It’s Colic Season here in Portland, which leaves me largely housebound and pretty much full-up with time to ponder the strange configurations of my newborn momhood.
It’s been two months of emotional air raids, the detente being thus: us two, curled up on the couch (the bad one, in the office, from which there is no easy getting up), two-month-old Baby G’s quivering little rosebud mouth pursed loosely around my nipple. She clings to it like an existential life preserver as she grumbles and farts and half-slumbers away the hours.
Readjusting our intertwined bodies is a dangerous proposition, so I’m typing with one hand. Yes, it takes forever to get anything said this way, and the endeavor will probably hasten in my nascent, newborn-induced case of carpal-tunnel syndrome, but parenting is full of perils, I suppose, so many of them entirely imagineered, yes, but others as visceral as a hammer dropped on your baby toe. Good and hard, by somebody with the aim and the chagrin to make sure it really hurts.
But, oh, that sounds rather dramatic! Truth is, my days are peppered with preciousness, too. I’m tap-dancing hourly between ecstatic elation and weary dread. And I want to honor both emotions, and give voice to others navigating that same fine line.
If you’re out there, too, maybe send me some kind of signal? The Christians drew little fish shapes in the dirt to signal their allegiance in dangerous times. The Atheists cart around Alain de Boton paperbacks. Maybe we could communicate in Morse code using baby farts?