I could already hear the rain beating against the cold glass. Little squeals of delight pierced through the quiet of the early morning, the best alarm clock to date.
Kiss. kiss. kiss. Her chubby baby cheeks were covered in kisses from Mommy. Her arms and legs kicked and flailed. Her mouth opened wide trying to repay.
She found her feet and grabbed them with her smooth, tiny hands.
I set her down and threw in a load of wash, put fresh sheets on the bed, and fed the ever-under-foot cats. I remember being a "cat mom" and thinking what if I loved my cats more than my child. Now I laughed to recollect that I had ever thought that. Now, it would probably take me two days to notice they were gone if my husband threw them outside, something he was always threatening to do. I could never love any one of my furry friends the way I loved my daughter. The last several months I entirely focused on keeping her alive and growing.
But after several stressful rainy days at home desperately trying to get her to eat, I was ready for a day out. Perhaps I could do my hair, put on some makeup, and head to the coffee shop in the square. A little family coffee shop, I knew the owners and some of the baristas and had a wonderful time conversing and looking out at the bustling street on rainy days. How lovely it would be if only Vivian would let me. By the time we were ready to leave, it had been an hour already since her last feeding. Perhaps she could take a nap. Once she was asleep, I set her in the car seat in our library only to find that there was a bird stuck in the fireplace. I trapped the bird by closing off all access points to the rest of the house and opened wide the grate and backdoor. Out she flew. At that point I had to extract from the library an excited cat who wasn't allowed in that room to begin with.
Finally, we were strapped in and left.
But once I tried to start the car, I realized my husband had taken my car key. Thankfully, I knew where a spare was. I ran in the house and grabbed that one.
At last, we were off rushing through the rain for a time at the coffee shop which was getting shorter and shorter until her next feeding...only to get there and realize I had left my wallet at home. Around we turned. Me now feeling shaky from lack of food and water.
I rushed into the house and found my wallet in a purse I use when I'm out and about without baby girl.
FINALLY, we arrived. The meter was paid, and baby girl was asleep. I had just enough time to write this post and do some dance studio work before she started to fuss.
And now she's grumpy and ready to go, so off we go back home before we create a scene.
This is life with a three-month-old.
Being a thriving mom is a paradox to our Western Cultural view of success. We are inundated with the subliminal message that we are only worth what we expend. That somehow, rushing to the top, work hard is our measure of worth.
Being a mother means sitting day after day with an infant who doesn't want to eat sometimes. Or being afraid to move a muscle because, at last, she's fallen asleep on your chest. Days are not measured in hours, in tasks accomplished, in financial profit. Days are measured in hugs and kisses. In milestones, in prayers. In deep beaths. In relishing the clicking of the clock and the sound of little breaths.
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