At the end of the day, when it's dark and the house is all quiet and still, I can almost forget I have a baby. I enjoy being still, or walking through the house without having to bend or reach or say "Nonono!" while whisking a twenty-pound wiggle worm up off the floor and away from danger. But as I get ready for bed, all the little signs of Westley that I've missed or forgotten about during the day suddenly appear. I look around and see mother-life.
There's a stuffed giraffe with a jingle bell inside of it in the middle of my bathroom floor, while the bathmats (which have baby pee on them) are in the washer. Cleaning supplies under the sink have been replaced by a bottle of white vinegar with a sprayer nozzle screwed onto it. The breast pump bag is on the dining table, and there are sticks of breast milk and cubes of homemade baby food in the freezer. A toy piano blocks the remote control's view of the DVD player. Bottle of teething relief drops on the end table. Pacifier in my pillowcase.
He's sleeping peacefully in bed, sighing sweetly in his warm, safe corner of the house. But he's also everywhere, having left a trail of little markers all over the house. All over me. Black bean puree on my jeans, spit-up on my shoulder, and drool in my bangs. So I won't get lost.
As I close my eyes in the dark and the quiet, I think about him and sort of miss him, even though he's close by. And I can almost forget that he wasn't always in my life.
