{my topography}

Baby, it’s cold outside…

The theme this week at Mama Says Om is cold. I’m having fun with this one.

Back to normal operations, or: sleep is for the weak

I got it here, when we were there. Could there be a more perfect T? If you look reeeealy closely, you can see his first little tooth poking through. And yes, the other one’s coming in so we’re not getting much sleep around here. Still.

Buisness as usual: finding magic even there

We came back late Sunday amidst rain falling warm against a crust of snow, and spent the first hours at home unpacking and sorting through mail. By the following evening, we finally felt caught up on all the little things that make a home run: the floor was vacuumed, the plants watered, bills paid, phone calls returned, and we had a moment to step out into the early falling darkness of evening.

The air was cold and the night slightly windy as we made our way downtown. As we turned the corner between tall buildings, we saw it: the cobble stone pedestrian walk bordered on either by trees and shops was lit with thousands of little white lights. Every tree, twinkling softly. It was so beautiful, we just stood there, our mouths open.

Then we made our way for toasty slices of chees pizza and hot chocolate and sat in front of the gigantic spruce at the top of the block, sparkling in a myriad of colors. Bean’s eyes were huge and round like small deep inkwells reflecting the lights. He grinned wide when the wind blew the branches. And from somewhere, Carol of the Bells was playing softly.

Remembering the texture of moments

I’m feeling mostly better today, and tomorrow we’re our way back north. Towards our small, busy apartment; towards the unfinished business with the house and work; towards heaps of christmast cards that need mailing and cookies that need baking; towards snow; towards days without the joy and distraction Bean’s grandprarents bring to his life. But also towards our morning ritual of a walk downtown and coffee; towards our cat’s soft purring; towards friends; towards home.

Already the walk along the the canal on Thanksgiving day is just a collection of snapshots. Memory. Autumn, still clinging to tree branches. Canada geese in droves along the edges of the water.

self portrait. windy hair. up close.

concord grapes against concret.

autumn still lingers. leaves like bright flames over water.

a tangle of grass seeds like delicate jewlrey.

bird berries.

burgundy leaves. some small insect’s feast.

tree berries. sliver and knobby against dark water.

bird’s nest. lonley and dark in the twigs against the sky.

Laid up

I woke up at 5:30 with stomach flu. NO, IT ISN’T FOOD POISONING, or everyone else would have it—and I’m the only one who had to run to the bathroom this morning where I sat in agony on the loo. I’ve been floating in and out of a feverish haze all day. The real reason I’m posting however, is that I spent most of today away from my beautiful baby and I missed him something fierce when I finally dragged myself out to the living room. And you know what? He missed me back! He reached his arms out and grinned and chuckled and just about ate my face of with his version of kisses.

It is as though I’m watching him grow at light speed today. Suddenly he seems so big: eating mostly solids (soup and sweet potatoes spoon fed by his nonna). Just in a heartbeat during our visit here he has learned to stick his tongue out and wave ‘bye bye’ and ‘hi.’

I’m writing about it because I’m not sure it’s really happening–as feverish and miserable as I’ve been today. I’m looking forward to coming back to what I’ve written when I’m better–to read it like a postmark. This happened. Because right now I’m pretty much just whimpering and wishing I could fast forward.

Gratitude

I have learned this year how to give thanks for small things. For the time between waking and getting up, when Bean looks out the window and I replay fragments of dreams. For the seven sips of coffee with milk and sugar in the morning with the “What’s News”� section of the Wall Street Journal. For the seconds of laughter that DH and I share each day.

I have learned this year how to gather these little fragments of joy like a handful of bright sea glass pebbles, and hold them close to my heart in the times of confusion and exhaustion. To remember the lighthearted glee of Bean giggling in the bath—hased by my washclothed hand around the tub, in the time when he is whining again, fretting from not enough sleep, or teething pain, or some other unnamed malady. To distill in my mind the sweetness of kissing DH, breath tasting of coffee, before he shuts his door for work, in the time when I my resentment that he can shut his door and go to work wells up in my throat.

I have learned to give thanks for where I am now, instead of wondering where I will be and imagining the gratitude I might feel.

Right now is good.

Here: where the forecast is for snow, the dog scratches at his collar, the heater hums, my husband sleeps on the couch beside me.

Now: in this house with my in-laws, where my father in law makes coleslaw and my mother in law rocks my baby pressed close to her chest for his entire hour long nap.

In this moment: with my hurt knee, and the paperwork still in limbo but almost final for the house (!), and my mother somewhere far away and my sisters somewhere else, and my friends still elsewhere

And for you: the people who I’ve grown close to through the Internet, scattered all over the world who make me feel sane, and beautiful and funny with your comments.

I am grateful.

We need…

We’re making a run for it: leaving for Princeton early to visit DH’s parents–TOMORROW instead of on Wednesday. We need a break: from house hunting, from teething, from early darkness in our too-small apartment, from neighbors. We need some time alone—together. We need some time to poke through shops for presents, to linger over coffee without having it nearly pulled into our laps, to canoodle without whispering. We can’t wait to see our dog—who’s been on long term vacation with DH’s parents because our apartment is too small, and their yard is big and grassy. We can’t wait to watch Bean with his grandparents who love him more than breath itself. And of course we’re looking forward to stuffing with chestnuts and fresh cranberries and sausage; maple squash; arugula salad with walnuts and apples; turkey; garlicky mashed potatoes; and of course pie. We are big lovers of pie.

Tomorrow we will put our final offer in on the house that has a corner of my heart with the frightful wall paper and the land where I can picture abundant gardens and a tree swing for Bean, and then we’ll throw our hands up. We’ll get snow tires put on the car, and buy snacks for the seven hour drive, and then we’ll be off.

Blogging may or may not be limited for the next week. In the meantime, I leave you with a wee photo documentary from today:

Snowsuit weather.

Love is…(taken by DH.)

Up above us.

Still fountain.

Take off, then landing.

Waiting.

In between.

This one I took accidentally. I don’t know what it is of, but it fits exactly how I felt all day today.

Small good things

I accomplished something nearly impossible today: I found a pair of jeans that fit my silly long legs!

I bought my first pomegranate of the season, and type with bright red juice staining my cuticles.

I went for a run in the cold for the first time all week. I’ve missed it. My body thrives on the rhythm of running and breathing.

I got an extra hour of sleep this morning—while DH read the newspaper and watched Bean.

I taught Bean how to sign *milk* this week—he caught on faster than I ever imagined he would—and it’s made things so much simpler. We’ve avoided several typical meltdowns because he can convey what he wants.

I got a cup of Old World hot chocolate walking back from dinner out tonight. It’s thick and rich and dark and unbelievably good, especially on a cold evening.

I decided to trust that the house thing will work out. And didn’t think about it again all day.

First frost

Walking home I glanced skyward, and way, way up was the biggest V of geese I’ve ever seen, flying silently, deliberately South against a backdrop of grey. I stood still in the parking lot of the market, just watching them. People around me gave me looks. I couldn’t help but think:how small we are, bustling about with our carts and our lunches. I couldn’t help but think, what matters, really?

Later our house offer was counter offered at a still too high price. More waiting. And talking. So much talking. I try to be patient, to think clearly. But my thoughts feel fractured like broken ice.

Trying to let it happen

We put an offer on the house today, and I’m wishing I could do like my cat: curl up, put my tail over my nose and sleep off the anxiety. Instead I try to gather my scattered self by drinking many cups of berry tea and sketching.

After we signed all the paper work and the realtor left, the song by Bill Withers that we danced to at our wedding came on the radio. We never hear it on the radio! An omen—but one we are unable to interpret.

Over stimulated by the time we got home, I was in desperate need of alone time. The sound of my son’s teething-induced whining grated on every nerve. Tiredness crushed around me like broken pieces of glass.

In the caf� I ordered a toasted bagel with butter, and tea. I let myself unwind, drawing my paper cup, the bagel on the clear glass plate, the crumbs on the table. I took the time to notice the salty taste of each bready bite, and the sweetness of the tea. In the caf� window I saw myself, slouching. Outside, the silhouettes of people moving up and down the dark street, backlit by shop windows.

I am trying to be open to the process of rightness. So many readers have reminded me: what is right will happen, and I believe this is true. It is just so much harder live it than believe it.