saw one of us, she reached out her hands to us, seeking our faces out of the crowd. She’s still eating mostly bananas and peaches mixed with rice cereal. We need to broaden that palate. I’m hoping to be able to cook some spinach for her, but there’s a worry about nitrates that I’ll have to address.

In two weeks, I’ll take off work for a month. I show confidence to the world, that it’s going to be easy to take care of her, that I have lots planned for us, outings and cooking and running. Inside, I know all my plans will fall apart the moment M walks out the door for work and leaves me alone. I’m scared of that moment, and excited about it, too. It’ll be the experience of a lifetime.