Friday, November 11, 2011


Suddenly it's been 11 months since I had this baby girl and I treasure every moment with her at the exact same time as I'm barely here, barely in this body, just floating around doing my job, dressing children, making dinner, cleaning, laughing, showering, whatever I'm doing has a vague sense of unreality about it. This is dissociation, by the books, and it's unpleasant and slightly terrifying, like hanging off the edge of the rope one minute longer, looking down, gauging if it really is safe to jump. This is the crux of daydreaming about sex with my husband. It's the only time I feel real. Here is a hand, on my ribs. Here is his mouth. Here is his breath. I look at him and I see simultaneously the face of my youth at nineteen, the face of adulthood, the face of my future in the glint of greying hair in his beard, along the hairline.

I feel incredibly blessed to have this line down the rabbit hole; to have this safety net, at the same time I know there is something dangerous about it, something unhealthy. When I was alone I found my own strengths cleaner, closer to the surface. It's harder to discipline myself when I can put my head against his chest and find the centre.

I am weak for months and months, years really, after the birth of a baby. I have never been able to do a momentous life transition without completely gutting myself, inside out, examined, shaken in the wind, refitted. I lose myself. Around the second year after, I begin to resurface. Everything stirring so deeply in my subconscious comes to the surface shining, clean, silver and blue sterling, strong as oxen steel, and it's like I was standing in the room surrounded by you all and dying of lack of air and suddenly my hand finds the window and slams it open and with a great gasp I am Breathing Again.

Meanwhile my husband has never been so strong, so sexy, so manly, so loving, so in his skin. The prime of his life has begun, and the strength of his arms as he swings our children or a piece of furniture is a mirror of the strength inside of him: the patience with Lola, the endless inventive intuitiveness with Ever, the sober steadiness with the boys. He is thick and healthy with manual labor, at ease with anyone he meets, the calm and assured look on his face and in his body language draws perfect strangers to strike up conversations with him. I stand next to him, ill at ease, nothing to say, sleep deprived and wonky, but safe, and knowing he will wait for me, to come back.

So much is unsure, so much is not the way we want it, so much is scary and yet so much is full, abundant. With Ever our family was completed, and that feeling is incredible, for Mr. Curry and myself, as we are both painfully aware of how precious and random it is to have this, how we did nothing to deserve or not deserve this, however here it is, what we wanted, and we are never unaware. Our family, the six of us- it is the undercurrent that carries our life.
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