The Weight
Mar. 1st, 2008 10:24 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lollardfishI just had one of those intense emotional rushes that my son sometimes brings to me. My father, who saw Mavis Staples last night in St. Louis, sent me a youtube link to the Staples Singers and the Band playing "The Weight" for "The Last Waltz." Here's the video. It's worth watching, no matter how many times you've heard the song before.
Nico sat on my lap and watched it, transfixed. He'd turn his head to the speakers and back to the screen again, then do it again. Periodically he'd clap his hands or grab my hands in order to clap them together. My eyes teared up (they are, in fact, tearing up right now a little, just a little, as I write this). I think it was joy, joy at my son's engagement with this performance that means a lot to my father, and a lot to me as well (though differently). There's a kind of protective and adoring surge of love, frustrated only by the fact that Nico wants to bounce around and play, and only cuddle when he's sleepy. But also, as always when Nico does something wonderful, I suppose I feel some sadness and fear.
Earlier today, I got him to crawl across much of the apartment to get to me while I was sitting on the floor singing "The Fox" to him. It's one of the first two songs I remember, sung to me along with "Gypsy Davey" by my parents when I was 2 or 3 or so. The latter I remember being sung to me by my mother after I got sawdust in my eye at the "Egg Festival" one summer in Pittsfield, Maine (I think). Nico often makes sounds as I sing to him, sounds I interpret as singing along, and we do this together almost every day. He'll then reach out and pluck at strings with this particular "I'm concentrating" expression on his face.
I'd like to feel a little more free to dream about my son without so much fear - and ultimately it's fear for me, for my disappointment. Nico's happy and is likely going to stay happy. A year ago, roughly, I wrote about mourning - that I had to go through the process of mourning for someone who never existed except in my dreams, dreams that came to an end when the midwife told me of her concerns. Mostly, I think, I'm well adjusted to our reality, but sometimes it still comes back and hits me pretty hard. The fact that Shannon and I are quite broke (it's the higher gas prices, credit-card debt interest rates, and food prices that are eating into our minute margin for error each month) and that she's having her own emotional complications doesn't help. Nor does the fact that we really only get to be home together until 8:30 most mornings, between 1:30-2:00 in the afternoons, after 10:00 at night, and on Sunday. We usually get a Wednesday evening and a Saturday morning too, but not always. There are also some job pressures, mostly involving my scholarship.
Finally, my son is now on levothyroxine. Odds are that he'll take it every day for the rest of his life.
This was supposed to be an uplifting post, because despite the tears, watching The Weight with Nico was a very, very, bright shiny moment. But I also needed to write this out because Nico was refusing to listen. He has toes and monkeys to play with.
I'm really happy spring break started yesterday.
Nico sat on my lap and watched it, transfixed. He'd turn his head to the speakers and back to the screen again, then do it again. Periodically he'd clap his hands or grab my hands in order to clap them together. My eyes teared up (they are, in fact, tearing up right now a little, just a little, as I write this). I think it was joy, joy at my son's engagement with this performance that means a lot to my father, and a lot to me as well (though differently). There's a kind of protective and adoring surge of love, frustrated only by the fact that Nico wants to bounce around and play, and only cuddle when he's sleepy. But also, as always when Nico does something wonderful, I suppose I feel some sadness and fear.
Earlier today, I got him to crawl across much of the apartment to get to me while I was sitting on the floor singing "The Fox" to him. It's one of the first two songs I remember, sung to me along with "Gypsy Davey" by my parents when I was 2 or 3 or so. The latter I remember being sung to me by my mother after I got sawdust in my eye at the "Egg Festival" one summer in Pittsfield, Maine (I think). Nico often makes sounds as I sing to him, sounds I interpret as singing along, and we do this together almost every day. He'll then reach out and pluck at strings with this particular "I'm concentrating" expression on his face.
I'd like to feel a little more free to dream about my son without so much fear - and ultimately it's fear for me, for my disappointment. Nico's happy and is likely going to stay happy. A year ago, roughly, I wrote about mourning - that I had to go through the process of mourning for someone who never existed except in my dreams, dreams that came to an end when the midwife told me of her concerns. Mostly, I think, I'm well adjusted to our reality, but sometimes it still comes back and hits me pretty hard. The fact that Shannon and I are quite broke (it's the higher gas prices, credit-card debt interest rates, and food prices that are eating into our minute margin for error each month) and that she's having her own emotional complications doesn't help. Nor does the fact that we really only get to be home together until 8:30 most mornings, between 1:30-2:00 in the afternoons, after 10:00 at night, and on Sunday. We usually get a Wednesday evening and a Saturday morning too, but not always. There are also some job pressures, mostly involving my scholarship.
Finally, my son is now on levothyroxine. Odds are that he'll take it every day for the rest of his life.
This was supposed to be an uplifting post, because despite the tears, watching The Weight with Nico was a very, very, bright shiny moment. But I also needed to write this out because Nico was refusing to listen. He has toes and monkeys to play with.
I'm really happy spring break started yesterday.
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