...is what I'm calling this decision to revisit my blog after the birth of my son. In fact, Finn is sitting next to me now, watching me type, fascinated, apparently, by the movements of my fingers. He's supposed to be playing with one of his light-up toys -- the kind that makes noises too when pressed -- but somehow I've won out over technology as the more interesting thing to discover for now. For now.
Duncan's watching us too, his head sandwiched between my thigh and the Bumbo -- the plastic contraption that allows Finn to sit up as a 4.5 month old baby There hasn't been too much interaction between the two just yet. A few tepid sniffs on Duncan's part, and some fur-grasping on Finn's part, as well as some interested gazes. But a budding friendship? Doubtful just yet.
What we'll do for the afternoon is anyone's guess. The primary learning curve in my life these days is my never-ending quest to figure out how to entertain a baby. One month, I'm learning how to entertain a 3-month old. This month, a 4-month old. Since he keeps developing, the gig keeps shifting. Things that made him laugh last month are old news now, yet my continuing lack of sleep challenges my creativity in figuring out best baby practices. Today, he even put a stop to our walks in the park. While every other mother I passed was strolling her baby contentedly in the stroller, my baby was in arms, due to a small revolt against the stroller that he managed about halfway around the track. I got a number of knowing smirks and more disapproving glances as I pushed an empty stroller along and carried Finn. Of course, today was also the day that I decided to depart from the counterclockwise direction taken by ninety percent of the walkers. Going clockwise, Finn and I, as we played out the fussy little drama of getting into and out of the stroller, were quite public. A minor comedy on the trail.
Despite the challenges and the lack of sleep, the great shift in my life has been amazing. I know that's a bland choice of word, but I don't quite know how to describe this new phase without resorting to cliches and tired adjectives. My best comparison for having Finn in my life is to say that it's similar to a rush of love in youth. The newness, the sense of obsession over every detail of the beloved, the replaying of scenes in the mind, the starry eyed belief in the beloved's absolute perfection.... All of these things play out again in relationship with my child, but with a stability, a groundedness and sacredness that wasn't there in those first loves. I can see why people talk about their kids to the exclusion of other topics; in fact, I've sinned as much around other cat lovers in discussing Duncan, so that particular habit isn't totally new. But I also understand now why people default to pictures of their kids instead of themselves when they post their Facebook profiles. I hated that habit for a long time since it hid the person I wanted to reconnect with. But the thing is, the love for your child is so big that you feel defined by it. The love is like a loudly played symphony, richly composed and able to mute out many other aspects of your life. You can't separate yourself from or imagine yourself outside of that love. Or at least, that's how it seems to work with me, and I get the feeling that I'm part of a standard majority. I mean, that's basic biology, right? To love your child with such intensity? From my limited experience, this feels like such a perfect love, and when I first tasted it, I got to thinking about the fact that someone must have loved me like this once too. Someone must have slipped into that creamy, no-holds-barred adoration that makes women breathily stop me to ask, "Do you just sit there and stare at him sometimes?" But somewhere in the journey of parenthood, that feeling must mature into another sort of love, because I don't find my mother still gazing helplessly into my eyes. Sure, she still spoils me rotten -- she baked cookies for me just last week -- but I wonder what happens to that love. I mean, in its own infancy, it's so big that it just cracks your heart open, and you wonder where the capacity to love like that emerged in you. But it evolves too, I know. It's dynamic. I just wonder how that process works.
I wonder, too, if it's possible to learn to bring that love to bear on the world. Can I let this feast of love become instructive? Granted, the innocence of a baby allows for that love to fan itself into great flames. I think we see babies as the sum of their potential and the best of our own parts. They inherit the dreams we haven't quite fulfilled. They are ideals. They have no grasp of language with which to contradict our misgivings about them, and so we can go on foolishly, helplessly in love with all that they represent. And the pull of those feelings is hard to resist, not simply for the baby's parents, but for many humans. So many people, I've found out, love a baby. But if those are the conditions that drive us to love love love a baby, then how can we extend that love toward others in our lives? Others whose agendas are mature and recognizable? Others who have hurt us? Others who don't beam back our unadulterated (note the word "adult" there) love, allowing it to deepen even further? The gift of loving a baby is a gift of grace. I'd like to learn to incorporate that grace more fully into my life. But I see the challenge of doing so all too clearly. What's possible in this regard?
My angel wakes! Writing is done!
