Seeing the World Together
This week we saw more of the world, my dear. We got out of our cavernous two-story condo and into the world within a five-minute driving radius (since that’s about your car seat limit before crying).
These are the moments I’ll remember with you: wandering parks, running to the grocery store just to be present, visiting the marine mammal care center, planning to meet friends. Just because you hate the car doesn’t mean we can’t see more things outside the neighborhood. And oh, how exciting it all is for you!
I feel the same spark I get with photography and I think you feel the same —finding light and inspiration in what others might call mundane. The snapshots imprinted in your short-term memory this week include:
- Red balloons inflating
- Fluorescent grocery store lights
- Golden light trickling through jacaranda and Moreton Bay fig trees
- Older women smiling and asking your age
- Kids playing, babies crying, joyful shrieks
- The scrape and kick-flip of a skateboard
- The wind tunneling through the carrier
- A seal searching for fish in his pool
A Shaky Start, A New Rhythm
The week began shakily. Your GI symptoms were still in full force, and you were not happy. I was worn thin—forty minutes of soothing and nursing for only a twenty-minute nap.
So we got in the car. We drove to a new park, walking beneath trees in the golden afternoon light on a clear Los Angeles day. I swung gently with you in the carrier, harbor views in front of me, ocean breeze carrying the warmth of California sun. You looked up, face furled in surprise at the brightness.
You didn’t nap, but the next day we tried again. And the next.
Flexibility (Even If It’s Hard)
People tell me babies can be flexible. With you, that hasn’t always felt true. You struggle to nap, eat, and travel. You notice everything—my wrist tendons flexing under your weight as I hold you asleep and try to type, the dog’s collar clinking, a spoon tapping lightly on a plate.
But when you finally napped in the carrier, ambient noise swirling around us, I realized there might be a path toward flexibility. Maybe fresh air matters as much as sleep. If you’re not going to rest well at home, we might as well get out.
And maybe I can be more flexible too.
Our Shared Sensitivities
Clara, I understand you. I remember the difference in people’s grips on my hand, my grandpa’s weathered construction palms, my grandma’s soft touch. I remember clothes that suddenly felt unbearable, or blocking out light with sleeping bags on curtain rods just to sleep.
As a baby, I was inconsolable except by my mom—always moving, always sensitive, always expressive. Some of that still holds true. Scents make me nauseous. Soft textures make me quietly giddy. Noises on the road wake me. Even tiny glows of electronics keep me up.
I see some of that in you already: sleep sacks that bother your feet, your thrashing and screams to kick them off, your dislike (like your dad’s) of certain touches, your delicate sleep.
But the beauty in all this sensitivity is presence. You’ll notice the small things. You’ll be attuned. And you’ll bring others—me included—down to earth.
Letting Go of Perfection
Another place I’ve had to release control is with EC and diapering. Since your bloody diapers, our EC journey has slowed. Inconsistency with cues threw me off, and I had to accept that not everything can be perfect.
Still, this week brought your first blood-free poops. They came back, but I’m claiming that victory anyway.
Thank You
Thank you, my love, for opening my eyes to the world and keeping me grounded. For helping me notice the small beauties others overlook. For reminding me that you’ll grow, thrive, and live your life regardless of my perfect plans.
The wake windows, the “sleep tools,” the schedules—they matter less than being here, together. It’s taken me three months to realize that. I hope I can keep remembering it.
I love you.
Mom
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