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Archive for the ‘Rite of Passage’ Category

When the beep-beep became a tick-tock

I woke up.

Something changed over the past week. My ears strained – there it was. The change. The whoosh of movement next door, captured by sensitive technology, alternated with a gentle tick-tock. I quickly checked the device, making sure it was working. Tick-tock? Comforted that it was fully functional, I tiptoed to her room.

A week ago the same baby monitor left my nerves in tatters.

Every sound from the machine echoed within me. My body responded with jumps and palpitations. The supposedly reassuring beep-beep indicating normal breathing from baby, jarred miniscule synapses between nerve-endings behind my eyes and inside my ears. With abnormal responses in my breathing.

It shattered the silence of the night with it’s rhythmic incantations. The slightest change jolted my eyelids, my own heartbeat drowned the beep-beep, my bare feet found their way to her bedside. Fumbling. A slow exhale normalized my symptoms as the precious parcel wiggled in her dream and expertly closed her mouth around the misplaced pacifier.

Anxious moments followed the dummy-in procedure, waiting for any kind of response and when there was none, the returning to my bed – wide awake. Cold and displaced. From where I then proceeded to watch the beeping monster on the bedside table and let the cycle repeat itself till the break of day.

By the third night I could distinguish between dream-moans and real-wake moans. I could inhale normally between the beep-beep and its unpredicted gaps or speed-ups. My heart did not escape through my throat. My mind did not chase after normal sounds around me. And I could avoid the stare down of the monster when I kicked off my slippers. I managed a few drifty hours of sleep.

By the fifth night I could casually stroll into her room (gowned and slippered), avoid eye contact and persist in establishing a sleeping pattern. I even had a few hours of blissful deafness towards the beep-beep. Although the sound remained invasive when not asleep. And I woke up to a knot-free stomach and un-puffy eyes. Without a glance towards the source of the sound.

Now it was a week later.

I gently surfaced to a sense of change. The mist of worry dissipated. I tiptoed to her side. Dummy in. Patted her on the back. Waited a moment to settle. Tiptoed back to my bed. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Sleeping pattern established. Tick-tock. Lulled back to my own sweet remains of a dream. Tick-tock.

It was with the sounds of sunrise that the reality hit me. Where did the piercing beep-beep go?

The power of adaptation. It re-established my admiration for the man and his theory – Darwin. A subtle change in sensitivity towards circumstances that makes the unbearable bearable. The choice of waiting and the reward of gaining.

The power of allowing beep-beeps to turn into tick-tocks.

I survived. I adapted. I waited. I gained.

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My baby with baby

My baby with baby

“Stairs or lift?” I asked my round-bellied-pregnant little girl, Andy. She glanced at the clock behind the reception desk, looked down at the take-away cappuccinos in our hands and smiled at me.

 

“Stairs. It’s only 11h00 and I’m sure they won’t mind waiting few more minutes for their coffee? I need to exercise this baby into real life.” The coffee sloshed against the sides of the too hot paper cups as we settled into the rhythm of climbing stairs.

Twelve steps, eleven sloshes, and the first landing.

 

We spaced the paper cups on a step – four; one for me, one for Andy, one for my bald-headed friend and one for her chemo roommate – for a quick blow on our scorched hands. I observed with caution as she bent with more than a groan to pick up her two cups, hissing a breath in and whistling one out.

Twelve steps, eleven sloshes, the first floor.

 

“No Mom, they are on the second floor, come on!”

I watched the exaggerated waggle and lift an experienced eyebrow, mumbling to myself,

“Ok.”

Around the corner we waltzed.

Twelve steps, eleven sloshes and the second landing.

 

The few seconds break to rescue our burning hands, blowing, panting and giggling before tackling the last around-the-corner. I could see the door onto the second floor. In a minute we would chat over coffee.

Twelve more steps.

 

“Um, Mom?”

My own seasoned motherly instinct grasped it before the question registered. I looked at her, just knowing.

“Is this normal?”

She pointed at the puddle starting at her feet.

 

My heart jumped for joy – and fear. My firstborn was about to give birth to her firstborn.

“We better phone Luke” I sounded unruffled but my insides conveyed a different message. I looked at my watch.

The moment it all started, and ended – 11h01.

 

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Feeling the movements

 

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A Rite.
 
Beatrix is a rite.
Her birth was my rite of passage.
Beatrix over three weeks

Beatrix over three weeks

  
It is not the meaning of her name,
it is the meaning of her existence.
 
 
She now belongs to my clan
And I am her Ouma
 
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She is pretty, pink and petite.
She is a good combination of father and mother.
 
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She is clever, aware and present.
She is fierce in her demands for the basics
She is fragile in her perfect innocence
 
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Her toes curl and twinkle when I kiss her feet
and her skin crinkle in tiny goosebumps when my old fingers gently stroke
 
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She makes me smile when she cries and she makes me cry when she smiles…
 
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Winnie the Pooh must have known Beatrix when he wondered about the smallest thing that takes up the most room in one’s heart.
 
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I have moved into that golden phase of life called Grandparenthood
because of Beatrix Anna Mclachlan
 
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