This time last week, I was up late finishing up the handcrafted Valentines that my second-grader and I had dreamed up for his classmates. I had a bunch of little heart-shaped cards to cut out, and was looping craft felt together to weave little pockets to hold sweet wishes for twenty-some children.
A noise my kiddo had made in the car on the drive home that day had reminded me of Hamilton, so I put that on for us to listen to. After his little hands tired in our festive factory that night, I sat up with my headphones on to carry on where we'd left off in both the project and the songs.
As I was working, the muscle memory kicked in: I remember how to do this. I remember what I did before, when this orange monstrosity overtook our government before; I made things, I listened to music that compelled me to keep moving, and I let my mind wander to words I wanted to string together. I probably listened to Hamilton a thousand times in those years.
When I was pregnant with my second, I was so worried about what would happen next, and wondered whether it was wise to throw the dice another time on the potential upheaval of a baby. Many people said to me that it would be different this time around, because I had already learned so much from doing it the first time. I certainly had my doubts.
Really, that has turned out to be true. I've been here before. I remember. There's a deep muscle memory about that heave-ho of early parenting that makes the dance smoother, more familiar so quickly this time around.
But, honestly, with my firstborn, it was never baby that made things hard. It was the insanity of the adult world, the intensity of doing the sacred work of raising a small human against the backdrop of daily cruelties with little help, pushing back the tide of history being made in the worst way to keep a peaceful place for my baby to thrive.
So, having yet again indulged in one of the most profound acts of optimism humans can embark upon, I have been rewarded with another blissfully cheerful, easy baby, to be raised amid absolute stupidity from the generations that came before. It feels punishing, foolish to be having to fight these fights again. I am profoundly angry at those that were too foolish or lazy to prevent this awfulness from descending upon my babies’ childhoods again. I wish I could protect them from the perversity of all of this, and could give them back the bandwidth that is stolen from me in my hypervigilence.
And, yet, it is easier. I have done this before. I have collected my materials, put on musical motivation, and tried to find the words as I wrap my life and strength around my baby once more. It is tiring, but there's only one way through, and my version of it advances on many fronts.
Now, of course, my previous baby is a big kid. He has so many questions. As we race along with lyrics that outline the creation of so much that's being shredded now, I develop new muscles and unlock unknown dexterity to supply explanations for history repeating and unprecedented times. I do this even while I struggle to make it make sense to myself. And it happens alongside the ordinary joys and pains of life that goes on even as this chaos rages.
Around here, we are working to expand love, share sweetness, and also stand up for what's right.
A week ago, I pushed aside the horrors to engage my hands in the creation of some love and normality for the children around me. And I find that the contrast gives me fuel for the fight ahead.
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