This weekend, I:
haven't touched the papers I've been trying to grade since Thursday
haven't finished a letter I started to write in Suzannah's journal
haven't finished rereading Jane Eyre
but I have
washed and folded tiny little newborn clothes and put them all away in the baby's room
cooked up a huge pot of beef minestrone soup, which is simmering in my kitchen
collaborated with my three-year-old on various drawings on her easel
sung a lot of songs (it's been a musical day)
read a lot of books (Suzannah's, not mine -- but that's okay)
swiffered the wood floors in the dining room and living room, because wow, pug hair
added to our cloth diaper stash, which makes me feel so happy and excited
so I think it's been a pretty good weekend. Suzannah also had her first rehearsal for the Sunday School Christmas Program today, and I'm just so full of something that my heart is ready to burst. My little girl in her first Christmas Program. (My little girl in Sunday School!) We're practicing "Away in a Manger." Suzannah loves Christmas songs as much as her mama does (we sing "Jingle Bells" all year long over here).
I feel like I'm in this perpetual state of amazement at all this -- at Suzannah, this pregnancy, this family, this life. It's triggered by the simplest moments most of the time; for instance, when we were drawing together this afternoon, I asked Suzannah if I could draw on a particular part of the paper (we have a huge roll of butcher paper draped over an easel and we just work on "masterpieces" a bit at a time) -- she can be quite particular sometimes, so it's a good idea to check, lest she demand that I take it off -- and she tilted her head, studied the paper, and said, "Okay. That's fine," with an authoritative nod. And it was just so funny, to be sitting there on the floor with her, studying this paper together, deciding where we should draw flowers and rainclouds and stars and doggies and shapes, and I thought -- as I so often do -- where did this child come from? And her thoughtful three-year-face and her goofy three-year-old idiosyncrasies are suddenly superimposed over the pictures I've had in my mind all week after watching baby videos last weekend. Talk about surreal: my very bald, chubby-legged baby pushing herself up into an almost-crawl; those little baby babbles before she spoke words and sentences; those squeals and grunts that, even at the age of six months or eight months, were somehow so obviously her -- looking back on them, I can see her little personality coming through in the same way I do now when she giggles or teases or cups my face in her hands or stomps or flounces.
As I watched, I found myself trying to recall the exact moments those videos were taken. Sometimes I remembered them so vividly -- like the night Matt and I spread a blanket on the floor in the living room and laughed and laughed while she hauled herself across it in a spirited army-crawl. She was so exuberant on this particular night, so goofy and wide-eyed and silly, so amused with herself, blowing raspberries and pausing every now and then just to kick her legs seemingly from sheer silliness and joy. I remember that fuzzy yellow pajama sleeper and the way Matt tried to encourage her crawling by placing his watch -- one of her favorite toys at the time -- just out of her reach.
And then there were videos that left me perplexed, struggling to remember when they were filmed. There's one with my parents that I just don't really remember -- they're cheering her on as she scoots across the family room -- and I found myself searching through my little mental catalogue of their visits, trying to pinpoint the exact time this would have happened, the season, the month, even the date. There's a video of me standing at the kitchen counter working on dinner, wearing a t-shirt and work-out pants, casually chatting with Matt about something Suzannah's doing -- and it was such a sweet but totally ordinary moment. It could have been one of a million moments, although that's what made it so poignant for me to watch, somehow -- catching this little glimpse into the past and not quite being able to place it because it was so familiar, but so comfortable, so cozy, so exactly what I'd hope to see if someone showed me a random snapshot of my life.
At the same time, it made me wish I could record every single moment so I wouldn't miss anything, so I could remember every single little thing with brilliant, shining clarity. It doesn't seem quite right that any part of our lives should slip into a blur of ordinary days and nights, all blended together. Then again, that's rather lovely, too -- remembering the ordinariness collectively (Saturday morning waffles, extra stolen moments of sleep, cozy dinners, bumping into each other in the kitchen, dancing before bed, snuggling on the couch with books and blankets, hiking in Discovery Park, driving to and from Seattle, singing at the tops of our lungs). I can try to keep and hold as much of it as I can, and I can record as many of these ordinary moments as I can, but maybe the beauty also comes from letting it go a bit, letting it flow through me, and becoming part of it, again and again.
No comments:
Post a Comment