sleeping cold in the mother mary light

The virgin Mary light casts shadows on the ceiling, dim rays illuminating the swaying air-globe, pin push maps, alphabet matrix, and the painted mural. The mural is in primary colors, 12 squares, each depicting a different scene, and though it is intense in daylight, it can just barely be seen in the night-glow around us. I am rocking, rocking, rocking, rhythmic, unending repetition, slumped in the glider chair, lost in 3AM thoughtdrifts, dark ruminations; the gently wheezing boy is curled up on my chest, his head nestled up against my neck, my arms around his body. In the dark we are timeless, and in this moment he is captured for me, if only for these few precious minutes, in this predawn tableau, the tiny and fragile boy we love so much, who grows far too quickly, who minutes before screamed with such rage, or was it fear, or despair, or whatever raw and nascent feelings visit a baby in the deepest moments of his night.

I admit at times like this, when Teague is having a bad night, to annoyance and frustration. I would like to think that this isn't too selfish of me, though upon consideration during waking moments, I'm certain that it is. I mean, I can't help it really, when from the floating warmth of my muddled dreams come these urgent cries (nay- screams) from the floor below, and I know that there is probably nothing wrong, and it is only Teague's midnight despair, some shadowy loneliness (or is it just incomprehension?) that leaves him stranded there in the crib in his inscrutable sorrow. I know then that I will have to leave the body-heated, cottony burrow of our bed, to stumble over electronically squawking toys and cold floor-boards, down creaking, ancient stairs to the child's room below on the second floor. But once I swing open the door and lift his little, sniffling body from his crib, I feel rotten because his face is streaked, pitifully, with tears, his relief palpable, and he is shaking and frightened. Obviously, he isn't faking it or exaggerating for effect, and I mentally slap myself for being so selfish and somehow doubting the depth of his despair. After all, he is an inexperienced and helpless little boy, uncomprehending of his situation and this darkness enveloping him, and I'm a grown, supposedly mature adult and striving parent who's JOB it is to take care of him. It seems he deserves better. But then again...this scene I'm describing was the THIRD freakin' time I was up with him that same night!!!

That night, when I picked him up that third time, dazed from my own lack of sleep, and plopped down with him in the rocker, Teague immediately, same as the first two times that night, rested his head on my chest and tucked his tiny hands down into the warmth between our bodies, and almost immediately fell asleep. It occurred to me then, finally, that perhaps he was actually cold and all of this waking up was just because we have been too cheap to turn on the heat with the onset of this chilly October weather. The little dude flips and roles and tosses off his covers and so we can't really count on blankets to keep him warm at night. Well, the genius parents here agreed to run the heat at night, and he has been sleeping pretty well ever since! Still, there is something that is so sweet and heartbreaking about holding him like that at night, that I almost wish he would wake up and call for me anyway. I know that one day not so far away, there will come a time when he's grown, independent, and embarrassed by me, I won't ever hold him like that again, and it makes me feel so sad as I sit there in the mother Mary light, comforting him, thinking these despairing, night-thoughts.

Family Politics in the Midwest

Mira and I took Teague back to the Olde Midwestern Homestead of her in-laws last week. In fact, we both have roots in the Midwest, though we did not meet there, nor do we live there now. I'm always amazed to scan through the real estate listings when we visit Mira's parents, comparing these prices to the insanity of urban living and the massively inflated prices that we pay for 1500 sq ft in the city. And so I have these occasional fantasies of selling out, leaving the urban fold and doubling (or tripling!) our living space in some shady, suburban oasis full of biking kids and summer lawns. But then, what would Teague do without the constant background symphony of sirens, screaming hallucinating transients, roaring motorcycles, howling car alarms, and the rest of the cacophany that you just get accustomed to after living here a while? In fact, one of the earliest "tricks" that Teague could do was to wave at city buses as they roared by. He quickly learned to associate even the diesel and pneumatic sounds of the bus with this required waving, and so even if a bus is not visible but can be heard, Teague will begin waving madly. Now, I never realized until Teague began this waving routine, just how many buses there are hauling around our city. Buses seem to go by our house practically every 5 minutes, with Teague waving at the sound of nearly every one.

But I was saying, we were in the Midwest visiting the in-laws. The occasion was that of Mira's parent's 45th wedding anniversary, and so 3 of Mira's 4 siblings were in attendance to celebrate along with all the spouses and children. Rule number one was supposed to be "No Political Discussions" because that might ruin the special occasion by allowing typical, warped and partisan bickering. There is a political divide running through Mira's family, with half of the family on the conservative side of Catholicism, thus resulting in a "one issue" kind of voter (i.e. abortion) . This side cheers for that spunky Sara Palin and prays for a more conservative Supreme Court. The other half of the family falls into a rough category I'll call "Lefty Catholics", for whom war and poverty are more serious issues in this country much moreson than that of abortion. And so, the "No Politics" mandate results often in the two halves of the family sitting in different rooms talking politics in partisan groups. And of course, political discussions DID happen despite the rule and were mostly ridiculous, like Mira arguing with her Mom about whether Michelle Obama is elegant or not. During argument Mira said, "How can you say that Mom? She's absolutely beautiful!". Mira's Mom replied, "Oh no, that woman's not elegant! She looks like a TIGER"

When these conversations begin, I quickly vacate the room. I don't really see too much hope in having reasonable political discussions within families that are so polarized, and of course we've seen this before in my own family (dear old Dad) and in previous posts. And so I typically took Teague into another room to play with blocks and books while Mira and family would get nowhere, circumlocuting, bloviating, and getting worked up over nothing and everything in politics and religion. Well, I guess it is testament to strong family ties that we all walked out of there without anyone having hurt feelings or really bad memories. I sure will be glad to have this election behind us though.

And so I guess we'll be staying in the big city for now with no suburban moves planned until we have to look seriously at schools for Teague. The politics and culture of the city suits me well. I have rural, and even mountainous fantasies, but they will have to wait.