Dear Reese,
You are ten months old today. I remember this after you’ve been asleep for an hour. I’m sorry, darling. We’ll take your picture tomorrow.
My mental ticker has been going a little wild the last two weeks, and while there’s time for everything, at moments it doesn’t feel like there is. The walls of overwhelm start closing in, and life feels hard instead of miraculous. And then in another moment, I’m fine and I got this and we’re marching forward.
I usually put a podcast on while I do a few chores after you go to sleep. Washing bottles, tidying the living room, spending ten minutes searching for the right charging cord since my watch has been dead half the day. Tonight, I move through the house in silence. I think it resets my nervous system back to baseline. (And I do find the charging cord.)
Maybe it’s all just too much noise.
My word of the year is Space. I almost forgot about it lately, but maybe that’s what I need. A little more mental space. Physically and materially, the word is very relevant so far this year — house plans, decluttering, early packing, and listing the condo. Our physical space is its own category on my mental ticker.
It’s all so exciting. And hard.
At Hatch this evening, I hold your hands while you practice walking the perimeter of the room. All the way around the island where they make the drinks (I order the cherry lime fojito, a mocktail, as usual). When you get back to our party, you smile, so proud of yourself. And that — being with you, being proud of you too — is easy.
Love,
Mama
The Knight & The Cursed Forest, Part 10
You climb the tree, racing upwards with a plan to handle the basilisk chasing you through the fog. The duck follows you, and when you’re high enough, you whisper to him: “You watch for the snake, and when he’s right below us, push me. I’ll close my eyes.”
“What!” the duck exclaims with a hiss. "
“I can’t look at it, so I need you to tell me when to jump,” you say. “Please.”
“You have no weapon!” he says.
“I have enough,” you say, and pull out the lily pad shield. For a half-second, it flickers with light.
You position yourself on the branch and then wait, listening.
It’s only seconds before the rustling of the snake over the brush below grows louder. The duck pushes at your back with all his small might, and you fall below, eyes still squeezed shut.
Slam! You land a scally, moving body and hug it tightly to stay on as the snake immeditelay begin to buck. You don’t dare look forward in case it has thrown back its head. You can’t risk meeting its eyes. You take the lily pad shield and hold it in front of you with one arm as you desperately, precariously scoot up the snake’s body towards its head.
When you get close, you leap forward with the lily pad shield and throw it over the basilisk's eyes. You see the flash of green even through your closed eyelids. When you open your eyes, you see the lily pad has sealed itself over the basilisk's eyes like a blindfold.
The snake thrashes wildly, and you jump off its back as it searches for you. It can still smell and hear, but now you can see. You run, and it follows as you wind round and round the trees, taking sharp turns and doubling back until the snake twists its own body into a knot without realizing it. It hisses, but cannot move.
“That should hold it,” you say breathlessly. “Let’s get out of here.”
To be continued.