Shadows and Sunlight

sunlightSunlight and shadows dance through the blinds, bouncing back and forth to an unpredictable rhythm. The baby watches in wonder from his playmat.  He holds his toes in both hands and shapes himself into a half curl, a human roly-poly bug.  He laughs and shrieks with delight.  At four months, he is easy to please.

In the meantime, I find myself hooked on the screen checking for new communication, pictures and messages.  I feel a void when nothing comes through, an emptiness that I might be disappearing into the ether and reaffirmed when something does via the Ding of the i-phone.  It’s the modern-day dinner bell in a world of people hungry for instant connection.      

The baby doesn’t have a smart phone to bother with emails or texts.  His parents are his best friends and he doesn’t wear pants most days.  His life is simple and his joy is pure.  

He fills up on milk and love and connects to the present with each breath.  He reminds me to live and disconnect, what the world might look like to fresh eyes, and that I am enough in being his mother.  Perhaps, we all could benefit from stripping away the complexities of adulthood, if only for a moment, and refocusing on the sunlight and shadows.

Advertisements

A Satisfying Crunch

red waspHeavy boots clomp up the metal stairs.  The maintenance man is already irritated by the heat and the general nature of his job.  He would much rather be sitting by his pond with a fishing line in the water and a beer in his hand.  And yet, here he is…  

“You got a light problem?” he asks of the tenant who answers the door.  He wipes several beads of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and a salty, sour smell wafts into the apartment.

A slight woman stands in the doorway holding a fussy baby with fat cheeks and a troll like tuft of hair.  The baby is her only accessory, aside from a pair of rimless glasses.  She looks the man up and down; the tool belt and dusty boots are enough to verify his identify as he isn’t offering any other introduction.  She is hopeful that he is actually the maintenance man and not a future star of The Forensic Files show.   

Fortunately, there is a Louisville slugger bat next to the door. 

“Just in case,” her husband said with a grim nod as he leaned the bat against the wall when they unpacked several weeks earlier.  “You know we’re not in Indiana, anymore.”

Truth be told, the bat travelled with them regardless of the state from apartment to house and now back to an apartment, always taking its designated place by the door like an old, faithful guard dog with more bark than bite.  She steps aside to allow the man in and eyes the bat, unsure how she would swing it and hang onto the baby at the same time, but certain she could manage it.

She has a fresh confidence in her ability as a defender.  The day before, she hunted a red wasp that infiltrated the apartment and buzzed past the troll-baby at play.  She went after the intruder and crushed it with the ferocity and matching roar of a lioness protecting her young.

The baby is silent as he watches the visitor with big, bright eyes.  He feels safe in his mother’s arms, blissfully unaware of the danger of a stranger.  He snuggles in close under her chin, content to be held.

The man flicks the light switch with a grease-stained finger, only four out of the five bulbs come to life.  He leaves and returns with a ladder and a new light bulb.  The ladder groans with each step under his weight while the woman watches with the baby from the ground.  Neither one is very good at small talk with the man considering where to pick up another six pack of beer and the woman planning her attack if things got weird.

“So, what about the red wasps around here?  They’re everywhere and so aggressive,” the woman says.

He gives her a wicked grin from the top of the ladder, “Welcome to the South, honey.  Nothing you can do about the bugs down here other than get used to them.”

Ha, she almost laughs out loud.  A literal LOL.  And that’s where you’re wrong, she thinks, remembering the thrill of the hunt and the satisfying crunch from the day before.  She walks the man out with his burned-out light bulb and ladder in hand, locks the door behind him and feels a sense of relief.  She is a fierce mother who knows there is always something that can be done about a pest.

Portrait of a Man

cakeThe man rocked his swaddled baby back and forth in his exhausted arms, while the baby stared up at him with two bright eyes as a curious observer.  The baby had no intention of going to sleep but he enjoyed being rocked and was willing to allow his father to continue as long as he wanted.  His daddy dimmed the lights with one hand and then turned down the volume of the tv.  He rocked and bounced and bounced and rocked until the baby’s eyes began to slowly close.     

Suddenly, the infant was asleep.  

“Success,” he whispered to his wife and mother of the boy.

“Piece of cake, really,” he said with a wink. “I’ll be back in a jif.”

He carried the bundle into the nursery and gently lowered him into his crib.  As soon as the baby’s back hit the mattress, his eyes flew open in confusion.  He never meant to fall asleep.  Fat tears spilled from his eyes and ran down both sides of his face as he cried.

Meanwhile, back on the couch his mother heard the refreshed cries and picked up the monitor.  It sat on a pillow next to her, like a prize pet with a seat of its own.  She flicked the screen, bringing it to life.  A man stood next to the crib, diligently rocking and bouncing the crying baby again.  The two did this dance every night, each trying to wear the other out until one dropped to sleep.  Fortunately, it was always same diapered, swaddled one who gave in first.  She laughed and turned off the monitor to wait. 

A few minutes later, her husband emerged shaking his head.  He pulled the door shut with a click and tiptoed back to his wife. 

“Tough little guy.”

He flopped down on the couch, letting himself sink down into the cushions knowing that he would do it all over again tomorrow.  I get to do it again, I don’t have to do it, he thought.  He was a perpetual optimist even on his worst day. 

“Listen,” he whispered.  “Did you just hear that?” he asked cupping his ear towards the nursery.

“No, I didn’t hear anything,” his wife replied in alarm and reached for the monitor again. 

“Exactly… silence.  Like I said, piece of cake.”

Blog Stats

  • 7,308 hits