Iris, Fragmented

I recently found this unfinished, unpolished, ill-conceived tidbit in my drafts. It never made it to this space, and I have no recollection of writing it. No one reads this space anymore, because no one updates it. But that doesn't mean I don't think about it, and feel guilty about it, and read it nostalgically, late at night, on my phone in bed. This activity usually doesn't end well -- me, feeling like I let the sands of her babyhood slip through my fingers without recording anything. It has been nearly two years. 

DRAFT ONE // SIDECAR

For the first year of her life, Iris was the sweet, agreeable baby girl along for the ride. She was carried along to soccer games, tucked into the baby carrier for hikes, driven around the city for errands, school drop-offs and pick-ups, pushed in the grocery cart, toted along to big brother playdates, tucked under my arm almost always. The constant passenger of our busy life. But now -- now! -- her personality is emerging. Strong, attentive, independent. It's like the sidecar came detached from the motorcycle, and we're all running after her to see where she'll go next.

This week, it has been the toilet. She discovered the toilet bowl, and loves to splash around and throw things in. If I remove her and try to wash her hands, she launches a full-out, on-the-floor revolt. The walking started out careful, resistant, slow, but now she's full speed ahead, the zombie arms have been retired, and she's able to multi-task (empty cupboards in one swoop, yank toilet paper in a steady stream).  

I guess I ran out of time to finish it. Now I wonder what else she was doing when I wrote this? Why didn't I keep better journals?

THEN I FOUND THIS // DRAFT TWO // TIME WARP

Iris is 15 months old, and during that time, I've written one lousy post here. One day, when she asks me why I wrote about Cass nearly every week during his first year, but could only eke out one pathetic thought about her sweet little life, I want to be prepared to answer.

I will tell her how life got infinitely busier than we ever imagined. Less time for blog posts; more time immersed in the stuff of life. When Cass was a baby, we had the luxury of time. SO MUCH TIME! We could take a bath in all the unlimited time we had to dote on our only baby. We indulged in all the frivolities of caring for a single child with gusto: baby massages, music playlists programmed for various activities, baby playdates, homemade baby food, a long bath every single night, a freezer full of frozen milk, all labeled and dated. I napped with him regularly. I vividly remember feeling such joy carefully stacking perfect piles of his freshly laundered miniature clothes, deeply inhaling a barely concealed soured milky scent from each article of clothing. These days, laundry provokes only dread.

When I was pregnant with Iris, I was determined I'd keep working after she was born. In fact, I was going to step it up. I've done this child-rearing business; I'm an old pro, I reckoned, and I've put in my time. This time around, I would put her in daycare so I could continue to focus on my career. Even saying it made me feel lighter. Then she turned one, and I couldn't do it. Didn't want to do it. Now, the boys have been back in school for two months, and I've decided that working can wait. Working can always wait. A career feels inconsequential to the work I'm doing every day. 

We're developing our own little routine and rhythms, Iris and I, and because I've done this all before, I know how fleeting, how precious, how immensely all-consuming this choice is. I know not everyone has this choice. I know not everyone makes this choice, or understands it. It is a sacrifice to raise your own children. But I can't seem to do it any other way. 

I had so much more to say here -- about the things we were doing at the time, the details of our days, the unfair choices women are forced to make -- but it all got lost somewhere between piano lessons, dinner prep, soccer practices, Halloween costumes, flashcards, books, blocks, the unforeseen chaos that unfurls every week into a hailstorm of child-raising.

DRAFT THREE // DINNER TABLE FALSE START

The three of you gather around the dining room table every morning for breakfast -- a frenetic, hilarious start to the day, fraught with lunch-packing, book-reading, clothes-changing (and in Ollie's case, changing again and maybe again), stories -- and then we reconvene there for dinner every night. Between those two mostly stationary moments of sustenance, our days are a whirlwind. 

Although I'm sensing a theme here, I have no idea where I was going with this. NO IDEA. Perhaps I was going to share a funny story or a recipe, or tell you about how the day after I became re-inspired in the kitchen, determined to cook healthy, creative family meals that would ensure our children became the most amazing, well-adjusted eaters with perfect manners and dinnertime conversational skills, Iris fell flat off the counter while I prepped a complicated spicy vegetable curry. Her face hit the porcelain floor with the baby chair strapped to her back, and she stopped breathing. I ran outside screaming for a neighbor, any neighbor, any human person who could help me help her. I did not handle myself well in this particular crisis, her tiny 10-month-old body limp in my arms. I remember seeing Cass and Ollie in my peripheral vision, like in a dream sequence, as blurry, indecipherable, disintegrating. I remember thinking about how I didn't want them to see this happening; I didn't want to ruin them, too. She was breathing by now, but I thought maybe she had suffered brain damage, or a broken skull, or that I'd ruined our lives with my senseless ambition. Maybe this is why I stay home with her instead of pursing a career, this omen, or maybe because I realize how close to not having her we were. 

DRAFT FOUR // DRAFT TWO FOLLOW-UP?

Here's what I want you to know, Iris of the future: yes, it's true, I have less time with three kids to write about raising kids. Because I'm busier, I have to be more mindful of my time -- more time making memories, less time recording them. By the third time around, I'm far more aware of the speed with which it all passes, a painful discovery. Sometimes I can't even bear to look at old photos. It's too fresh. I still feel like a mother to babies, and reflecting on how much has changed in the last two years -- how much has changed in the last nine years and what life will feel like in another nine -- creates a heavy sensation in my chest that resembles physical pain more than nostalgia. I love being a mother, and in my more limited time, I'm determined to enjoy the very best parts of motherhood. Selfishly relishing in your complete adoration and reluctant dependance, I am practicing a presence I'm not sure I had with the boys. This time, though, I'm nailing it. I'm here and present and aware.

I read books with you every morning. We take a walk. You pick flowers and look for kitties ("meows"). We have tea parties with real water, because you insist, and you make me draw a picture of Elmo almost every day. We play with the same wooden farm animals and barn both your brothers played with. You love playing with your brothers' Playmobile horses, and I cringe when you find the guns and imitate shooting noises. Eek. You're already perceptive and incredibly good at needling me, and wildly funny. We have lunch -- you love yogurt, the same vanilla every day, eaten with such surprising accuracy and tidiness for a two-year-old -- and then I lay down with you. I don't rush to get up. I don't usually fall asleep. I fade into a sentimental bliss-like state almost like meditation and think about how each quiet moment with your body snuggled into mine is a luxury that I'm not willing to trade for anything. Not for writing assignments, a pilates video, a book, a fresh-pressed juice from crisper leftovers, a head-start on dinner, an hour to knit or stare at the wall. 

You don't talk a lot -- a few words at a time -- but there's never any doubt about what you want. You were born knowing what you want. Opinions matter to you. Feisty is a word that comes up a lot. You share a temperament and many personality traits with Ollie. But even more independent. You insist on feeding yourself. You always have. (Meanwhile, six-year-old Ollie would still prefer I'd feed him every meal if I'd agree to it; I usually do.) You don't even like holding my hand when you walk up and down stairs. You love reading books. The boys did, too, but not like this. You can sit for three solid hours looking at books, begging me to read and re-read them to you. Right now, you love Mickey in the Night Kitchen. You also love your "heavy book"-- a Richard Scarry hardback reader with a broken binding from such frequent use. You named the life-sized baby that Ruby handed down to you "heavy baby." Many things are heavy to you; it's your favorite adjective.

When you were about 18 months, you went through a serious baby doll phase. Carried no less than three around at a time. And anything you found remotely cute -- a stuffed animal, a sticker -- you'd stick under your chin and give it a little chin hug. And sometimes say, "awww" during chin hug. It was ridiculously adorable. You tell your brothers what to do like a boss. You ARE the boss. There's never any confusion about that fact around here. If you're unhappy about something, we all are. You're  not above pinching, kicking, screaming, biting, throwing to get what you want, and it's quite effective. Amid any frustration with your aggressive tactics, I can't help being proud of your doggedness.