It lasted about 20 seconds.

It had been a typical Monday. He was whiny from his sleep-deprived weekend. He was frustrated, bursting in to tears over the smallest things. But now, newly awakened from a refreshing nap, he was running in the back yard, chasing a ball, swinging, and otherwise being happy.

It was a beautiful afternoon, with the puffy cumulus clouds dotting the uncharacteristically blue sky. A light breeze kept the temperature around 70 degrees, which was perfect for an afternoon in the yard.

My son looked and pointed at the sky, maybe seeing another airplane or a bird. I told him about cloud shapes, and called him over to look with me. I lay down in the grass, and he toddled over and lay down beside me, his one-year-old head resting against my arm and shoulder. As I pointed up at the sky, he giggled and burbled along, pointing upward towards the clouds.

And that is why I stay home with him every day: to lie down in the grass and look at the clouds with him for 20 seconds every now and then. It’s all worth it.

Café Writing January (Fresh!): Seven Things

Give me seven things that inhabit or occupy your writing space. Interpret “writing space” any way you please. You’re not required to explain the items in your list, but it’s more fun for readers if you do.

Note: I’m interpreting “writing space” as I please…

1.       Freestyle

Right stroke, left stroke, right stroke, *breathe*.
– stroke,  — stroke,  — stroke, *breathe*.
str–k,  str–k,   str–k,  *breathe*.
—,     —,      —,      **.
**    **     **    **.

My mind empties once the rhythm sets. 30 minutes. No baby, no crying, no chores, no distraction. My body floats on the water. My arms propel it forward. I think. And then I write. And then I rewrite. And then I breathe again. And again. And again.

2.       My 16-month-old
3.       Lined paper
4.       A ballpoint pen

When my son laughs and looks to me, I smile at him, too. And when he turns back to his cars, I uncover my notepad. Arrows try to direct the chaos, seeking order in the midst of my crossed-out cursive. What am I trying to say? I click my pen and watch him play.

5.       A binkie
6.       My laptop

My son attempts escape from my arms: he knows naptime. And in his crib, he stands, crying and reaching for me, a traitor who removes him from his toys every afternoon. Then I hand him a binkie: his body slumps down into a position of sleep and he rubs his closing eyes. Now he’s silent. I slip out of his room and hurry to my laptop, ready to disorganize the chaos in my mind.

7.       My husband

I hear the cab driving away before I hear him. Then I hear the front door. I close my laptop and greet my husband, the inspiration for what life and love can be.

He does not want help. I surrender the mostly empty spoon to his prying fingers.

Now he thrusts out his jaw and grasps the spoon in his chubby hand, his knuckles near the bowl of the spoon. Swinging his arm from the elbow, he clicks the spoon, by chance, against the plastic bowl of pumpkin mash before him. Two clicks, then three. He grins and looks up.

“See!” his eyes dance. “I can do it myself.”

I congratulate him. He stops swinging his arm and brings the spoon to his face. It hits his right cheek, strings of pumpkin resting under his eye. Then the spoon finds his mouth. He chews: nothing.

He frowns, his brow wrinkles, and he lets out a high-pitched wail.

“No fair!” his eyes whine. “I’m hungry.”

He won’t to relinquish the spoon when I reach to help, but he stops crying: he wants to feed himself. He thrusts out his jaw, and tries again.

To my very determined nine-month-old son

True response to 3WW: Change, Dizzy, Key

We’d been awake since 4 repacking the bags and fitting them in the trunk. It was 9 a.m., and my friend had just arrived to drive us to the airport. My growing headache at the thought of the next 24 hours of travel was already starting to make me dizzy and the baby was calling for attention, but he was buckled in the car seat and we were almost ready to go.

I was impressed. We were physically ready but the flight was not going to leave for four hours yet. With one hour to drive to the airport, we were doing well. This was a change: a year earlier, pre-baby, we’d be rushing out the door at the last possible minute, arriving at the airport just barely in time to get through security.

“Okay,” I said to my husband. “Are we ready?”

He pushed the inside door lock and let the door swing shut.

“Yeah, just about.”

“Did you turn off the kitchen light?”

“I think I forgot,” he turned to re-enter the house. The door was locked. “Oops.”

He went to the trunk and started rummaging around, moving the carefully arranged duffle bags.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said a moment later, “as long as the house is locked, we’re okay. We can leave the light on. Let’s just get to the airport now.”

He kept searching in the trunk.

“I could come and turn it off for you later, if you want,” my friend offered.

“No, it’s not that,” he said, standing up again with a sheepish grin. “It’s my carry-on bag. It’s in the house with the key.”

Every recess, my best friend and I ran to The Tree at the back of the playground. We circled it three times and entered our world. Sometimes we escaped a spider’s web. Other times we traveled a tight rope in a circus. We went somewhere together, as long as we walked around that tree.

In the summer, we met in the middle of our street with our bicycles: her bike was red and mine was blue. As soon as we got on them, though, we were no longer school girls but “cops and robbers” or “Gold Medal winners.” As long as we stayed on our bicycles, we went somewhere.

When my friend wasn’t available, my brother and I opened our basement door and walked down. When we reached the third step, we entered Ijona (“ee-john-a”), a world beyond the solar system where my brother was King (I think) and “table” meant “chair.” Sometimes, by the third step, waves would splash our toes. Other times, we searched for the exit in a three-story castle, facing all sorts of challenges on our way. We went somewhere, as long as we reached the third step.

Somehow, though, my worlds—our worlds—disappeared. I learned to drive. I went to college. I got married. I moved 16,000 miles (literally—I moved from Chicago to Australia).

I was going places in life.

And yet, as an adult, I no longer go anywhere. Three steps into the basement only take me three steps down.

I didn’t realize I was missing it.

Last week, my eight-month-old found his reflection in a three-inch metal fixture on his bathtub. One moment he was splashing by himself: the next minute another bald baby was laughing with him.

He was fascinated by the baby. I watched as he leaned forward and tried to push his yellow sailboat through to that other world: the other baby tried to share his yellow sailboat at the same time, and they were unable to share. No matter: my son was happy to giggle together.

Now, every time I put him in the bathtub, I think about his reflection-friend. Will he remember? Will he seek out that magical world that is just waiting to delight him? He’s just now entering a world of infinite creativity.

My days of going places may be past, but now I get to experience a world of creativity through my child. I’m so excited to watch him go places I can now only imagine.

To my son, my daily delight

(True response to June Write-Away Contest “Going Places” at Scribbit.)

I shift my son from my left hip to my right, and he whines and squirms for escape. The diaper bag over my shoulder slips to my elbow and I stop to reposition it.

My husband stops beside me, reaching for the bag, his wheeled bag toppling.

“You got it?”

I nod but hand him the diaper bag, again repositioning the eight-month-old rock squirming in my arms.

My son smiles and reaches for his daddy, but I pull him close to me. We walk. Up the escalator and we’ll be there, here, done, finished, back again, finally returned.

If he wasn’t born by 3 p.m., I would die. I would quit, that’s all.

“I can’t do this!” I said again.

“You are doing it!” the midwife repeated.

At 3 p.m., I decided not to die. Thirteen minutes later, with one long push, my son appeared, blue and squirmy and tiny.

That night, alone and exhausted, I held my fussy newborn in my arms, willing him to sleep: “I can’t stay awake much longer!”

And I realized I will never quit on him: after birthing him without medication, I can and will handle anything in the challenge called motherhood.

I lift him above my head: his mouth opens wide in a baby-grin and he laughs loudly, soaring above me, arms outstretched. I smile too, my heart memorizing the sound, the sight, and the feeling of chubby childhood joy.

***

I turn away: in my mind I still see the tears on his pumpkin-covered face and in my ears I still hear his constant scream of baby indignation. I sigh and grab a towel to wipe away the blood on my finger, wishing someone would kiss my sore better.

This is motherhood: a daily dichotomy.