I came across a Peter Pan quote the other day and it read: Little boys should never be sent to bed. They wake up a day older. Reading it just makes my heart sink a bit because I’m realizing Everett won’t always be this little.
He turned nine months old a few days ago. I can remember in the newborn phase how damn slow every second felt. I’d think, okay he’s two weeks….we’re almost at six weeks…..seven weeks, etc. Now the days and moments and minutes just whirl together and sometimes I feel like I can’t catch it all.
Being a mother can feel so fleeting.
When he wakes up from a nap, he sits up in his crib and waits for me to come get him. He never cries, just kinda coos and makes sounds so I know he’s awake. Every time I walk in the nursery I say, “Hi baby!” in a real high voice and he flaps his arms and smiles–happiness beams out of his eyes.
The other day when I went in to get him, I leaned over the crib railing and stroked his head and kissed his cheeks and smelled that smell of his. I felt my insides crumble, turn to mush and I started to cry as I said good morning to my sweet baby boy. I just loved him so.
I opened the blinds, letting the sun come into his room and felt grateful down to my toes that it would just be he and I, and the day ahead was ours.
He’s crawling now, getting better and more efficient at it each day. He makes me laugh constantly. I kiss him and squeeze his fat legs and nibble his yummy toes and love him up every chance I get. We eat breakfast and lunch together, and now we eat as a family come dinner time because he’s going to bed a little later. All of my attention, all of my focus is on him and only him during the day. Everett gets that luxury since he’s the first kid.
I remember one night years ago, I walked past your open bedroom door and said I was going over to Kati’s house. I was sixteen and in a rush to leave–her and I had somehow gotten beer, and had planned to drink it in her parent’s basement.
But before I could leave, you wanted me to lay with you for a little. I wanted to leave the house so bad, but knew I should spend time with you before I left, or else I’d feel even more guilty doing something I wasn’t supposed to.
When I crawled under the covers beside you, you looked scared–like you weren’t quite sure if you should speak the words that were on your mind.
Our eyes locked and you said, “What if that doctor is right? What if I only have a few months left?”
I stared back at you as we laid head to head on separate pillows and told my truth: “Mom, how could you only live until July? How could that ever happen? You’re strong and you’ve been doing so good so far.”
Looking back, I was in absolute complete denial, but not out of ignorance. I just truly didn’t think you only had a few more months left living on this planet–because you were my mother and how in the world could anything ever happen to my mother?
Water welled up in your eyes and you told me how I was your baby. “You were my first,” you whispered.
We both just cried and held each other. Just thinking about it now is making me cry because I can still see us laying there. I remember so much white–the comforter, your sheets and pillowcases were always all white. I can still see how bright the room was and still hear the TV playing in the background. I can still smell you–that mix of your Paul Mitchell shampoo and Suave coconut butter body lotion and a fresh laundered t-shirt. I remember how your hair felt against my face when we hugged and held each other, both unsure of what was to come of our family, but trying our best to believe we’d all be alright.
But I now finally understand what you meant when calling me your baby. You had that one on one time with me, for a few years before Allison was born; that’s what I have with Everett right now, and I’m in no rush to change it. This time is special, and I will never get it back. He will never be this little again.
For awhile I was “scared” or I guess a better word would just be unsure about when to get pregnant again. As a piece of conversation, people would ask me when baby number two was coming or if we had any plans for another one. So of course that started to get me thinking, okay Everett is seven months and it takes a few months of trying to conceive (if I’m lucky) and then nine months of pregnancy…..
I stopped trying to “figure it out” because I don’t feel ready at all. I’m currently content, and FOR THE FIRST TIME IN MY LIFE, not in a rush. It is so wonderful to be where I am–like I’ve been on a big hike and now I’ve finally arrived at the scenic spot. I’ve sat down with my feet dangling off the edge, kicking the mountainside under my heels while eating a picnic and soaking in the beauty all around me. Honestly, that’s how I feel.
Speaking of mountains. One thing I want to do with Everett before another baby comes along is a trip up to Maine, where Chris and I honeymooned. He and I have briefly talked about going, but kind of under the assumption that, yeah it would be nice, but we wouldn’t be able to afford it.
But a shift has happened, and I know we will be there. I am believing we’ll be there, already seeing Everett on the sand at Acadia National Park. I’ve dropped a pebble into the universal pond and am going to create the ripples–I’m going to create the actions that will guide me to where I want to be.
One thing I’ve always been able to believe in is the power of attraction. I believe in the power of setting an intention and visualizing it and doing everything in my power to get whatever it is that I think I deserve.
There is a limitless power out there, and when I look at the way the clouds move above me or notice the natural rhythms of nature, I know you are a part of that limitless power, which enables me to believe in it all even more.
Because everything is energy and energy follows our thoughts; so what I think of, I attract. If I think my day will be shitty (which I often do) then it will.
I believe in all this, but yet I can’t seem to put it into every day practice.
Sorry I’ve been going on tangents here, talking about Maine and ripples of attraction and Peter Pan. But I just thought about something else I want to tell you about.
The other day, “Beast of Burden” came on through my speaker while I was getting ready in front of the bathroom mirror. Everett was jumping beside me in his jolly jumper, jolly as can be. I started to sing and snap my fingers, swaying my hips to the music, all the while making him laugh.
As I sang the words, I thought about where I was, prior to Chris and Everett and this house. I thought about where I was before making solid roots and creating a place to land, safe and sound, every single day and night. And I thought about the boy who got me into the Rolling Stones in the first place–the boy who knew you…the boy who broke me free.
We were young, had no plans for the future or cares or responsibilities. It was childhood lovin’ at its finest, and man, was it easy to do. Of course at the time we didn’t think so, but looking back, it was. We simply loved each other, and loving is the easy part.
So I took that boy (and I say boy because the young version is the only one I know) and the love we once had into my heart. I held him there as I continued to sing, thanking him for being a part of the ripple in the pond that got me here, to the very moment singing:
There’s one thing baby that I don’t understand
You keep on tellin’ me I ain’t your kinda man
Ain’t I rough enough? ooooo Ain’t I tough enough?….
I looked at my sweet son watching his whacked mother singing her heart out, and when I heard Chris calling up the stairs to “turn that shit down”, (ha) I held both my boys–Chris and Everett–into my heart as well, knowing I am one lucky woman to have arrived where I am.
I know that probably sounds really silly to you, and if someone reading this thinks I’m weird then so be it–I AM weird. I just wish you could’ve seen me, with hot rollers in my hair, Chris’ City Sports t-shirt on and my red lipstick, having the time of my life.
Becoming a mother has been the best thing that has ever happened to me. And even if someday Chris and I won the lottery and could have three houses up in Maine and all the riches money could buy–I would still say the same thing.
And Mom, I owe all of that to you (and Dad, too). If you weren’t the mother you were, I would never know just how truly great having a family can be. What it means to be a mom–what it means to be the one to cook dinners and change the sheets and get Everett after naps and make sure Chris has his favorite snacks in the pantry–to be the lover of this household–all of those little things have become a part of who I am, as silly and boring as they may sound to someone else.
So right now, I’m bringing you into my heart too, giving you every ounce of love and thanks I possibly can.