Since I began knitting pebble vests before Christmas, I’ve been unable to stop. They’re just adorable, pretty quick and I simply love them.
Today, I finished Ezra’s – and this is the very first thing I’ve made for him, so it feels significant. In a lovely Spring green with rainbow buttons down the side. I think Ezra is going to be a rainbow kind of boy.
I find that if Mondays are productive, the week starts well, just as it should. Aside from the vest, I made five cushion covers (for Spring) out of vintage cotton I’ve had for a while.
And the highlight of the day – two of my dearest friends came over for lunch and a catch up. The wee ones played and it was lovely to see them all together, just as they were when they were only three months old.
It does pass quickly, doesn’t it? All of it? I know there are things I have forgotten. I know there will be things, after two, three, four children that will mix up, and memories will lose their outlines, merging into one another.
I have forgotten the intensity of what having a newborn baby is like. How you are always waiting for the silence to be broken, the silence you both long for and fear, because it never lasts. I have forgotten that it becomes your job to fix everything for one tiny yet incomprehensibly huge being. Never knowing if you have got it right. Your body enters this mode of simply doing, and sometimes the mind follows.
I wonder in what ways it will be easier this time around. I hope that having Ava here too, a constant chattering delight, will ease those startlingly strong feelings of isolation. And I’m not isolated this time, because I know so many wonderful people, parents and others – a strong network and a strong support group.
I think there will be less pressure to keep going as you have been, or at least, to figure out how to make this new life you’ve suddenly entered mean something. A toddler ensures that life keeps going regardless, and Ezra and I will simply get on with it too.
I remember with Ava the startling awareness of no longer being part of the world as I knew it, the thrill of taking a newborn for a walk, every step an acheivement, a venture further into this sense of reality you are trying to grab hold of.
Yes, the world keeps turning. You know your other life, the one before, still exists somewhere, but not for you. You’re stuck in a limbo; one side, the side you know but no longer belong to, is pulling at you, offering you refuge, if you can only get back to it.
The other side, the unknowable one, is the one you must find your way to, and it is pointless to resist, but no one has yet exlained who you will be when you get there.
Milk-heavy under the newness of it all, you wait for something to settle, to stick. You feel you must be doing something no one has ever done before, that you are at the very centre of life, and that life should not be carrying on without paying some attention to this event.
It does not feel right to be so deflated, so tired, so bruised and ecstatic all at once. In pyjamas, perhaps unwashed, and wondering if there are really mothers who have matching skirts and bags and who are always somehow together. In moments of absolute joy, you feel spectacular. And other moments when you are deep within your body and also somewhere outside of it, spinning madly into the night.
This time, who knows? At least I am prepared for the hugeness of it all. And I know that it lasts a sadly short amount of time, but that each stage is better than the last, each day more of a person emerges and that it is indeed a blessing to see it all.