i know people have a lot of mixed feelings about babies and children and parents. there are a lot of deep cultural assumptions and beliefs about how many children a person “should” have or is entitled to, i’ve found since bringing the ever unpopular third child into our little family. despite all of this, nothing can stop the flow of joy at knowing a new person is on the way, has arrived, is finally HOME. and that’s where i’m at. cloud nine. top of the world. move over jack and rose. this ship is mine.
yesterday, after a seemingly super long but actually compared to average, short, stay at the hospital after his arrival, a new nephew of mine has finally arrived HOME.
being a homeowner, i am also aware of the mixed feelings that go into being such. i have reached points where i loathe the place i live, can’t stand to look at it, need to get away from it. this can happen. especially for someone like me who scarcely has a life outside of my home, can you believe it? a real genuine 1950s homemaker. yipes stripes. however, having and bringing home children to this house, raising them here, this house has worn a deep groove in my heart that can never be replaced by another. i love my home and the more drama and joy and worry and troubles and time that pass here, the deeper the groove. dorothy said it best. there is simply no place like home.
i have also been in the position of bringing a new baby home and having the feeling of walking a tightrope with no net underneath. where were the people to tell me how to do this? to take mine and my baby’s vitals and make sure we weren’t dying? to bring me food and take my dirty tray away? i have held newborns on sleepless nights, feeling so unsteady and unsure and like if i dared put them down, they would surely instantly perish or get sucked down into and lost in the piles of clutter around my house and never be found again.
yet, there is something unmistakably RIGHT and WHOLE about bringing a baby home. walking through that threshold with that new family member to restore him to his proper place amongst loud and scrambling brothers and sisters, amongst the clutter and the troubles and the drama.
when i was eighteen, my dad finally died in our back bedroom after a year long struggle with cancer and as i sat and watched the ambulance people cart his lifeless shell of a body out the front door, i remember thinking, “that’s the last time he’ll be in this house.” that was the end of his story (sort of). the last of his part in the drama and the troubles and the joys. breathing out.
a new baby, a person just starting out his story…now that’s a deep breath in. the kind that fills your lungs to bursting.