Silly Chaotic Nourishing Stir

By Cullen Curtiss
Web Exclusive - January 23, 2009

A wadded-up tissue of yours was waiting for me in the back pocket of my blue jeans, along with a bottle cap you found in the driveway, and a really, really long piece of dental floss. Strangely, these are just a few of my favorite things.

When I fell in love with you, you didn't even exist yet. You were a desire, a beloved pursuit, and a future I couldn't quite imagine. I nurtured you without knowing you, by eating what you made me crave, by walking, and stretching; I invested in a 529 plan, upgraded my car insurance, dreamed of summer camping trips, and teaching you how to appreciate nature. Now you are more real than anything I have ever known. You cling to me, and I to you. When you are sick, I am unwell. You've grown fat, healthy, and smart at my breast. We are connected genetically, by blood. The draw is irreducible.

People ask me how I am adjusting, as if your presence is merely that—an adjustment, but adjustments are merely shifts in behavior and thinking over time. I adjusted to your father's enthusiasm for fishing ten hours straight by bringing a good book, plenty to eat, and a blanket. And I adjusted to his need to put green chile in all food by adopting the same practice. While there is no equation that indicates how many adjustments equal a transformation, I can safely say you've necessitated the number. No man has ever created such a silly, chaotic, nourishing stir. A man who could would be bad for me. Let's put it this way, if your dad required as many adjustments as you do, there would be no you.

Per the beautiful design that biology brings, I have strangely and gladly put up with a lot as a new mom.

1. I'll never sleep through the night again. The wee morning hours are lovely, dark, and deep, and you must know they have great secrets to offer, else why would you be awake when someone of your tender age ought to be dreaming of life-size Legos?

2. I deeply miss those seven-minute showers. You sway at the slowly fogging glass door and perhaps wonder why I seem to be fading from view. You tug at the towel, spin the toilet paper off its roll, and experiment with the flavor of the objects from our various bathroom cabinets and drawers. Okay, okay, I'm getting out.

3. I liked wearing bikinis. You so enjoyed swimming in the confines of my belly that you remained two weeks after you were due. In that time, you put on the Freshman 15 in ounces and practiced some fantastic flips, stretching me beyond my capacity. Now my skin looks like a baggy shirt of your dad's, but vanity requires more time in the morning than I can offer.