As I rocked Morgan to sleep yesterday afternoon, her knees elbowed my bladder, her hands reached down my shirt through my arm holes, and in general she wiggled and squirmed until I felt her belly and shoulders go soft. I continued rocking and smelling the top of her head. Then I lifted her up and tucked her sleeping body in her bed.
I probably do not need to rock her to sleep for her naps anymore; she goes to sleep at night with a back rub and kiss good night. Morgan is now closer to be three than she is to being two. There was a time not so long ago when naps were fraught and tearful events, and now it's a simple cuddle. (Well okay, more like a sumo wrestling cuddle.) When I hold her in my arms I imagine that in a year or two I won't remember the last time I rocked her to sleep. And yes, it makes me wild with sentimentality.
After she was tucked in for her nap, I went downstairs and looked out my window and watched the snow melting, dripping off the porch roof. It's May. I have lettuce growing in the windowsills in my room. My yard is still covered in 2 feet of snow. For a moment I longed for the landscape of my childhood in California--for the smell of honey dew flowers, cut grass, and outdoor swimming pools. I miss drives to Mooney's Grove, milkshakes at Mearles, and walking through downtown Visalia. I know I'm just throwing around names, but I think we all have places from our childhood we wish could return to.
I don't know how to re-write the cliche of how fast time passes. Each time I sat down to write this week, I got about thirty words in, then started hitting the delete button. I feel a sudden streak of sentimentality and I'm uncomfortable when I see it reflected on the page. I now think of Morgan as a child. Not a baby, almost not a toddler. She's busy playing with blocks, dressing her dolls, doing puzzles...but I can't help but imagine that she's going to wake up from a nap, walk downstairs, and find herself grown and looking out the window missing the landscape of her childhood.
Okay, enough sap--until next week anyways. Happy Mother's Day.
I don't know how to re-write the cliche of how fast time passes. Each time I sat down to write this week, I got about thirty words in, then started hitting the delete button. I feel a sudden streak of sentimentality and I'm uncomfortable when I see it reflected on the page. I now think of Morgan as a child. Not a baby, almost not a toddler. She's busy playing with blocks, dressing her dolls, doing puzzles...but I can't help but imagine that she's going to wake up from a nap, walk downstairs, and find herself grown and looking out the window missing the landscape of her childhood.
Okay, enough sap--until next week anyways. Happy Mother's Day.
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