Onward!

I had dinner with an old friend last night (hi Justin!  Look!  I'm writing!) - someone who came to know me just as I was getting to know myself.  Without meaning to, he shamed  me a bit about how I've neglected this here little old blog of mine.  And I have.  It's been thrown up into my virtual attic and lost amongst my mental cobwebs with old stories and memories and last night I realized that I'm not really sure why as I can't blame the arrival of my son for my lack of entries.  I have been successfully making time for writing since caring for Dylan has become a little bit easier and have entries littering my desktop that still need "polishing" or "editing" which is what I told Justin last night.

But why?

As I lay in bed last night with Dylan snoring on one side of me and Marc on the other (we were in London - and now Paris!  I know!  my life is really hard! - hence the cramped sleeping quarters) it occurred to me that I haven't been posting with my usual regularity out of fear.  Motherhood, while wondrous in every single way, has made my head somewhat two dimensional.  Days are full of feedings and are we going to get home in time for the next nap? and is there enough formula in the house and look at this new noise he is making now, isn't it darling?  And while I relish each moment, there is some concern that perhaps I don't have anything left  to say that hasn't been said before.  I've mentioned this - this worry that parenting would knock the creativity out of me and that time would be so occupied with keeping Dylan alive and well that there would be no room for other thoughts to take root. 

Thankfully, this hasn't been the case.  In those quiet moments when my mind isn't making mental lists of what I need to get done on any given day, idea come to me and I find myself writing good sentences on scraps of paper that litter the inside of my diaper bag and purse.  My wits seem to be knocking about up there, but are those wits as amusing as they were in the past or are they harder to recognize under the thin veneer of snot and poo?  It's really just a small and silly identity crisis that is probably born out of too much navel gazing and not enough just getting on with it.  Which is essentially what Justin said to me last night even though I hadn't confessed all of this to him over my chicken shawarma.

Justin and I met when we were both the American equivalent of juniors at University of St. Andrews.  If I look at my life as a time line, certain moments stand out in perfect bas relief, so important were they in forming who I am today.  That year carved out entire portions of my soul.  On the day that Justin and I met, I had just taken a long walk on the St. Andrews pier and stood at the edge looking out over the North Sea wondering if I would be able to figure myself out in this rough and windy place and perhaps learn to live without fear and accept just exactly who I was.  We met later that afternoon and over coffee he confessed his love for the woman he is about to marry in a few weeks and I think that might be the moment that I first said, out loud, "I want to be a writer".  I was shocked that I wasn't smote down as I made this declaration (such fanciful thinking was verboten - I was supposed to become a doctor, you see) and it was the first tiny step I ever took in becoming my honest self.

But one cannot be a writer unless one writes, no?  And so here I am, somewhat mired down by anxiety, but promising myself that I will indeed just get on with it despite my internal jitters and dread that whatever I produce might just be complete and utter crap.  Because really, who cares?  I mean, I obviously do, but I'm trying to get over that and just keep moving forward.  So off I go.  Promise.

What! I'm back!

Hey there!  It’s good to see you!  Have you lost weight or is it a new haircut that’s making you look so different?  Me?  Well, it’s been a while.  A LONG while...I’m a horrid friend, I know.  But there’s a good reason.

So.  Nearly six months ago, THIS happened:

That would be Dylan, or Pickle as we call him.  (Dylan–Dill–Dill Pickle-Pickle in case you’re wondering what circuitous path brought us there.  Just please don’t call him Dillie…it makes my soul weep).

Of course, he didn’t come out looking quite that charming.  I thought I would spare the childless amongst you THAT horror show.  No need to frighten everyone into ill-advised hysterectomy’s over fear of what you might spawn.  You’re never really prepared for how ugly your newborn may be.  Dylan, poor chap, had been so squished in the birth canal that upon his arrival, Marc and I just sort of looked at each other and silently worried - this HAS to improve, RIGHT??? - while everyone politely coo’d over our sons misshapen face.  One family member got it right when she accurately stated, “He looks like a little prize fighter!” though she forgot to add that he was on the losing side without the benefit of a corner coach.

There was a smushed nose, a cone head that listed eastwards and a lazy eye that wouldn’t open properly.  We slapped a hat on him and peeked over the crib each morning in the hopes that things had smoothed out over night.  It was rough going for a while but fortunately, about two weeks later, his face unpuffed and his features settled into something more angelic and less like Gollum.  We breathed a collective sigh of relief.

I mean, it’s a crapshoot, right?  Just because you are reasonable looking people doesn’t mean that your children won’t get the unfortunate genes that are swimming about in your respective pools.  So we’re just enjoying these adorable years that Dylan seems to be heading into.  What I’m sure of is that his teenage years will be less kind and awkward seeing as both Marc and I barely skated through that era with our dignities intact - there was a braided tail for Marc and some perplexing fashion choices on my part.  In fact, dignity might have taken a hiatus and caught up with us around 25.  It’s hard to say.

But in the interim, here we are.  In the deepest of love with our tiny boy.

And what can I say about parenthood that hasn’t already been said?  All of the clichés are true.  Every one of them.  That your heart explodes and suddenly is outside of your body in the form of your child.  That it is the hardest and most rewarding job you will ever have.  That you will suddenly have a completely different kind of appreciation for your own parents.  That you never knew the depths of your capacity to love until you are holding the little person that is a part of your very soul.  It’s true.  I thought I loved Kylie with all of my heart.  And I do…I mean, my blog is named for her (and she is doing swimmingly, by the way – she feigns disinterest but goes and sits outside Dylan’s door the minute he cries) and I like her more than most people.  But THIS love…I just had no idea.  I marvel at it.

One thing that I have been shocked at is my ability to power through the fatigue.  I’m a girl who likes her rest.  In fact, I require it medically being immune system challenged.  And of course with a newborn, there is none of that.  It’s like freaking Nam…you’re up at all hours, waiting with ears pricked for the next shriek from the nine pound enemy that you’ve let into your home.  I was worried that I might crack under the pressure of the constant care seeing as gone were the languid afternoon hours that I spent on the couch allowing my body to rest up for the remainder of the day.

But it’s incredible.  Caring for Dylan, in every capacity, is a delight.  My body, though broken in many respects, has responded to the task of being a mother in ways I didn’t think it would or could.  I feel that motherhood has healed parts of me that were sad and downtrodden for a long while.   I’m intensely aware that his very life, his existence depends on my being present for him at all times.  And I’m here.  I’m showing up for this little man and will continue to do so for as long as I draw breath.

For him, I would fight tigers.

On diaper bags and losing myself.

When I announced that I was pregnant, a writer friend of mine said, "Oh my...you are going to have SO much new material for your blog!"  Another friend said, "Are you going to become a mommyblogger now?"   I'm not sure if the second comment was said with disdain or not, but I surprised even myself by how little I've come to this site over the past 40 weeks.  I think the mommyblogger comment caught me off guard as there is something about that label that makes me feel stabby.  Perhaps because it forces you to join in with a group of people who regularly discuss their sleepless night, love affair with strollers and which organic diapers best suit their little ones behinds.  And really, the demographic that enjoys that sort of content is limited and also somewhat over saturated.

And while those subjects become central to one's existence when there is a miniature person in your life, I think part of me was/is scared that I'll lose a lot of myself in this process.  My friends who are mothers assure me that you actually blossom into an even broader version of who you are meant to be once you become someone's mommy, there is that small part of me that is attached to my shoe collection, my travels and my bucket list and fears that once Dylan makes his appearance, my conversations will deviate from amusing to the consistency of his poops and later display a bumper sticker exclaiming how he made the honor roll at his school.  

I suppose what I'm saying in my typical long winded fashion is that I'm trying to figure out where I go from here writing wise.  I've looked forward to becoming a mommy since I was a wee one myself, so I'm not decrying this new phase in life that is upon me.  It's more that I still want to have this as an outlet...and being that my life is soon to become full of all things Dylan, there may be more of that in here.  And I'm coming to terms with that and hope that you all will too.  Because if there is anything that supplies one with tales of the ridiculous, it's trying to segue from a sophisticated (ha! sort of), completely adult life into one that revolves around a baby that's primary skill is projectile poo'ing.

(And did you know?  Marc has never changed a diaper before?  In his 40 years?  I can't WAIT...although that being said, I also have this vision of coming home and seeing Marc outside, rinsing Dylan off from a safe distance with the hose rather than deal with anything stinky up close.)

So we'll see.  In the meantime, I have only a few more weeks to go and then the bomb of a new baby will be going off in our home.  I can't wait.