‘Great with Child,’ Beth Ann Fennelly. Sometimes, I’m afraid to really start writing again because my heart has changed so much, feels as Fennelly says ‘endangered’ and I’m still trying to navigate the new terrain. I feel more acutely than I ever have before and I’m a poet, so that’s a hell of a lot more than I’m used to. I can only crack the door right now. She’s right. There is absolutely no way to contain it. I feel as if I’m putting up a barrier when I try. I’m scared to dig in. And I know in my head that the fear or when you are scared in writing (I suppose life, too) that you jump in. But I guess I’m not ready yet.
Another poet also said that there are observation phases, but I sometimes feel that’s a cop-out for not writing, even though I would say I’m in that phase. I go through spells. A year or two of hibernation and then a year or so of intense writing. The years are long in that regard. The guilt is there. Though sometimes I’m too tired to feel guilty. And not that you need to be in a sad state to write, but there needs to be some sort of churning, I think, at least for me and right now, I’m really happy. I feel the pull around the edges, which I suppose is a reminder that it’s still there. And then as I write that another voice in my head says I’m making excuses and I probably am.
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I was listening to an NPR interview with Alan Alda this morning. He was talking about a moment he almost died in Chile when he had to have an emergency operation. He said the event made him appreciate life more, not that he didn’t before, but it gave him a new sense or life, a new love and drive for it. I feel motherhood is exactly that – before you’re a mother you know how to love, know what love is and what it feels like, but after the moment your baby is born it’s a whole new level, the colors seem brighter, you love on an entirely new plane.
Alda also said something which is not really related, but I liked. A friend of his said about our distance with death: We all know it’s going to happen, just not in our lifetime.
Also, Jack is almost one. In three months, he’s turning one and I honestly can’t account for the time. I honestly can’t wrap my head around how that happened. “I can’t wait for him to be a little boy,” Pat said. “He’s going to be a two-year old little boy and then a three year old little boy and then a four…” “And then he’s going to be a 30-year old little boy and we’ll be old as balls.” Seriously. That’s how time is happening. Warming up my bagel this morning, 20 seconds just flew. It’s strange when you see time winding down like that. It makes it tangible. I know it’s seconds, but they add up. And almost a whole year of them has passed us.
We transitioned Jack to his crib full time. I took it harder than he did. I was actually pretty sad about it. I still am a little. He’s getting bigger is what it means to me. He already skipped his nursing session this morning. I’m being replaced by a banana. It’s good. It’s all good. Just the passage of time and it’s so much more obvious with a little person when ever day is a huge milestone. I was updating his baby book last night and looking at picture of him in the past months. It’s still him. His face was always there, never smooshed or awkward. He’s always been our beautiful boy. And I know I’ll always see him for who he was and who he will be.
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