The Joy of Being

Eternity In An Afternoon – by Rebecca Martin / Kinfolk Issue 4

“The days are long,” say other moms who see me toting my baby around. “But the years are short,” they always add. They mean carpe diem, or something like it: this time won’t last forever, so enjoy the moments while she’s still small. But in my experience, the days fly. Between lifting her out of her crib at daybreak and laying her down for the night, I feel like I’m chasing down the clock.

             I pull her from the crib, change her diaper and her clothes (sometimes twice, if I’m unlucky), and head for the kitchen. I’m always surprised: eight-thirty already? But the glowing green numbers on the stovetop don’t lie. Breakfast is a longer meal than it used to be, and I’m learning to savor the calm time with my daughter; the carpe diem lesson applies here. But then we’re off to play, and in no time it seems, to sleep again: morning nap. If I’m disciplined, I write. I fill up an hour and a half with words and imaginings. Otherwise, I twiddle the time away on food prep and house straightening and blogs and emails. Either way, the wake-up cry sounds from below sooner than I expect, and I’m down to the baby’s room for diapering, lunch, errands, more play if we can squeeze it in, and then another nap, the afternoon one.

            Here is where the hours begin to stretch out. I allow myself a couch sit and a drink: coffee if it’s an early nap, wine if it’s later. I read, I doze, I watch something on the BBC and stitch on an embroidery piece that’s been lying around for several months. And I start to feel antsy. Nap time is me time, and yes, I savor it. But now I grow a little lonely, especially in the waning afternoon light. I wander the upstairs indecisively. I go down to the kitchen and heat up milk. I make sure the sippy cup is washed and ready. I check the stovetop clock. I actually stalk the nursery door. And then I hear it! The first peep of waking.

            I sweep up the baby and we sit, together, snuggled in the armchair by the dining room window. She is warm and soft, still halfway between sleep and waking. She drinks her afternoon milk and leans into me. I give her a squeeze and look out the window, lit by white lights from the inside and sunset glow from the outside.

            “Never wake a sleeping baby,” everyone says. But for this, I would. This is our tradition. This is my favorite part of the day. The time may fly, but this is the moment I want to keep for eternity.

(The painting "Mother" is by Mary Cassatt)