Ever felt like you're in a moment but watching it unfold outside of yourself?
Sort of like... standing in front of the Taj Mahal and saying "hmm. that's nice."
I've noticed this lately.
It's not an apathy, it's more of a functional numbness. As if the activity I'm doing is too precious for me to understand how to absorb it. How to manage it. How to immerse myself in it.
I was giving her some warm milk last night, and as she fed, lying in my arms in the semi-darkness, poking my face and touching my hands, you know what I was thinking? Hmm..wonder what I'll make for dinner later.. wonder when he'll get home tonight.. crap, I have to put the laundry on... did I vacuum her rug today... oh man, I so could just use 10 minutes to myself with a nice cup of coffee and the paper...oh, I feel flutters in my stomach, someone's swimming around in there, how amazing is that.. I'm so lucky...
And then the guilt sets in, and I force myself to be there, shake myself out of my selfish thoughts and be in the moment. With her. It's not fair to do otherwise, because I'll miss these moments when she's older and doesn't need to lie in my arms anymore.
So I correct myself and tune into her. But I feel a bit numb. I look at her and I realise that I helped make this beautiful little creature, with her curved mouth, her full cheeks, her dark green eyes and long lashes... and she's growing up. Too fast. But the combination of all of these thoughts make my brain go thhppppppttt.....bzzzt. Like screen static on a TV.
You see what happens? I go from a 5-lane highway of my own thoughts about my life, to a jumbled mess of thoughts about her, her life.
There is no quiet. No sense of peace within the moment.
I wonder why that is. I know it's not because I don't love her enough. I love her so much that it's painful, sometimes. Is it a coping mechanism so that your heart doesn't explode from too much love? Is it the same kind of coping mechanism when you try and tune out the monotonous bored whines when they're strapped into a buggy and you just want to stuff earplugs in your ears and tell them to just. be. quiet?
Hmm.
I'm there with her, I am. Really. But sometimes I'm not. Sometimes I think I could be better. More present. More affectionate. More motherly. Less functional and schedule-oriented.
And maybe this is the lesson that children teach their parents. Maybe through the next 5 years of children and pregnancies and chaos and sleep deprivation, the most important lesson that I'll learn is to be present. At each and every moment.
To just be.
