February Blues

2015-01-28 10.14.34

Nothing expresses itself as makes sense. A need for sex comes out as snappish anxiety. A need for time to myself, journaling, or mind-wandering, can often only be noticed when all I want to do is stitch. A restless mind and a desire for 90s music translates to a need for a good night’s rest. Frantic cleaning is usually sign of missing friends, of wanting someone to clean up for. My body and mind and soul speak different languages.

As of yesterday, I am 35 weeks pregnant, meaning that soon this baby will no longer be hiccuping and stretching and kicking and prodding from the inside but on the outside. Meaning that sleep will no longer be interrupted by weird aches and compressed lungs and heartburn and needing to pee but for endless nursing and mysterious fussing. Meaning that soon I will be leaking all over. Meaning that soon there will be a tiny, snuggly, beautiful, milk-scented new person in my life. It’s no longer a thousand years away, but soon. I’m beginning to stock up on birthing supplies, beginning to think about the After as something tangible. There will be a spring, even if it’s hidden under three feet of snow.

Meanwhile, my back complains and the baby, slowly realizing that space is becoming scarce, jabs at my ribs and grinds into the base of my pelvis. Sometimes I feel round and ripe and glowing, but mostly I just feel soft and sun-deprived and weighed down. It has been too cold to even spend much time outside, even with our rather lenient standards on what is “too cold,” and so my son is frantic, sleeping less, having trouble focusing without his usual hours of outdoor activity. He is still bright and loquacious and creative and mischievous and affectionate, but space between us has been nearly as limited as space in my belly, and my patience thins. Friends are too busy to meet, or toddlers or sick, or weather interferes.

I miss sun-heat on my skin. I miss moisture hanging in the air. Two cold winters with a mild summer in between, and I miss the sense of balance. I know, all things in their time, but I think, too, that the wanting is part of what makes it good.

Snow Moon

Pregnancy-tired. Snow-day-tired. Full and warm and slow and sleepy all of the time. Like a bear overdue for hibernation. Not that drained, thin, anemic tired, but the way you feel at the end of the day when you’re doing good, hard, valuable work.

More than two feet of snow on the ground, and possibly another foot due over the weekend. More snow than we’ve had since, I think, the year we moved to Massachusetts. Great white drifts making dunes of the yard, front and back. Our neighborhood roads are slippery with ice and slush.

I’ve been barred from shoveling, and I only bring wood in on the very rare days when my husband forgets to stock us up the night before, but there is grammar to edit and there are links to fix. Laundry to do and bread to make. It’s perfect knitting weather, but I’ve not knit a stitch since finishing Thomas’s scarf on Christmas Eve. I’ve spent the occasional time, when curled up on the futon for a stolen hour with the husband, stitching a little alphabet sampler that’s been in my possession since before there was a Thomas, and even more forbidden, staying up late, past child and spouse and dog, to play the music I loved in college and work on the quilt intended for the baby.

And there are always the mornings. Mornings are for mothering. For potty time and breakfast and building the fire. For walking outside to stave off everyone’s cabin fever and keeping an eye on a little boy as he imitates the dog, climbing over the drifts and rolling down “hills.” For laundry and lunch-making and “Mama, let’s read the bird book together,” and “More iron and wine. More. I hear the banjo! They have a banjo.” For trying to keep hold of my patience as the world moves at toddler speed.

Another full moon past. Two more to the equinox. Two more to baby number two.