They Tell Me I'll Miss These Days

Big Baby's car seat is in my spot

I lower myself between their two seats with a gentle heave, dropping one cheek at a time as my hips settle on the hard plastic belt latches. I reach to close the car door behind me, a grunt escaping my mouth as my sides mold against the walls of their car seats. There's no escape now, at least not a quick one as my feet too are wedged against the console, toes pointing up like a botched foot binding. We're glommed together like a siamese triple; big kid on the right, little one on the left, their sweet, smug faces telling me this is just how they like it. And this is before they even start touching me.

Nug holds my arm, or leans her head on my shoulder, or just pokes me until I turn to look at her, as if the two inches previously separating our heads was just too distant. Cookie reaches for whatever she can grab. She giggles when she pulls a fistful of shirt towards her, getting a glimpse of the flesh on my chest- her domain until only recently, and still a source of comfort. The thought crosses my mind that I should invent the opposite of a nursing bra, something that locks to my skin so little hands can't pry it open at, say, the grocery store. I hardly even notice that I'm baring myself anymore, but her meaty grip on my cleavage as she swipes its adorning new skin tags- the same ones worn by my mother, and by her mother- is a little tender. She's so good at reminding me of my mommy body, my breast tissue loose enough to hold like a sandwich.

The car moves forward, prompting Cookie to demand, in no uncertain terms, to hold my face and slobber my nose. On Nug's end, she fights for what's left- arm, sleeve, hand. I am now mostly horizontal, offering my appendages to the preschool firing squad. When W asks for directions from the driver's seat, I start to get car sick. Surround-sound sensory overload.

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The moms who have been here tell me I'll miss these days. I'll miss the Mommy!!! I NEED yous and the snot on my fresh clean shirt. I'll miss the hours of hip-carrying and the days of playing "Baby" (because if I'm not holding a live person, I'm holding a doll, obvi!). I'll miss having my lap full of two beings, stretching the limits of my poor postpartum hips, and I'll miss their sticky up-stretched hands. I'll miss these things because it means that I am Their Person. I am their salve. And I am the one invited to live in their world, where personal space is a major insult but food-encrusted clothing is celebrated.

Their beauty and bigness.

I know those moms are right and on days where I gain a little traction, I already miss those moments. Sometimes I ache with my kids' beauty and bigness. Their sass and their insight. But more often, the days pass slowly, one hour after the next. On particularly long days, when lunch has been eaten and nap has been taken and the afternoon stretches out in front of me, my only comfort is the clock we never adjusted from east coast time, like a friend patting me on the shoulder saying just as I did, you'll make it to the end of the day too. 

I also know that out there exists a corner, which I will one day round. On the other side I'm free of the sixty+ pounds of other human on me. I sit in the front seat and I'm not passing snacks back! But those sixty pounds- my pride and joy, make no mistake- have siphoned off nearly everything I have. I've been so busy putting my all in their basket, that I've left myself without a compass to find that corner. I've left myself feeling like I'll be horizontal in the kiddie row forever. 

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Cookie's first four molars are coming, you can practically see them throbbing in her gums. Her chest is full of rattles from yet another cold. Between the two, a leaky green pond has taken residence in her nose, crusting over in the morning like the drying of low tide. Getting her to sleep on her own through all of this has been futile, so we've found ourselves in bed together again. She turns and thrashes in discomfort, finally settling, oddly, with her head at my hip. With this she has me pinned against the wall, and I sleep fitfully in fear that the blanket will smother her. But each morning she pops her static-filled sandy-hair up from the mattress and I'm rewarded with a smile like we just shared the biggest secret. Her baby body rolls out baby giggles. My muscles are sore but my heart is giddy in this perfect moment. Soon Nug bounces in (they seem diurnally connected) and joins the I-have-a-secret giggles. Her hulking body is a big contrast to Cookie's thirty-two-inches; child #1 fills my entire lap and then some. I'm flooded with a vision of my future: two giant non-babies. I stare off for a moment as they greet each other, excited and frightened by the thought of them growing up, a glimpse at regaining myself but losing my grasp of them.

As an experienced mom now, I have the gift of knowing that each phase does pass. I know I won't be riding in the middle seat on their way to prom.

I know.

Because by that time, I'll be telling newer moms to stay smothered by their kids as long as possible.

And maybe setting my clocks to Hawaiian time.

(Cookie, 15mo)