Thursday, March 1, 2012
I am in the eye of the storm.
There is a pause, a moment of deference, a sway, a drag-- something. Something that lets me step away from what rages around me... when I can clearly see the morning chaos, but the bothersome noise of it all is only in the periphery, and dull.
I am making and cutting ham on wheat into halves, I am wrapping them in cellophane, I am arranging ponytails with different colored rubber bands but matching ribbon covers, I am serving cold cereal with sugar on top (because all the "good ones" are gone), I am printing out an assignment that I should have printed out last night, I am saying goodbye to my husband as he leaves for his second trip this week, I am discussing the life cycle of salamanders and whether they form in eggs or are just born. I am doing these things without thinking because I can do them without thinking, but inside my heart I am feeling separate from it, observant, and grateful.
The baby finds the ficus pot (again) and has made a mess of my orange rug underneath it (again). I pretend to yell at him and he laughs at me because we both know it is better than him playing in the litter box, and when I pull the vacuum from the closet, he hops on top of it, giggling, ready for his ride. We make a game of the clean-up, but when that is done he is filthy yet and so I say to him, "Tubbie?" And he agrees in a gravelly affirmative: "Tubbie." I fill the tubbie full and we dip empty bottles into it's depth and make bubbles for what seems like longer than should be interesting. Then, powdered and dressed, we read. We read in the slanting light books about trucks and diggers and babies and Maisy. The kitty is stretched out on the rocker and purring, so we sit on the floor. I hear the gentle cadence of the paci, the contentment of the kitty. I linger over pages, we point out all the balls we can find, the baby's blanket is soft against my cheek too.
And it is so lovely.
I have missed the silence of staying home while the big kids are at school. I have missed the morning light inside my house, the way it looks right around 10 o'clock. I've been too busy being busy lately, and I have missed these slow mornings. For it is these slow mornings that offer up endless chances to notice things like fat pads on the bottom of toddler-ish feet, and the miracle of his blue eyes, in the center of which explodes brown-- like a bursting firework just before it fades. I've seen these eyes almost daily for over 20 months and wonder if I have ever really noticed that they contain a universe inside of them-- or what looks like the beginning of one.