I'm sitting on the couch downstairs, typing on the laptop that we are still borrowing from Jason's work. Gavin has been asleep upstairs for the past hour. I talked on the phone for a while, finished some sewing on the tree skirt I'm making for our Christmas tree, and watched some Felicity, which is my show of choice for renting from the library now that I'm nearly finished with Buffy ("nearly" because it's taking forever to get through season 7 because of having to wait for my name to come up to the top of the reserve list for each disc).
I can hear Gavin babbling away upstairs through the monitor. He's saying "mum momomom aaaahhhhhhhhh mmmmum mum mummyom bah baba aaahhh dadada yah-mum mum-mum ohyah," which is terribly cute and makes me want to scoop him up and kiss him. But he's happy up there so for the moment I'm enjoying his sounds. I had hoped he would sleep longer, but as usual, he only slept an hour or so. Actually, an hour is a good nap for him.
I feel as if I'm not adequately recording my experiences as a new mom here. That I'm not writing down enough about what we do and what I think and feel and what I experience. I write periodically about what Gavin's up to, but that really is it. I don't know when I lost the ability to write on a deeper level, but I have. Or maybe I haven't really lost it, but rather lost touch with it. Whatever the case, I have wanted for a long time to write on that level.
Years from now, if and when I look back and read what I've written here, I want to remember how it makes me feel when Gavin cries and cries, but his tears instantly stop when I pick him up. I want to remember the way it feel when he lays his head on my chest and relaxes into my arms. I want to remember the joy I feel when I walk into the room and his attention is suddenly all on me, as he leans from his daddy's arms toward me. I want to remember the warm glow in my heart when he looks at me and smiles and babbles "mamama" and even though I know he doesn't mean me when he says "mama," I know he will mean it someday and until then, I can pretend.
I want to remember the sweetness of his voice as he lays in his crib and babbles away, practicing his vowels and consonants and making raspberry noises. I never want to forget the dimple in his cheek that you can see when he grins at something he finds funny. I want to remember that he has an amazing sense of humor and finds the silliest things riotously hilaroious - like when I talk on the phone. I want to remember the sound of his giggles, and his belly laughs, both the sound of joy without borders. I never want to lose sight of how sensitive he is, and how loud sounds or too much laughter or too many people talking at once makes him cry, such a heartwrenching sound that makes me melt and want to cry along with him. I want to remember how it feels that when he is crying like that, I am the only thing in the world that he wants.
I want to remember the look of mischief on his face when he sees me coming to pull him off the stairs for the twelfth time that day and turns to race away as fast as he can. I want to remember how independent he strives to be - independent already at the age of eight months - and how he wants to do everything for himself. He even sometimes bats away our hands when we try to help him. I want to remember the way he watches things so intently - the dog, other people, little children - almost as if he's memorizing how they do the things they do so he can repeat it later. I never want to forget how he never stops moving, how he can't sit still for long, and how intent he is on every little thing he does.
I want to remember the way he giggles in anticipation when he knows it's time to nurse, his eyes bright with obvious delight. To savor the memory of his little hand, warm upon my breast as he nurses to sleep, the picture of peace and contentment. And of his bright blue eye peering up at me from under my shirt, which rests against his face. I want to remember the calm I feel as I sit in the rocking chair with him laying on me, fast asleep, snoring softly, his body heavy and warm and completely limp against me. And I'll never forget how amazed I am when I look at him and know that he is what he is all because of me - all twenty-three pounds of him, all because of me.
He's down here with me now. I went and got him from his crib and brought him down here with me when his babbling turned to whimpering. I'm sitting here watching him roam around and playing with the remote, the musical table, the telephone, the sticks from the sliding glass door, the Elmo mirror, the baby monitor. And now I must go pull him down off the stairs again, for the thirteenth time today.
Posted by allison at December 8, 2004 04:33 PM