For what is happiness but growth in peace.
[may sarton]
You're two months old as of one week ago. I counted in my head while rocking you to sleep early this morning, in the silent lull between crickets and birdsong.
We are well acquainted with the night, you and I. The sounds, the shades, the precise hour when the heat from the late summer day turns to true cool, the way the stars look from every vantage point in our yard. You are serene and bundled in my arms as I carry you through the dark house, like some kind of penitent. When I put you back in your crib I palm your head and your rump, holding my breath as I lay you down oh so slowly. Half the time you kick and open your eyes and we begin again.
Somehow you slipped from one stage to the next. At the beginning we knew exactly how many weeks and days you were, always, because there were so few of them and each one mattered so much- it meant the difference between needing one ounce of milk or two, needing to be up every two hours instead of three or four. Now, we sleep and trust you'll wake us up when you need something, feed you and trust you'll stop when you're full, and you do.
You're so sturdy now compared to when you were newly born. When people comment on how tiny you are I almost look around for who they mean. It couldn't be this strapping child, almost fourteen pounds, the whole length of my arm.
Earlier in the summer it rained, the first rain in months, and Ivan bundled you up and took you out on the porch. An Oregon baptism! he proclaimed, and walked into the scattered shower for several moments before ducking back inside. You looked surprised more than anything, the drops melting into your hairline as we dabbed at your face.
Several nights ago our group of friends passed you around, everyone wanting to hold you while we ate and laughed and talked outside. When we were all back home I pressed my nose against the top of your head and you smelled like campfire smoke for the very first time. Another baptism.
The film festival was a week ago, or was it two? I held you and walked away from the group when you let loose several piercing cries. I held you in the middle of the street and we whirled and spun to the music, the black lace shadows of the trees above us patterning your upturned face, you watching the stars and the moon.
Last night was the first time you laughed in your sleep. I couldn't believe the magic of it. What were you dreaming of? You've smiled since you were a week old, and you began laughing just over the past couple of weeks, but the only thing that makes you laugh is looking at our faces. Were you dreaming of us?
During the day I hold you and we walk through the house, through the yard. These are the dear familiar gods of home. You are so much more alert now, straining to hold your head high, watching the world. You are not interested in the dog and she is not interested in you, but everything else passes under your careful eyes- the changing light through the windows, the collection of ceramic mugs on the shelf in the kitchen, the leaves of the monstera plant. But none of these delight you like our faces do.
We huddled over you last night while you looked up at us, laid on your little sleeper on the kitchen table. Your muddled seafloor eyes, every color and no color at the same time. The raw matter of creation. You smiled and chortled, raised eyebrows and pursed your lips, while we cavorted for you.
These are the first fruits of your life, the necessary baptisms. The prayer we say a hundred times a day, silently, aloud, with our smiles, with our bodies, with our hearts. May you be well, may you be happy. may you grow in peace.
