May 24, 2012
When I ask Hudson how he feels about Mama having another baby, he turns inward and stomps his fat foot on the ground. And I’m fairly certain that means, no thank you mommy. Then he crawls into my lap and proclaims with his blue as the moon eyes, that he is the baby.
Yes, my child, you are the baby.
I started showing for real last night. After the kids went to bed, I took a hot shower and when I got out , I looked at myself in the mirror, and there it was, belly. Protruding, and firm, and full of baby stuff. I rubbed it with oil and tried to sing to it, but all I could find in my mind was Whitney Houston’s, I want to Dance with Somebody. Which I guess, in a way, was kind of appropriate.
I watched my best friend labor yesterday.
I wished that sentence could have said, I watched my best friend have her third baby yesterday, but I missed it. I had to leave because my mommy time card had expired, and the sacrifices I made throughout my day had finally caught up with me. I feel like I missed out, like I let her down, like I could have done more. But I can’t help to think on some level that I was exactly where I was meant to be. I was with her through her hardest time, and praying over her exhausted body. And when I got home, I was where I was meant to be. I was with my children, feeding them dinner, letting them paint their own toenails, and then get dirty in the street, putting them in the bath, and then reading them stories at bedtime. And it all felt kind of poetic. Because my friend’s baby was born at the same moment that my babies were in the bath giggling over bubbles, acting British, and twirling washcloths around until their faces were slick with dripping water. And as much as I wanted to be a part of my friend’s moment, I’m reminded that it was theirs, and my moments are here, in this tub, with really crappy English accents.
I tucked Hudson in bed last night and I laid with him for a while, and we watched the ceiling and laughed about the word “ouch.” And then it got quiet for a while, and I thought he was asleep, but then he put his babyish arms around my neck and said, “I don’t want you to have a nodder baby, ’cause I want you to be my mommy.”
I guess I never thought of it that way. I just thought he always wanted to be the baby. I used my adult understanding, to try to figure out a 2-year-old, and I had it all wrong. He thought that if I have another baby, that somehow I’d stop mothering him, that maybe I would love him less, or I wouldn’t be able to snuggle him at night and we wouldn’t be able to stare at the ceiling together anymore.
I just squeezed him tight and told him, “You know what Hudson? There’s nothing that could make me stop being your mommy. I’ll always be your mommy. ALWAYS. I’ll always be Hudson’s mommy. Even when this new baby is crying and needs to be fed, but you need help peeling a banana, I’ll still be your mommy. Even when you’re embarrassed of me when I drop you off at school and I’m wearing Garfield pajamas and all your friends laugh at my saggy boobies, I’ll still be your mommy, And even when I have to stand on a chair to look into your blue as the moon eyes, because you’re so tall, just like your daddy, and I’m a hunched over old lady with osteoporosis, I’ll still be your mommy.
“Nothing will change that. Nothing.”
And then he fell asleep, and it all felt kind of poetic.