It's 1:33. In the AM. I'm feeling introspective.
Mr. Lemon and I retire early--before 11--and all is well until Baby Lemon starts hollering around 12:30. Right on schedule.
I nurse him (sorry to my truly excellent pediatrician who recommended I stop middle-of-the-night feedings at six months), smell a possible stinky diaper, and put him back in his play yard anyway because I am that sort of lazy/zombie mother who doesn't think as altruistically as she should in the midnight hours.
Fifteen minutes later, Baby summons me again. I don't blame him. I wouldn't want to sleep with poo clinging to my bottom, either.
I gather up a fresh diaper and wipes, then head to Baby Lemon's room. I flip on the closet light and crack the door just enough to let a wedge of light out. Still in a haze of sleepiness and crankiness, Baby Lemon wriggles while I unfasten his diaper. Before I can pin him down, he rolls over and sits up. Then he bounces his slightly poopy bum on the carpet.
I'm not dealing with that tonight.
I set aside his dirty diaper and wipes to grab on the way out, then turn off the closet light.
Baby Lemon nestles his forehead in the crook of my neck as I settle into the rocking chair in the corner of his room. He sucks noisily on his pacifier (affectionately called his Wub; again, my apologies to Baby Lemon's doctor), then relaxes and starts the slower breathing of good sleep.
I smile a little as I notice faint neon marks across the ceiling. Glow-in-the-dark stars, a gift received from my dear friend when Baby Lemon was born. I love thoughtful gifts. I admire wise gift-givers.
I leave Baby's room, wash out his poo in the toilet, toss the dirty diaper in the hamper, and head back to my bedroom.
I adjust the thermostat, pause to ruminate on the whereabouts of my cell phone, then enter our room and climb into bed. At this point, I am wide awake.
I think about changing the laundry. I think about picking up Baby Lemon's toys in the living room. I think about mopping the kitchen floor. I think about finishing washing up the last of the dirty dishes. I decide to go through my blog reader instead, since it's been a few days and me-time is rare. Being alone and being awake are the only qualifications for me-time.
I pin a few things, skip a few blogs altogether. I check my own blog's stats and wonder how anyone ever builds a decent readership. I click links to more links, to other links. There's a blog post popping up all over the internet tonight, the subject being how to talk to your daughter about her body. I think about my stretch marks. Rib cage to bikini line, love handle to love handle, my belly looks like bacon. Loose, doughy bacon. When I lay on my side, the apron of skin shifts and rests on the mattress. I feel inspired by this love-your-body post but I know I'll feel bad about my body again when I stand in front of the mirror tomorrow.
Then I think about this website and how it makes me weep. Because it is true and beautiful and restorative.
I think about my caffeine fast. We'd like to have another baby, so I quit caffeine on Saturday. Baby Lemon developed a heart murmur near the end of my pregnancy. The culprit was either caffeinated soda or the cocoa butter cream I was frantically applying to my scarring stomach. Probably both were responsible. I'm committed to a caffeine-free pregnancy next time around. Almost one week strong.
Baby Lemon has been extra irritable this week. I wonder if he has experienced some caffeine withdrawal, too.
It's 2:15. In the AM. I'm feeling tired.
This sort of essay is not normal fodder for my blog. A few months ago a friend told me her friend, whom I do not know, stumbled upon my blog and felt intimidated by me.
Which is just, no.
I like planning out my garden. How I'll decorate my home. Sharing recipes and writing about the minutia of my life at home that interest me.
But it's all nothing. It's fun and fulfilling and satisfying to an extent. But it doesn't mean anything.
The moments with my son and his pacifier and a maybe-poopy carpet matter. The steady rhythm of my husband's breath as he sleeps beside me in our bed matters. Giving good gifts because of love, and not because it looks good on a blog, matters. Human bodies and scars and giving birth and raising a new generation matter.
Getting enough sleep matters, though you wouldn't know it the way I'm going on. Pushing 2:25. In the AM.
So I shall hit "publish" and retire. And maybe listen for Baby Lemon one last time.