13 December 2018

november, here




writing, i hear the soft rise-crash rumble of thunder purling from the sound machine where baby sleeps. soon, i will be breath-close beside him. and he will do as he does every night: with one hand bring my face nose-close, tender-close, sharing-air-close, to his and keep it there in the dark, night-long. and with the other hand, find mine. this is how we dream in these precious hours. he wakes every so often, rolling nearer in search of milk and cuddles, a back rub. he smells like clean cotton and milk and baby shampoo. i whisper-croon...he is so dear, what and where does he dream, i tell him of stars, and falling in love, and so on. this is what i need for him. is for him to know how truly, how deeply, how ever, i will always be there. these nights move like waves, rising and falling, indigo, and they are the most holy ones i have known...

a soft ache to set baby down to sleep, even as i sleep beside him, knowing i can't know what changes in the night. what sounds and shapes i have become used to in the landscape of my day...what things may exit just as quietly as they arrived. and what arrives. beautiful, hard, both. 

papa works the overnight all week and then we have him six long, to-do-just-as-we-wish days. baby boy rises just as the sky turns softest blue. i can time it almost to the minute if i find myself awakened first by some funny chance. most mornings we hear the twist of the front door -- which will ever feel like peace -- just as we are bounding down the stairs, boy sweater-warm and tucked in my elbow crook, for mama's first coffee. we kiss. fire's on. double-layered socks. unfurl a quilt. then the books, baby-sweet for him, and poetry for me ~ though this is, of course, for him; i read him the words in my mouse-quiet way as barely-dawn breaks into morning into day. 

i want to write this better. and i want to write more. and to be better about tending this precious corner on more days. but for now, a boy chirps for me. i go to him. here are some photos from our november...



boy's rabbit, his choice from the toy shop in our little town. i'm a mushy mum and doooo tote him round, cuddle him while roo rests. we have been calling him "vincent."


your elfin bonnets and cherry red bum-flap union suit have been beloved pajamas of late. you, my jolly bubs! the half-kicked-off socks will forever slay me. 




on thanksgiving, ruffle-collar-clad and under the charms of your beloved xylophone, sweetly sharing blocks and a skwish with cousin gideon. (ulysses, sweetheart, you were so handsome on this, your first thanksgiving ~ and so missed at the table as you fell to slumber in my arms just as the dinner bell sounded...) 


family wash drying on the rack  ~ forever a love song...





wintry blues slowly replacing autumn ambers...


and this.


be back soon. 

1 comment:

  1. these photos are all so dreamy. i adore your little treetop abode and the magical way you decorate.your morning routine sounds perfect and your words are beautiful as always (you could seriously write a poetry,childrens or any kind of book and i'd def. read it!! xo

    ReplyDelete