a month of spring and shark attacks
One moment he is at the top of the stairs — only a half-flight but still, good hard wood — and then I turn my back and then I hear the ka-thump thump thump and BONK and then an ominous pause.
I reach him in three leaping steps from anywhere and scoop him up, my hand palming the back of his head, and whisk him away from the offending scene. He buries his face in my shoulder and wails. Between coos, as I rock a little, I singsong
ooo-sa goo-sa, utch utch utch
tell mama all about it
utch utch utch.
I know. It's weird. I don't know where they come from, these sound-words. It's not babytalk. It's something else. Babytalk sparkles off the forehead and evaporates quickly. This language comes from the bottom of the spine, the place that roots you, where instinct comes from. It's the sounds my mouth makes before my brain can form words. After colouring on cupboards or pouring a box of Shreddies on the kitchen floor or tipping into daddy's glass of rum and orange, it's
AAAAATCH ATCH ATCH!
Universal-speak for poor baby and mama's here and KNOCK IT OFF RIGHT THIS SECOND OR I VACUUM YOUR LEGO.
They understand. They both do.
The hurry up for Evan has always been chup chup. We never get dressed without and one, and two. And one, and two, the cue for arms and legs into shirts and pants.
Ben will stop falling down stairs. Evan's lego will get packed away in favour of his mountain bike. Ooo-sa goo-sa will never be heard again. I'll probably forget it myself as they grow lanky, their bodies more their own than mine. There will be no more scooping-up. Motherhood will render me a fixture, teetering on uncool. I won't want to risk calling chup, chup, buttercup out the car window at Evan and his buddies after grade ten soccer practice.
+++
It's 11:13 PM. I just spent an hour staring at our bedroom ceiling. I'd shut my eyes. TAXES. Oh god the taxes. Six minutes contemplating the fact that I don't carry a cellphone, wear a watch, or keep receipts. In a past life I escaped prison. And so in this one I evade anything that makes me trackable. Shut my eyes.
ROOT CANALS. Oh god the root canals. Eighteen minutes imagining it, the first set of procedures on Justin's birthday. We administer the sedative ourselves. In January, when we were publicly flogged in the village square after the diagnosis, the dentist said You'll need to carry him in. He'll be totally stoned and it's all your fault. And then she laughed and pointed at me, and brought all the other dentists over to laugh and point at me. Two of them were wearing scary clown suits. 75% of that really happened.
Shut my eyes. HOME INVASIONS. Shut my eyes. BURGLARY. Shut my eyes. TSUNAMIS. Shut my eyes. MY BOOK MIGHT SUCK. Shut my eyes. THE NEXT BOOK MIGHT SUCK. Shut my eyes. MOST SHARK ATTACKS ARE COVERED UP BY THE GOVERNMENT. Shut my eyes. MOST POTENTIALLY OBNOXIOUS OPINIONS ARE COVERED UP BY SENSIBLE BLOGGER/AUTHORS. Shut my eyes.
I have a fear boner. And I can't sleep. So I came out here to start a spreadsheet for my taxes, wishing I had someone to tell me that on Friday April 30th, everything will be okay. Which translates, loosely, to a loving palm on the back of my head and my face shushed into a sweater that smells like chocolate chip cookies and
ooo-sa goo-sa, utch utch utch.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Reader Comments (50)
And already, I've been told to cut the baby mumbles. I miss it already. My ladies are really turning into ladies, and I feel like someone sucked time from me like a dervish. Unfair.
But, they stay mostly upright on stairs now, for which I am grateful. :D
My daughter totally got bitten by a shark. I am not even kidding.
http://babybloomr.com/2008/06/02/sharkbite-photos/
So yeah, I sincerely hope those scary grown-up night terrors go away-- I hate those-- but you might want to keep that whole shark bite thing on the mental front burner. Apparently that one can ACTUALLY HAPPEN, who knew?! (Totally missed worrying about that one, I was just worried about her getting on drugs or knocked up or something.)
I noticed that.. and I loved it. I made a point of it in my head.
You glide through motherhood, Kate. Even when you feel not-so-graceful. Take it from a (now laughing) 'whippersnapper' who stood barefoot on the steps of your cabin on a chilly morning and, through sleep in the eyes, watched you usher the boys to the car, encourage them to tell exciting stories, told me about breakfast, and the shower, and Justin, how you'll be back in 30 minutes, run back for Ben's backpack...
And that sounds like I'm compressing all that you are into a mere multitasking goddess, but that's so not it.
It was a picture. It was a 'this is what I was talking about when I fumbled around a curious email, wanting perspective on WHAT THIS IS'. It's hard to write that down. I mean, if anyone could have written it down, it'd be you (hell, you just did), but, I promise, after seeing it, I have the answer I was looking for.
I reiterate... you are cool.
i'm still recovering from choking baby episode of this morning.
he's fine. i need a cuddle.
you're mighty good with the words.
You're welcome, everybody in the Northern Hemishpere.
Funny about the taxes - ours are do April 15th. My birthday is April 14th and my mother is an accountant. I can usually look forward to an aggrevated rushed mother calling me at 2:23 pm each year to tell me how busy she was X number of years ago.
And I agree with Thordora - Babybloomr's daughter kicks ass!!
...sorry I like Marry Poppins, don't judge :)
First Alison, that was my Very Obedient Clone.
Second Alison, I love 'skin a bunny'. Presuming the kid wouldn't actually know what skinning a bunny would actually entail. :)
Tara, baby choking incidents always undid me completely. Pour yourself a drink. Or a bath. Or both.
Thanks all... I'm going to try hitting myself over the head with a cast iron skillet tonight. I've heard it's the latest in natural remedies.
Falling down the stairs, been there. My little one was 11 mths old when she fell, hitting her head on the safety gate at the bottom (oh the irony) and requiring a visit to the dr to be glued up (no stitches thank god). 2mins after it happened, I'm on the phone to the dr and she's trying to climb the stairs again, totally recovered. I, on the other hand, was still shaking 3 hrs later. Can't remember the language I used that day, some of it isn't for repeating!
it ain't choc choc cookies and my sounds would be foreign to you, but sending soothing balmy thoughts your way and my mantra when it comes to taxes...usually the irs could give a fuck about us and what we make...as it is such an inconsequential number....does it play like that it the terrifically fantastical land of canada?
been practicing my tea crafting skillz...would make you a cup if i could. get some sleep but please not with the cast iron method.
xo
I love the way you tell your stories. I so enjoy reading them.
Relax, woman. Perhaps, remember your grandma, just passed. You loved her. What might she advise the young you from her perch wherever she is? All right then. I'll tell you. "chill".
and in the meantime....http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7uMIbp9tRKo
death and taxes are sure things in life....we make up everything else.
I could listen to you tell stories for ever.
Flora does it too now. Usually to her sister.
Flora is Flora-bean and Kate is Katie-belle. For now. Until I embarrass them in front of their friends. And I thought of that being old thing, too. That my girls will be blooming into beauty as I fade. (And I hope I don't get jealous of them.)
And I think I stay up later than I should at night to avoid the night-think. I am so tired, I am asleep before I even lay down. Unless one of the girls is coughing. Unless there is a thunderstorm at 3 a.m. Then all bets are off.
I could use a hug like that too.
Does that make me a bad person???
And I hate the late night worries. Somehow my brain isn't fully functional at that time and tends to overreact even more than usual. Hoping the morning light brings you relief!
It will all turn out okay. April and everything after.
When you write about motherhood, it is as though you are drawing this great violin bow across some hidden chord in my middle, making it oscillate and dance; so sweet, so sweet.
When you write about loss, I feel the rift - the one I know each one of us carries around with us for all kinds of different reasons - I feel it open its arms wide, gasping, trying to find its own edges.
When you write about rough, tumbleweed pirate girls, I want to get up and do a peg-legged jig. And swig some cheap rum.
So I'm here to say: 'Naaaa, na na na' and 'Aaaii, ai ai ai.' These are my words of comfort, the ones from my sacrum, the ones for my son. Because you are my writing hero, so I want to make sure you know your fear boner need not be titillated by worry that your writing might ever suck. Just now for example, you made me remember tangibly what it felt like to be comforted by my mother. Hard-wired and yet so far away. Thank you!
Now go have sex. I think that was the best advice of the day.
The other stuff though... I think we all lay awake with those thought balloons tormenting us. Don't we? I sure do. My salve for middle of the night fretting is my ipod. I fill it up with audiobooks for just such occasions. When Stephen Fry reads Harry Potter I either drift off or else I have a lovely time laying in the dark, visions of Hogwarts replacing visions of being crushed to death by student loans.
Or as others have suggested... there's always sex. Can't argue with that.
This comment section has gotten completely out of hand.
I just hide under the table.
Sorry about the root canals, and sleep-deprivers. They'll all be over. Even shit has expiry date.
Big love to ya. xo
The one that broke my heart, though, after Matthew's dad and I separated: “I wan toh be contwohluh of the yewnibohs.”
(Translation: peanut butter and jelly, cheese and crackers, Daddy’s Visa was stolen, We’re going to Disney World, Darth Vader says, Luke I am your destiny [Darth breathing], Johnny Rutherford, I want to be controller of the universe)
I adored the way he talked. He did have to go through a year of speech therapy, though.
They are our deepest words, and maybe our deepest memory, I know my Mom says that to my littles, too. I would guess she said it to us when we were babes. I know she said it to me while I was in labour with my oldest 18 years ago. Somebody should do a thesis.
I have teenagers and little ones, and the oosha thing doesn't go away, when my 16 year olds beloved girlfriend broke up with him for 5 days last fall, (and then, thankfully, order was restored to the universe) he was pretty good for 2 days and then it sunk in. He came to me and said, "You know, Mom, this really HURTS." Ouch. I huged him and said, "oosha my baby.." while he cried for a minute. (I managed to keep it together until he went back down to his room, then I bawled.)
And we "skin" a lot of bunnies at our house, and put armies in sleevies, and leggies in leg sleevies. (Because of the ever popular joke at our house, "Where does a general keep his armies? In his sleevies!)
I've been so anxious lately, too. It bites.
Take this and call me in the mornin'.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t1tbX_NJn98
I don't have kids but I already have a love/hate with Legos.