daze.

The blankets have been washed and dried often enough to have begun their descent into old-blanket status, complete with fuzzy pills and curled corners.  The walls, a warm, chamomile yellow, have been marred here and there with toys, banged roughly, with feet, kicked arythmically, with fists, learned already in their role as right- and left-hand assistants to the small master.  The crib, once a perfect white, now reveals its wooden bones, through gnawed markings along the upper edge. 

There are cobwebs that dangle gently in their quasi-invisibility from the light fixture overhead, that sway softly when the window has been opened to air out the room in the early morning cool.  The books that line the whitewashed shelf are no longer crisp and bright; instead, they possess a patina, dull and worn, and the crinkled corners are soft from long-dried  encounters with drool.  Stuffed creatures of various shapes and sizes, strewn about the room, look disheveled and bent, where their fur once reflected light with its starched freshness. 

She places him gently in the crib, slow as a tortoise when it tests the cold air outside of its shell, stretching its head a millimeter at a time, surveying with its dark eye the world it so quietly inhabits.  The springs of the crib give off a muffled groan, as she slides her arm carefully from beneath his head and neck.  He stretches, a slight sigh escaping his lips, and a curl drifts onto his cheek as his lids, bruised with exhaustion, separate for a brief moment.  She catches her breath, nervous that he may awaken; the pounding of her heart accelerates as she pauses, the moment frozen.  She looks at his face, his body, relaxed, his lids sliding shut.  She exhales quietly, her hands proceeding to the blanket suspended along the crib's edge, and catches it up, holding it against her, memorizing his form, his lovely face.  She senses the state of the blanket, the wear burning into her fingers.  She grasps it tighter, presses it against her throat.  Her mind, its fingers grasping the moment, attempting to feel the whole picture, like braille, to burn its topography permanently in her memory so as to always possess it, when it is no longer.

She mourns the passing of time, as it slides across her retinas.  She sneaks away, and runs softly down the stairs, arriving in the kitchen where the milk, spilled from making a bottle a short while before, drips from the counter onto the sticky linoleum.  She stubbornly fights the urge to sob, clenching her fists.  Her face crumples.  She loves -- oh.  She loves him.  She almost wishes she didn't, it is so painful, that love.  But she is glad of the pain.   She collapses against the refrigerator, and sobs aloud. 

She presses her head against the cool, white door of the refrigerator, and wills her face to relax.  The kitchen needs cleaning, she whispers to herself.

Comments

[Dayngr]

mmmmmmmm so good. Just last night I was rocking my baby girl wondering to myself how much longer I would be allowed to cuddle her, caress her and sing her gently to sleep. Time passes too quickly and it is so bittersweet.

[Oh, The Joys]

How did I miss this one?
Really beautiful!

[NotThatTara]

I'm one of those people who just found you thanks to Amalah.

This post is incredible--you totally capture that overwhelming feeling, the love that is so all-consuming you can't even let yourself fully feel it because it would incinerate you where you stand. I feel this every night when I put my son to bed.

I think I've just found myself a new daily read. Thank you.

[Nancy]

(speechless)

So beautiful and moving. And so real.

[Kristen]

This was so beautiful. If I wrote it, I'd put it in third person too - the emotions are so raw that you need that distance from it sometimes.

[Lily]

Can't. Read. At. Work.

Seriously... between the stinging eyes and the tugging heartstrings...

[Mayberry]

Beautiful. I especially agree with Mignon. You're dying to get them to sleep so you can clean the kitchen, and yet it's so hard to tear yourself away.

[julia]

They never tell you that loving your kids can also rip your heart out and tear at your soul.

That was gorgeous.

[Binky]

I love the end of the third paragraph, from the state of the blanket to no longer. It's the perfect amount of description and emotion. Really good stuff.

[Jenny]

I'm not going to read your stuff at work anymore. It's too overwhelming and painful...but in such an amazingly good way.

[OddMix]

Awesome post! I felt your words to my core. Wow.

[Emily]

I'm having these feelings too. My baby girl is 4 1/2 months now, and she'll be my last.
This peice reminded me of what if was like to nurse TV (my boy, 4 years...well, today! It's past midnight!) for the last time. And I wonder when you weaned your boy. Recently?
I see I'm not the only one who doesn't necessarily wipe up spilled beverages right away. ooh.
Oh, god! I just "got" the spilled milk symbolism/reference. I'll bet that was sub-conscious rather than intended! Cool.

[MelanieinOrygun]

P.S. and also: Thanks for the hug. I needed that.
Almost done with the first half of the hellday... now on to the other part... Helping Dad Find A Nest In Which To Spend His Retirement. Happy! Happy! Joy! Joy!

[Dawn]

Brava

[Ruth Dynamite]

So vivid, so perceptive, so true. Debbie, your words are a photograph. Thanks for letting us look.

[mothergoosemouse]

Unbelievable how you can capture so much feeling in the briefest of moments. The pictures you paint with words are truly incredible.

[Mignon]

I've always wanted to write about that scary/exultant feeling of finally getting a toddler to sleep but have never been able to capture it the way you did. That was excellent.

[Shelly Franz]

What Mama Tulip said...

[Kevin Charnas]

That was really beautiful...palpable, in fact.

[wordgirl]

It makes me feel like whispering, "ssshhh..someone's sleeping". Just beautiful.

[RC of strangeculture]

Good writing, i especially like the discription of the fuzz pills on the blanket.

--RC of strangeculture.blogspot.com

[Lotta]

Stunning writing. Stunning. You have so nailed the experience.

[Mrs. Chicky]

sniff

Yes, the pain is good. Very good.

[mamatulip]

Good goddamn girl, can you write.

Beautiful.

[Mommy off the Record]

So lovely. I felt like I was there with you laying him down in the crib. I felt everything you described. Wonderful post. Dare I say, a perfect post? I am sure I'll be back to read it again.