Tuesday, June 8, 2010

Niagra Biscuits*

*I found this jotted in a work notebook from 4 years ago...

I went to New York for the first time last week, stayed in midtown, in on business only for three days and when I tell my grandmother Priscilla about it she tells me a story about when she first went to New York, also when she was thirty. It was a package tour that included Niagra Falls. What was Niagra Falls like? I ask her. She tells me that when she was a girl (she's 89 now) her family always had shredded wheat biscuits for breakfast, and that the box they came in had a picture of Niagra Falls, and that was exactly what Niagra Falls looked like.

And now

And now, of course, I have to take back every shitty, cynical thing I've ever said about being a mother*, because here he is, asleep on my belly, making grunting little animal sounds and rooting, occasionally, for a warmer, softer spot to put his nose. And I love him unconditionally, of course; I don't care if he says dumb things outside a Japanese restaurant or (of more immediate concern) if he vomits on my shirt. Actually, I'm going to love him no matter what he does, and I'm probably going to love 97% of every thing he does.

P.S. re: the previous post: yes, his cheeks are fat like peach pudding and his hands almost constantly engaged in a fascinating duet, and all that awful poetic blablabla, but really those things have very little to do with who my son is or why I love him.

*And, in fact, I retract every shitty & cynical thing I've ever said about anything, because while I'm fond of saying such things, they nearly always end up being misguided and embarrassing and wrong in retrospect. From now on I will say only sunny and optimistic things.