Was a good day.
Do you feel that? Mm-hmm. That.
That was your day hugging you.
Mine did.
Sunday 29 August 2010
Friday 27 August 2010
A new perspective. Fresh steps.
I've changed the way my blog looks. Why? Well, I found this background and it reminded me of the road we travel on our way to our sailboat on the coast. I like it. It reminds me to breathe, and escape the city in my mind for a bit.
And it's fitting in a way, to have a picture of a path in front of me, because my baby, my just-a few days over-10-months baby, took two independent steps toward me.
I was showing her how to dance, to a song on the radio, and she smiled at me, grabbed a lime-green maraca, and took her first steps. To me. To reach me. And the look on her face (from what I saw through my proud tears) was priceless. It was confident. Pleased with herself. I wanted to hold her and help her along, I wanted to reach out to her and touch her delicate outstretched fingers with my own, but she had a look on her face that said "no, Mamo. I can do it. Let me show you."
I know it sounds terribly cliche, but as I watched her, two very contradictory things happened. My heart stretched and expanded with immense pride and love, and my lungs deflated, as if someone had taken my breath out of me. I couldn't breathe. I didn't want to. Didn't want to make a sound. I just watched her, and felt my heart pounding in the back of my throat, the noise distracting as I focused on this little girl with her incredibly long legs tentatively walking towards me.
This moment, although precious and a tiny bit surreal, came almost before I was ready for it. Is it possible that my baby is almost walking? Is this the same little alien that I brought home from the hospital not so long ago? Have I become the mum that jumps to peek at her every time she does something remotely interesting or even mundane?
Yes, my heart tells me. With an indulgent, drawn-out delicious Yesssssss, as if to encourage me.. to remind me... to look up, close my eyes, spread my arms wide, and let myself fall backward into the kind of love (and fear) that exists only in storybooks.
And my eyes start to fill again.
And I remember to breathe.
And it's fitting in a way, to have a picture of a path in front of me, because my baby, my just-a few days over-10-months baby, took two independent steps toward me.
I was showing her how to dance, to a song on the radio, and she smiled at me, grabbed a lime-green maraca, and took her first steps. To me. To reach me. And the look on her face (from what I saw through my proud tears) was priceless. It was confident. Pleased with herself. I wanted to hold her and help her along, I wanted to reach out to her and touch her delicate outstretched fingers with my own, but she had a look on her face that said "no, Mamo. I can do it. Let me show you."
I know it sounds terribly cliche, but as I watched her, two very contradictory things happened. My heart stretched and expanded with immense pride and love, and my lungs deflated, as if someone had taken my breath out of me. I couldn't breathe. I didn't want to. Didn't want to make a sound. I just watched her, and felt my heart pounding in the back of my throat, the noise distracting as I focused on this little girl with her incredibly long legs tentatively walking towards me.
This moment, although precious and a tiny bit surreal, came almost before I was ready for it. Is it possible that my baby is almost walking? Is this the same little alien that I brought home from the hospital not so long ago? Have I become the mum that jumps to peek at her every time she does something remotely interesting or even mundane?
Yes, my heart tells me. With an indulgent, drawn-out delicious Yesssssss, as if to encourage me.. to remind me... to look up, close my eyes, spread my arms wide, and let myself fall backward into the kind of love (and fear) that exists only in storybooks.
And my eyes start to fill again.
And I remember to breathe.
Thursday 5 August 2010
Break shmeak. Of course I can do it all. (cue pie in the face)
I'm working 4 days now.
It's nice, in the fact that I can grab us some more money (well, some of it anyway, 98.9% of it goes to the nanny ).
It's also nice to come home and be greeted by giggles and claps and smiles and "mumm..mum..mum..." ( I assume that's her name for me, but I can't be quite sure, as she also says the same thing to her stuffed monkey.)
It can be hard at times, though, and like every working mum out there, I have moments of guilt. I have moments where I skip out the door happy to start my day, strutting (yes, strutting) down the sunlit streets of Soho, wearing all my old pre-pregnancy clothes. Then I come home, and when I do the bath and put her to bed, she nuzzles my neck as she falls asleep, talking in her gibberish baby-talk, and my heart breaks into pieces. Partly from happiness for having such a beautiful family, partly from the fear that she's growing up so fast and that I've already missed her learning how to clap properly and hold a bottle on her own.
What's also hard is that I'm missing my other half. My mister. The irony is that we work 3 blocks away from each other, but have never met for lunch or coffee. He and I have been like passing ships, which is alternately great (because business is good), and at times lonely (because a spouse working 14-hour days 5 days a week takes its toll on any couple). We tend to forget the little things, like stolen kisses and hugs that used to be the norm. We pack everything in on the weekends, divvying up baby duty between each other, trying to go sailing, seeing friends, finishing the weekend exhausted in bed with only enough energy left to shut off the bedside lamp.
With a baby and a tough work schedule, we sometimes have nothing left. Which is perversely gratifying sometimes, because we feel like we're really working towards something, and life is never boring. But sometimes the perverse tips the scales and leans over into the ridiculous, so it's a very delicate balance to try and preserve. My default setting is pointing things out and talking about them ad nauseum, which can be draining. He is the complete opposite sometimes, and just wants to get on with it and get going and not dwell on the little things. Both are valid solutions, but both have their time and place. Like I said... balance. It's tricky.
I'd like to slow-dance, just him and me. I'd like to meet him for a drink and steal an hour for ourselves. I'd like to feel his hand on the small of my back as we walk down the street. I'd like a long, lingering kiss.
But for now, I just have to keep looking up. And remembering to give myself time to breathe. Because if I do it, the idea just might catch on at home, too.
It's nice, in the fact that I can grab us some more money (well, some of it anyway, 98.9% of it goes to the nanny ).
It's also nice to come home and be greeted by giggles and claps and smiles and "mumm..mum..mum..." ( I assume that's her name for me, but I can't be quite sure, as she also says the same thing to her stuffed monkey.)
It can be hard at times, though, and like every working mum out there, I have moments of guilt. I have moments where I skip out the door happy to start my day, strutting (yes, strutting) down the sunlit streets of Soho, wearing all my old pre-pregnancy clothes. Then I come home, and when I do the bath and put her to bed, she nuzzles my neck as she falls asleep, talking in her gibberish baby-talk, and my heart breaks into pieces. Partly from happiness for having such a beautiful family, partly from the fear that she's growing up so fast and that I've already missed her learning how to clap properly and hold a bottle on her own.
What's also hard is that I'm missing my other half. My mister. The irony is that we work 3 blocks away from each other, but have never met for lunch or coffee. He and I have been like passing ships, which is alternately great (because business is good), and at times lonely (because a spouse working 14-hour days 5 days a week takes its toll on any couple). We tend to forget the little things, like stolen kisses and hugs that used to be the norm. We pack everything in on the weekends, divvying up baby duty between each other, trying to go sailing, seeing friends, finishing the weekend exhausted in bed with only enough energy left to shut off the bedside lamp.
With a baby and a tough work schedule, we sometimes have nothing left. Which is perversely gratifying sometimes, because we feel like we're really working towards something, and life is never boring. But sometimes the perverse tips the scales and leans over into the ridiculous, so it's a very delicate balance to try and preserve. My default setting is pointing things out and talking about them ad nauseum, which can be draining. He is the complete opposite sometimes, and just wants to get on with it and get going and not dwell on the little things. Both are valid solutions, but both have their time and place. Like I said... balance. It's tricky.
I'd like to slow-dance, just him and me. I'd like to meet him for a drink and steal an hour for ourselves. I'd like to feel his hand on the small of my back as we walk down the street. I'd like a long, lingering kiss.
But for now, I just have to keep looking up. And remembering to give myself time to breathe. Because if I do it, the idea just might catch on at home, too.
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