crumbs of Crumbs

     I've left too many blank pages in my diary. Years have gone by and I've barely written a thing, except to-do lists (of which I only do some). I think of things to document often, though. Every night, really, while I'm cradling baby Graham in the pitch-black, nursing him to sleep. My mind is at its most active then – but he is so sensitive, I don't dare try to write or type. It's as if he knows that he must guarantee his own attention with absurd demands, otherwise, he'd get jipped: the 2nd Child's Self-Preservation Strategy.

      Again, it's a case of my child teaching me how to mother: Turn off the lights, silence the room, and just hold him, hold him, hold him. Savor his warmth, and infrequent hiccups, and his sweet moaning songs when his mouth is full. Just stroke that thick strawberry-blond head-of-hair and permit him to dig his fingernails into my belly button. Sit on the simple, floored mattress, propped up by pillows (where did we get so many extra pillows?), waiting for him to give in - fall asleep - too woozy to wonder if he is missing something.

     It is during those long zen moments, in which I must remain silent and still - or risk having to start all over - that my mind comes up with all the things I wish I had documented.  Because, lord knows, that my mind is a sieve, and barely the large chunks keep from falling through. I've forgotten more in this life than I should have. It's a shame, really, because it's been such a good life. And I'd like my boys to know a little about me before I disintegrate. So, tonight, I chose not to sit in front of the television like I normally do: half watching while carelessly surfing the web. I'm naming a place where I can write a little more. And hopefully, I will. It's on my to-do list.