Time shifts with a newborn. Somedays there is no time.
In windowless hospital rooms, time does not exist.
Hours go by that feel like minutes.
Time stops and speeds and slows and is forgotten.
We steal sleep when we can. The sun does not tell us when.
The moon does not tuck us in. We drift around, floating in space.
Untethered and unhinged.
The love between these siblings is instant.
It's a powerful thing to love another person, a mere stranger,
immediately upon meeting them. It's so strong we have to be reminded
not to hurt each other with the strength of our hearts.
I tell him to be gentle, don't wake the baby, just one kiss.
He tells me he can't, he just loves him so much. He can't help it.
Feeling heartbroken for the absence of paternal leave in this country.
Not as much as I feel contempt for the lack of maternal leave.
It has felt wrong for our family to be pulled apart.
When we all need each other the most.
Recognizing the sacrifices we all have to make.
To leave our family at dawn and work long manual labor hours,
only to return at night, depleted.
To stay home alone all day until arms go numb and legs give out
to the constant rocking, swaying, soothing.
Entertaining a four year old as a side act,
adding comedy to a new circus job of
juggling children.
What is it like to be swimming for nine months,
awakening to a world of air, bright light and wild ruckus all around.
Poking and prodding, tests and oxygen sensors,
screens with graphs to agonize over your stats. You are too little for stats.
You come home to fumbling parents grasping to learn the ways of you. To socks
ejecting themselves onto the floor, hats too loose, clothes too bunchy.
It doesn't make sense.
The trees make sense.
The contrast of the light in between the new green leaves.
The cool breezy air and muffled sounds.
The sounds of a brother in his secret hideout.
Books and pillows litter the house. We find comfort in them wherever we can.
The comedy continues. Four year olds don't get caught up in the despair of life.
Unbelievably small.
An exhausting journey for everyone.
Resting in a 40 year old cradle. Marking the passage of time and
age of your doting uncle who also rested here once as a new person.
A new person to new parents who stumbled to figure out the language of babies,
and ultimately survived and paved a path of hope for their babies to raise babies.
Fresh sourdough from dear Lyn.
Who was our neighbor when Sawyer was a babe,
and delivered fresh bread to us when he was days old.
We tear off hunks when we get a moment, slathered with butter,
nourishing our tired frayed bodies, bringing us back to life.
