As I write this I've just put Veronica down for bed and I'm listening to her cry over the monitor. The little red lights blaze across the top of the gadget with each of her cries. They taper off into aahahahaahhhhs that are so sweet they cause my chest swells with warmth. She's not really awake, this is just something she does most nights as she goes to sleep.
Sometimes it escalates and I go in and lift her out of the crib and sink down into the rocker and nurse her back to sleep in the dark. More often than not, I'll think she's awake and I'll go in, only to peer over the railing of the crib at her little open mouth, her eyes closed, and realize that she's just crying out in her sleep.
I nurse her to sleep every night around 8pm. Usually on the couch, the lights in the living room turned low. She stays up while Greg and I eat dinner, usually playing in her exersaucer while we eat, each of taking turns to make funny faces at her so that she rocks back and forth in excitement. After that I turn off the lamp behind my head and sit to nurse her while we watch Madmen episodes on DVD or catch up on email. She plays with her ear for a while in the beginning of nursing, her fingers fluttering and pulling at the cartilage, her eyes opening wide to look up at me, as if to make sure I'm still there, even though she's physically attached to me. And then, after a while, her breathing grows deeper, her eyes stay closed, and I know that she is asleep.
Sometimes I let her stay there for a while, enjoying her warmth and her presence, but eventually, after I'm sure she's asleep, I heft us off the couch, keeping her cradled in my arms against me, and I walk slowly back to the nursery. I creak across the hardwood floors and gently roll her out of my arms and onto the mattress in her crib. Then I click off the light and back out of the room, being careful not to make much noise.
And then I usually miss her for a while. I've written about this before here, but I'm still fascinated by what a physical relationship this is. It's not something that I wasn't anticipating at all. But you get so used to it. Her tiny hands all over me, the weight of her body in my arms, the way she twists and kicks, and the feel of her soft, soft head against my cheek. My body feels so solitary, so staid, when she's gone.
I meant to write a post about Veronica and the little person she is swiftly becoming, and I guess I am in a way. But I see now that what I'm really writing about is my attachment to her, perhaps in the face of her emerging independence. And I know that this is only the beginning. I have eating and walking and teenagedom to look forward to, but I had gotten used to those early months of complete dependence.
Even though it was challenging, I'd grown used to doing everything for this little person, for making each decision, and for even having to physically manipulate into various positions. But now, here she is, pushing against me, pulling herself towards something, indicating how desperately she wants to grab that cat who is walking by (poor cats, they're really going to be in for it soon). And I can't help but realize that she is her own little person already. She has wants and desires and plans and ideas that are different than mine. I find this at once heartbreaking and utterly revelatory.
I was thinking about my father tonight. He always treated me like a person. Even when I was a kid. He expected a certain level of independence and responsibility from me that I think is rare for a parent to ask of their child. I'm grateful for it. And I know that it had to do with raising three children before I was born, watching them grow up and turn into their own people helped him to recognize that I was my own person right from the start. Where parents generally have to live through the experience of their child becoming themselves, my father had done that several times over, giving him the ability to know that I would do the same, long before I actually did it.
I always want to respect the person that Veronica is, whoever it may be. I want to recognize that, although she comes from me and from Greg, she is not us. I want to be open to whoever she wishes to be, even if it's something that I would not choose for her.
One of my favorite books is The Fairy Tales of Herman Hesse, and in it, there is a story about a woman who gets one wish for her infant son. She thinks on it long and hard and finally she wishes for all people to love him. The story follows the boy as he grows into a man and, indeed, all who encounter him love him. But he turns selfish and self-centered, and he has no respect or reverence for those around him, not even his own mother. She regrets the folly of her choice and her heart breaks for the man he has become.
I want Veronica to live the life that she will live. I cannot protect her from heartbreak or loneliness, I cannot ask that everyone love her (even though part of me wishes I could). I can only ask that she be who she is. And I can only love her for whoever that may be.
