Baby and I are both regressing. Hers of course is expected, acceptable, understood and also will come to an end. I, on the other hand, am regressing to an old version. I am forgetting words, to string together lines, to even work out coherently a thought in my head, to put it down on paper without trouble. I am forgetting how to read, how to enjoy a film. I am functioning without complaints because this is what we do but its hard. To remember that I am forgetting is a constant nagging fear but at the same time, helplessness.
The hours after she falls asleep, I am exhausted too. Too much that I cant read more than a few sentences without having to go back and read again and then again until I think what did I just read? What does it matter.
I love her, I love everything she is learning and what an amazing thing to watch as she grows and figures and grasps and reaches out and occasionally reaches to me for comfort. What joy to be needed like this but also what a huge responsibility. We have taken it on rushing along head first. We meet the needs with constant reassurances to each other. But but but.. what about me, I think, almost always guiltily and selfishly.
"One who asks about things — about their dimensions, weight, location, moods, names, holiness, smell — is an historian. But the asking is not idle. It is when you are asking about something that you realize you yourself have survived it, and so you must carry it, or fashion it into a thing that carries itself."
Anne Carson.
The hours after she falls asleep, I am exhausted too. Too much that I cant read more than a few sentences without having to go back and read again and then again until I think what did I just read? What does it matter.
I love her, I love everything she is learning and what an amazing thing to watch as she grows and figures and grasps and reaches out and occasionally reaches to me for comfort. What joy to be needed like this but also what a huge responsibility. We have taken it on rushing along head first. We meet the needs with constant reassurances to each other. But but but.. what about me, I think, almost always guiltily and selfishly.
"One who asks about things — about their dimensions, weight, location, moods, names, holiness, smell — is an historian. But the asking is not idle. It is when you are asking about something that you realize you yourself have survived it, and so you must carry it, or fashion it into a thing that carries itself."
Anne Carson.
