The Wreckin' Sisters

So, never one to turn down a dance challenge...
Insert wild, maniacal laughter
I thought I'd go ahead and post Briar and Avery as they clasp hands and sway and bounce completely out of synch with The Wreckers. It is in moments like you'll see here, that my DNA unmistakably makes itself known.
Insert proud sigh

Hopefully the folks over at Baby Loves Disco and the lovely ladies at Parent Bloggers will find it as charming as I do, if they don't, well-

And it's alright, yeah I'll be fine
Don't worry 'bout this heart of mine
Just take your love and hit the road
There's nothing you can do or say
You're gonna break my heart anyway
So just leave the pieces when you go

Screw the Herd

The part 2 to yesterday's post, was to be about another party.
Another parade of children and parents bearing casseroles and gift bags, bound for yet another party to which we were not invited. I'll not spend another minute fretting in this space, no more My So Called Life: The Parenting Years. I am resolving to focus on the good, if they have their wits about them, the rest of the 'hood will catch on, if not, screw 'em.

We are a family.


A mom and a dad. A husband and a wife. Friends.

Two sisters. Scrapping playmates. Friends.

Explorers.

Adventurers.

Questers.

And always, friends.




Thanks to everyone who left comments making us feel like the most popular kids on the block. We are just fine, better than fine. Too busy building forts and castles and facing down storms armed with diapers and magic capes to worry about a little, old popularity contest. Besides, we have a party to plan. Briar will be three on the 16th of September and I do believe it's going to be a doozey.

Here's to friendship and the many forms it takes.

The Usketeers (part 1)

I was holding Briar on my hip, Sean was two paces behind me with Avery. It was hot, the kind of hot that creates a hateful, halo of frizz around my face and makes me feel ever so slightly as if I have wet my pants. They breezed past us, all purses and grins. They moved in classic friendship formation, shoulders touching, eyes dancing in shared merriment, heads tilted toward one another, the better to whisper and titter.

I looked away and buckled the girls in the cart. I tried to shake off the sensation that I should be there with them, that if I were more normal, more something, than they'd ask me to join. A part of me clung inexplicably to the notion that my inclusion in that mama-gang would somehow make for a better experience for our girls.

"Mama? Can we go and find the thing for the big room?" Briar asked expectantly.

I looked down, her bare shoulder, creamy and delicate, poked out from her dress. Her hair was pulled back with matching pony tail holders, while her feet were outfitted in de rigueur toddler Crocs, complete with little jeweled accessories. She was the picture of normal, girl-next-door, girliness.

"Of course we can." And I pushed the cart toward the electronics section and our quest for a dvd player.

"Weg. Weg. Weg!" Avery shouted, each time her feet kicking out in an exclamation point. She too, wore little, hot pink Crocs, and a single purple band in her dark hair. Her indigo eyes twinkled.

"Do you see the red? Are you looking at the red circles?" I asked smiling at her.

"Weg. Uh-weg cucles!" She grinned back at me. I kissed her face and then hugged Briar.

Sean was looking at me quizzically, he hadn't seen the women. I smiled and shook my head, universal spousal code for forget it, let's just go, and I meant it. We rolled our squeaky cart through the diapers and wipes, then the car seats and baby bottle aisles. Eventually we made it to the electronics section. We picked a dvd player and some movies for the girls, then made a quick pass of the coloring book section to replenish our supply and we were done.

The girls sat in the cart, Briar holding a book, while Avery flipped through the pages. They took turns regaling one another with the spectacle on each page. The back and forth of their throaty voices, combined with the saucy flips of their heads made me smile, a deep, down in my soul, glad to have two daughters, kind of smile. I pushed the cart faster hoping to slip out of Target before the girls turned on us, their sweet, sibling chemistry soured by one minute too long spent browsing.

We rounded a corner and I was once again face-to-face with my failure. The team-shopping, motherhood brigade. They walked toward us like a Target-ad-come-to-life, beaming and moving at almost a skip, tra-la-la-la-la-aren't-we-having-fun? I don't think I imagined making an audible gasp.

Briar's head whipped, seeing Heather and Catherine's mom is like seeing a movie star for her. She was riveted, eyes glued to Tina and the inherent magic she possesses just by being Heather and Catherine's mom.

They paused as our little pack met theirs.

"Oooh, what are you getting?" They asked, charging our cart as one, peering inside and examining the contents as if rubbernecking at the scene of an accident. They clucked and chortled over the things in our cart, exclaiming about "treats for mom and dad."

And then, it was over.

They whooshed away in a gust of you-don't-belong-gaiety, the tinkling of their chatter dancing through the aisles as we moved further away. I was nauseous. Disgust for buying a dvd player, guilt for not working harder to be invited into their gang, and despondence for the play date with all the other daughters-of-shopping-moms that our girls were not invited to.

We walked to the check out and quietly waited to pay for our things. Briar and Avery were good as gold, even when the checker began what would be a ten minute endeavor to scan the dvd player. Sean eventually took the girls to the car while I waited, deeply mortified at the rapidly growing line behind me as three, and then four different Target clerks tried to find a working bar code.

Walking to the car I felt wistful. How can I raise the girls to be strong and confident if I fall to pieces in a store at the thought of being excluded from something? Something I don't even really want? And if I don't want it, then what the hell is my problem? How do I ever find the balance between demonstrating that fitting in isn't everything and that sometimes you have to do little things, make small compromises to get what you want?

I want them to belong, not because I fear them being different or unique, but because I fear them having to experience one moment more than necessary of not belonging, of not being wanted. You can say that it builds character or spew any number of platitudes, but the reality is being excluded hurts. My job is to keep these girls safe, teach them to make the decisions that will keep them from harm, and make decisions of my own with that same end in mind. Standing in that parking lot I truly felt as if I'd lost my way.

The problem is, I don't know if finding my way means accepting that I, and we, don't belong, or clawing tooth and nail until we do belong.

Sticks and Stones

Lest you think I am an evil, unbending mother who is indifferent to the magic of the outdoors*...

There was rock climbing.

And mom-climbing.

Sand eating.

And sand diving.

Princess gear.

Boys.

Wouldn't truly be camping without,
unsupervised play near an open flame.

And the Stones.



*As a matter of fact, we made our two-night camping adventure into a three-day, wilderness extravaganza as we piggy-backed our trip with another outdoor odyssey...experience it here.

Camping, or, living without coffee

Which begs the question: is living without coffee really living?

And zip it you, handy-dandy, super campers out there who probably pack french presses or super cowboy coffee contraptions. Somewhere between the swimmies, the contact solution and the bedding I forgot to consider coffee. So as I endured spiders bigger than mini-coopers, middle-of-the-night-drunks-who created piercing auditory vomit for 6 consecutive hours between bedtime and beyond, and tried ineffectively to keep pine needles, sand and dog hair from afixing themselves permanently to the diaper rash afflicted parts of the girls, I dreamt of coffee. Hot, strong, made-by-somebody-else-and-consumed-in-civilization coffee.

Looking at this now I don't think you can truly see how desperately we needed the coffee. I should have taken it before pulling into the hallowed grounds of Starbucks.



You also cannot adequately see the tremors of joy here.



It was good. Real good. Almost good enough to make me go camping more than once every 12 months...almost.

Blessed

So very blessed.

Pitch - Tent, Sap, Whine

We're going camping next week. The setting will be breathtaking with the impossible green of the deeply wooded Adirondacks against a sky so blue I sometimes squint my eyes and pinch myself to make sure it's real. It's that beautiful. And the lake? Don't get me started on the restorative powers of Lake George.

I am not kidding when I say that two days before our wedding I was wild-eyed and panicked, threatening to order the entire Pro Activ line and have it overnighted because I had a break out that I thought merited giving me my own Garabage Pail kid card - Bespotted Bride, don't lift the veil.

Sean took me to the lake, my stubborn chin jutting out beneath a full force pout. I dove in, not for, as he put it, a relaxing dip, rather to hide my face. The next day I woke and angels sangs as I faced the mirror, so clear and creamy was my complexion. It has also cured cramps, a bad mood so fierce that I made flowers wilt, and sorrows untouched by sweet nothings and tender hands.

Add it all up: exquisite backdrop, majestic skies overhead, magical lake, sweet kids, doting husband and dear friends = Perfect, right?

Well...

I try to avoid the obscene and the obnoxious here at Tumble Dry, I find it unnecessary to share certain aspects of parenting. It isn't that I want to hide the truth, I just think too few people focus on the wonder of it all. Becoming a parent, experiencing the limitless potential for loving and rediscovering joy is worth writing about. Chronicle these moments, leave little crumbs as you move ahead so that one day you can look back, gingerly lifting the delicate morsels as you slip through the cobwebs of your memory and revisit with unerring clarity, the sensation of running your finger along a chin wet with drool, wiping it away and looking into the delighted eyes of your child. Hear the breathy cooes and rolling gurgles of pleasure, smell the memories of alabaster baby belly and wispy curls, of cuddling as the sun rises, little feet pushing gently against your hip. We must preserve this, and so I write and live and passiontaely love my life and my world.

But camping, oh camping with kids. Here I must put down my sentimental foot and explain a few things, paint a picture of what it is to try and camp with kids.

Tonight, Sean is camping with Briar in the backyard. The idea being that this will prepare her for next week, protect us from two sleepless nights on a bed of lumps and bumps. I think it will just make for a sleepy Saturday, but that is his to deal with, I have to pack.

Diapers - swimmies and overnights, 4's and 5's

Wipes - for wiping and playing, for pitch in hair and marshmallows on hands.

Sippy cups - the inevitably missing tops and the plastic thingies that go in to prevent them from leaking when upended.

Clothes - backups for spills, explosions, wet bottoms and sticky tops. For sleeping and playing, for swimming and hiking. Shoes for walking and shoes for playing, shoes for when we lose the others.

Toys - for entertainment and bartering, for peacemaking and time passing.

Meds - Salves for itches, ointments for bottoms, gel for teeth, lotion for sun, spray for bugs, solution for eyes and paste for teeth.

Must haves - princess blankets and princess pillows, baby dolls and fuzzy bears. Contact cases and glasses, deodorant (I rough it, but not that rough), aspirin and sinus tabs. Bags for trash, bags for dirty clothes, bags for wet clothes, bags for stinky diapers.

Food - I cannot bear to think about this one. We tread a fine line between allowing the girls to assert their independence with regard to the foods they eat and laying down the law of, "You will eat it or go hungry."

It is an arduous process and I know as surely as I sit here today, as we reach the point in the drive of, not-yet-there and yet too-far-to-turn-back-now, three things will happen:

One of the girls will cry needing something I do not have.
One of us will realize we have forgotten something we cannot survive without.
I will realize that not only do I have to pee, but my period has just arrived.

Seasons Overlapping

Renegade leaves outside our door have begun to turn, audacious and red, they flirt from their gnarly perches, taunting the greens to join them, to clasp hands and run ahead. A brilliant cascade of reds, yellows and deep purples moves through the canopy of leaves, redefining the personality of the beautifully grizzled maples along our street. Beneath the trees, our front walk is speckled with bits of chalk art, flowers and suns, and pastel blurs born from the crisp rivulets of water that trailed behind as I watered the yard. Then, the rustle of leaves is joined by the whimsical call of the singin' truck.

I smile, turning to look for the garishly decorated truck, swimmie diapers are scattered along the floor, a pair of princess galoshes lay on their side beside the door. As the truck appears, Briar runs to the door, breathless. Her skinny legs with knobby knees that pierce my heart and muscular calves that mirror my own, tremble.

"Can we do it, mama? Can get some money and get one popsicle pop?"

We have lived this summer to the fullest. Watching Briar now, her blue eyes impossibly light, twinkling with the wisdom of a spirit so young already knowing how to work a moment. I shake my head, saying we'll buy a popsicle another day. She is not sad, happy enough just to have seen the truck. She waves and calls to the driver, "See you next time."

She bends to pick yellow petals that have gathered in the corner of the door, castoffs from the basket outside. A golden ringlet catches on her eyelashes and she blows at it. The chimes of the truck begin to fade and sunlight peeks through a gauzy curtain. I can smell the the first kiss of autumn as the sounds of summer still tickle my ear, exhaling I feel a hope so pure that I shiver. Briar laughs, and so do I.

You make me so happy

You make me so happy.

We each have our own way of saying it, I'm happy.

Briar is literal, her whole body lighting up and unmistakably radiating joy as she exclaims, "You make me so happy, mama." Avery is a wave, rushing forward and then cresting over you so that you are enveloped in the sheer lightness of her spirit, untroubled and merry. Sean and I are different, he tends to experience moments of joy quietly, leaning in a doorway watching us, a tender smile and glistening eyes. Sometimes he'll whisper an "I love you" to me, or whisk the girls to a sofa to strum his guitar, singing first, songs that they know, and then later songs that are dear to us as a couple. Quiet, but oh, so very clear. I am more like a butterfly, flitting to and fro, alighting upon a shoulder here, a finger there, constant motion, each movement intended as a proclamation, "You all make me so happy."

This weekend, while it had its hiccups and sore joints, gave us each piercing moments of happy.

Would'ja Believe...

I'm going on a road trip with these characters.

I've got the camera for pictures, my laptop for lamenting not having a wireless connection, and my Red Sox cap, for pissing off the Yankee fans who are hosting us.

I'll be back on Monday, or Sunday night, or maybe even sooner if I can muster a connection.

Might I suggest visiting:

Jenn
Jon
Nutmeg
The tall handsome love of my life (He'll actually be with me, but his site is pretty cool.)

Dada?

Avery spent weeks walking around the house with her mouth open wide, like dislocate her jaw wide. She'd run to us, arms outstretched and plant that perfect pink "o" on our cheeks. Kisses, so many kisses. Standing in her path, waiting for a glistening, wet Avery love imprint I would laugh, throwing my head back and shaking, my own mouth open as wide as hers. Briar would run and duck, distressed by the idea of a slobbery kiss, which only made us laugh harder. It was a sweet moment in time.

Was, as seems to be with so many of these amazing unencumbered by bashfulness or forethought actions of our girls, the tradition has passed. Avery doesn't run to kiss us, doesn't pursue her sister in the name of sisterly slobber love. There are still kisses, but for the most part her mouth is closed, her need to kiss replaced by an irrepressible need to climb. And climb.

Now, when I call to her for kisses she grins at me, aware of the power of her answer. I wait, hopeful, please, just one more, one more slobbery-love-you-with-all-my-baby-soft-self kiss. She giggles and cranes her neck, "Dada?" It never changes, each request is met by a call and searching for dada. I am at once jealous and proud, she loves him, adores him! And yet, still I want that kiss, but somehow I muster the strength to not pressure, to not beg.

When I put her to bed each night she calls for her baby and her bear. I place them in her arms and she pulls them to her face with an emphatic, "Mmm-waaah." After kissing and hugging her two little bed buddies, she holds them in her arms and pats them energetically while cooing. This natural exploration of nurturing makes me ache, hinting at the day when she will pat her own babies. My mind wanders and I imagine the shadows her adult life will cast: the form of her husband, her pregnant belly, children and a job. I try to envision my role, will I be an extension, participating and casting my own shadow, or will I be observing, standing on the perimeter and trying to gain entry.

My reverie is broken as she smiles, the twinkle in her eyes and the glimmer of white teeth behind curved lips, wink at me in the moonlight. Still my baby. Her smile reassures me, though much will change, this time of nursing and cooing, patting and laughing will always be true. And then, it is there. The buddies fall to her sides and she stretches her arms wide, her gaze floats up from the crib, a whisper on my face, her mouth opens wide and her toes flutter as she waits for my face. I lean into the crib and she kisses me, an imprint on my soul and a promise forever.

Finding Moments

A dear blogger friend of mine was talking about perfect moments the other day, the twist being a little heavy on how she feels that her kids might be missing out because she is not inclined to do rough and tumble, get yourself dirty kinds of activities. I left a comment and went about my day. Yet her post has stayed with me.

I think we all struggle, whether we have kids or not, with how fully we are living our lives. Are taking enough risks? Are we stuck in a rut? Are we worthy of x, y or z? I'll admit that it isn't always easy to remember to carve out perfect moments between laundry and meals, cleaning and organizing, working and blogging. That said, I think there are simple moments between the chores that are exceptionally perfect: silly faces during a phone call, dancing in the kitchen while the noodles cook, whispers through a bathroom door.

Forgiving ourselves for our inability to take the kids backpacking in Taos or failing to make 26 frothy little cupcakes with pink swirls and silver sprinkles in time for the class party is not easy. If we aren't getting hung up on the perkiness of our parts or the tidiness of our house, we are finding other ways to minimize the accomplishments that we manage. Is there an answer? I really don't know, but a friend asked me a while back, "Amanda, did you ever think that maybe your life already is perfect?"

That question echoes for me in the darkest times, reminding me of the exquisite perfection in my life. I think we all can, if willing to take the time, find the perfection in our lives. Could be as simple as a beautifully made bed or an empty kitchen sink, but there is always something, some good. And that post the other day? It reminded me of achieiving perfect moments. I wanted to thank Joy, for while she may not have a camping trip planned, she prompted my own family to take a little trip filled with sandy, wet perfection.







Thanks for the joy, friend.

No, Mom, the red ones.

I work from home in the afternoons. It is not uncommon for me to be nursing Avery, typing an email and singing along to a song with Briar. The sounds and state of my dress are unimportant and largely unacceptable for work type activities, but it works for me. Except during phone calls.

Me: Ok, Briar. Mama's gotta make a phone call. Here is you coloring book, some fishies, and your juice. Can you be quiet and color while Mama makes a call?

Briar: Yes, mama. I can.

Me: Great. I love you baby. Now be quiet and I'll just be a minute.

Briar: Uh-huh. Briar gonna color. Not gonna be loud. Alright?

Me: Perfect. Thank you, I am so proud of you.

I walked over to the front porch as Briar sat at the dining room table.

Me: Ah, hello? Is Rachel available? Yes, I'll hold. Good girl honey.

Briar: S'Ariel. I's coloring Ariel.

Me: Amazing. Now just be very quiet for a minute. Rachel? Hi, it's Amanda. I wanted to talk with you about the program.

Briar: Mama, I need a stick.

Me - whispering and covering the phone: Not right now, sweetie. Soon as I am done.

Briar: Please I need a stick.

I held my finger up, a frantic plea for quiet. She held her own finger up, eyes wide as saucers. She mouthed - I-need-a-stick-right-now.

I shook my head no, the woman on the other end of the line talking about a passion for non-profits.

Briar: I NEED A STICK.

I shook my head vigorously and shhh'd. Then I leapt down the front steps and searched for a stick. The voice was talking about financial implications and legalities and a string of other many-syllabled words that were not registering. Briar opened the door. I thrust an 18" length of dried chive at her.

She held the dried bit of chive, turning it from side to side and looking at me with great concern. Surely I didn't think that was a stick.

Her eyes opened wider, she craned her neck out and over-enunciated loudly: No, mama, a stick. I need a stick.

I shrugged my shoulders.

Me: Uh-huh, that's almost exactly what I need, legal issues of money and non-profits.

The voice said some things and shook me from my stick reverie.

Me: Of course, I hadn't meant that-

Briar stepped closer.

Briar: Mom, MOM! I need a stick.

I wrenched a branch from a bush and placed it in her hand.

She looked up at me, a chive in one hand and a bit of curled bush twig in the other. One cheek wrinkled up, as her head cocked to one side and she squinted at me.

Briar: Mama, please?

Rachel: Oh...(A sound that conveyed something between a relief at not having kids and an exasperation that I couldn't just gove her a damn stick.)

Me: Rachel, I apologize. Can we talk later, I think for now knowing that you'd like to participate is great.

Rachel: We're a long way out, and...

Her voice was washed out by pre-tantrum demanding whines for sticks. Red sticks.

Briar: Mama, I just want the red sticks. Please will you give me the red sticks?

I excused myself from the call, wrapping up quickly, and then paced the yard.

Me: Are the red sticks over here?

Briar: No.

Me: Over here?

She was smiling.

Me: Can you tell Mama where they are?

Briar: Of course.

She turned and went inside. I followed as she waited in the kitchen.

Me: Oh, did you put them in your kitchen?

B: Nope.

Me: Ok, so where are they?

I was standing next to the counter, a cabinet near my head.

B: There.

She was pointing up toward the cabinet.

Me: In here?

B: Yes.

I opened it and saw nothing but canned soup and vitamins.

Me: Honey, I just don't see any sticks.

B: Mama, the red ones, like Daddy gave me.

Me: Like Daddy gave you?

B: Yup. He gived me red sticks to eat.

Me: To eat?

Now she was seriously laughing. red sticks? What the hell? Red. Sticks.

Twizzler.

Me: You mean the red treats Daddy eats?

She was jumping, partly in anticipation of a treat and, I believe, in part celebrating the relief that I had not in fact completely lost it.

I searched the cupboard and then picked up the phone.

"Trampoline Design," Sean answered.

"Tell me you didn't finish the Twizzlers."

"I did, why?" He asked.

"Because Briar has been begging and demanding red sticks for the better part of a half an hour while I've been on the phone, when I finally realized she was referring to Twizzlers I made for the cupboard and found nada."

"Bwa hahahahahahaha! Red Sticks. Hahahahahaha. That's awesome."

"So not awesome. Quit eating the last thing!" I hung up.

Briar looked up at me, blue eyes brigh and hopeful.

Me: Honey, the red sticks are a special treat with you and dad. How about I give you another treat?"

B: Naw, dat's ok, I'll wait for Daddy and the red sticks.

Power of Vantage

Discovering that I was having a daughter, and then a second, was life altering for me. I struggled for most of my life with worries about the size of my feet or the shape of my thighs, longing to be shorter and thinner, blonder and prettier. I had only fleeting moments of understanding the preciousness of my form. And then I became a mom of girls, and I realized that I had a duty, a moral responsibility to do everything in my power to help them understand the magic of who they are, from their curls and their cow licks, to their strong calves and long, powerful torsos.

We face the mirror each night and call out:

Good night strong.
Good night smart.
Good night pretty.
Good night silly, amazing, happy and wonderful.

And we mean it.

I try to do the same for myself, to approach this encouragement of acceptance from the inside out, to be genuine. I have marveled at my body, from pregnancy to delivery, it has performed exceptionally. My face has aged, new hollows and lines frame my eyes, my smile is different, saying as much about the journey I've made as about the moment I am living. I am tender to this face and to this body, loving them. And yet, I am not perfect. I make mistakes, I mutter idiot under my breath at myself, I struggle some mornings with the way the clothes on my body look when I pass a reflection. I am trying to do better, and for the most part, I am.

I am lucky because I have a partner, in parenting and in accepting. Sean travels this path of raising two girls right alongside me. I've heard him recite the rah-rah, night-night chant I've created. He talks about srength and beauty with equal weight, comments on my height and intelligence and imparts a sense of excitement in the girls for their very DNA. I stand taller as I revel in the love they are getting, that I am getting.

Occasionally Sean turns his lens on me and I am able to see without doubt the face he sees, but more to the point, the face that I have, that I am. I see the smile and the sparkle. I am reminded of the angles of my face, the line of my jaw and the length of my neck. I am reminded that I sometimes slip and forget the person that I am, too caught up in the person I aspire to be. Looking at my smiling face it all slips away and all that is left is love. My girls. My Sean. And Myself.





Today I am so very pleased to be me, mama to my girls, babe to Sean, and Mans or Mandarin to my friends and family.

Irresistible

She has the quality that turns heads from across the room. I'd gush and wax poetic, but honestly, this photo says it all- still bleary eyed from an afternoon nap, hair a mess, she still has it, that something special.

All Girl

I still marvel at the absence of tomboy, her need to wear dresses and her attraction to pink border on hysterical. I look at her jeans with longing, the sight of her in them always made me smile. She will not wear them now, cannot endure the thought of leaving the house without a dress. And now purses, she cries for her purse and sunglasses.

I blend honor and indulgence, running a load of laundry nearly every night to ensure a clean princess nightgown for bed and a fresh dress for morning. Sometimes I begin to wonder if maybe, just maybe, I could coax her into jeans and a Red Sox tee. She answers emphatically, a no, as she naturally does something so irrefutably feminine and precious, that I pledge to respect and support her need for all things girlie.


Case in (pink) point.

Before the leaves

Before the goldens and crimsons of autumn,
ahead of the early frosts and woolen scarves,
There is another show, a grander spectacle,
its beauty steals my breath and owns my heart.

The march of rolls and dimples, and of babbles and coos
begins anew, purposeful and swift it goes, I stand and watch,
every so often giving chase as the baby I have known,
sweet flesh and magic, fades away,
a gentle morning mist slipping away to sea,
as the brilliance of a new day slowly crests.

Her sapphire eyes reflect a new dimension,
understanding and questing, a challenge and a promise.
Once small and anchored in the richness of her cheeks,
they now dominate her face and penetrate my soul.

Absent are the blurred edges and muted colors,
less water color, more intimate sculpture, still magnificent,
more intense, defined and striking, bursting with life.

A part of me mourns the departure of baby and newness,
like a lover leaving in the morning, there sits a sorrow,
a longing for the cocoon of firsts, of impenetrable focus.
Yet I feel a hunger for the intensity of yet-to-be,
of conversations and of milestones.