Cousin IT died in my laundry

I am going bald. I swear it. I had heard that a woman loses quite a bit of hair after giving birth, but this is ridiculous. We find it EV-ER-Y-WHERE. A continued loss of abundance from the birthing body. I find it in matted balls in our clean laundry, which, oddly enough, makes it feel less clean. I find it stuck in between Jude's fat rolls. I find it inside my socks tickling my toes. I find it itching my back at random points in the day. I find it in our sheets. I find it on the floor. I find it in M's hair. I find it stuck in MY fat rolls. I have to stay ever-vigilant to prevent it from being in our food (and I promise, I'm a regular eagle-eyes!). For the love. And don't even start me on what comes out of my head when I shower or comb my hair. Handfuls, my friends, handfuls. And it's bringing back my high school paranoia that I would be a bald woman by sweet 16. I remember wondering if they made Rogaine (sp?) for teenage girls. Then I read that one generally loses about 100 strands per day. After doing some calculating on the wall of the shower, I figured I was not in too grave of danger. My new post-birth trends put my fearful high school heart to shame. To SHAME!

So, I am now re-investigating Rogaine for postpartum women. And wigs. And implants.

If I look like Gollum creepily cradling a gnarly ball of lost hair ("my precious") next time you see me, just smile and tell me my hair looks luscious.

I'm in Love

Oh, my heart!

My Wild Thing

This morning, when Jude and I were still in our pajamas, I held him in my arms and swayed back and forth, back and forth. He in his "I love Daddy" crazy giraffe footsie pjs and me in my blue checkered pajama pants. My hair, now tamed back into a droopy ponytail, rumpled from a long night of getting up and up and up and up to feed Jude. I hummed a little tune into his ear, softly, the only sound in the small universe of our apartment. Jude's head lay on my chest, quiet and still, his eyes wide open. His generally wiggling body laid tired against my body. We swayed and hummed for what seemed like a long time. The bright morning sun streamed in through the blinds, bathing us in a warm glow, a baptism of light.

I love moments like this. Or the one, later today, when we laid on the floor of his room, on his little doggie blankie, and read "Where the Wild Things Are" together. He mostly sucked on his whole hand. And then the other one. Little chubby fingers dripping with spit. He didn't seem to like the word, "terrible." But, I think he liked the idea of being king of the Wild Things. He is, after all, our King Jude.

Or the moment last night, when the quiche was made and in the oven, and I scooped him up from his sous-chef station in his rocker and tickled his belly until he giggled wildly. A rare moment of inexplicable laughter. He kept cracking himself up and looking to me to laugh more. My cheek muscles hurt afterwards from smiling too much.

These moments balance the others like last night when he broke my heart with tired crying. He resists sleep like some men fight for air when drowning. I try to put him down and walk away, frazzled. Holding him doesn't seem to help. And then, I capitulate every time, helpless, helpless, helpless. I pick him up and sway and sway and sway until he is quiet and still, little tears pooled under his closing eyes. Then I place the floppy bundle of his tired body back down and he sleeps.

Or other moments like two nights ago when his diaper leaked urine all over him, me and our bed at 3:00 AM. I could barely open my eyes for exhaustion. I fumbled around our apartment for new pajamas for both Jude and I in the pitch dark. Light would have only been a further insult. Once both of us were dry and clean, we all went back to sleep. I slept on a towel until morning when I washed our sheets, again. I seem to do that alot lately.

Although most moments are decidedly between these two extremes, I tend to forget about the tired crying and sleeping in urine all night and hold, rather, onto the remembrance of quiet waltzes in the morning sunlight and his impossibly bright blue eyes looking at me, the two of us laughing out loud.

My boy

Jude

Mike

Emily

My boy's eyes are blue--of the intensity of pure things. Sparkling. They are his dad's. 27 years younger.

My boy's eyelashes extend for days, long and straight, not even a hint of a curl. I think of them like the flatness of North Dakota.

My boy has a cleft in his chin. My cleft.

My boy has a pensive face and a quizzical brow. Some might say he scowls, but I think he's just curious. Full of observation. Perhaps a little skeptical.

My boy has a pouty lip to slay the masses, bend them pathetically, helplessly to his will. I capitulate every time--scoop him up into a too-tight embrace.

My boy has a mischevious smile. A melting, mischevious smile. Mike and I go to great, ridiculous lengths to coax it out.

My boy is strong. Although his head still bobs as we hold him, standing, by his hips, his legs hold him up--wee, steel, stork legs.

He has his father's flat feet, his mother's glower, his father's hint of auburn, his mother's eye shape, his father's lucious lips, his mother's detached earlobes.

My boy captivates me countless times a day--he coos and sputters and drools and I ask for more. "Tell me," I say, "Tell me more."

My boy sleeps with his small fists cradling his head. The small vulnerability of his sleep is endlessly disarming--the thin, purple paper of his eyelids.

My boy has fuzzy, wispy hair, a halo of strawberry fuzz on his near bald head. It poofs out deliciously after his bath.

I kiss my boy hundreds of times a day--push my lips into the chubiness of his baby cheeks, the top of his head, bury myself in the small arc of his neck, into his palms, his feet, his button nose. It's compulsion--an outflowing of my motherhood to his sonhood, to his babyhood, to his mineness.

I take these small moments and tuck them into my new heart--the one that burst into being as my body spread wide as eternity--the one with pockets to hold his many small, unintentional gifts. Small tremors of love still stretch it, that heart, wider and wider--an expanse of warm space to nestle every sweetness, every angle, every moment of my boy, my Jude, my tender, little babe.

sleeping on a 12-hour car ride

I take it hungrily at odd angles, my head bobbing like a newborn's until it sinks drowsily to the nearest surface--Jude's carseat or the hard, grey plastic of the car door, my back shlumped over, the window hot and sweaty on my face.

I wake up to moments of flat, scrubby land, passing in whirls of browns and muted greens, and then fall helplessly back.

Would that I could slip this sleep into a hip flask, take hits throughout the day when the lack hits like a hot flash, or long guzzling draughts in the still hours of the night when my ears strain into the darkness for quiet cries, my breasts hot and full of milk, waiting for him to drain them as if from an aquifer, my breasts like porous stone.

I awake with red sweaty lines across my face, drooling, drunk on the stuff.

My mother left today. After leaving a message for Jude on the video camera, promising to think of him every day, she drove away. I stood on our front lawn sniffling under the blaring sun and waved until I couldn't see her anymore. For two weeks she has taken care of the three of us: washed and folded our clothes, changed innumeral diapers, bought groceries, made us delectable food, cleaned our house, scrubbed our oven, watched Jude while I napped, driven me on small excursions, picked up every thing I have accidentally dropped, promised me that it is normal for a baby to do x or y, reassured me over and over I would heal, and kept me company while we have starred googlie-eyed at my small boy for hours on end. As I am newly learning, there is nothing like the love of a mother or father. As I have watched her hold and cuddle Jude, I can see her in my mind's eye twenty-seven years ago, cuddling a little Emily and I know I have been loved every moment of my life. After we visited Grandma and Grandpa T today, I had the same feeling, imagining them years ago cuddling a little Jan. My grandpa walked around the room with Jude in his hands and said over and over, "How special...how special."

And so it goes.

Once she left, I shuffled back into our apartment and held Jude for a long time. After that, I put him into the sling she made, finished the laundry she started and pulled out leftovers from last night's dinner.

I miss her.