I've found a home here

On Motherhood: The slow, unglamorous rhythm of motherhood.

“It’s snowing!” I shouted to your dad.

I wrapped myself in layers and bundled you in a blanket. Your dad grabbed his camera and his Stetson and beat us out the door. I slid my film camera into the deep pocket of my thrift-store coat and tied the strings of a wool bonnet under your chin. We took photos in the front yard against the dark wood of the old barn that we use to store lawn equipment we never use. There were snowflakes in your long eyelashes and I could see my breath in the air. 

We went onto the porch that overlooked the naked winter trees and listened to the quiet of the snowfall. It was one of those idyllic moments that you couldn’t have planned even if you tried.

When we went back inside I stripped off my layers until I was back to the Dunder Mifflin sleep shirt your dad got me for Christmas. My hair was in 5-day old braids and the only thing I wore on my face was exhaustion. The reality of me was everything but idyllic. But you didn’t care. You pressed your little face into my neck and gripped at the fabric of my shirt as if I was all that existed. 

Your eyes looked tired like you were already in a dream. I rocked you to sleep and sang a song I made up. I call it The Mama Loves You song and it’s only 10-words long, but you like it when I sing it over and over in a voice that’s between a whisper and lullaby. You slept on my chest for over two hours and I watched the mountain grow white outside your bedroom window. It was well past noon when you lifted your little sleep-covered face to mine in the gray light. I kissed your rose petal cheeks and held you as you yawned yourself awake.

My chest was damp from the weight of you and my stomach was growling. I meant to eat breakfast but we played in the snow instead. I set you in your crib and gave you your stuffed seahorse with the light-up belly. We named her Sammy. You caressed her fins with your sweaty hands. I grabbed a handful of cashews on my way to the bathroom and shoved them into my mouth over the toilet. Saline. Sustenance. My mouth filled with saliva and I listened for your little sounds.

These winter days, I cling to them.

Their slow, unglamorous rhythm — I’ve found a home here.