A lot of life has happened since I wrote last. My immobile baby is a powerhouse crawler who turns one next month. My inquisitive son is still questioning the world and has added doing construction on pieces of leftover drywall to his long list of pastimes. My husband passed the test he studied so hard to pass. I officially took on the full time position at the museum that I wanted so badly to fill.
I cycled through a months-long bout of not being able to read outside of work, and I started to learn hand embroidery to fill those nights when I cannot read because my hands cannot be still. I have tried to learn how to be still. It’s a work in progress. I started doing basic yoga. It’s a work in progress too.
These past months have been full of life within my family, and I am mentally balancing that everyday joy with other emotions. These other emotions include fear over what our larger national conversations are becoming. I struggle to balance saying what I believe with not being baited into pointless arguments that change no one’s mind. I am trying to conquer my personal fear of not offending anyone. I called my senator for the first time ever. I’ve written postcards; I’ve sent emails. I smile at my neighbors. I remember that we are more than our politics. I remember that words matter and that there is such a thing as objective truth.
And then I mentally walk it back and play with “pludo” (Play-Doh) and crawl on the floor and get covered in open-mouth toddler kisses and endure toddler “tickles” which are really jabs in the neck. And I find balance. And I practice being still.
I love the way Noah talks. He replaces f’s in the middle of words with p’s, which makes Mickey Mouse’s friend Goopy and Emily Elizabeth’s big red dog Clippord. He calls himself a goopball when he does something silly.
He calls a kiss ‘kips’ and refers to himself as ‘my,’ as in “my want that.” He goes through this list a lot, “My love daddy. My love mommy. Mommy love daddy. My love Louise.”
Noah showed me a picture of us at the beach. He said, “This is my flamly. I love my flamly. This is daddy, mommy, me and Louise. My flamly.”
Louise learned that you can splash in the bathtub. This is hysterical. Her laughter is infectious.
Noah goes down the slide on his belly. Six months ago he was afraid to go down it any way.
Louise likes to play “ghost” with Noah. It’s like peekaboo, but Noah is a ghost. There might be more to it, but I haven’t figured it out yet.
Noah is so happy that we have been going on family walks again.
Louise discovered that the outside swing is fun to be in.
Noah does yoga with us. Correction–Noah does five minutes of yoga and then climbs on us the rest of the time. There is a lot of laughing.
Louise sits and reaches for toys. If she would stay on her belly for any length of time, I think she’d be scooting.
A look at my recent conversations:
Put your toys in the box please.
Because I keep tripping on them.
Because I can’t see them when I’m holding Louise.
Because I said so.
We always say hi to our neighbors.
Because it lets them know that we care
Because those are the rules of human social interaction.
Because I said so.
Don’t step on your sister.
BECAUSE I SAID SO!
It doesn’t feel like ten years. But how else could we have fit in a first dance under the stars, a first kiss in a dorm room, a first trip to Nashville to meet your parents, a first hike in Gatlinburg where we were going to walk until the end before we realized we were on the Appalacian Trail, a first Broadway play that left us singing Abba years later, a first Mardi Gras in NOLA where you caught me a little green frog, a first graduation together, a first intimidating vegetable (artichokes) cooked, a first time making pickles, a first time saying vows in front of a crowd, a first time leaving the country together, a first dog, a first garden, a first house, a first kid to whom I gave that little green frog? Or how could we have had a second trip to Nashville, a second hike through the Arkansas wilderness where we at least realized we were on a super long trail, a second garden, a second kid? How else can you account for the wonderful parameters that mark our life together?
A decade just doesn’t seem long enough.