hands
I hold his hands while he sleeps. My son is grainy in the dim light, doesn’t yet know those hands are his, can’t imagine his power. When I let go of them, the hands resume their flight. At once they are warding off the paparazzi, then they conjure magic spells. He holds them as if about to conduct the orchestra playing in his head; they freeze in position like in an old game of tag. They are one frame of an animated argument.
Stumble It!
7 comments:
This is a good one. Mom-poetry that's real poetry, not like my gushy stuff. Nice to know the stretch marks don't go all the way to your brain.
Oh, Mom, I like your mom-poetry.
That should have said like.
like! in italics!
is that "like" or "like-like"? The first thing I said after Isaac was born and they put him on my chest was "Oh! Um, I like you!"
Kitty! It's amazing what happens when you go to google and type in "kitty mike baby." I found you! Your son is beautiful. Your writing amazing. Because naptime only occurs if I hold my own son with my boob hanging out the whole time, I often find myself trapped in front of the computer unable to do more than move the mouse with my right hand (even typing will wake him up). I read all of your baby blog entries and felt like I was reading my own life. From the denial you experienced in labor to the latch, detach, scream, repeat of first figuring out breastfeeding to the feeling that the cop might arrest you for baby abandonment . . . that has been my life too. How cool you had a homebirth too! Scott and Wyley and I are coming out to visit Jerry. I hope we can get together. It would be nice to see you, Mike, and zap mama again. It would be WONDERFUL to meet Issac. This, by the way, is the very first time I ever read a blog. - Lisa (from MIIS)
Thanks, Katie.
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