Remember

When I was pregnant with Cass, I worried about everything I didn’t know. How to hold a baby. How I would get through labor. How to breastfeed. And all the things I thought I needed. The right stroller. The soft-as-a-baby-bottom layette. The clean-lined crib that didn’t cost a fortune. Baby toys he wouldn’t choke on. The safest car seat as rated by a cross-pollinated formula of baby consumer resources, stacks of swaddling blankets, a swing with music OR nature sounds, baby sling, sound machine, a colorful mobile, bird decals for the ochre walls of his gender-neutral nursery.

With this pregnancy, I have all that stuff down (or have realized it doesn’t mean diddly, as my dad would say). But I still worry. Only this time around, I worry about different things. Mostly, I worry about Cass. And I worry about forgetting. Not forgetting my bags at the grocery store (which I have done) or my parents’ anniversary (which I have also done), but really forgetting. While experience has taught more than 15 various “gas holds” and that I will never use a Snap-n-Go, it has also prepared me for the daily reality that as he grows up, I lose a little bit of the person he leaves behind. Only two years after I slept with him every day on my chest, I can not remember what it feels like to hold my newborn son in my hands. I remember doing it, but I cannot remember what it feels like, the football-feather heft of Cass’ little baby body faded from the memory of my arms. And on days like today when I try summon the physical sensation, as Cass makes giant leaps into toddlerhood with his little brother foot-tapping the reminder of his existence against my insides, it nearly breaks my heart in half that I can’t.

I look at Cass now, and there’s so much more at stake! Words I don’t want to lose. Strings of them together. Full-blown sentences that have somehow evolved into real, back-and-forth conversations. Discoveries manifested in facial expressions I’ve never seen before. The sweetness I’d like to package for a crappy day (“Mommy, you look pretty” when I’m laying on the bed pretending to nap). I wish all the different versions of Cass could live in the backyard of my brain, playing with one another. (Maybe the two-and-a-half version of Cass could teach the 6-month-old one how to sleep through the night.) With another baby to feed, change, launder, nourish, love… I worry about hanging onto these tender, hilarious and, yes, even exasperating moments. The truth I’m coming to terms with lately: I probably won’t. I guess I'll just keep trying.

Some recent efforts worth sharing:

Mom: Yep, the baby’s in here (pointing to my belly)

Cass: I want to see. I hug the baby (hugging my belly)

Then, looking up at me, curious, hopeful and tickled with the possibility of his idea: Will you open the door now?

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Liz, looking through our front window: Oh, there’s Michael

Cass: Aw, He’s cute

Liz: Do you know Michael? He works at Slows

Cass: um-hmm

Liz: He works in the kitchen

Cass: In the kitchen?

Liz: He makes the food

Cass: No, he POOPS in the food!

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Driving to school this morning:

Cass: You are a bad driver.

Mom: What? Who told you to say that?

Cass: Nobody.

The Rare Quiet Moment

Waiting for the Rain

Cass' latest outfit preference doesn't involve any clothing whatsoever. He likes to roll in the buff. As in, all the time. The other day I found him in the living room with only his rainboots. They are on the wrong feet.