This morning was cuddling and playing one year old style (roll the ball, roll the ball, roll the ball, laugh and clap). And lovely hanging out with Idaho.
Then although I had/have 82348723523 things to do, I took Noah to the local art in the park festival/sale, the one where last year we bought the painting that made me think of Emily, a scant week before I ended up going into labour (and sure enough, next weekend is Noah’s first birthday party and a week Monday his actual birthday). Carl has been working insanely (18 hr days and yes, I know how much sleep that is) and was still stuck en crise so we were on our own; it was a last minute decision to walk over there.
Walking over was nice, since last year I am ashamed to admit that we drove the 8 blocks. I was that pregnant and tired out.
We just happened to hit the African dance/drumming session (there’s a beautiful outdoor stage there) and I settled on the grass with Noah. He loved it. And he got up and danced! Standing up all by himself, he bounced and wriggled and clapped! I mean without holding on to anything at all! The boy could walk if it would occur to him. But I can truly say he got up and danced before he could walk.
Since dancing (badly) is one of my not-so-secret joys I felt giddy. Since the day that boy was born we have danced with him – holding him, with him holding onto things – and although I bet he’d've danced anyway I just felt this amazing energy out of it, good things from me and humanity to him. I hope I can hang onto that when what gets passed on is the darker side.
Noah was more entranced by the flowers in the park than the art, but that is just fine. The only thing I bought was an organic wild blueberry yoghurt parfait from some very earnest vendors and Noah and I shared it under a tree.
Life could hardly get any better than sharing blueberries after dancing, I tell you.
I would like to end it there, but there is more.
We came home and I was eager to show Carl and pulled out the broadway Lion King soundtrack to see if totally different pseudo-African music would help Noah dance the same way.
And then I remembered in a visceral rush how I used to dance to that most every day while Emily was in my womb, in the sunlit kitchen in our old house, because I wanted to dance with her too. So I cried. But you know? I’m glad she was so present in the day too, thinking about how that painting found us and her music. It was sad, but right.
And we dragged Carl out for a quick picnic dinner in the park – nothing fancy, sandwiches and apples – and it was good, still.
