Wednesday, April 24, 2013

Golden Moments



On Sunday as I sat in church, it looked like slushees were being thrown against the window. Thick, wet, dense snow blanketed the city as the wind tossed it against anything standing in its path. It’s spring, so they say, but the signs have been elusive.

As I sit and type I’m in my running clothes (in hopes of an outing soon enough), listening to the whirl of the washing machine, bracing against signs that our little one has woken prematurely from her nap. I have an hour (at most?) of time to be productive—and I’m paralyzed. What should I do with these golden minutes: Eat lunch?  Sit on the deck and watch communiting planes land on the water sparkling in today’s glorious sunshine? Straighten up around the house? Read? Work on a quilt I started almost a year ago and desperately needs to be finished?

These days a moment of quiet—where my first inclination isn’t to sleep—is rare, a small glimpse into the way things were not so long ago.

This morning she and I went on a walk, a necessary activity when rain and snow are not whipping against the windows. I was happy to shed my gloves when I realized my hands wouldn’t freeze without them, happy to push the jogger up and down the hills of the neighborhood, lost in conversation with my walking partners as I kept one eye on the sleeping baby—lulled by the rhythm of the sidewalks and the fresh sea air.

Every week that passes brings me further into this new territory, new identity as mother, caretaker of this miniature being that requires so much. The 3am wake up calls, so harsh in the first weeks, now feel familiar. As I finish feeding her I relish the expressions she makes as she stretches her arms before settling herself to fall back asleep against my chest. Though I too am ready to climb back into bed, I find myself lingering as her breathing settles, as her smell washes over me with such familiarity.

This new normal has become so familiar, so welcome.

This golden moment will soon pass: quiet, sunshine, indecision and all. And with it will come the other pieces of my day—familiar and rewarding in their own way. In the mean time, I will go check on the crying baby, who has decided an hour is far too much to ask.


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