Thing is, if you end up totally satisfied with your life then what else is there to work for? Huh, huh, huh?
Since I've been in a bit of a hippy phase since I was 12-years old, I am more than familiar with all those songs out there about seasons changing and how it really means that babies get older. There's some peace and love in 'em, too. I do remember those parts. But it's the parts about the winds coming in from the West and blowing yer baby clear up in to personhood with legs that can walk and mushy cheeks that can talk . . . it is those parts of the songs that sting me like hot pokers.
You'd think that with all the peacing and loving we listen to in my little shack that my husband would go ahead and gimme another baby. He, apparently, thinks peace and love also means not overpopulating our planet.
Sometimes I try to get all Holy on him, seeing as that was his fire and brimstone upbringing, but instead he finds some diversion like playing "No Woman, No Cry" on his guitar with his chin pointed up to the stars. Hello? Anybody in there? He's gone and tuned out.
Tova may be our last Viking. I can't hardly believe it.
And then, you know what -- aside from me having all sorts of good baby names left -- you know what?
Today was Tovey Marge's first day of preschool.
The long walk to the front door, giving my baby away to the baby snatchers at our preschool.
Already busy with Montessori work.
Bye-bye, says Mommy.
Don't let the door hit you on your back porch on the way out, says Tova.
2 comments:
A little teary-eyed over here. A singleton makes all those changes even more poignant, but even when it's number 4--or number last as a friend says--there's still a mighty tug at the heartstrings. Godspeed, Tova!
Oh man, I get it, lady. I love my little boys so much, but wasn't I going to have three? Wasn't I going to have a little girl, too? I might need to be satisfied with the great little guys I've already got, though, which really wouldn't be so bad!
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