It’s 5 AM and I’m wide awake. Being a Golden Girls fan, I think of this as the Cheesecake Hour; that point when you wake up in darkness and you have to snack the worry away.
I don’t have any cheesecake. Instead I have a horrible barking cough and a fever, so I’m settling for ice water and the gluten-free snickerdoodles I told myself at the grocery store are for Ada’s lunch. I take out three cookies from the pack; two because I have a strong “cookie for each hand” rule and one extra because I’m sick.
I wish I had the energy to get up and savor the house this quiet more often. In a few hours (or maybe any minute) the kids will realize that I’ve slipped away from bed. Eli, not one to wait or get too far from Mommy, will be frantic if he finds I am gone. Once he is awake, I do not sit down. I operate as a lifeguard for hours at a time, pulling him off any surface he can climb. He is raw energy so I’m writing on borrowed time. Ada will wake up for school soon. She wants to wear her cupcake shirt today and pack three Curious George fruit snacks. She reminded me right before she fell asleep with her head on my chest.
People gave up on telling me the woes of sleeping with the kids long ago. The simple truth is that falling asleep with them after a hard day of raising them is my reward. From time to time I stay awake long after they both have drifted off. I kiss their heads, listen to them snore and I’m present with them in a way I can’t be during the day. It is my time to revel in my love for them. You see, fiercely loving my babies comes natural to me but Mothering with its bedtimes and stranger-danger-talks and discipline sometimes feels foreign to me. I think sometimes that I was meant to be their quirky aunt rather than their mom. I hear myself say things like “If I have to say it again!” and I imagine I must look like a kid in clothes that are far too-big. Yes, sleeping with my babies is for me. It’s when I get to love them without worrying about mothering them.
I think of the ladies at the grocery store, the empty-nesters and hard-candy-carrying women with halos of white, and their warnings to cherish these days. The warnings make me weary. I couldn’t savor this time more if I went around sucking it up with a straw.
…
As I expected, Eli woke up looking for me. He is in my lap nursing now. They say the breastmilk at the end of a feeding, the hindmilk, has the highest fat content and is the most satisfying for a baby. Sleeping with the kids, that is the hindmilk of my day; it nourishes me for another day of chasing and feeding and scolding and guiding and saying No when I want to say Yes.
But what about my husband? It’s okay. I get asked this a lot.
The four of us are usually right on top of each other during the day. We’re like a pack of dogs in a lot of ways. If we had a big enough bed, we’d happily sleep with our babies between us but four-to-a-queen is tight. He told me once that if the feeling he has after waking up from a bad dream is what the kids feel like waking up in the dark alone, then he’ll save my spot until they’re older. My side of the bed is made on most mornings.
I am married to an extraordinary man who is often mistaken for ordinary.
Last winter after my grandma died and my mom started the organ donor program at University of Kentucky, Travis came home and said he had a feeling that we should move her in with us. While so many men make jokes about their mother-in-laws, my husband shares a home with his. He takes her bowls of soup and kills spiders and fixes her TV.
And the man, God love him, spends his time elbow-to-elbow with me making this house a home. He planks almost any wall I ask him to plank, forgives me for my lack of patience and does his best to trust my vision. He knows somehow that this season of laboring over our home is important to me, part of my Becoming. He knows that the work is strengthening me; it’s strengthening us.
I love him for allowing me this time to find myself through the lessons I’m learning in taking apart a house to make a home. I love him for letting me tinker. I love him for not reminding me daily that I was supposed to be a writer instead of a, what? Designer? DIY junkie?
What am I? Ah, yes. The real reason for the Cheesecake Hour.
When I was in college and everyone was picking these future jobs like Teacher or Lawyer or Dentist, I used to think that I’d love being the one who painted the fences at the horse farms. I could spend all day in the sun, watching horses and dreaming up stories. Since you’ve got me honest, I’ll tell you that I’m really just a privileged daughter of generations of blue-collared folks. My dad bought me a copy of The Last of the Mohicans when I was eight or nine because he loved the movie and I’d be his best hope of reading the book. I think of him often as I’m ripping staples out of subfloors or painting trim. I might have an English degree but I have calloused working hands, too.
Mom does her best to help me with the kids so I can finish, photograph and write about the projects you see on this blog. It’s hard for her to keep up with Eli (it’s hard for me to keep up with Eli) but she does what she can while I say over and over again “I’m hurrying! Just one more paragraph! Hitting publish! Let me share it on Facebook!”
I think about quitting a lot. Who could blame me?
When I get a quiet moment with Eli sleeping in my lap or my hands in hot, soapy water, washing dishes, I search my heart, looking for the reason for this work. I try to understand why I don’t quit writing this blog when my distracted, messy-creative nature is to flutter from one thing to the next. Maybe if I quit, I reason with myself, I would have time to finish my novel. Am I running from that work?
In my bones, I know that this work is important.
I am learning how capable I am.
I am learning about the details.
I am learning how to build.
I am quietly working with my hands while my head explores the stories I’ll someday tell.
Yes, this work is important. This laboring is part of my story.
I don’t know if I’m a writer as much as I am a storyteller. Writing is just one of the ways I get these stories out. Sometimes I need to paint or dance or sit under a blanket with a flashlight to tell campfire stories with Ada.
I love the definition of the word storied that says “…decorated with designs representing scenes from a story or history.” THAT is our home. We are telling our story with this home.
It’s almost time for Ada to wake up. I will make her breakfast while I hold Eli on my hip and we will fill the house with morning sounds. I have saved two snickerdoodles for her lunch, one for each hand. Eli is stirring in my lap. I better make a cup of coffee and get ready for all this little guy has in store for me today. He inherited his momma’s need to move and see and do.
One Response
Had to smile about the horse farm fence painter. That pretty much sums up what I wanted to do when I was young too. Now that I am 62 I still want to do that. Anything to be outside by horses in a beautiful land, which all the farms are. Never forget you are doing great work. There is nothing greater than raising your children. That is a legacy no one else can give them. They are beauties too. Enjoy!