It is happening just like they said it would:
they are growing up fast
I used to hold him like a football
Yesterday he kicked one over the fence
He used to know no words
Yesterday he told me he could see
‘The soft-feathered wings of the day’
6 and he already spins better poetry than me
dresses up like a pirate
like a paramedic
like an astronaut
And I’m still wondering
is he dressing up as a 4 year old?
or has that much time actually passed
since we first met?
They are growing up fast
And you find yourself uttering that phrase
even though you know how cliche it sounds
And I wonder,
if it is just an easy-to-reach-for substitute
for things that are more difficult to say
If you pause too long to ponder
the volumes you’ve already forgotten
the mispronounced words
the day before walking
the night after coming home
it’s dizzying to think about
the rollercoaster tracks in the rearview
And when I say
they’re growing up fast
I think what I really want to say
is that I’m horrified by how casually
I am passing through this gift shop
And I know,
it’s easy to be sentimental
when the household is asleep
and you are writing poems in the quiet hour
And I don’t want to romanticise
the slog of it
the shit of it
the thousand little deaths of it
There are honestly days when I fantasise about
going back to before
back to morning sex
and midday movies
and deciding to go to the beach
and then just going, straight away
this is what horrifies me
more than my kids growing up
It’s the curse of casually spending every season of your life
wanting to space-jump
backwards or forwards
when the miracle, in all its bloody wonder
is always and only ever happening
where you are now.
And you casually let it play
like background music.
You are skim reading the body of your life
You are swallowing without chewing your life
You are driving on auto-pilot through the rich landscapes
of your one life,
Sometimes I feel
like every poem I write is the same
I only really talk about
trying to be present
trying to see the wonder
trying to live and give
from a deep well of gratitude
I write about it so often
because it is
as it is difficult
And the best things are often so
like raising these kids
who are growing up
at the pace of growing up
And maybe all you can show them
is that none of it is casual
none of it is granted
none of it is cheap
Every time oxygen fills those God-given tanks
Every beat that is thumped from that drum in your chest
It is all more dazzlingly wondrous
than any Sci-Fi reality anyone’s ever dreamed of
It is nothing to be casual about.
This everyday miracle.
During Noah’s first year of life, he had very intense gastro-oesophageal reflux. I wrote a number of posts during that time reflecting on what I was learning through that difficult and seemingly endless season (see some here). There were times during that year Sam and I struggled to stay sane. Coming to terms with a baby that spends a disproportionate amount of its days and nights screaming inconsolably is hard.
Yes, it passes.
Yes, these babies are generally still healthy.
They won’t remember it.
You’ll move on from it.
These are some of the things people remind you.
And they are true.
But to be honest, they just aren’t helpful things to hear when you are in the thick of it. Really, you just want someone who understands.
You just don’t want to feel alone in it.
That’s not just true of reflux — it’s part of what it means to be human.
As we prepared to meet our second baby, our experiences with Noah were obviously present in our minds. Will our experience be more ‘normal’ this time? Will we have one of those babies that sleeps? I am ever the optimist — but in this case the odds were stacked against Leo (as my father, myself and both of my brothers all had bad reflux when we were bubs).
Three weeks into Leo’s life and it seems fairly apparent that his journey may be similar. His early days have begun to move in a direction we are familiar with. Short patches of being settled (10-15 minutes), followed by long bouts of crying and screaming, settled by a feed, then repeat the process. When precious sleep arrives, it is often interrupted early by stomach acid coming up little throat.
I have been reminding myself that similaries do not mean same. Whether reflux this time round lasts 1 month, 6 months, 9 months, 12 months does not change the fact that Leo is not Noah. Whether or not we use the same coping strategies, or find different ones, Leo is not Noah. Leo’s first week, first month, first year of life is his own. And whilst we may find ourselves walking through similar territory we have trudged through before, we will remind ourselves that we have not been here before. This is new. This is difficult. This is beautiful. This may be familiar, but this is fresh. When I find myself wondering ‘how will we survive that again?’, I tell myself that is not what is happening here. This may stretch and test us, but this is a new path, we walk together as four of us. And it will have its own highs and lows to navigate.
Like this profound moment last night,
this memory I am drilling into my brain,
this lesson I do not want to miss.
Leo was in one of his worst bouts of reflux screaming yet. Sam was preparing some dinner and I was just holding the little guy and rocking in the rocking chair while he screamed. After 20 minutes or so of his cries, Noah came over to me, and climbed up to sit on my right leg, while Leo rested on my left shoulder. For a good couple minutes Leo continued to cry, Noah snuggled in, and he gently touched Leo a couple of times, while he watched him struggle.
In many ways, it was ordinary. It was something I could have missed. A blur between loads of washing, changing nappies, keeping little and big humans fed and watered.
But here is why I noticed it.
So far during Leo’s short life my impulse has been to want to shield Noah from Leo’s cries. Obviously this is somewhat unavoidable - but where ever possible I have tried to take Leo outside to walk up and down the driveway when he is in discomfort, or I have encouraged Noah that he can play in his room if he feels uncomfortable when Leo is crying. I know how my insides can feel after a long session of baby screams, so I can’t imagine what they feel like for a two year old who has only ever lived with two adults so far and did not have any choice in sharing life and blood and bedroom with this new housemate.
But, last night on the rocking chair I had given up trying to ‘resolve’ the crying. I just held my roaring lion and gently rocked back and forth, trying to be present with him in his pain. And Noah, chose to engage by moving closer to suffering. He climbed up to share lap with screaming brother. Without a word he gently touched Leo’s shoulder, and back and forth we rocked, we three. Authentic. Messy. Wonderful.
And moments like this speak truth deeper than themselves don’t they?
A Dad, a rocking chair, a toddler and a crying baby.
But more than that, a window into what happens when we stop trying to fix each other’s pain. When we sit together, rock together, presence ourselves exactly where we are. Awake and aware.
And even here, we will find beauty.
Even here, we will find grace.
named after lion
May your roar be unleashed;
you were not made to be silent
May your roar be unleashed,
but may your claws stay in hiding
Well, it's officially a few days into 2018.
I'm not big on New Year's resolutions - given their tendency to lean towards super unrealistic, guilt-laden goals rather than the steady forming of small habits that can lead to lasting change,
BUT having said that,
I do love beginnings. (I'm a 7 on the enneagram* - basically meaning I get PUMPED about starting things...even if I struggle a little more at the finishing end).
It can be daunting thinking about how you 'begin a year', but it's a lot easier to think about how you begin the simple gift that is the day before you.
So, here are my personal 'secret ingredients' for starting the day well. I don't always get to do each of these, but I definitely notice the difference on the days I do.
Recently, we moved house.
There were numerous lessons in this.
There was the confronting experience of realising just how many items we had managed to accumulate. When you load the hired truck for the fourth time and there are still odd bits and pieces left in the house that you will need to come back for tomorrow…you start disliking your stuff and asking some hard questions about why you have so much of it.
In the previous post, I shared 'Three things that have changed since I became a parent', reflecting on how much taking care of a tiny human can flip your world inside out.
Well, almost everything.
Note: After posting this it was brought to my attention that this piece of writing may seem insensitive to those who have had difficult experiences on the road to becoming a parent - or who have desired parenthood but have not been able to fulfil this desire. There are many people in my close circles who have these stories, and if this is your story , I want to acknowledge your grief and loss. My story has its own scars (which I've written about in earlier posts), but it also has enormous privileges that I know are not shared by all. This is intended as a lighthearted and humorous reflection on things that may impact the decision to try and have a child, but it is not intended to make light of the difficult road this can be.
There's no two ways about it.
The rumours are true.
Becoming responsible for a tiny human flips your life upside down,
shakes it like a snow-globe,
waits for you to think the contents are just about to settle...
then shakes it all again.
It changes...pretty much everything.
Well, not quite everything.
So, it’s been one whole year now, doing this Dad thing.
I guess you could say, in ‘Dad years’, I’m still a baby. But I’m starting to crawl pretty quick and learning lots of new sounds.
The brain of my one-year-old boy is so flexible, malleable, open. He is learning from every surface, every texture, every sound, every moment. And I’m trying to do the same as a parent. To learn from every cry, every babble, every mess, every bath, every twinkle and tear in little eye, every movement of little hand, every ripple of little laughter. I’m trying to be flexible, malleable, open.
This isn’t always easy or natural.
It’s Monday morning. Wind sweeps through the leaves out the window, and the Spring sunshine I basked in yesterday is now a dreary grey.
In my world, Monday is day off. It is rest. This means phone is switched off, emails are off limits, textbooks are closed and my activity throughout the day is slow and thoughtful. I think at a different pace and spend more time reflecting and trying to see the extraordinary in the ordinary. Senses feel heightened on this day, as I notice what my food tastes like, marvel in the glory of a carefully chosen craft beer and let background music come to the foreground, hearing all the detail in a song I would often miss.
In my reflective state, I think back over the weekend that has just passed. Like many of my weekends, the one just gone was filled with contrasting contexts that seem almost comical when they’re placed next to each other.
This morning, like most mornings, I was involuntarily awoken at 6am.
This isn't the first involuntary wakeup of the night, but it is the last.
This is the one where the bundle of boy is beaming. Crawling across my head, eating keys from my bedside table, and making noises that signal a general zest for life. There is no going back to sleep from here. It is now officially daytime. I begrudgingly pull my self out of warm blanket nest. I do not share Noah's enthusiasm for 6am.