Today while loitering in ransacking my office, Henry pulled down a stack of books and tore out a page at random.
“Here Mama,” he said, handing me page 143 in an old Sark book. I was too tired to lecture him on the sanctity of books, so I tossed aside the paper and moved on. Tonight as I was picking up the house I came across the orphaned page. This is it.
My child is a sage, no?
I’m afraid I’m not ready for this weekend’s triathlon. I’m actually crazy worried about the thing.
I’m nowhere near as prepared for this race as I was for the last two. And no, it’s not because I pushed a baby out this summer. It’s because the baby I pushed out makes it harder to train.
Understandably, he likes to play. To be danced around. To be read to. To be kissed and hugged and bounced. He likes when I comb his five hairs with a fine-toothed comb. It soothes him. He likes when I rub lotion on his forehead. This too soothes him. He likes to be ferried around the house in his umbrella stroller, which Joe and I lovingly refer to as The Hank Patrol because when he’s in it it’s (usually) because he’s morphed into his wicked baby alter-ego, Hank.
My child isn’t big on napping and when he’s awake he requires entertaining. I would have been wiser to train for a circus instead of a triathlon.
Oh, and I’m back to work, so there’s always that excuse.
Two weekends ago, I swam 50 laps at the public pool. I biked there and back. When I got home, I ran three miles in the blistering heat. I didn’t break any personal records, but at least I was out there.
Thank god for muscle memory and jog strollers. I can’t wait for the temperature to drop below 80. The heat and humidity are killing me. (Oh, yeah. There’s that excuse too.)
And then of course there’s breastfeeding. Breastfeeding. Breastfeeding. Some people run with weights. I run with them strapped to my chest. Breastfeeding has taken running with milk jugs to a whole new level.
I’d like to tell you triathlon training is the reason I lost all my pregnancy weight (and then some), but I’d be robbing my mammary glands of the tremendous credit they deserve.
With Henry.
In sponge mode.
Rest assured, in the months that follow sponge mode I typically erupt like a verbal volcano.
Spewing stories.
This is scattered and I’m OK with that.
I know I’ve been lazy in the Lance department and I’m fine with that, as well.
I’ve been figuring out this mommy thing. Letting it run over me like warm water. Letting it settle into my bones like old age. Letting it hit my synapses like a drug. Letting it happen to me. Letting it be so special that even I, a writer, can’t put it into words. Not yet.
It’s bigger than me. Bigger than Joe. So enormous and so significant that I can’t pin a fancy word on it. You understand I’m sure.
I’m in the thick of it; staring at my kid, his perfect fingers, his big pink feet. They look like his father’s feet. They look like my feet.
His toes curl when he’s angry. His eyes widen when Joe plays the guitar and his brow furrows when he’s cold.
I still can’t believe I made this.
That we made this.
Surprise. Surprise.
The King is here.
Holy anticlimactic!
I let 12 days go by after his birth without so much as posting a picture.
Sorry. I’m easily distracted. I’ve had non-stop company and I’ve been nursing a newborn around the clock, which for a novice such as myself, requires both hands.
So yes. I’ve neglected to update my favorite corner of the web.
But what about Henry, you ask.
I’m sure it’s why most of you have pulled up this site repeatedly over the last couple weeks.
The newborn I birthed! Where is he? How did it go? Did the birth center live up to its expectations? Would I recommend natural childbirth? (More on that later…)
I know some of you grew impatient and decided to find my Facebook profile. As cringe-worthy as FB can be sometimes, it’s much less time-consuming than writing a real blog post. For someone whose friends and family are scattered all over the world Facebook is a requisite social networking tool. My profile has been a hub of activity since Henry’s birth.
In this space, however, I like to take my time.
Just like Henry.
Who, by the way, was born at 1:05 p.m., Sunday, June 5 at Breath of Life Birth Center.
He weighed 8 lbs., 12 oz. and measured 21 inches long.
“Ooo! It’s about time we got a trucker,” said my midwife, who sized me up with a disconcerting GRIN as I waddled painfully into the birth center in the throes of active labor. “We’ve had a lot of pipsqueaks lately.”
The most coherent thing I said that morning: “A TRUCKER?! I don’t want a trucker!”
But I got a trucker, who one hour after being born attempted to crawl. No kidding.
June 1.
Today is supposed to be Henry’s birthday.
I’m learning, however, that “supposed to” and babies don’t go hand-in-hand. Just like “supposed to” and life doesn’t go hand-in-hand.
I’ve been on maternity leave for a week and half now. That’s a week and half of not having to meet deadlines.
Except for this one: Henry’s due date.
And like any deadline, this one comes with its share of pressure. I feel like I’ve got a massive story due at noon and none of my sources will call me back.
And unlike my job, where I’m lucky if what I produce lines a bird cage at the end of the week, this assignment has generated a captive audience like none I’ve ever seen before.
Between my Facebook page, Joe’s Facebook page, our family, our friends, our neighbors, my bank teller, the bums in the park and the girls who cash us out at the grocery store, the anticipation is so palpable you’d think I’d gone weeks past my due date.
Now I know what it feels like to be a watched kettle.
Always a procrastinator, I wrote my wedding vows on the day of my wedding on two sheets of complimentary stationary provided by The Inn at Holiday Valley while my bridesmaids got their hair done at the School House Salon in Ellicottville, N.Y.
Here they are (unedited):
10 promises to Joe by Heidi
1. I promise to always let you keep our house temperature below 76 degrees.
2. I promise to always make you turkey or tuna sammies for lunch, depending on your preference, and in the event that we’re all out of tuna, I promise to buy you your favorite diet tuna.
3. I promise to keep the house adequately stocked with Timmy Ho’s coffee.
4. I promise to always dance Cubbie when you play his favorite song on your guitar.
5. I promise to always dance on your feet to slow Phish songs.
6. I promise to always sing back-up vocals to your made-up songs.
7. I promise to let you watch ESPN Sports Center after you get home from work and even though Keith Olbermann irritates me, I’ll let you watch MSNBC during dinner – and while I’m at it, I promise to never nag you about the chicken and ketchup you always drop on the carpet.
8. I promise to always wait for you at the top of hills when we take the olympic route on bike rides.
9. I promise to always listen to the first drafts of all your stories.
10. I promise to be a good sport – a better sport – when you win our Rummy games.
Joe,
You are the best thing to ever happen to me. You keep me grounded, you keep me laughing and you keep me guessing. I love your quirks, your spontaneity and your predictability. I love that you tell me I’m beautiful and fresh-faced in the morning, even when I know I’m anything but. I love your open mind, your open heart and your wit. I love that when I complain about my hair growing into a mullet, you trim it for me with the kitchen scissors.
I love our pancake breakfasts and 20-mile bike rides, our evening card games and Wipe-Out/Take-Out nights. You make me a better person. A lighter person.
I give you this ring and promise with all my heart to be yours forever. Whatever adventures lie before us will be a riot no doubt. There’s no one else I want in my corner. I love you so much.
——
PS. When we were on our honeymoon in Upstate NY, we took at least three dozen photographs using the camera’s self-timer option as we jumped off a giant concrete fire pit in the woods in the middle of Saranac Lake. On Day 7, we paid $25 for a rented canoe, paddled out to our own private island in the Adirondack Mountains, feasted on a picnic lunch of fat deli sammies and cold Labatt Blue and freestyle jumped off boulders all day. Although our aerobic photo shoot lasted for one solid hour of hilariousness, it resulted in moderate calf pain and tender ankles. Joe paid for several poor landings the next day while summiting Whiteface Mountain.
Sigh.
It’s been 11 days since I last posted. I’m all clogged up. I need some brain drain-o. When I get my hands on some, I’ll be back with entertaining stories. I promise.
In the meantime, let it be said that tonight I beat Joe 500 to 265 at Rummy. I shall sleep like a baby.
—
PS. I took this picture at the Sarasota red carpet premiere of HGTV’s Design Star. Jason Champion, one of the show’s contestants, lives in Sarasota. I was really happy with how my profile of Jason turned out. To read it, click here.
A friend of mine likes to point out, whenever he gets the chance, that blogging is a total waste of time. That friend, in case you’re curious, is Zipper Boy and I’m going to continue to keep his identity secret because he is still dating Zipper Girl might get back together with Zipper Girl ended up marrying a MUCH BETTER zipper.
He likes to send me links to stories in the Washington Post or the NY Times that illustrate why blogging is profoundly meaningless. Fruitless. A few days ago he shared with me this link to a story titled, “Blogs Falling in an Empty Forest.”
I‘m suffering from a supreme case of writer’s block.
