just now writing the previous post
anja came up w/the audiobook on iPhone
and hung out near me
asking ‘when is daddy coming home?’
i said it might be 2 and a half hours
you might be falling asleep when he returns.
‘sometimes when i wait too long for something, my head feels funny.’
i suddenly felt so sorry for being nonpresent
for sitting there typing.
she was waiting for daddy to make hot cocoa w/her
b/c mommy had said she was too brain fried to do it tonight.
i dropped what i was doing
carried her downstairs.
we made hot cocoa.
she barely drank any.
we ran out of enough sweetener to make it good.
i realized she was t i r e d.
needed to be tucked in to sleep.
carried her up. last pee. brushed her teeth.
her eyeballs rolling back and forth beneath her eyelids.
and i cry.
i cry that i was not totally present w/her
available for her
i cry w/the sadness
the push pull
of this standard i have inside
of being totally available to her
ever meeting that.
in point of fact
we had many many ‘quality’ moments today
i spent the entire day w/her
from 8:10am when i got back from yoga
to 9:10pm when she konked out.
yes she was on iPad and iPhone a bunch.
but we went to the butterfly garden
i spent hours lying on the twin bed in her room
keeping the energy in the room
keeping her vibe on Legos
dropping in w/attention and conversation when requested.
i bathed her
brushed her teeth
a bunch of times
prepare – set out – clean up
the seemingly endless cycle.
i wonder if one day she will see a therapist
and cry that her mother was a narcissist
a narcissist ‘artist’
who never gave her the full amount of attention she wanted.
but i never asked for so much attention from my mom
but i was also not an only child.
she comes into this world
her own thing
under our auspices
for a roof over her head
for boobie, in the early days.
but she is her own being
i see qualities in her
i am curious how they will play out when she is an adult.
today driving us home from the hallberg butterfly garden
i was suddenly paranoid
about that feeling of slight pressure inside my skull,
of internal bleeding
that would suddenly
i imagined us pulled over.
anja going through the trauma of mom dying.
or becoming brain-impaired.
that flicker of fear during hide and seek the other day: “mommy – i don’t want to play anymore!” when she couldn’t find me for just a moment too long
in the plaza in santa rosa.
i thought of that segment in rachel zucker’s poem Long Lines to Stave Off Suicide:
“on Thursday at pre-K
I make pancakes with Abram’s class and he asks Ami
and the teacher chose Luna and Derek cried and cried and I
let him measure flour because he kept saying,
that’s your mom? your mom? I love your mom! it was weird
so I gave him butter and a blunt knife, hoped the teacher
wouldn’t mind and later found out Derek’s mom
died in the towers
I couldn’t breathe when I heard it or believe what a good mother
I’ve been just by staying alive.”