Sunday, May 22, 2011
the crime of not having written, miles. the crime.
mostly because you're a different baby so often, that i'm afraid there's one i'll forget. Teething Biscuit Zombie Baby. Beer Bottle Wanting Baby. Bruise Head Baby. Baby Who Can Clap on Demand And Blow Raspberries.
somehow, you have become a child. somewhere among nine months, it's like you became fully vested. i don't have time to make this sound pretty, but when you were brand new, i used to wonder what would happen if you were suddenly not present. not a tragedy, just . . . not. and how it would be like waking from a dream, and certainly a loss, but also . . . when would we go back to what we were? eventually. we would. we would gently recede into our own shape.
now, not. now we would not. now there is no shape for us that doesn't include you. you're fun to talk to. you really want to honk my nose, a lot of the time. your ear curls are getting out of hand. you're walking like a pro--every week it's like you gain a belt, if there were a belt system for ambulation.
we have been sick for two weeks, you germ ridden whatever. you puked all over me at five a.m. on mother's day (true. my first mother's day). then you got an ear infection. i haven't been so sick in i don't know when. i barfed, a week later i had a sore throat an a fever of 102, a week after that i have post nasal drip that could choke a horse.
but god, i love you. you are my best thing. and also, i quite like you.