In the early days, after bringing our first baby, Esme, home. Chris and I realized quickly and quite naively that we would be doing everything differently; specifically, one-handed or with no hands at all. It became immediately stone cold clear that our bodies would now only be bending and curving and moving in ways that carried the tiny hope of holding a space that our baby would want to rest in. Which in turn meant a space we could possibly rest in as well. Our job now, our only occupation, was to make her feel safe, at ease, and home. We lived for the double sigh and the tiny twitch followed by the soft pouf sound of a fart that meant she had finally fallen asleep. In case you haven’t had the pleasure, the sound of a baby farting on you will make you feel like you’ve never known love before. I don’t know why — it just will. But even these naps, which were never more than 20 minutes, would often only happen when we were walking. Something about the movement and her being upright and held tight kept her frightening colic at bay. And so if it seemed she was dozing off, we’d slip our shoes on and quietly sneak out the door to get some much-needed fresh air, give the other one of us a break, and hope that it might last.
Sitting down, bowing, and folding over at the waist to tie a shoe lace before heading out — just the thought of it turned our insides cold and sweaty. We were frightened of shoelaces. I couldn’t even stomach the risk of the jostling that might take place when I’d sometimes have to hop on one foot a smidge (while wearing Esme ), bending my knee, keeping myself as upright and uninteresting as possible, while stretching my heel up for a finger to run along the back of a shoe to horn it on — even this was just too terrifying a thought. I often opted for sandals, which I could pull off all year since we lived in L.A. Some things just get in the way of your survival as a parent, and sometimes those things are shoelaces.
Even now, I think wherever I am in a room, if my children are there, my body is still turning, bending, stopping, holding, curving — unconsciously moving with the hope of creating a space for them to nestle down into - someplace smooth for all of us to rest in. I know better, but I still want my company, my body, my voice, to be a shelter for all the storms. This morning, Esme went to grab something from her room as we were about to drive to a nearby garden. I was halfway out the door heading to the car, and she said, “Hold on, wait for me,”…and then, as if I needed a justifiable reason to pause, she said, “I scare easily.” I stepped back in, stood there, and waited for her so she wouldn’t be alone in the house. I said, “I scare easily, too,” And she smiled a little, grateful.
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