Oh hey there. It’s been awhile since I posted here.
You know when it’s been awhile since you’ve talked to an old friend and instead of calling her when you have a minute, you wait until you have a whole hour to spare, since now the two of you have a deep pit of missed information to catch up on? Yeah, that’s what it feels like to step away from and then try to catch up on the blog. I kept waiting for the moment I had a huge expanse of time to draft a beautiful re-entry essay. But shocker, that moment has not come, especially since the headcount of children in my house has recently doubled.
Our son Conrad was born in the middle of September, four days after my due date, at exactly the moment I thought I would remain pregnant forever.
He turned two months old over the weekend and I stood on a stool next to the bed trying to take adorable commemorative photos since I promised myself I would be more sentimental this time around. (See the evidence over on my Instagram)
Speaking of our eldest child, she loves her little brother so much that I fear she might literally smother him with affection.
I regularly find her trying to lie on top of him, squeeze him around the neck, or otherwise show love in ways that could lead to strangulation, suffocation, or at the very least, deep rooted feelings of resentment that Conrad will have to sort through in adulthood.
As you can imagine, neither Mike nor I are sleeping much. Our newborn is the sort that wants to sleep inconsistently, preferably during daylight hours, and also be held constantly. Our two-year-old is the sort that has begun waking up at night again as a form of resistance to all the change that’s swirling around the house.
So in what may be the most sophisticated and systematic practical joke ever, the DiFelice minions have been waking up at night but in alternating hours, as if they have a baton of wakefulness that they pass back and forth until about four o’clock in the morning, at which time they both agree it’s time to start another fruitful day.
Last week, I had to go in for an overdue eye exam. And as expected, I read the large letters on the wall, one eye at a time. But to my surprise, that test was followed by another one. The lovely assistant handed me a laminated paper to read from and said, “just read the smallest paragraph you can see.” I panicked for a moment, going cross eyed while looking at the paragraphs of content. Then, with a grave tone, I told her that the results of these tests may not be entirely reliable since my level of sleeplessness not only threatens the quality of my vision, but my actual ability to read.
She smiled sympathetically, which I appreciated.
My new, stronger eyeglasses arrive in the mail tomorrow.
The point is, here I am reentering, not with the perfect words, but with a few words nonetheless. In fact, most of these words were texted into my phone during nursing sessions, then revisited a few hours later during naptime from a laptop smeared with cookie crumbs. The crumbs aren’t even from my two year old. They’re from me. Because this season of motherhood means I rarely eat sitting down, but rather standing up, over my computer while one of my children is crying in a noticeable, but non-urgent tone.
I am reentering here because I miss writing. I miss narrating my life in a way that no one benefits from more than me. I told my friend April the other day that every time I have a baby I feel estranged from myself in the newborn months. I get sort of lost in the immediacy of changing diapers and nursing a baby and loading/unloading the dishwasher into infinitum. And writing is my own form of resistance, I suppose. It’s a declaration of self that is time consuming and inconvenient, but important to me in ways I can’t fully describe.
I’m in the last stretch of editing my book now (more on that later) and the work window couldn’t have come at a better time. Because although it’s terribly inconvenient to edit a book with a two-month-old and a two-year old at home, the editing deadline is causing me to fight for the work that matters to me.
Most of all, it’s reminding me that writing is work that I truly love.
You know I’ve never been the world’s most consistent blogger, and I doubt that now is the era in which I will reach peak prolificacy.
But I just wanted to pick up the phone, so to speak, and say:
I’m still here.
And I just have a minute, but I thought I’d use it to start the conversation again.
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