On Living

I'm still reeling from the news of a mom who just lost a baby boy one week younger than my own. I briefly met Shana on a bus at BlogHer 07--it's hard to forget a name like "gorillabuns"--and I can't imagine what she's going through right now. In fact, I'm trying not to imagine what she's going through right now because it's too terrible.

She should not be burying her baby. She should be cheering and clapping as he tastes his first rice cereal and decides he likes it and can he please have some more please and make it snappy OMG YUM.

I've said here before that motherhood hasn't changed me much in the ways I expected to be changed. My hormones didn't go haywire, I didn't question my identity as a woman and a spouse, and I haven't ever felt overwhelmed with the responsibility of physically caring for another human. What I have felt, though, is overwhelmed with the emotional responsibility of loving someone so much. Having a child has made me feel completely vulnerable--entirely emotionally exposed--to all of the horrors and tragedies of life, and it's something that will never ever go away.

Falling in love with Simon did it too--not a day goes by that I don't fear for his safety and crumble at the mere thought of being without him--and so I suppose that this is just what loving does to us: It makes us afraid to our core of losing what we love. Hopefully it also inspires us to cherish every moment, sieze the day, smell the flowers, etc. etc., but even in the unfortunate case that it doesn't, the fear still lingers. The Buddhists were on to something when they said that desire leads to suffering, and although I'm pretty sure they distinguished between "desire" and "love," to me they're not that different. I don't just love Simon and Wombat in a peaceful, no-strings-attached, zen kind of way; I desire them. I desire to be with them, I desire to have them in my world, here, I desire to touch them and smell them and dance and sing with them in the kitchen while the pasta's boiling for dinner.

We moved Wombat from our bed to his crib at two months old (not because we didn't want him there but because there's only so much room and it was easier to transplant the easygoing infant than the high-maintenance felines). Usually he goes to bed between 9 and 10 and is good there until 5 or 6, when he gets to squawking and we bring him to the boob, Mohammed to the mountain. Last night, though, he was only down for an hour or so before he woke up screaming or, rather, didn't wake up screaming but was screaming in his sleep, something he's always done (which doesn't make it any less disturbing).

So it was late and we were tired and Wombat was wailing and Simon was trying to wake him up and I was thinking of Thalon and how easy it is to fix a crying baby as opposed to a dead one. I held my son and fed him and smoothed his hair and studied the tearstains on his temples and then carefully unwrapped him from his swaddle because two nights in a row Simon has discovered him in the morning with his blanket scrunched up around his neck and head. He's getting so big and so strong and so determined to explore his world and show us what he's made of. That's exactly what every four-month-old baby should be doing.

And so yesterday marked the end of the swaddle (I know a warning when I see one, universe), and because I was afraid he would get cold, or because he was having bad dreams, or because I couldn't stop thinking of Thalon and needed my boy by my side, Wombat slept in the bed the whole night. My back regretted it in the morning, but my heart didn't.

During these first three days of "solid food" (note: there's nothing "solid" about it), I've tried to be positive, to look at the milestone as 100 percent accomplishment rather than 50 percent accomplishment and 50 percent MY BABY IS GROWING UP, STOP THE CLOCK, WAAAAAH. This reminds me of how I act at every birthday--not sad that I'm "old" but sad that I'm no longer "young"--and it also reminds me of what Simon tells me at every birthday: "I'm glad you're turning X years old"--(where X might as well be "thirty," since that's what I'll be two weeks from now)--"because the fact that you're getting older means you haven't died." It's a grim comment to make, especially on the occasion of one's birthday, but it's true and it's what I need. Growing older is always better than the alternative (excepting Benjamin Button et al.).

Wombat is four months old today. He's eating (and loving) rice cereal, his eyes are unequivocally dark chocolate brown, and when we stand him up on his changing pad he does a spazzy little knock-kneed number reminiscent of the Potty Dance. He's still working on sitting up, rolling over, and taking the bottle when Mama's away, but something tells me it's only a matter of time before he's mastered it all and moved on to something more challenging, like riding a bike without training wheels. I can only hope he'll ride toward me as much as he rides away.

(A sidebar for fans of Runaway Bunny. A bored Wombat is a wriggly Wombat, and while I was trying to hold him yesterday, he kept squirming and arching and flipping about like a fifteen-pound flounder in my arms. "Where are you going, little guy? Where are you trying to get to?" From across the garden Simon called, in Wombat's voice, "Vegas! I'm going to Vegas!" So I said, "Then I will become a showgirl and dance for you." Inappropriate, yes, but also funny, not to mention more practical than turning into the wind.)

I can't imagine what Shana and her family are going through right now, but I'm going forward from here imagining what she would do now if her son were safe at home, in his bed, dreaming peacefully of rice cereal and rattles and the thrill of rolling over. I think she would watch him sleep, delight in his waking, and thank god for every milestone that comes and goes. The best we can do to honor the dead is to live well and love well, so that's our promise.

wrote Leah at 6:37 AM | Comments (9)