November 7, 2013

Pleasure Itself



“Later she remembered all the hours of the afternoon as happy -- one of those uneventful times that seem at the moment only a link between past and future pleasure, but turn out to have been the pleasure itself.” 

It took a few minutes. 

I waited until the sleepy smiles and twitches and sighs dissolved into a heavy sleep. I put my hand on his chest and felt the warm up and down against my palm. Snuggled in next to me, molded into the length of my arm, I shifted just a little and read.

To a reader, but maybe even more so to a writer, books are food. They grow me. Heal me. Teach me things I know but have to see in print to understand. I've been reading the same, thin book for over a year now. Life just seems to get in the way. I sighed, thinking how sweet this rare, stolen moment was.

But suddenly, his miniature self unfolded from a tiny ball and there were arms thrown haphazardly across me. He felt like a little radiator of heat, heavy and squishy heat. Then he stretched out his arms like an airplane, soaring into dreams that must have been about food by the way his pink lips moved back and forth. I waited until he was still again, and turned the page.

I would read a few paragraphs and then he would stir. I bounced back and forth between two worlds, one in writing and one in my arms. Once my book toppled over and I lost my place. But I found it again.

I would put my thumb into his hand and he would curl all his fingers around it and I would cry because it is my favorite thing. And then I would read a little. And I would inhale his baby smell that will fade so quickly, and then I would read a little more. I would smile at the way something so small could spread over so much bed, thinking how his wife will have to elbow him to move the way I always have to elbow Sky. And I would read a little. His breaths and noises like a cooing dove in the morning worked their way into the lines on the page, molding a sweet story. The best part of the book was when I couldn't tell what I was reading and what I was living. All I knew is that the print mingled with the soft sounds and it all looked the same in that afternoon light.

Most parts of motherhood aren't how I pictured them. Nearly all of them aren't, in fact. 

But some are. Some are.

8 kind comments from you:

Chantal said...

What a beautiful picture you painted with your words! I've had moments just like this.

Mrs.B said...

Awwee. What sweet words and beautiful picture.

blm said...

and those moments that are? they're the ones that keep us going. <3

Michelle said...

Love this so much.

Jen said...

That picture is absolutely precious!

Fran said...

Love this so much. And he looks like he's flying in that photo haha

Jessica Lynn said...

I know I say this all the time, but your words are so captivating. I cry nearly every post I read, because you put into words the way I feel, and I wish I could get back to writing down how I feel. I need to do that much more than I do. But this part grabbed me the most: "I would put my thumb into his hand and he would curl all his fingers around it and I would cry because it is my favorite thing." Julia's growing up and is so gosh darn wiggly that I long for the split moments where she grasps my finger and doesn't let go. My favorite moments these days are nursing her at night, because she's so sleepy and let's me hold her and snuggle up to her. Beautiful post as always.

Jen @ That's What She Read said...

this is the most beautiful thing I have read in quite a while. What a wonderful glimpse into your mothering. I have lost my place many times while trying to juggle reading and living and it's always fun to find your place ans start again. LOVE THIS and LOVE that I had the pleasure of discovering your blog today.

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