the baby slept all night

 

...which surely explains my ingenious use of a breast pump accessory this morning to transfer applesauce from slow cooker to mason jar, with nary a drip on the counter. (I realize the funnel has already been invented; I just don't have one). 

Look what I can accomplish after a good night's sleep! 

The reportage of sleep-deprived parents is so, so boring. (Unless you yourself are a sleep-deprived parent, in which case it can be comforting to hear about someone else's doings at 2 am). So I have been trying to recognize that all kinds of interesting things are happening in the big world out there, and keeping details about the baby's sleep habits to a minimum - except with people that I know will love me even if I am boring, namely my mother - but I digress - digressions are the hallmark of a sleep-deprived, addled brain - 

Where was I? Oh yeah. The baby slept all night. 

That's all you'll hear about it from me. I hope. Just know there was one mama out there who woke up contented and rested this morning, ready for anything. Or rather, ready to tackle a laundry deficit and a teething baby and five clients in a row and a grumpy kindergartener who hates beans and rice for dinner. And it really was all more or less tackle-able, even shot through with shining moments. 

Surely this subtle shift in my sense of my own effectiveness ripples outward, and the sum total of positive energy in the world has increased a fraction. 

I actually think someone may be smiling in China right now. 

All thanks to Beatrice's excellent night of sleep, which I will now cease discussing. 

Whoopee! The baby slept all night!

apples

In the early weeks of Homemade Time, we went apple picking with some friends. I remember feeling very accomplished and impressed with myself posting those photos, having coordinated with new friends, wrangled two little ones on a chilly day, and brought home half a fridge-full of apples.

Almost every year since, we've made the trip. (Has it really been four years? Is it really 2013? I had to think twice, then three times, to be sure). With apples overflowing the kitchen counter from today's haul, I just peeked at that old post.  How we have grown! (Grown haggard, in my case - I decided to skip sharing the shadow-eyed selfie with Bea in the Ergo. Hopefully that will improve post sleep-training...)

But really. The long limbs! The rainbow loom bracelets! The pounding sprint, the rather irritating and unbelievably loud rendition of '99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall' (thanks to Ramona, who planted the idea, and me - why?? - who shared the tune), the arguing over who gets to pull 30 pounds of apples in the little wagon, the talk of whether or not it is embarrassing to drive past middle schoolers with Pete Seeger blasting out of your minivan's windows.

And of course, of course, the baby. Our baby. She was barely a twinkle four years ago. She was a twinkle I kept private because most everyone I knew would have told me I was crazy for even thinking about a third then. But I did! More often than I care to admit. And now she's here, and I am so grateful.

slip slide

Whenever Beatrice is hanging out in a diaper and not much else, the big kids find her expanses of rosy soft skin irresistible. I pick her up to plunk her in the bath. Mama, wait! they beg. Let me touch her belly one more time. Gabriel buries his nose in her back. Frances squishes her outrageous thighs. The effect is intoxicating. It is simply impossible to keep their hands and faces away from her.

I feel the same. Every night in the midst of after-dinner noise and chaos, the baby has a bath on the kitchen counter, gets toweled off and then clad in pajamas. After quick goodnights, she and I move from the bright lights and sounds of the hallway into her quiet room. I flick on her white noise machine with my toe, turn off the light, and close the door. The change in environment is drastic, and I have to be ready to catch her head with the crook of my arm because she dives into a nursing position before the door clicks shut.

When we nurse and rock in the dark, her top arm initially flies around wildly, fingers reaching, grasping and kneading, unwilling to give up a day full of handling and manipulating everything within reach,  even while her eyes droop and the rest of her body begins to relax. The feel of Beatrice's soft, persistent fingers grazing over my belly, pinching my arm and searching for my face is dependably one of the best parts of my day. I cannot even begin to describe it. Sliding my fingers along the soft pad of her hand while it explores and tugs on my clothes ... oh, what is it like? Nothing else. The feeling it evokes in me - deep-down in my muscles and bones, outside of language - reminds me of being in a department store with my mother when I was little. I would run my fingers along the clothes, looking for the softest fabrics on one of those circular racks - silky nightgowns, maybe - then close my eyes and walk slowly around the rack, letting the softness slide over my face.

That felt really, really good. But holding my nursing baby at bedtime is even better! It's an exquisite sensory experience that pulls at my heart. Body, mind, spirit. Being a mother is amazing.

love

I was looking at this series of pictures tonight, and I thought of a passage in a Zadie Smith novel that has always stayed with me. 

It's from On Beauty.

“People talk about the happy quiet that can exist between two loves, but this, too, was great; sitting between his sister and his brother, saying nothing, eating. Before the world existed, before it was populated, and before there were wars and jobs and colleges and movies and clothes and opinions and foreign travel -- before all of these things there had been only one person, Zora, and only one place: a tent in the living room made from chairs and bed-sheets. After a few years, Levi arrived; space was made for him; it was as if he had always been. Looking at them both now, Jerome found himself in their finger joints and neat conch ears, in their long legs and wild curls. He heard himself in their partial lisps caused by puffy tongues vibrating against slightly noticeable buckteeth. He did not consider if or how or why he loved them. They were just love: they were the first evidence he ever had of love, and they would be the last confirmation of love when everything else fell away.”