Saturday Morning

Daughter is cuddled next to me in our bed when Son comes in the room, first thing in the morning. The curtains are still drawn, the light muted. Son knows now to whisper whatever he says to us when he comes in, just in case Daughter still needs to sleep. Bless his heart.

Daughter is waking up anyway, so I invite him in, using my normal voice. He climbs onto the bed and stretches out beside Daughter. When I was still pregnant with Daughter, I was worried about bringing a sibling into Son’s life. He seemed so afraid of what would happen and dead-set against the idea of having a sibling. Now, he loves her. He doesn’t always love the attention she grabs away from him, but he loves her.

Daughter smiles at him when she hears his voice and coos to him. She reaches for him, grabbing his face, and he doesn’t even mind. He just giggles and tries to get her to do it again.

Husband comes in and curls up at the bottom of the bed. He jokes with Son and smiles at Daughter. We chat lazily. A perfect Saturday morning.

Quiet Time

Quiet time. Twenty minutes where an increasingly stormy Son stays in his room and I rest; sometimes, if Daughter doesn’t need much.

Today, she needs to nurse, but that’s easy enough. I lie on the bed and pull her close to me. Side-lying nursing, the best kind there is. I prop my head on a pillow and let myself sink into the blue and gold of the bedspread. Daughter’s breath is quick, one hand wrapped around my index finger. Sunlight shines in the window, through the trees.

What’s your favourite moment of the day? What are you grateful for today?

Daughter

A cloudy day. The house is quiet. Son is at preschool, Husband is busy, and the house is mostly clean. Daughter is awake and I have just put her on our bed. For once, I have nothing to do but hang out with her.

I lie down beside her and say, “Hi cutie.” She looks at me and her face bursts into a sunshiney smile that lights up the whole room. I’m so in love. I talk and sing to her. She talks to me too and twenty minutes fly by. When it’s time to change her diaper, nurse her, get lunch ready for us all, I feel rested, even though I haven’t slept.

What are you grateful for today?

Kim Jong Baby

We are sitting at the table eating lunch. Husband, Son and I are at the table and Daughter is in her bouncy chair.

Daughter’s hair is fine and fluffy, and she has lost some of her hair at the front,  as babies do, so that she is almost bald near her forehead and has longer tuft of hair sticking up on the crown of her head. There is something about the way the light is hitting her hair that makes it stand out. It looks to me like a little cloud or dandelion fuzz floating over her head. She’s looking around in a bright-eyed, cross-eyed, baby way.

I point out the fuzzy hair to Husband, who says, “She looks like Kim Jong-Un.” And – she kind of does, with her hairline, sticking-up hair, chubby cheeks and double chin. Husband laughs hard, and so do I.

Dance

Daughter is tired and crying. Tiny hands clenched, face beet-red, howling at the injustices of a world that doesn’t know what she wants.

I bring her to my shoulder and walk with her across a narrow corridor of our bedroom. Walk, walk, walk, pivot, walk, walk, walk, pivot. I feel like I’m back in a jazz dance class in the nineties. My shadow grows larger and smaller on the wall as I go. She stops crying and settles into my arms.

I feel the fuzz of her hair against my cheek and the warmth of her head. And I remember that this kind of moment is exactly what I imagined when I knew I wanted another baby. This is a moment I imagined over and over, walking the floor, shushing my baby. Now, here we are.