Friday, May 21, 2010
I've waited my whole life for this -
…yes, baby laundry. Washed, hung up outside, lovingly folded and put away.
I know what you are thinking –
Liar. Liar. Pants on fire.
But, I’m not fibbing. I love this. I love it so much I asked my friend Amanda to custom-make an accessory rejoicing in children, play and the persistently bottomless laundry basket (the item, a clothespin bag, is in the left hand corner of the photograph, as well as on her blog).
I’ve waited for this just as I’ve looked forward to sharing the magic of Queen and Philip Glass with someone. Fortunately, Henry and Sophia are willing to oblige – happy even. Our mornings are blissful moments – filled with milk, music and mom.
And the occasionally common load of laundry.
We talk about Sonnet 18 (which I know was Uncle Will’s way of writing about baby laundry). We talk about Rodin. They stare at me with those poignant eyes as if to say “Yes. I know exactly what you are talking about” and watch as I hang the sheets.
I’ve read in countless parenting books (which, fortunately, I’ve stopped reading) that “babies are selfish creatures” – always taking, always egotistical. To them I present the knowing eyes, the soulful hands and the stories of compassion.
Henry used to think, for instance, I needed entertainment. So he would force himself awake in the middle of the night just to make sure his mother has companionship. It was very sweet, actually. I tried to persuade him that this was not necessarily true - he can sleep through the rest of the night and mom will be just fine.
And this week it worked. Ironically now, I am sad. I miss him. We would stare out the back door and watch the sun rise though the trees. Make a pot of coffee (for one). Dabble a bit in my thesis. He would help me revise. Aside from the occasional cry, it was a relatively peaceful time where we enjoyed each other’s company. And now, though it may come back sporadically, it is a time in the past.
Yes, Henry and Sophia cry. Sophia needs her naps. And Henry’s new favorite toy is a mirror attached to the belly of a cow (?!). But I don’t buy baby-selfishness. Perhaps I am delusional. But when we talk about Rodin, Henry will sit in his Bumbo and look like a miniature-Rodin-in-miniature – just to make me laugh. They let me read, and even request, Anne Bradstreet. They eat my hand before their own. And most importantly they keep making laundry for me.
Because they know how much I like it.