“Are you telling me a story?” I whisper, watching Oliver’s tiny mouth open into a perfect O after he utters a string of sounds, his own little “words.”
Everyone said we would learn his language, his father and me; that, in time, we would begin to know what the whimpers and grunts and dolphin-like calls all mean. For nervous parents-to-be, this seemed impossible. “He won’t speak English,” I remember joking with Spencer. And we won’t know the Language of Oliver.
Despite assurances from seasoned parents, I pictured myself as this sleep-deprived, wild-haired monster pacing the halls with a howling infant in her arms. In these anxious daydreams, it was always dark, maybe even raining, and I was always exhausted. I imagined being frustrated, so frustrated, that I’m singing every lullaby-esque song I can think of . . . nonsense words to old tunes that rise up out of nowhere; often songs my parents sang to me. Yet Ollie stays stuck in his own frustration, ignoring my tunes and pleas. He bucks and howls louder in my arms.
Have I actually had nights like that? I have. I have. Our 10-week-old has wailed and begged for something I cannot see, cannot parcel out, and I have felt helpless and lonely and sad. We have tried fresh diapers and extra milk and swaddling with arms in, swaddling with arms out, and nothing pleases him. Nothing can quiet that wail from that perfect O mouth.
That is not every night — or even most of them. But on the rough nights, the hard nights, we rock and twirl as I hold tight to him, this warm little body somehow created out of nothing, trying not to trip on the too-long legs of my pajamas. We stand in the nursery prepared during the weeks Oliver was in a hospital far from us, Spencer and I worrying obsessively about his care and well being and when — when — we would finally bring him home.
And we sway, Oliver and me, two people watching another sunrise catch summer dew on grass I once danced through myself. The day slides in, already waiting for us. He finally quiets, a drowsy and reassuring weight in my arms, so I watch alone. And it’s hard to imagine feeling lonely ever again.
I’ve long read every one of your posts for the beauty of your writing, but THAT was poetry. 😍
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A salute to all the loving parents who have spent those rough nights which we children seldom remember when we grow up. I was fortunate to have a younger brother who was born 8 years after me and I was able to witness my parents struggling to make him sleep during those nights.
Your post made me smile. Oliver is really lucky and adorable 🙂
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Beautful.
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Hi Ollie! so cute. Don’t worry, soon you will be looking back on those days and laughing.
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That was, hands down, my favorite of your posts to date. It was really, really sweet and beautifully written.
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TRY music box or the radio That may work! I know I get sleepy. On tv with cable beautiful classics and soft music occurs.Relaxing.
GRam xoxo
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Just beautiful. What a special time in your life!
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Such sweet, sweet words. What a loving and devoted mother you are!
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Your words are beautiful but your baby is more so.
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Beautifull story…!
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Bless. Too cute. : ) Blessings.
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Beautiful. Simply beautiful 🙂
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What cute baby seem so contient
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I love this phrase, “…Oliver and me, two people watching another sunrise catch summer dew on grass…” 🙂
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Beautiful writing! I am following your blog. Do you want to follow mine?
It’s raulconde001.com
Lot’s of interesting stuff.
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What beautiful writing. My sister has just had a baby – think she would really love this post as she was telling me similar things. After talking with her, I also wrote a post about motherhood although it’s definitely not as poetic as yours:
https://theflyingbees.wordpress.com/2015/06/12/babies-are-scary/
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What a beautiful baby.wishing you much happiness.
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