The Yearlings
To answer PTG's question in the comments to the previous post, Valentine's Day was a success. Tim Gunn arrived, neatly attired, bespectacled head bobbing and all, and Ty and I sat down to a festive dinner of bagels and lox. The babies, now being ONE YEAR OLD and each having an average of 6.5 teeth, are able to chomp a bit, and are even focusing on chomping stuff other than my fingers and shoulders, so they partook of the bagelfest.
My sons are now able to stand, though not yet walk without holding onto stuff. They smile and joke. They have full, tousled heads of hair. When I drink my mug of tea each morning, Thyme cries for a sip. Once, while lying down, Sage touched the laparoscopy scar on my navel. It tickled, and I laughed, and when I saw the delighted look on his face, I laughed even harder. He now wants to do it every day.
My babies are boys. They kick, and cry, and play, and clap their hands and sway when music is playing. When asked where the bear's nose is, they will point to it. If left seated alone with a book, they will turn the pages and speak out loud, telling themselves the story as they see it.
I still don't shower regularly. I still don't sleep through the night. Some mornings, if they get their hands on a particularly loud, fun toy, there is more banging on the floor of the playroom than Marilyn Chambers experienced between 1972 and 1985. I am not able to insert an edible morsel into my mouth without tears and protestation until I share. My upper arms are as muscular as my stomach is flabby. There always seem to be 400 people around. I now consider toilet paper to be a cosmetic, and perfume a cleansing product.
I have developed a depth of patience that I never thought I had within me. I cuddle, I feed, I clean. I protect from the scary duck with the red eyes. I'm the one to appeal to. I'm the one to get angry at. I'm the one to plant one's mouth on, in an imitation of the kisses I so frequently bestow.
I've changed, fundamentally and unalterably. I'm one year in. A full-fledged mother.
My sons are now able to stand, though not yet walk without holding onto stuff. They smile and joke. They have full, tousled heads of hair. When I drink my mug of tea each morning, Thyme cries for a sip. Once, while lying down, Sage touched the laparoscopy scar on my navel. It tickled, and I laughed, and when I saw the delighted look on his face, I laughed even harder. He now wants to do it every day.
My babies are boys. They kick, and cry, and play, and clap their hands and sway when music is playing. When asked where the bear's nose is, they will point to it. If left seated alone with a book, they will turn the pages and speak out loud, telling themselves the story as they see it.
I still don't shower regularly. I still don't sleep through the night. Some mornings, if they get their hands on a particularly loud, fun toy, there is more banging on the floor of the playroom than Marilyn Chambers experienced between 1972 and 1985. I am not able to insert an edible morsel into my mouth without tears and protestation until I share. My upper arms are as muscular as my stomach is flabby. There always seem to be 400 people around. I now consider toilet paper to be a cosmetic, and perfume a cleansing product.
I have developed a depth of patience that I never thought I had within me. I cuddle, I feed, I clean. I protect from the scary duck with the red eyes. I'm the one to appeal to. I'm the one to get angry at. I'm the one to plant one's mouth on, in an imitation of the kisses I so frequently bestow.
I've changed, fundamentally and unalterably. I'm one year in. A full-fledged mother.
Copyright 2005-2010 by Arabella and Trattoria Breve. All rights reserved. 12:19 PM
8 Comments:
One year! Wow...
I knew you'd be a great Mother. I'm so happy for you, girl.
One year?
Where does the time go?
So glad you posted! I remember what ONE YEAR was like. They're into everything, no?
The one year anniversary for children is also paper, like being married.
Only, it's used toilet paper, not some fancy, heavy card stock you can use to write pithy and endearing letters to all your grownup friends. Congrats!
You are, you ARE a full fledged mother!!
Until you survive Three. At which point you will be Mom Goddess, and if they are still alive the boys will owe you Big Time...
Cool. Life is good.
How things change!!! Yet, I know you wouldn't give up a second of it!!
Beautiful.
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