Does going through something for the last time sharpen your consciousness of it? If nothing else, it inscribes the grooves of my anxiety more deeply- if I don't absorb this, the divine and the dull and the heart-opening and the painful, I won't get another chance to do so.
This my last child, barring accident or lobotomy or sea change. I don't much care for infant care, particularly the bits in which you're unable to soothe a howling, wordless poop machine. But I feel the yoke of the imperative savor every morsel of this time, merely because these moments -small body, wobbly head, clenched fists, mouth contorted with rage- are rare.
Is infrequency enough for import?
Of course, it doesn't matter what I think. I'm already past the last first hour, that silver span of time right after birth when the infant stays quiet and you shut up, too. We're forging forward, gathering speed.
No comments:
Post a Comment