Bing Crosby is singing "Silent Night." The dishwasher splashes and whirs in the kitchen. Daniel adjusts and squeaks in his office chair...typing away on his never-ending projects. It is a typical mid-week evening...complete with my ho-hum picture. I fixed a "use up what we have" dinner which consisted of: falafel, ginger-teriyaki mahi mahi, sauteed spinach and a salad. Falafel really must be deep-fried to obtain their traditional delicious flavor. My pan-fried "healthy" variety with olive oil spray created dried patties of questionable wheat grain balls (luckily drenched in sauteed spinach).
Daniel is appreciative and forgiving of my cooking. Sometimes when I'm stirring or mixing, my mind wanders to the oft-told story of my mother's first oatmeal. She had just married my father and her father-in-law (my grandpa) had come for a morning visit. She approached the table with two bowls of oatmeal; each bowl pierced with a spoon. Two spoons that were completely motionless in the sludge. That same woman, who surely suffered much sulking and ridicule under my father's Southern-mama-pampered palette, has since honed her skills and become one of the finest cooks I know. She shares hallowed ground with her aforementioned mother-in-law; however, her flare for savory and healthy cuisine is unparalleled. And the love she makes with chocolate at Christmas is what my tongue aches for the moment I see the first sprig of holly.
Last night I filled a grocery bag with salad stuff, spices, and tubes of polenta and traveled to Ginny's. I had come to meet her son and cook her and the proud papa some dinner. I figure that's what most new moms would like. A chance to sit on your own couch, wearing your breast friend, chatting about life, getting served dinner, and not having to do dishes.
And what a handsome and mellow boy they have! Tarafi (pronounced tar- off-eye) is only one week old and sleeps serenely with his mouth slightly ajar and his long arms dangling off to the side. He seems perfectly content with the constant rhythms of pulsating music, Jamaican videos, a curious dog and an indecisive cat. This child's ears shall always hear music and his feet will surely dance.
What an adventure nine months can bring! It was in my bathroom that the discovery of Tarafi's impending arrival was revealed. Ginny took hysterical photos in her bike helmet of the magic stick. My mind filled with all the fun it would be to have a baby from my dancing friend; a friend with whom I shared a sponge mattress and a mosquito net, a rat-infested hole in the yard with pecking chickens, and a patch of sand for a dance floor. The golden memories that I have of our month off the coast of Guinea (West Africa) now always make me chuckle. It wasn't always that way. Days after returning home, I still pinched myself in the morning when I awoke in comfort and immediately checked my cupboards for the overflowing Trader Joe's groceries. A cold sweat whetted my brow when I saw white rice. And even a whisper of djembe drums had me wishing for a beer.
Last night, I looked at my friend and was struck with just how much her life has changed. These little babies forever shift your priorities, your heart, your impulses. Many of my close friends are mothers or are in the process of becoming one. I am inspired by their bravery, sometimes saddened by their movement away from our friendship, and motivated by their dedication to nurture, sustain, and love these needy beings. I can only fathom the connection, the devotion, and the joy.
One day, I hope to embark on my own journey towards motherhood. But tonight I'm heading into the bathroom to pop yet another pill. A magic pill that allows my life a few more ho-hum evenings like this one where I'll brush my teeth and fall asleep reading after the first few pages.
I can't wait to come over and cook you and Daniel dinner when you have your first breast friend!
Posted by: Claire Bidwell Smith | December 04, 2008 at 06:21 AM