There she is...

She's 23, self-consumed. Holidays. Two hours to get ready. Loads of makeup, and fancy jewelry. Boyfriend picks her up, they go Christmas-party hopping. She spends the evening flirting with him, making sure he notices her. Hopes for an engagement ring. Drops hints. Flirts more. Drinks a bit. Flirts more. Gets more agressive with the hints.

...

She's 25, exhilarated. A college-student finishing up her finals for her first full semester back in school. Realizing the joy of Christmas break and nowhere to be tomorrow, she showers, dresses, gets ready for the Christmas party. Her husband asks her what she's wearing and she replies a black turtleneck and jeans. He passes her in the bathroom and backs up, does a double take. Smiles. Checks her out. She is secretly pleased. Tonight will be a great night.

...

She's 26, tired. Finished up finals for college, and her clinical work, and her GRE test for Grad school, and applied for a spring practicum. On top of it all, she has pneumonia, is on two antibiotics. She's officially become an adult, so she's pulled through, managed. Christmas parties are not an option, but she sends her husband off on his merry way alone, telling him to have a good time. She'll stay home and watch a movie. But, to boot: food smells make her throw up, she has a residual headache, and can't sleep. She doesn't know it yet, but she's pregnant.

...

She's 28, wishing. For another baby, for a healthy Christmas, for diamond earrings. She's thankful to be wearing her old jeans again but wouldn't mind them not fitting if it meant she was pregnant. So, she eats a cookie, packs up her daughter, whips up a dessert, and heads to a Christmas party. Her hubby smiles at her, helps her pack the car. It's back home by 8:30pm so she doesn't miss her daughter's bedtime. But, secretly, she wouldn't mind going to bed then, either.

...

She's 29, sick. Stomach bug, throwing up, two different times during the holidays. Despite this, nothing fits. She feels huge. And, 16 weeks pregnant doesn't seem like enough baby to explain the tight pants. This is ridiculous. She throws on a tunic, long enough to cover the fact that her pants can't button, and heads to a Christmas party. Some things look good, but most things smell bad, so no holiday eating. Then it's home by 9pm for her bedtime.

...

She's 31, thankful, busy, tired. All new pants this year because baby #2 has eradicated the waistline (and hipswaistthighs). Husband is downstairs with the kids, she is getting ready. Throwing on a bit of bronzer and eyeliner, she finishes up with good earrings. Hubby sticks his head in the doorway and smiles. Checks her out. Gives her thelook. She is secretly pleased. Packs up h'ors d'oeuvre. Packs up kids. Packs up car. Packs up gear. Husband holds her hand in van. Head to party. Great time. Forget bedtimes. Forget tired. Stays at party, with kids, and enjoys holidays.

There she is.

Kharmic Distribution

First, let me say that I do NOT believe in kharma, but I do think SOMEONE SOMEWHERE has a sense of humor.

Helpful: read in the voice of Sophia Petrillo from the Golden Girls:

Picture it, Toledo, 1998, a young girl, ravishing, no body fat (ok, I'm ebellishing on all accounts, here), falls in love (again, embellishing) with beautiful boy. Doesn't work out. Fast forward.

Now, picture it, Perrysburg, OH, 2009, Giant Eagle parking lot, Friday night at 6:oopm. Middle-aged girl with sappy chick flick pauses in parking lot crosswalk. Nearly gets hit. In the midst of avoiding a collision with a Dodge Ram, girl sees man and woman in a Jeep Cherokee, watching her event unfold. Middle-aged girl recognizes man in driver seat. Doesn't know how or why. Remembers. Becomes embarrased. Realizes what she's wearing. Becomes mortified.

Old, ripped Adidas sneakers.

Fuzzy blue slippers with butterflies made out of applique beads on the outside, stuffed inside her sneakers like socks, but bulging out of the sides under her jeans.

Jeans that are stretched out and too big and bunched into the tongues of her shoes.

A dressy ruffle Caribbean blue shirt, too dressy for the jeans.

An old hoodie, ripped on the arm, army green, too casual for the shirt, whose ruffles are pouring out of the zipper, which is zipped up unnaturally high to avoid the cold.

Hair: one side matted down because of a nap, the older side taking flight; the back is a whoosh of abyssinian guinea pig and then abruptly flattened against her head because a portion of the nap must've been spent laying oddly on back.

Realizes she's standing in the middle of the parking lot crosswalk with other cars waiting for her to finish her cross. Realizes that the man behind the wheel is staring at her.

This ought to teach that girl a lesson to never never never leave the house looking like this ever ever ever again.

consuming

She's quiet, sleeping. Her mouth gapes open and her arms are draped over her head. The whooshing sound of her breath is rhythmic and regular. I can hear it. For a full minute, all I do is listen to her. You would think I was listening to a violin concerto, the way I'm mesmorized by her.

I stand above her. I resist compulsions to touch her, to kiss her. It would mean this moment would end, and I'm not ready.

She sighs and rolls over to her side. My breath catches, and for a second or two, I do not make a sound, move a finger, fearing even the unnoticeable rise of my chest filling with air will lure her to consciousness.

Her hand reaches for her sucky blanky, to find its security, even in her sleep, and its texture is instantly wrapped up inside her fingers. It's become reflex, her need for her sucky blanky. With the few reflexes our babies are born with, it is our world that creates new ones, and extinguishes the old. Her hands are still tiny, her body is little. The outline of her shape rises like a moutain chain under her princess blanket, and I am struck by how much I love her. She's four, and yet I want to envelop her into my arms, a swoosh of consuption, and hold her close like when she was a baby.

I kneel down and look at her. Her dark eyelashes. The tiny visible pulse in her neck. Right now I realize the weight of losing her, and I stare at her. She is a miracle. She is MY miracle. Even now, as I watch sitting silently next to her, she is growing, changing. Right now, she is bigger than she was a minute ago. She is moving in a black tunnel, in a cavernous force like the Bernoulli effect: as time is marching onward, she is moving away from me, faster and faster, seeking independence and abilities her own, separate from me. And, the humor in all of it is that I am encouraging it. I am fostering it.

With every victory, I cheer her, I clap. Can she see that there are times when this is false? When my heart is breaking because her victory means she needs me a little less?

*********************

He is predictable. It is 3:52pm and, though I am sitting and reading a book on the couch, I have detached from the novel. I am on autopilot, listening. For him.

A noise.

No, it's just a dog barking in the distance. Wait... there he is. His voice is scratchy at first, growing clearer by the second.

MOMMY! DONE!

It is functional, what he says. His calling for me has less to do with love than it does function. He wants out of his crib, a wooden cage that prevents him from exploring, or digging, or empyting cabinets. He wants out.

I open the door a crack, peeking in, trying to provoke a smile out of him. His smiles are like prozac. They bring a rush of endorphins that make me feel like I want to burst. He cries and says, "Nooooo." My heart sinks a bit, but I try again. I know him. I know there is a reason.

"Where's your blanky, Mak? What happened to it?" In the darkness, I see he hasn't moved from his spot standing in his crib, and as I turn on his light and open his shade, I see he's pointing.

There it is. It's on the floor. I stoop to pick it up, and he is rushed with smiles and coos. This blanket of his, it's special. It's a rung on a ladder that leads to the tunnel. The one that directs toward independence.

I pick him up and rub his back. He is tiny. He lays his head on my shoulder, heavy and unmoving, and he is still. He is limp, and I feel the rise and fall of his breathing against my body. I feel his shoulder blades, small on his back, and rub my lips over his fuzzy head. He smells so good, but it doesn't smell like clean. It's his very own scent, better than any other, and I wonder if someday he'll have a wife who'll love this smell, too? I'm not ready to share him, yet.

I sit down at the computer to check my email, and while I'm typing, he is playing, he is a boy. Straddling me on my lap, he is leaning in, touching my nose with his nose. He is giggling. It is a game. His eyes are so happy. I stop, see him, look at his smile, and he becomes shy. Throwing himself against my chest, he is waiting for me, hiding, beckoning me. "Will she do it?" I know it, so I squeeze my fingers around his sides and he wriggles with delight and laughter.

My boy.

*********************

Do they know?

Do they know that when we kiss them, when we hold them, when we sniff their little heads or trace our fingers around their fingers that it is not for them?

It is selfish; it is for us. It is for me. It is because my love for them is like a consuming fire, and unless I unleash some of it, release it to them, it will consume me. It is because there was a moment when she was all mine, when he was a part of me. They were in my body, and I didn't have to share them with anyone. Now, they are growing and changing, and as I sniff, or trace, or kiss, or hug, or tickle, it is for me: because it is a wonder that they are becoming all that they are outside of me, apart from me, and I am filled with awe.

They are marvelous little creatures. I am so selfish, I want to freeze time. I want them to stay little, for their hands to fit inside of mine for forever, for their voices to call me indefinitely with the trust that I can fix anything.

This is impossible, but today, this is what my heart is thinking.