21 June 2018
days as they are known.
we're settling in at home after a hop across the ocean and it's been a quiet, soul-filling stretch of days. aside from working our way through the anticipated jet lag, we're living simple hours that look like most others we live, now. where i once worked structured hours in an office and sipped coffee from paper cups and possessed such vernacular as commute and lunch hour and vacation days, i now tend our boy and keep our home. maybe in other corners of the world, this is nothing notable, but here in new york, in 2018, it catches onlookers by surprise. that i don't "work." that we don't have a nanny. that we don't send our laundry out or have groceries delivered. the work that i do between our four walls might seem silly or limiting to some, but to me, it is the dream. my dream. a lived dream that, however humble, will never feel small.
on delicious, magnificent repeat: i make bread and sip coffee from mugs and spin folk music and listen to podcasts that spark inspiration and give the apartment a good scrub on fridays. i chop vegetables for dinner and changes mountains of diapers and wipe streams of spit up and wash loads at the laundromat around the corner, my tiny assistant peering out from beneath his brimmed bonnet suspiciously, hilariously, as though he is on neighborhood watch. i negotiate nap times and navigate the complex emotions of a very small person. we sink into each other to nurse, hour by hour. we dance to the beach boys and i write when i can. we go for strolls, usually once in the morning and again before the close of the afternoon, and i call all that we see by name: roses and dogwalkers and rita at the espresso machine and central park busy blooming...
when bub gets squirrelly, we soak in the tub. taking him to water never fails. he gazes as his hands as though he's been gifted fistfuls of stars and naps in the big bed and laughs with his whole body as i kiss the pillowy rolls of his thighs, again and again and again. i make everything a song and kiss his fuzzy head with a mouthful of forevers and tell him about his papa and places we have gone and places we are going. i read poetry out loud and he blinks at me with shining, thoughtful eyes. my curiosity is his inheritance. these days are my kingdom.