Text notification pings as I’m en route to my bed and book. It may still be light outside, but my own energy is dimming. When I hear the accompanying chirp from my husband’s phone, I halt and return to my own resting on the counter. The duet tells me that the likely source is our family group text—my son, my daughter-in-love, and us. It’s Sunday evening, and they have stayed in the valley rather than paying a weekend visit to the coast.
We miss them but easily understand. Nesting-full-steam-ahead occupies their days leading up to their son’s due date. Even the clarion cry of the Pacific fades in the face of what’s on their horizon. It’s the end of the weekend before what will be a busy work week for them; whatever causes a pause, a moment to update before Monday comes, I’m on high alert.
It’s a photo:
“It’s so cute! It works great…and friendly [grand dog] isn’t even that scared of it!”
Chills. It’s just stuff, baby stuff, that has such a limited lifespan, but memories sit in that swing—not that swing, but in the Fischer-Price far-from-cushy model that cradled my son when he was an infant. It has been recalled now, deemed unsafe for baby, and like so many of the child-rearing decisions I made in light of the overwhelming information new parents have now, it’s a wonder he turned out so great!
He used to swing with his little socks on and spend the cycle of handle-cranked motion rubbing one foot against the other until both socks lay abandoned beneath the chair. Triumphantly he’d gaze at me as if to say, “Put them on again. I’m ready to go.” Baby Joy!
I appreciate the oft-expressed truth that days crawl by with an infant but the years vanish in a flash. Those nine swinging months gave way to other discoveries, ones with both flashing feet on the ground and me barely keeping pace, but for while it lasted, that swing kept us both entertained. Mama Joy!
Here’s to that wherever, however, whenever, whatever: JOY!
Jump off; Find Wings 