east west

introductions

The rhododendron have bundled up their leaves, self-protective. Weather has come down from the north, and I try to bundle up this child as we take a walk. It's cold; feels like it must be in the teens. I put layers upon layers of clothing on him - the sun is out, we must go outside, we will simply dress accordingly. As we make our way up Fremont, I feel the judgmental stares of old ladies, "Why is that child out of doors in weather like this?".

I, apparently, can do no right. I don't swaddle correctly; it's been too long since he's last eaten; why haven't you given him a bath this week; he must be crying because of that cup of coffee you drank this morning; you don't fit into your jeans yet; why on earth are you taking him outside? In the midst of this great hormone let-down, I try to bundle up my emotions, and protect my instinct from well-intended advice. Sometimes it works. Other times, I find myself awake at 3am, compiling a list of mean things people have said. Putting together a pithy, mental version of Operating Instructions.

Regardless, I bundle up my little boy, add a sweater, some woolen mittens, the striped hat Katie knit for him. We're going outside because of the appearance of the sun. I obviously know very little about being a mother, but I do know that my son needs to feel the sun on his face and watch the birds skitter away from the mountain ash as I shut the door. He needs to know what wind sounds like so it doesn't frighten him when it rattles our 85 year-old lead-glass windows at night. Above all, I need to be able to say, "See that, Aiden? That is called a mountain."

posted by jessica @ 12:54 PM