Proust
Sometimes, I have visions of what life will be like in the coming years. The most mundane actions spur on these dreams. I had one recently, brought on by taking my sleeping daughter upstairs to put her to bed. As I started climbing the bottom steps -- something that Donna and I have done often over the 50-odd days of Margo's life -- I had these vivid images, future memories, of doing this very same motion, dozens, hundreds more times over the next decade. I could see her face slowly losing its baby fat. I could see her in the days where she still wears sleepers, and the days when she will wear pajamas, and the odd times when she's still in her daytime clothes. Some of these images had me carrying her like I do now, laying across one arm, but they were replaced with the days where she will be tall enough that I will have to make a basket with my arms to get a proper grip, and still have her legs dangling out, while I would navigate the staircase slowly to keep a lulling motion.
By the time that I got upstairs, I was back in the present, and made my way to the bedroom to lay her down, sticking around long enough to make sure that the sleep held.
I guess what made this last time different was that on the way back down, I realized that she was born into this situation, her mother and I around her, and that she knows us for the love, comfort and security that we bring. And in all those scenes, those visions, in all those imaginary years of her life that went by as I was carrying her upstairs, the look on her face was the constant, the look of letting go because we surround her, and always will.That's what getting married felt like. Whenever I would come downstairs, Donna would be there. And now, the visions are of family.
Some things change, but I want the look in Margo's sleeping face, a look of unquestioning faith in us as parents, to stay.
I'll leave the visions of having to replace the carpet because of permanent markers, and the dreams of calming her down after she swallowed something that should never have seen the inside of a body for some other time. For now, I just want to go to bed knowing that Margo will always be our daughter.
- Michel
This entry was posted
on Saturday, November 04, 2006 at 12:42 a.m..
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11:57 a.m.Oh my goodness I am so in love.
I can't believe how happy you make me, Michel.
Enough of the mush. I'm thinking about applying some permanent marker to the carpets myself so we can replace them sooner . . .diabolical am I.
But still in love.
2:07 p.m.
Oh my goodness, I'm so in love! LOL, just kidding! But this post did make me cry though. Then laugh, after I read Donna's comment. And I already know what it feels like to have to replace a couch because of permanent marker and he was only 18 months. What? About 14 more months to go? Hang in there Donna.
12:38 a.m.
Oh Boy! Or girl as the case may be. Someone has stolen your heart now, hasn't she. She has stolen all of ours. You will remember these moments on all her firsts. First day of school, first boyfriend, graduation and wedding. She will always be your little girl, no matter where life's voyage takes you.
Donna - wait until ALL your children have reached at least 5 before you replace anything. Five years old that it. Not five children. That's assuming they don't drag home little puppies and cats and beavers for you to adopt. Beavers reek havoc on carpets.
2:26 p.m.
Gee, I didn't mean for this blog to be so educational, but I've learned something new: beavers wreak havoc on carpets.
Well, there goes my idea for Donna's Christmas gift.
4:52 p.m.
Ahhh, Margo. You make my heart ache.
To more pragmatic matters: Uh, hate to burst everyone's bubble, but kids wreck everything. At all ages. Resign yourself to never again owning anything nice. It'll be easier on everyone if you just give up now.
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