halcyon, and not only in retrospect
halcyon, and not only in retrospect
Read to the end for book updates.
Phew, okay, we are in the new house. We are slowly easing back into standard-level two-kid chaos instead of the fever-pitch bedlam of a move.
My daily life has shifted dramatically. Because I cannot drive and need David to load/unload my wheelchair, when we lived across town, I would go weeks without leaving the house. Now, I am out in the world most days. In the evenings, K and I go on adventures. I run errands. I meet friends for coffee or walks. I pick up pizza for dinner.
I am also experiencing something with our little mushy man, F, that is brand new to me: walks. Most days of the week, I lift his soft and wiggly 8-month-old body onto my wheelchair and secure him using my lapbaby. Our handyman built a plywood ramp into our 140-year-old rental house, and we exit that way, onto the busy sidewalk outside.
As I’ve written about in the past, I didn’t get my power wheelchair until K was 18 months old. I am experiencing something new now. This is the first time that I have moved around with an infant on my chest.
The longest F and I have wandered together is two hours. I want you to feel what this is like with me, and for me. Inside the house, F wiggles and explores. He reaches and arches and wants to touch every corner of the world inside our house. I watch him and contain him and intercede when there’s danger but there isn’t a whole lot of cuddling with this little bean. All K wanted was contact, and all F wants is everything.
But, on my chair, out in the world, in motion, he is still and calm. His thighs flatten and fold over my own. His tiny soft hand rests on my forearm. His head leans against my sternum. He murmurs to himself and to me “ah mamamama da da.” His teeny voice is a squeak and a secret.
On my chair, he doesn’t get bored or fussy. He does, every few minutes, lean to the side and swivel his head around to look at my face. He grins, delighted when we meet eyes. My buddy.
A few times, he’s napped there, on my chest, on my chair.
These walks are (maybe actually) heaven.
I know there was no way to see it coming, but as it turns out, having two dogs, two kids, three book releases, and a move all at the same time feels quite busy. We are exhausted. Every minute is accounted for, and every joule of my energy is allocated carefully.
My sister Heather was here last week, and we talked about a decade ago when we spent summers as roommates, filling our hours however we saw fit. “Remember that day we spent 12 hours on the floor mattress, watching both versions of Grey Gardens and then Les Miserables with the requirement that we sing along for the duration?”
“Did we really watch every single episode of Lifetime’s Army Wives?”
The thing is, I know that decades from now, when our kids want to hang out with anyone but us, David and I will look back at these brimming days of tasks and demands with the same golden hue. These will be our halcyon days.
I write a lot about how bad people are at knowing what makes a good life. It’s one of the primary frameworks through which I view disability. But it applies to every part of our too-short and unpredictable lives. We rarely know what will make our lives worthwhile. We are always a little bit wrong about what happiness even is.
Where am I going with this? These are busy days. We are going to keep doing our best to love our kids, our bodies, each other. We will miss these days later and will, at times, wish them away now.
And this is what I will work to do in the meantime: I will try, when I can, to notice every single brushstroke of what it’s like to have little F on my lap, on my wheelchair, on a walk. To notice his tiny palm resting against my skin. To feel his custard-soft body on mine. To hear his little murmurs. To whisper in his ear. To be a safe place to sleep.
Because, and maybe this is the point, if the hardest parts of my days are my own busyness and a collection of annoyances, then they will be some of the best days of my already very charmed life.
Nothing is promised. These bodies are fragile. Everything ends. Every single life is demarcated by tragedy and loss.
Yes, that’s it. F’s sleeping body on my lap in the park is a reminder of that. Be annoyed, sure. Be busy, sure. Complain a little, ok. But also, wow.
What a life.
This Is How We Play is out! I am so pleased by the reviews and the reception and mostly by all the stories from people who have reached out after reading it. I am so happy that this book exists and I’m honored to have been a part of it. Buy it wherever you buy books.
Do you want to hear me laugh and get serious with some very nice Canadians? Listen here.
For the next six months, I will be preparing for Unfit Parent’s release. You can pre-order it now. I love this book and I am deeply proud of it and I hope you will buy it.