Yesterday I took the baby to my old office to meet my former colleagues, and someone asked, “How are you liking being at home?” My answer to this has always been, “I like it better than I thought I would.” Which is true. But here is what I often don’t say, because a) I will probably start crying and b) I may or may not have a tissue in my pocket and c) everyone knows crying is contagious and it’s possible that the ladies are not wearing waterproof mascara.
I am deeply grateful that we are able to have me stay home with our son. I know how lucky we are. I don’t take it for granted. And sometimes, usually during the first feeding of the day, when the world is still and the baby hasn’t yet started squirming off my lap, I take a deep whiff of babyness and weep with gratitude.
And now you’re thinking, “what’s up with that photo up there?” That’s a sand mandala that a group of Tibetan Buddhist monks spent days making here in St. Louis last year. I tried like hell to get there to see them making it, but was only able to see the destruction ceremony. The monk in this photo is about to sweep away days of work; hundreds of hours of crouching and precisely pouring sand. They do this with every mandala they make, because everything changes. Everything goes away.
And that knowledge is what keeps me grateful for every little moment I get with my son.
Except for maybe the poopy diaper moments.
Happy weekend, everyone.
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Mama-Come-Lately 