About Face! Forward, March!

I feel like I need to release myself from the obligation that I gush over Silas' babyness here. He is, obviously, a stellar specimen, but since his presence in my life has some things in common with, say, inescapably strong perfume in an elevator, this is one of the few places I can come to escape it. (If You Like Dior, You'll LOVE Newborn Infant!)


It's Jabba the Baby! But only I can call him that.

I'll probably turn right around and talk about him now, but as long as I'm released from the expectation of skipping through verdant fields with his diapers clutched to my heart, I'll feel much better.

Glad we got that settled.

What I really want to ramble about is a little something that's kind of like being reduced to my candy shell. M&Ms, especially pretzel ones, are a big motivator for the toddler of the house. As I attempt to navigate the shitstorm of responsibility my life has suddenly become (Can I say shitstorm? I feel suddenly conflicted. The presence of the absence of any Gaia-like motherlove in this entry is somehow disturbing to me), I can't help but feel like a candy without its insides.

Let me attempt to explain. There is so much strategizing, and moving, and bending over, and lifting/carrying/depositing, and just general situational managing going on in my life right now that it's almost comical. I'm not complaining, because (unlike last time) I know the demands of infancy will lessen, but trying to maintain some semblance of the life Eva and I had made for ourselves while coping with a newborn is like trying to dodge nuclear fallout-- exhausting, and highly unlikely.

On the one hand, there's a bizarrely delicious sense of challenge in keeping Eva happy during a playdate while nursing, diapering, and soothing the baby, but on the other hand it's like playing an neverending game of Risk. Against Douglas MacArthur.

She's been taking an art class at the local museum every Wednesday at 10:00am, for example. Suddenly, 10:00am on Wednesday is like the spoke around which my entire week revolves. Little old museum members wearing Dockers chat politely as their mute and compliant grandkids push trucks on the floor. I sweat profusely as I attempt to nurse an flailing baby and pacify a toddler who's having a meltdown because her nametag doesn't have flowers on it, and that's before the class even starts. The rest is a blur of a discussion of shapes and lines, some painting with watercolors, and something about artist Jasper Johns that's entirely over my head.


Isn't she cute with her popsicle mouth? But kind of in a scary, clown-like way? Also, check out the gnome-- it's like he's offended by the whole scene.

I guess what I'm trying to say is this-- I had come into a kind of rhythm as a mother of one. Things had a certain predictability about them, including when I might grocery shop, eat, and sleep to satiation. While Silas' birth has blown my heart wide open, it's also blown my sense of order apart. Even my triceps don't know what hit them. (@#$%!, but that infant carseat is heavy. HEAVY!)

And now I have to go nurse him, so there are no tidy conclusions to be found here-- which is kind of a lesson in itself, isn't it?