i've looked at love from both sides now

A hormonally charged Christmas, a Christmas with four children and one husband and two large shedding hairy flea-flurried dogs, with one grandma and one cousin and her husband and their little boy, with a sick Ever Elizabeth and a very tired and very grateful mom and dad. The older my children got, the more glasses of champagne I had toward the end of the day, as the kids dispersed to family or friends or visiting their biological dad; now I am full circle, back to abstaining from all alcohol, can't have eggnog because of Ever's tummy- or chocolate!- and so all the binging and indulgence was put aside for nurturing and refining. Although Mr. Curry had a few jack and cokes.

Christmas Eve Mr. Curry and I stayed up till past 1am wrapping presents, taking turns holding Ever as she snuffled and sneezed and snorted through her congestion, getting sentimental and morbid, reflecting on those we have lost and those lost to themselves, until finally I said We have to talk about something happy! And Mr. Curry agreed, and we sat in silence for a few minutes. Mr. Curry glanced at me, I glanced at him. We couldn't think of anything, we laughed. Ridiculous. We are so lucky, and so surrounded with and full of love; perhaps this puts into high relief those we have loved who are not, those we love... our minds wander to the lost and the hurting, like Mr. Curry's friend R. whose young sister died last month, and whose mother just had a stroke, and who spent Christmas Eve drunk and fighting with his wife, until he called Mr. Curry, slurring into the phone and taking him away from our gathering to try to encourage and support his friend.

Having babies does this to me, and to Mr. Curry- while we are intensely falling in love with our new, helpless and beautiful baby, we are more keenly aware of the other side of love, of pain, of suffering, not only far away and in mysterious homes, but in our own home, our families, our friends. I sit with Ever breathing noisily on my bare chest and the image crosses my mind of an infant left to cry in her crib, and I am seized in the chest and the throat with grief. It's unbearable, the things that happen to us feeling, sentient beings. And yet, there it is, to be borne. In the face of reality, we love harder and more pure, refine our daily lives, look to be better, more present, patient and teaching parents to our children, to love each other. Sometimes the love I feel is painful. It's so intense and bright and so soon after the birth of a baby, rides on the crest of an unstable wave, an anxious and yearning wave. As time goes by my body will adjust and settle and I will love from a better place, a place of more faith and trust and peace. The very act of loving makes us incredibly vulnerable...like a newborn. We cry and we desire and we feel safe or afraid, loved or abandoned, and there is no one on this planet who will not hurt us if we love them, because that is the nature of life. To accept, to amend, to cleave, to better ourselves- this is my marriage and my parenting, full of flaws and then amendment and healing, and it is more than enough. I wish the same for every person. For all of us to be loved.

There arose such a splatter....

Later Christmas day, all we did was laugh. I changed Ever's poopy diaper on the couch with a blanket underneath her. As I slid a clean diaper under her butt, a bright yellow stream of poop shot out over the diaper and onto the back of Ever's outfit, the blanket, and my pants. Mr. Curry handed me the wipes and we began mopping up. Ever lay naked on top of her poopy outfit, and I picked her up and handed her to Mr. Curry. He stood holding Ever under her naked butt and across her chest, and I looked up at him as he began to say something about a clean outfit for her when her tiny cheeks opened and to my horror a long glow in the dark stream of poop shot like a cannon out of her butt and flew across the carpet ( splat splat splat ) onto the cardboard boxes ( splat SPLAT! ) across my pants and the couch and finally, in a few grunted last shots, over the front of Mr. Curry's shirt. We stood there, dumbfounded and silent for a brief moment before busting up laughing. Merry Christmas!