When I gave birth to my daughter nearly five years ago, my relationship with time changed. It was as though my entire life was infused with new colors, my consciousness broadened, and each moment that we had with our tiny girl was this insane gift that we had been given. Every moment was alive.
Each moment was not easy, mind you. Mira was awake, both literally and (what is the word?) spiritually. She was so sensitive as to who was holding her that she would kick and scream if she was placed in anyone’s arms besides Sean’s or mine, enraged that we would dare allow another to hold her. In fact, she wanted to be held constantly, on the breast constantly, bounced on the exercise ball for hours to even consider sleeping. She wanted our full attention at all times. She had us rapt. Sometimes the love was so intense and overwhelming that I would just sit there and weep.
And yet, each day that Mira was with us, I could feel that she was moving away from me. That time that she was inside me, the way she kept me attuned with her little kicks and the somersaults that she loved to turn inside, was over. One cord had been cut. Each time she had a first: turning a day, a week, a month, a year, two, I felt another cord release.
My experience with time shifted yet again when my son was born. Liev was pure sunshine. Because of the ease between us, and probably because he let me sleep (at least, a little), each day felt like a complete delight. While I was pregnant with him and for many months afterward, the song that constantly played in my head and that I sang as his lullaby was, “Here Comes the Sun”. We would wake up together and smile at one another, so clearly happy to have another day to snuggle, to enjoy nursing, to love and to play.
It was not until Liev entered this past year that time seemed to really alter with him. He asserted himself and began throwing mega tantrums. Each morning was its own small hell. From the time he got up, each step of the day consisted of a fight with one or all of us. He did not want to get out of bed. He would NOT change his diaper. He WILL NOT get dressed. And so on until the evening when the whole thing would happen in reverse He could NOT get undressed. He WOULD NOT take a bath. He DID NOT, DID NOT wish to brush his teeth, sit on the potty, or really do anything that went into daily life.
With Liev, it was more like he held the scissors in his hands and was suddenly cutting away several cords at once. Through the storm of his ambivalence and his fights, a big boy emerged where there used to be a baby. Most of those wild and wooly tantrums have dissipated now, and the sunshine has seeped back in.
Liev is a loving big boy with a mind of his own. His sister- well, she sleeps now. She even lets other people hold her. Mira is like a fine wine, getting more delicious with each passing year.
All through this time with my children, I have tried to do a simple practice. When I wake up, before I even get out of bed each morning, I say a prayer:
I feel grateful for today. I feel gratitude for this moment.
Daily, this somersault of a prayer turns over in my heart.
To read more about the day to day, take a look at Jane’s sidebar at Spain Daily.
