Turning the Corner

The nights are becoming more like slow motion fire drills. I am awakened by noises, by alarms, by the need to pace the cold dark hallway and find the bathroom. My body is preparing itself for latenight cryings and feedings and it occurs to me that This Whole New Chapter is going to be much like living with an addict trying to get clean. There will be moans and wailings from the next bedroom and there will be little that I can do to soothe the new housemate's fury. But maybe sometimes I will have the magic touch, or the magic potion to stop the cries and I think that will make all of the lost sleep worth it. Because I will be needed and sometimes that need will be one only I can fill.

Lovey Loverpants and I went to brunch yesterday at our favorite bruncheria. The menu is so good; the savory stuff is super savory and all of the sweet stuff will give you the sugar shakes. I was a little miffy that they sat Preggo McBeggo at a booth (a booth! I can barely get out of my own car, and at least those seats roll back!) close to the front door where the mock vestibule created from a heavy curtain did little to diminish the wintry blows. But then I thought that I should just enjoy this time because in less than two months I will have to hassle the kind hostess for a highchair and pack my Desperately Apologetic face into the diaperbag to pull out when my kid starts to freak after it puts its pico de gallo-laden finger in its eye and WUH-HOOO, ALL POOP BREAKS LOOSE.

P.S. I really am so excited to be someone's mother.

P.P.S. Hope you've all been sleeping like good little hibernating bears and brunching, as you ought.

On being someone's father

My mother describes my husband as one who does not show much emotion, and she is right. But she noticed how, during her recent visit, whenever our Great Expectation was mentioned, my husband would unconsciously begin to wag his proverbial tail. Because I live with him, I don't necessarily recognize my husband as an emotionally retentive, particularly because my hor-motional mood swings, unpredictable as they are, provoke lots of emotions from him which sometimes cause him to speak in a high voice, KENNY WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO ABOUT IT???, or place both hands on my shoulders and look at me grimly, BABY? WILL YOU STOP?

But when it comes to events or milestones or moments where I expect a certain emotion to register for most people, such an emotion is often lost upon my husband. He remains cool in crisis, soft mannered even when cut off by a Masshole driver.

When we got home from the shower on Sunday, I began squirreling away all of the new layette, calling my mother to gush about all of the adorable uni-sex layette that the wee one will get to wear in just a couple of months. Hubs lounged on the couch, folded some laundry, caught the tail end of a James Bond marathon.

As I was washing my face that night, he stood in the doorway to the bathroom holding our new infant car seat. I figured that he would need to play with one new toy when we got home. But then I noticed that he had also opened the little sack of warmth that we will bundle our child in when he/she rides in the car or stroller during the colder months.

He started to pat the sack down into the carseat.

"See, this is where there will be a little baby," he said, and as I saw his eyes registering the sight of a small Q-tip head with Asian-Irish eyes, I also saw a smile creeping out the corner of his mouth.

Papa got a brand new [diaper] bag.

Flashes, Glimmers

Do you ever catch glimmers of the person you were when you were ten? Do you ever hear your fifth grade self squeal as though you just got invited to a slumberjam at the home of a popular girl? Do you ever taste vegetables like a six year-old with unsophisticated taste buds, or feel a little teenage cranky about having to politely answer pro forma questions from well-meaning adults? It's not often that I see the person that I was. I don't severely repress the inner child, but I was kind of a pain in the icicle for at least the first seventeen years of my life, and we don't really like to resurrect her that often.

More and more, though, I catch a flash of the person that I will be in the future, perhaps ten years from now, perhaps not even so very far from this moment.

A glimmer of this person has been captured here:

Um, apparently, I am geeked.

And really, the beginning texts to my child's library are certainly legitimate sources of excitement. Like, this is my very first My Very First Book of Shapes! By the master of illustrative children's lit himself! But is it necessary to project my elation with such arch enthusiasm? Do I really need to smash up all three of my chins against my neck and expose my dental fillings for all to see?

When I look at this picture, there are so many fearsome thoughts that go through my head. I can almost hear myself in six years when, after a morning spent picking out the perfect Classroom Parent outfit, I visit my child's classroom and sit in a chair above a small group of wide-eyed first-graders, their legs wrapped like pretzels, and present to them with every fabricated ounce of Barney Joy in my power, the wonder that is the original work of Eric Carle.

"Boys and Girls, do you know that Mrs. Lee used to read this author when she was a little girl? WOWWWWWW! That was a REALLY LOOOOONG TIME AGO, WASN'T IT?"