Sunday, March 6, 2011

How Our Mornings Begin

My boy calls me in the baby monitor that we never used when he was a baby because we were right across the hall. Now we're up in the attic and our walls are made of plaster and sound doesn't travel well so we use the monitor and he calls: Mommy! Come a get me! I calling you in the monitor, Mommy! Come a get me!

My girl might be nursing or she might be sleeping in the crook of my arm or in the bassinet beside my bed. She might be staring wide eyed up at the ceiling waving her arms and legs in the air, cooing and gooing and grinning with delight.

I go and get my son. She accompanies me if she's up or she stays if she's sleeping and acts as an excuse for me to sneak back upstairs with my boy close at my heels and steal a few more minutes in bed. This usually ends after he plays a little too roughly with the curtains on the slightly broken rod that I haven't replaced yet. Not only is the room flooded with the too bright morning light, but the cotton blue curtains we bought for our first apartment after we got married collapse along with the barely bent metal rod that came with the house, landing with an audible bop on our heads. This is our cue to go downstairs and start the day.

I put water on for tea, take my asthma medication, brush my boy's teeth and my own. I change my girly's diaper, wash her face -which she loves!- and smooth lotion on to soothe her dry skin. I fill a sippy cup with fresh water or juice if requested, put toast in the toaster oven or cereal in a bowl, pour my first cup of tea and stir in milk and honey, administer vitamins all around.

From here our day is both busy and mellow, ebbing and flowing from moment to moment. It's like a dance I have to perform. I know the basic steps but never the tune that will play from day to day. So I have to improvise. Sure, I trip sometimes, end up in a heap on the floor, both babies crying at the same time, one wailing and bobbing at the breast, the other climbing loudly onto my lap, competing for space and seemingly for volume with their sobs. But even this is part of the performance. Can I keep my cool? Can I breathe into my belly, straighten my spine, scoop my daughter to the side to make room for my son, spread my arms wide enough to embrace them both, set my voice to the most soothing of tones, and move us all from chaos to a carefully choreographed quiet?

When I do find the rhythm? When I manage to dance through the day with something resembling grace? To keep balanced both babies, my husband and my house and a small space for myself, just enough to catch my breath and stretch, to catch the beat and ready my feet for the next number?

It's exhilarating.

1 comment:

  1. You are momma ninja! And this is beautiful.