dear someone

dear someone,

I got a shitty phone call this morning and then made the situation worse. details don’t matter. what matters is that you aren’t here. you aren’t here to say ‘sons of bitches!’ and pour me a drink. you aren’t here to tell me about something completely unrelated and distracting and fascinating. you aren’t here to smoke those clove cigarettes I remember in my backyard and convince me that the best thing to do is drunken yoga in the grass like we did at the teahouse that night after I broke up with my fiance and we were out with those two men who thought we were beautiful and fierce and and dangerous. they wanted to kiss us. they wanted more.

sorry. memories. once I start missing you, I can’t stop. I can’t forget hashbrowns at midnight when we were both up late working. I can’t forget the free kittens we spontaneously picked up that day from the cardboard box on that porch near campus. I can’t forget your green hoodie, the different colors you dyed your hair. I can’t forget your wisdom, your naked honesty, your unending support. I had never met anyone like you before, and I don’t know that I ever will again.

god, that year. that was the best year. baking for boys and drinking all of that crazy cheap walmart rose and eating pico on the sidewalk until we stunk of garlic and cilantro and lime.

I hope that your life is fucking amazing. I hope that you dance until you can’t stand up any more. I hope that people respect and appreciate you the way you deserve. I hope that your spring is gorgeous and overwhelming. I hope that one day you decide to get back in touch.

love to you, friend.

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The Fever Broken

photo (2)
(wearing mama’s shoes)

I remember the baby fever, stretching back long before I got pregnant, lingering in a heat on my skin months after my son was born. I was addicted to deliciousness of my soft, tiny baby, hungry for another. The hormonal waves of love and peace. The cocoon of snuggling and warmth and connection. I remember, I remember.

But after a year, when his sleep was the worst of his life and when he could say enough to believe he was communicating but not enough to be clear, when he could move well enough suddenly to get into, onto, everything, but not well enough to get back again, when I worried I would never again have a moment to breathe, the fever turned cold. One child was enough; how could I face the prospect of another?

Then those troubles smoothed over. At eighteen months, he has words for so many of his wants and delights and pains. He wakes no more than once a night, if that, and sometimes even plays quietly in his room when he wakes, giving me a few extra minutes to climb out of my dreams. He is capable and strong, scaling stairs, traipsing over sand dunes, climbing rocky hills, with no problem. He is a delight, a joker, prodding us into games, imitating the spring birds we see more and more on our daily walks. We have a language, a rhythm, an understanding. He is old enough to be apart from me for half a day, a day, and (I believe) overnight, if need be. He feels safe with his father, his grandparents, his own quiet company, even the occasional family friend. And now he’s beginning to learn the Most Important Things: gentleness and sharing, cleaning up after himself, kindness.

And while my rational mind knows that we’re almost at the point where we want to start “trying” again, nine months before it would be most convenient to welcome a new baby into our very seasonal lives, my body hesitates, my heart speeds up. I’ve been told this is the point, just before a first child turns two, when most women begin to long for a second. They see their “babies” stretching longer and leaner and more independent and they yearn for the cozy simplicity of the newborn.

But I remember afternoons full of tears. I remember breasts aching with plugged ducts, underwear and sheets smelling of spoiled milk. I remember blood for weeks, my hair slipping away from my scalp and clinging to drains, floors, clothes. I remember feeling frumpy and soft and slack. I remember being so desirous of personal space. I remember, I remember.

I love my lean strong body, my sturdy, lovely son. I love my husband, the way we’re navigated the waters so far. Right now, we are enough.