Praying for sleep, I leaned into the couch cushions and closed my eyes, my foot still moving. Up and down, up and down, as I rocked a newborn Moe in his bouncy seat.
I tried to appreciate those moments, but I admit, in the exhaustion, I didn't always embrace the joys of motherhood.
Still, I remember his face. Chubby cheeks and milky smile on a perfectly bald head. His curls would take two years to appear.
On the last day of May, Moe turned six. I haven't written a blog post since then. I've started many, adding to my ever growing drafts file. I've been busy, yes, but the truth is I can't seem to collect my thoughts enough to know what to say.
Six.
On that awful night a few weeks ago, when Moe screamed and screamed for hours on end, there was a brief moment of calm. Moe was in his room and Jeff was in bed. I went to the living room and sat on the couch. The same couch where I spent hours bouncing Moe. Studying his face. Learning what it meant to be a mother.
Dreaming about his future.
The memory of that time came rushing at me with such force, it was if I had simply dozed off for a moment, these last six years a strange dream that I'd forget once the day began.
For a moment I wished it were so. I allowed myself the indulgence of going back to a time when Moe wasn't struggling. When all the milestones were ahead of him. When I could dream of my future architect or doctor, imagine my feigned horror when he told me he wanted to go to Stanford instead of Cal. When I could wonder what his first words would be. When anything was possible.
The moment passed, and it is just as well. Such indulgences serve no purpose, add no measure of happiness to our lives. Maybe even the opposite.
Moe is six years old. He woke on his birthday with a smile and I gave him cake for breakfast.
He ate the whipped cream off the top and I told him anything was possible.
