I think one of the reasons I never write during the school year is because I feel as though I don’t have the time – what with lesson planning and grading and just simply breathing in the few moments in between managing the aftermath of the combustion of hundreds of raging adolescent hormones with the air of high school hallways – I’m always exhausted. But another reason I don’t write during the school year is because it requires an opportunity to reflect – something dependent on time, yes, but also on the powers of observation. In many ways, observing is a polite way to say eavesdropping. When writers observe the people around them, they observe more than their actions; they absorb their idiosyncratic movements, they eavesdrop on conversation and speech patterns and, sometimes, the really good writers can even see through people, into their hearts and motives. Good writers participate in people-watching with a purpose, a skill I don’t have the time nor energy for during the school year.
Now, just because I may have more “time” while I am on maternity leave (it looks that way on paper, at least), I’ve also been relatively isolated these past four months, with Josh taking our only vehicle to and from work each day, leaving me alone with our baby, our dogs, and my random thoughts. And, despite feeling like a mama hawk with crazy eyes darting around in the dark, I do not have this super power of observation. I do, however, have a video baby monitor.
And this fabricated power (kind of like what the character, Syndrome, from The Incredibles created) brought me great joy on Sunday night. Soon after we put Dylan to sleep, his pacifier fell out of his mouth startling him awake; Josh ran upstairs to soothe him back to sleep, and I surreptitiously pulled the video monitor screen to my side. There wasn’t a whole lot of conversation: just Josh’s upper body hovering over Dylan’s flailing limbs as Josh searched for the missing pacifier. I heard him ask, “where the hell is it, buddy?” as Josh’s man arms reached around Dylan’s head in the dark, shrinking the size of our baby, by juxtaposition. Once the pacifier was located, Josh helped it back to Dylan’s chomping mouth, and I watched Dylan’s little hands desperately cling to Josh’s one massive paw. In the space of a few quiet moments, I held my breath as I watched my husband and son hold each other together. After awhile, there was nothing more for Josh to do, but he continued to linger. Dylan had slipped back to sleep, as evidenced by his breathing pattern and the way his whole body settled into the mattress with a little more weight, a little less restraint. Eventually, Josh slowly removed his hand from Dyl’s grasp, laid the palm of his hand across Dylan’s entire belly to settle him once more, and I watched the back of Josh’s hand rise and fall with the determined breath of our little one. Soon, Josh backed away and returned to me on the couch. I gave him a sly grin, feeling like I was a fly on the wall for the last ten minutes or so, and smitten with what I observed. He shrugged it off, like it was no big deal, but I know what I witnessed: the budding of a relationship of interdependence. Papa Bear & Baby Bear: an inseparable bond. Now, if only I had more time, I might begin to write the whole story…
#mothering 