Somewhere along the way, my perusing of the
Aliens and Conspiracy History channel’s offerings yielded up the little gem that sailors at one point used the saying “One hand for the ship, one hand for yourself.” Or something along those lines.
That saying has been playing through my mind for the last week. One hand for the ship. Because I’m feeling very much that both my hands are busy keeping this ship afloat, and the one hand for myself is missing in action.
Things have been getting better. The small one is rapidly figuring out how breastfeeding works and is slowly consolidating her wake/sleep/eat/play periods into a more regular pattern. The big one is going through a language explosion, it feels like, and is using words and signs to explain himself much more efficiently. And Manly is picking up as many pieces as he can around the things that MUST be done.
But it’s still hard. My mother-in-law, probably not even realizing that she was doing it, warned me months ago. “Just wait,” she said, shaking her head at the memory, “until they’re both crying needing you and you’re crying because you can’t help them both at the same time.” Left unspoken was the fact that I have to choose one over the other, triaging needs versus wants versus my own feeling of inadequacy.
I know it’s not just me —
— but it is that these two are MINE. That they and I have to live with the decisions that I make.
I remember putting Mini in his crib at one point (months and months ago, before she was even a possibility), screaming over something that I don’t even remember. And I walked downstairs and vacuumed the living room, taking the time to collect my breath and my temper. And when I picked him back up afterwards, out of breath and exhausted from our collective fits, he clung to me, relishing my attention and love and physical presence. A moment where we sought solace in each other, forgiveness for both our faults.
It’s hard, being the entire world for these two little creatures.