Juniper has always had a fantastic relationship with her dad, but since Hazel was born she has become a daddy's girl cum laude. On Mother's Day, my man had to leave at the crack of dawn, working away from home for a week. The night before, he put her to bed and told her how much he loved her and that he'd be waking up early and gone for a week. Juniper NEVER wakes early. She's an 8:30am on-the-dot type of kid. On Mother's Day, she awoke crying and came into our room *just* before my husband's alarm went off. She asked to sleep in our bed, but when he got up she patted the pillow and whined, Noooo, daddy not go to work. Daddy sleep right here. And patted the pillow some more. It was a rough morning.
This week I realized this one little fact: I wish Juniper was still nursing. Maybe just once a day, or once a week, or something. I wish I could still give her that simple, instant, primal comfort. I wish I was still her rock. We nap together at home. All three of us hunker down on my bed. Hazel snuggles into my chest and nurses. Juniper spoons my back and sleeps. We seem to need that touch time. But all Juniper gets is a bony back, like leftovers.
:: I've been single-mom'in it this week, which always gives me enormous respect for single moms. Dude. I have four loads of laundry swallowing the couch and a sink full of crusty dishes. To be fair, this is in large part due to the fact that we've been out far more than we've been in. We've been swimming, visiting friends, running errands, stopping at parks. The weather has been unseasonably hot. We've spent too much time in the car (the problem with rural living). Aside from watering, I have been purposefully ignoring the garden until my better half returns and I can work on it for real.
:: We've been hearing robins singing their sweet, cheerful song and flitting about our house for weeks. We've seen their blue eggshells deposited here and there. I figured they had a nest nearby but silly me, I was looking in the trees.
Our garage roof extends into a lean-to on the west side. This nest is under the roof and overlooking our garden. And, yes, we've peeked at the babies--but only twice.
When I was pregnant with Juniper and living in Montana, we had a robin nest on our porch light. We taped the switch so we wouldn't accidentally flip the light and catch the nest on fire. She was a first-time mother, we believed. I thought it was a good omen to have these babies growing up outside my window while another baby grew in my belly. And I happen to be there the day each fledgling took flight and left the nest for the first time. The first bird seemed to take off on a dare, feet quivering at the edge of the nest, then flying and trying to land hither and thither--on the window glass, on a blade of grass--like a teenager behind the wheel for the first time. Each successive adolescent seemed to learn from the one before so that by the time the last bird left the nest, she coasted in a graceful arc to the lilac bushes, like she'd been doing it her whole life. I should have known a robin wouldn't build a nest in a tree.
:: Shortly before he left, my stud-with-tools put together a picnic table. We've been dining outside all week and I'm loving it.
:: Meanwhile, young Hazel Iris kicks her legs like a jockey trying to spur a dead horse into action. The dead horse is usually my thigh. She is grabby, like those flinging sticky hands you get in gumball machines. No thing is safe. Her arm always extends further than you thought. Most things land instantly in her drooly mouth. But some things are first worthy of a cross-eyed inspection.
Alas, it's late and Hemingway awaits. 'night.