pat the bunny

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Phoebe, mid-pat

This morning I called Helen and told her I couldn't come to her house this morning. Phoebe is grumpy because she has hemmorrhoids because she's super constipated because I fed her too many soda crackers because apparently I've never had a baby before.

Helen told me in no uncertain terms that I need to extend myself some grace and be OK with staying home all day, just getting housework done or sitting in Scott's ugly easy chair, gazing outside and sipping coffee while Asher runs around with marker on his face.

She also ordered Asher and I outside to have a tea party on the front lawn, but I'm thinking her 85 year old frontal cortex conveniently forgot that it's 32 degrees outside.

I love Helen. Spending time with her is like seeing an older version of myself, less anxious, more grace-filled. I'm a soul softened by time, experience, and perspective. I have forgotten the things that aren't important and I remember the things that are.

I've still been feeling sad, anxious.

Kids are the perfect antidote because they really could give a rat's behind how you're feeling. They need to be fed and they want to play games and they tell you that your breath stinks because they know you love them and they know they can say stuff like that.

Phoebe is 7 months old. Most mothers would be sad about this, the pages turning in the baby book, the most obvious indication of passage of time, but I really get excited when my kids are a mite more than small food receptacles/pooping machines.

We recognized about a week ago that Fi (I write Fi because writing "Phoe" is just a little strange) pats things.

Someone proclaimed about three days ago, "Hey! She pats what she likes!"

Her high chair, Cheerios in the morning, her big brother, her diaper.

Pat, pat, pat.

The shags on our living room carpet, her toes, the tube of Desitin.

Pat, pat, pat.

the Valentine gift bag she has come to expect during her morning diaper change, her Glow Worm, her green and white blankets, Scott's whiskers.

Pat, pat, pat.

A pat from Phoebe is her little proclamation to the world: Hey! This is so cool! This is amazing! I LOOOOOOOOOOVE THIS, YOU GUYS!!!!!!!

I was wandering around this morning, looking at my messy house, the full sink, the kids whose brains I get a bit overwhelmed with trying to instill moral values into on a daily basis. Am I nagging them too much? Do they know I love them? Do they even *like* me? Did I offend someone on Facebook before I deleted my account? Do all my friends know how much I appreciate them? Was I mean to Scott this morning? Will Lucy be mad I didn't pack a lunch for her today? Is the laundry molding in the washer? How could anyone but a horrible housekeeper ask herself that question?

I sigh.

Then, I feel it. Softly, on my shoulder:

Pat, pat, pat.


She pats what she likes.