It was a big weekend for The Husband and me, by pre-baby standards at least. We know that in a few weeks we’ll look back on these days of waking up at 9 (or 10…) am on Saturdays and having a maximum of two commitments on the To-Do List as a heavenly, bygone era, but for now…shut up and don’t judge. We’re trying to enjoy our last days of freedom here.
On Friday I finished my fiction manuscript, and not with a bang but a whimper. Sitting at Barnes and Noble, I typed the last character and looked around, wondering if everyone else felt the thrums of America’s Next Great Novel reverberate through their souls. No? Not so much? Now comes editing and agent-contacting, so we’ll see what happens there. That night, TH and I went to a high school football game (the first half at least–all my back would allow) to sit with one of our friends as her husband coached from the press box. Their own baby is a six-month-old boy whose preceding of ours has been an invaluable source of information and commiseration. To know just one other person who has suffered through numb fingers is to feel a little less alone in the world.
Saturday morning, we awoke early (8:30 am) to head to a Fall Festival sponsored by our church for the community where we do outreach activities. TH and I manned the Bounce House, and by that I mean he ran interference with the kids while I watched from a chair nearby and issued directives like, “Go down the slide! Take your shoes off! Don’t kick each other in the head!” The acrobatics and pure joy happening behind the house’s netting were a wonder to behold, the kids lining up at the entrance in their socks and bouncing their way through to the slide, which deposited them on the ground again. They headed straight from there to the entrance, repeat customers all, and I was reminded of the days when bouncing was a singular ingredient of happiness, when wounds were so temporary and laughter so available. Then one of the little boys inside the house threw a punch at another boy’s face, and TH had to ban him from the house. “But I didn’t punch him!” the kid protested, to which TH replied, “I saw you do it.” “It wasn’t a real punch,” the kid muttered, kicking the ground as he stomped off in tears.
The Kid inside my belly showed me what a real punch was as TH and I shook our heads, wondering what we’ve signed up for and how it reflects upon our decision-making skills. Then I hopped in the car to celebrate a friend’s birthday with her and The Sis. We went to a fancy French place in downtown Roswell, the kind of place where champagne vinaigrette and oysters are menu options, and I felt the culture shock that accompanies switching from a Spanish-speaking Fall Festival to the Ladies Who Lunch scene. And stared longingly at my friends’ glasses of Brut. (Hurry up , Kid! Mommy can’t fly without her bubbles!)
On Sunday, TH and I (read: TH, as I sat in the car) picked up our final big addition to the nursery from the aptly-named Comfortable Chair Store: a swivel-glider-recliner in chocolate brown. TH carried it up the stairs and assembled it, then invited me to try it out. Thirty minutes later, I was still sitting there, near tears over my immersion in luxury. I felt like I was getting a Life Massage, and I tell you–this chair is reason enough to have a kid. On the sleepless nights when I question our decision to procreate, I will sit in this chair and feel validated. I heard TH outside, mowing the lawn. I smelled the suburbia-issued fresh-cut grass scent wafting through the window. I felt The Kid elbow me, silently approving of our new perch. I closed my eyes, thinking of all the jumping around I’ve done in life, the frenetic attempts to find my way, and how they’ve led me here: a place to land and rest. A place to call home.