Pacing. My feet bare, soft thuds on the hard concrete sidewalk. I'm wearing shorts and a t-shirt. He's swaddled in soft blue and white. He doesn't cry a lot, not if you keep him moving. So, I don't stop moving.
It's my turn. He's fed and changed, but he won't sleep. Just sleep.
I pace slowly down the row of apartment buildings. White, brown, or blue boxes full of other babies and other parents and people without babies and people will never have babies and others who will one day. But, out here, it's just me and Andrew. I look down. Sharp little dark eyes squint up at me, and I shrug my shoulder to keep his face in the shade. The September sun is setting just up the street: just behind the empty Fresh and Easy. I turn back, stepping to my left and into the shade of the buildings. Can't let him burn.
I sing him hymns softly. They are prayers for me. Amazing grace, how sweet the sound. I'm the wretch with the sore back and the stiff neck. I feel exposed out on the sidewalk, singing, strained, holding a brand new baby. Don't cry little guy. Go to sleep.
Monday, November 23, 2015
Friday, November 20, 2015
Andrew at Three Months
I smile. Andrew smiles back. His warm weight presses on my legs, his feet pushing on my chest. Our eyes are locked and the smile spreads like fire from his eyes to his brows to his cheeks. It cracks his cherubic face into pure joy. As if his tiny body only has room for one feeling at a time.
His eyes are bright and blue but heavy with life and intention; brilliant with life and feeling, inexpressible meanings and inexplicable comprehensions. They are his. Sometimes, he will use them to follow us around the room, or fix on some light, and often they will implacably avoid our faces. But now he is drinking from my eyes some drink I cannot fathom. What does he see?
His lower lip glistens in the warm glow of our living room. The unnatural half-yellow of halogen warming the brown cushions beneath the knees, his Dad's knees, my knees, that support his head. He has been sucking on his lower lip, again, and we are concerned it will chap. He will not take a pacifier.
I wipe his lip with the cloth we always leave on the arm of the couch. It has a bright red ribbon that reads "Biola." A gift from work. It smells a little sour with old milk, but then so does he if your nose gets near his mouth when he's screaming. Like earlier tonight, when he wouldn't sooth. We were in the dark bedroom where he was resisting his much needed nap. White noise was rushing through the air. It was a November evening nap -- past sunset but too early for bed.
But now he doesn't need sleep, he needs me. He needs other people like we need other people, and his mouth is open wide and his gums, white and pink, are showing. You can feel teeth behind them, if you rub your finger along them. Little ridges: future pains. His tongue is gathered up behind his gums like water behind a dam. It is soft, poised, and capped with milk.
His damp little hands meet in front of his chest, tiny fingers together. I give him my finger, and they possess it. Tiny nails scrape my skin gently while he clumsily tries to take it with both hands. His fingers work independently of each other, fluttery. I pull away and give him his burp cloth. He tries to put it into his mouth. He can't figure it out, but he loves to try. I love to watch him try.
He kicks, his feet alternating their pressure on my sternum. He pauses. The burp cloth is limp on his upper chest, and his fingers slowly flex open. He is waiting, eyes now sedate, the fire calmed and retreated within. Until I smile again.
His eyes are bright and blue but heavy with life and intention; brilliant with life and feeling, inexpressible meanings and inexplicable comprehensions. They are his. Sometimes, he will use them to follow us around the room, or fix on some light, and often they will implacably avoid our faces. But now he is drinking from my eyes some drink I cannot fathom. What does he see?
His lower lip glistens in the warm glow of our living room. The unnatural half-yellow of halogen warming the brown cushions beneath the knees, his Dad's knees, my knees, that support his head. He has been sucking on his lower lip, again, and we are concerned it will chap. He will not take a pacifier.
I wipe his lip with the cloth we always leave on the arm of the couch. It has a bright red ribbon that reads "Biola." A gift from work. It smells a little sour with old milk, but then so does he if your nose gets near his mouth when he's screaming. Like earlier tonight, when he wouldn't sooth. We were in the dark bedroom where he was resisting his much needed nap. White noise was rushing through the air. It was a November evening nap -- past sunset but too early for bed.
But now he doesn't need sleep, he needs me. He needs other people like we need other people, and his mouth is open wide and his gums, white and pink, are showing. You can feel teeth behind them, if you rub your finger along them. Little ridges: future pains. His tongue is gathered up behind his gums like water behind a dam. It is soft, poised, and capped with milk.
His damp little hands meet in front of his chest, tiny fingers together. I give him my finger, and they possess it. Tiny nails scrape my skin gently while he clumsily tries to take it with both hands. His fingers work independently of each other, fluttery. I pull away and give him his burp cloth. He tries to put it into his mouth. He can't figure it out, but he loves to try. I love to watch him try.
He kicks, his feet alternating their pressure on my sternum. He pauses. The burp cloth is limp on his upper chest, and his fingers slowly flex open. He is waiting, eyes now sedate, the fire calmed and retreated within. Until I smile again.
Rain Day
At 4:00 the next morning, a brisk gust of wind blew our pot off of our kitchen rock. The sound either woke or caught the attention of all three of us. Fearing a bear was rummaging through camp, I got out of bed to investigate. As I was out of the tent, I looked up and saw that the stars were obscured by a layer of cloud.
The weather forecast for this day had been for a chance of afternoon thundershowers, so we had been watching the weather the day before. A few bands of storm-like clouds had scudded over the ridges and the wind had been constant and stiff on North Glacier Pass, but the wind was calmer by evening and the sky was perfectly clear when we went to bed.
Now, things had changed. Libby asked if everything was OK, and I assured her that while there was no bear, it had clouded up. She immediately got up to use the restroom, just in case, and Dad pulled his rain fly over his sleeping bag. As I stood there in the blustery wind, a few scattered drops started to fall. I quickly sought the shelter of our tent and listened as the wind blew drops faster and faster against the tent.
Of course, it never rains in the morning during the summer in the Sierras, so I settled down to get some more sleep and to wait for a dry sunrise. That never came. The rain just continued. Around 5:30, Dad dropped his sleeping bag off in our vestibule and tried to set up his rain fly. By 8:00, a few puddles had formed in the corners of our tent and Dad joined us: shivering from exposure. I got up and grabbed the bear cans so we could have something to eat for breakfast. Dad distributed some of his granola bars, and we decided not to start up the stove in the rain. Then we settled in to wait it out. As we waited, the rain - in a sense- stopped, but we were socked in by the storm's clouds. They were blown right through our camp, soaking everything they came in contact with by their heavy mist.
They didn't lift until 12:30, and then they only lifted a few dozen feet above our camp. Up the lake, there was a low gray ceiling for the remainder of the day, sometimes lifting, and sometimes lowering, but never again settling into our midst.
Dad's thermometer never read higher than 43 that day. It just stayed cold and dark until the sun set. While there were a few weak patches of sun here and there, we never got to enjoy any real warmth until the next day.
We made the best of it, reading, photographing, and exploring the area that afternoon. The outlet stream of Twin Island Lake is really the nascent North Fork San Joaquin River. It is pretty enormous, and it was fun to see it roaring down cataracts below the lake.
So, it ended up being an unplanned lay-over day. We got some nice rest and were able to prepare for the next day's adventure.
The weather forecast for this day had been for a chance of afternoon thundershowers, so we had been watching the weather the day before. A few bands of storm-like clouds had scudded over the ridges and the wind had been constant and stiff on North Glacier Pass, but the wind was calmer by evening and the sky was perfectly clear when we went to bed.
Now, things had changed. Libby asked if everything was OK, and I assured her that while there was no bear, it had clouded up. She immediately got up to use the restroom, just in case, and Dad pulled his rain fly over his sleeping bag. As I stood there in the blustery wind, a few scattered drops started to fall. I quickly sought the shelter of our tent and listened as the wind blew drops faster and faster against the tent.
Of course, it never rains in the morning during the summer in the Sierras, so I settled down to get some more sleep and to wait for a dry sunrise. That never came. The rain just continued. Around 5:30, Dad dropped his sleeping bag off in our vestibule and tried to set up his rain fly. By 8:00, a few puddles had formed in the corners of our tent and Dad joined us: shivering from exposure. I got up and grabbed the bear cans so we could have something to eat for breakfast. Dad distributed some of his granola bars, and we decided not to start up the stove in the rain. Then we settled in to wait it out. As we waited, the rain - in a sense- stopped, but we were socked in by the storm's clouds. They were blown right through our camp, soaking everything they came in contact with by their heavy mist.
They didn't lift until 12:30, and then they only lifted a few dozen feet above our camp. Up the lake, there was a low gray ceiling for the remainder of the day, sometimes lifting, and sometimes lowering, but never again settling into our midst.
Across the valley, we watched the clouds dance around the base of the minarets, coyly lifting their curtain occasionally to show a light dusting of new snow on their craggy buttresses.
Dad's thermometer never read higher than 43 that day. It just stayed cold and dark until the sun set. While there were a few weak patches of sun here and there, we never got to enjoy any real warmth until the next day.
We made the best of it, reading, photographing, and exploring the area that afternoon. The outlet stream of Twin Island Lake is really the nascent North Fork San Joaquin River. It is pretty enormous, and it was fun to see it roaring down cataracts below the lake.
So, it ended up being an unplanned lay-over day. We got some nice rest and were able to prepare for the next day's adventure.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)