To
begin with, Sullivan laughed today. Apparently me gnawing on his cheek is
funny. He’s also such an easy baby. When I had Henry, he’s the type of baby I
would want to punch parents in the face for having:
“He
almost never fusses.”
“He
sleeps through the night.”
“He
smiles all the time.”
“Such
a happy baby!”
Maybe
I’m being rewarded for all the times I didn’t punch those parents. :)
I
put him down on the chair today to hang out and kick for a bit, which he did,
and then he did this: 
So,
as you can probably tell, things are better. I’m still pushing myself to do
more creative things as an outlet. I started sewing aprons last spring sort of
randomly. I've made five and have fabric for five more waiting for me. Here’s a few (I was seven months preggers in my pic):
And
I have a few more to finish. For my birthday, my parents bought me a sewing
machine because they said hand-sewing aprons seemed a little silly. My first
project on the sewing machine was Henry’s Halloween costume. I made the shirt,
hat and sword:
I’ve
also been walking a bit (Sullivan loves being outside), finishing up some
work-related projects and reading. And Monday, because I hadn’t done anything
creative, in between rounds at work I whipped out a sestina. I love sestinas. I
ignore the required couplets at the end so it doesn’t count as a traditional
one, but eh.
Henry tells me he follows the moon,
pointing to the dark sky with markered hands
and kiwi-strawberry yogurt outlining his lips: a circle
of pink cream glowing on his face
from the blackness of the car. We were driving home,
stopped for seven minutes subject to a freight train.
“Where are the passengers on this train?”
he asks, naming the cars as they pass, the moon
blinking between them. “Are they all at home?”
I start to explain there are none, my hands
gesturing in my lap. I tilt my head to see his face
in the rearview, the blinking safety lights red circles
on his cheeks. When we drive on, the splotchy circles
pepper my vision and it’s like I’m still watching the train.
Parked, he asks for a piggyback ride, his moist fingers on my face,
the grass wet on my flip flops, the spotlight of moon
on the front door. He is heavy against me, but I need my hands
for the keys. “Hold on tight,” I tell him, “We’re almost home.”
In the dorm where we live (too many people to say home),
he asks to be let down and runs to announce himself. They encircle
him and after this greeting, he shys under their hands.
“We saw a caboose,” he yells, thudding in Thomas the Train
slippers. I let us in to a cramped living room lit by the moon
and Henry twists to take of his striped hoodie, his face
I call, the words feeling more like home
than the place. In the bathroom on the stool, he moons
over the fish with their fake, blue eggs; ridiculous circles
bobbing in rocks. Henry leans over the crusty sink, his train
t-shirt polka-dotted with dirt and marker spots. “No hands
in the tank,” I remind him and, without a flinch, his hands
recoil as he smiles, his eyes looking at me but his face
turned away. He knows and in response peeps like a train
and tells me he doesn’t want to brush. “We get home,
we brush. That’s the plan.” “No deal,” he pouts as I turn him a half circle
to get at his teeth. There are no cavities on
the moon.
