one year of loving Elwood

I've always had trouble writing about him, since the very beginning. With Ramona my love creates words, it creates stories. With Elwood my love creates silence. I think maybe it's because of my weak skills as a descriptive writer. When I think of him I think of the way things feel. Soft skin, the way it felt to kiss his nose above his binky, petting a closed eye with my thumb. With him there was no story, just me quietly feeling the way I feel. Just enjoying him. 

I always try to explain to people how he is a wonder of nature to me. Like a little fluff from a dandelion. This never makes sense, exactly.

But there are stories I can tell.

I didn’t get to hold him at first, the night he was born. The night he was born I had to wait. There was something they had to take care of, they would have to whisk him away for a second before I could hold him they warned me. I had to wait, and I held my breath and I tried to fill myself with patience. To be a good patient for Elwood on the night when he was born.

The night he was born I kept our news to myself. Waiting for day to announce the arrival of our sweet boy. I sent a picture to my waiting family. The hour still so small that it was hard to see him in his little bed. Something about this picture is magic to me. 

first picture

I didn’t let go of him the whole day. Our room was full of sunshine and I held him and loved him. He was the perfect baby. 

We named him Elwood Emory. A poet’s name. It is the most beautiful name I can think of for a boy.

I doubt I ever put him down. I nursed him and kissed him. I think it was my happiest day. 

When I think of Elwood as a very small baby, I think of his eyes closed tight. I think of my fingers running over his little face. I think of how he seemed to be so aware of me.

He slept against me in bed for the first few months, and I should be sad maybe, because I know I will never be as happy as I was in those very restful nights. I mothered him like a person who has never worried about anything in her life. I mothered him like the person I never knew I could be. Somehow this is still true. It is hard to feel anything but pleasure when I look at him still.

Elwood has been a salve on my heart. It is not necessary to wring the joy out of every moment. It is not necessary to be happy all the time. It is not necessary to feel any certain way about anything. It is not necessary to enjoy any moment more than the other. Once he was born I fell silent. I am not sure why. 

Is this sweet boy the fast track to enlightenment? Maybe. Maybe loving anyone is the fast track to enlightenment. 

I was made to wait the morning he was born. I was made to sit quiet, be patient, stay out of the way. 

I am still doing this.

Happy Birthday, sweet Elwood. You blond headed, sweet hearted, blue eyed boy. You are the peace of my heart. 

Elwood Emory Bradfield

To Ramona, on her fourth birthday

Dear Ramona,

Today is your fourth birthday. This morning you stood on a chair and shouted, "I am four! I'm not nearly four, I'm not three. I'm four!"

ramona with wings

I feel like we met you in the last year. You are as wildly different from me as possible. You are so friendly and warm. You thrive on meeting new people. You jump into new situations with no hesitation  You are fearless and uncomplicated, and I'm like the best friend that quietly hangs in your shadow. I am not like you, but I like you.

This year was hard. You got a baby brother and you grew out of your baby-self. This was hard for you. And it was hard for me, and it was hard for daddy. I have been reading you since the moment you were born. I've been watching you, listening to you, learning you like someone would learn a new language or a holy book. I know that you are mostly reasonable and always loyal. You are wild and you are brave. You are not one to worry over stuff and you take things as the are.

I worry about how trusting you are, I am a person who worries. "Ramona, we never get in cars with strangers, right?" And you say to me, "Mom, nobody is going to steal anybody." And you know, you are probably right.

You are precious to me. Your life is a miracle to your family. It is my hope that four will bring you the joy you are expecting. Happy Birthday, Beautiful.

Love,
Mom                                                  

moving on

The day Elwood was born, everything changed. 

I think I knew having Ramona would change me. I wasn't surprised when I became a different person. But I am very surprised the birth of my second child could bring such a change. I guess I thought he would just be an addition. 

This is not what he has been. I have a new family. And I am a different person.

I am also surprised to discover that this project is over. Ramona and her Mother as a blog that grows each day is over. This space is named after me and I will continue to use it somehow, but Ramona and her Mother is over. I'm now working to bring together the work I've done into a sort of final product that I will share when it's ready. 

I don't know what is next. I recently wrote an e-mail to Dan Magers, whom I consider my writing mentor. I said, "I think I've let go of the idea of being an author and having an audience. I feel like now I am free to embrace the idea of writing for pleasure. I feel free to spend a lot of time on things that won't matter to anyone else, but will bring me a lot of happiness."

His response to me was, "Lately I've been thinking more about writing as a practice, something that one does as an aspect of their life that is integrated among all the other things in life. There are times in which one writes less, times one writes more. Times where some people see your work, and times where you are writing for yourself."

I wonder sometimes at how dull I am. For me, it takes the birth of a new child to realize everything is different. If I were a bit more careful, I could have already seen that everything is always changing and my heart accepts these changes without fail.

for rebekkah and all who pray for her today

Dear Friend, in honor of you I didn't grumble this morning when I had to get out of bed. Every time I fed my new baby last night, I thought of you. I thought of the night feedings you yourself had done several years before. I thought of your son. I thought of all the babies you had wanted.
I poured my coffee. I thought of the coffee your mother might be drinking. Most of all, I think of your mother. How she saw you through the end of your life. How relived she might be to know you are free from pain. I think of my own daughter. And then shut down. Because my heart can not take it.
Today I teach with you in my heart. Every small face I will take a moment to look at, really look. I feel thankful to be waiting for quiet, to be turning a page, to hold a grimy hand. You were so kind to your students. I will try to be kind to mine.
Today every face I see is a face in prayer. We are all walking the steps of our lives with a special attention. Because we are all thinking of you. Every face I see is one in prayer.

- for Rebekkah, may you rest in peace.

- for everyone else, may you find comfort today in love. May you find comfort in the peace that is always there waiting for us.

each new baby

My new baby sleeps with me off and on during the night. It's not like a lifestyle or a philosophy or anything. He just sleeps with me sometimes. He lays his head against my breast after he is done nursing. Sometimes I put him back in his own bed. And sometimes I keep him right by my heart.

I understand why people have lots of babies. I feel like maybe a heart is an onion. Each new child pulls another layer away. And you could keep pulling layer after layer. Just to see what is underneath. Just to see more of what is inside.

5 years, a day at a time

In honor of my 32nd birthday I began writing in a five year journal. My grandma gave me one of these when I turned 18 and I kept it off and on. The space to write was so small, so it was a place I recorded the simple acts of the day.  A movie with my boyfriend. A fight with my mom. Homework. Just the facts mostly, with a touch of perspective. After I had kept this practice for a few years I could see all my August 26ths all lined up. I could see how they were different, and the same. How the simple act of living my ordinary life became so wonderful to read over time. After I grew up a bit I threw out much of my writing. I threw it out in embarrassment. But not the five year journal, kept off and on from 18 to 22. It was the most honest of all the writing I had done.

I began this blog when my daughter was just born. I had these big feelings, I had a story I felt I knew how to tell. My daughter got a loud public display. My son gets a small book. A quiet daily story of loads of laundry, the day his smile grew wide, a small note to remind me of how on August 27th 2012 I  thought of him all day.

the anniversary of a day I did right

The traditional gift of the sixth anniversary of my marriage is acceptance. It is a squint across this hard life to see the peace that is always there. It is the blurring of the edges between you and me.

It's accepting this promise wasn't a minor detail. It is a powerful, terrible, magical promise to walk with you to the end. 

Brian, the day I fell in with you was a day I did right.