the precious present

My life is so full these days. I can hardly remember what it was like to just come home from work and just do whatever. I could hike if I wanted. I could hang with friends. I could cook. But it was all on my time. So leisurely. So carefree. Last night Jeff downloaded on to this computer some pics off our old camera - pics that were taken mere days before Eliana's conception. We were in Mendocino at our dear friend Melissa's wedding. It was absolutely gorgeous. We stopped on the way up the coast and tasted wine in teeny tiny, picturesque vineyards. We stayed in a swanky b and b way beyond our means. We were surrounded by the food and wine culture that defines that region of the world. I definitely have a part of my personality that would absolutely love to live that life (Jeff calls me the Snobby Pauper because I have such high class food and wine tastes, yet can't really afford to spend my money that way...). These pictures couldn't have come at a better time.

So back to real life. This week has been extra busy for me because I just added teaching three evening dance and yoga classes to my schedule. I am super excited about it because they are all taking place at this beauteous new studio downtown. I haven't taught in a space as pristine and welcoming as this ever. It's a great new project to be a part of and I feel very passionately about doing whatever I can to make this Downtown Dance Collective ( http://www.ddcmontana.com/) thrive. But it's definitely a lot. Especially for the next few weeks until my school year ends.

So there I was last night. I had had a rocking class (even though I claimed to Jeff before hand that I should take up some healthy habit like cocaine to help me have the energy to get through my life) and was all hyped up on the natural goofball, powerwoman, rockstar endorphins that seem to fill me after I dance really hard. I drove home all amped, so excited. I honestly hadn't given a thought to Eliana or Jeff or the pile of laundry that needed to be folded, the chicken pesto that I had planned to cook. I was totally in the moment.

I walked in the house and could hear Eliana's "I'm tired and generally not too happy" whine. Jeff looked at me and said something like, "She's done. She's had her bath. She needs her mom" and handed her to me. Okay. Quick life change. So I finished getting her ready for bed, put her in her growbag, and sat down to nurse her to sleep. As her little sharky mouth was doing what she does best, I smelled something really lovely coming from her bottom. I take her out of her growbag, out of her sleep suit, check things out. Mega poop. So there she is, lying on the changing table, whining because she's naked and covered in shit, and I'm trying to clean her up when, out of nowhere, this jet stream of brown liquid shoots out of her bottom, spraying down the table, the futon, a few clothes lying around, her mom's rockstar sweatshirt. I let out a scream, as I'm so shocked and she's really never done anything like this before. Jeff comes running in, I'm sure thinking that she's rolled off the table or some other equally horrifying thing.

"Dude. I've never seen anything like that. She just shot shit everywhere." I'm sort of shocked, coming down from my scream, still adjusting to life back at the ranch. As we're staring at our shit covered daughter, trying to decide what to do, we hear another sort of "pfhhh" sound and another jet stream, equally powerful, comes flying out of her teeny bottom. Good God, here we are.

We spring into action. I hold her as far away from me as possible and put her in the tub (which still hadn't been drained --that's the kind of trashy house we're keeping these days...). So there's Eliana, crying because she's sitting in lukewarm, dirty bathwater. I am rubbing the bar of soap all over her, trying to get every last shitty bit of foot, finger and va jay jay clean. Meanwhile Jeff has taken the cover of her diaper changer outside to hose off, has stipped the cover off the futon to put in the wash, and is out the door to buy, in desperation, more baby wipes, more diapers, a bottle of wine, a couple beers and, not to be forgotten, a box of maxi pads (yes, amidst all this, yours truly continues to bleed like a thirteen year old wearing a white Guess mini skirt, sitting in the front row. I seem to get my period every two weeks and it continues to be a gushy, disgusting, hormonal freak show. Too much information for you folks, perhaps, but critical in understanding the myriad layers of intensity happening in our household).

So finally the girl is clean. I get her all situated in a new pair of p.j.'s. It's now almost nine o'clock. I'm exhausted and, more importantly, ravenous. She has shat out any food that was in her system from our previous nursing. So I take what's left of my breasts and attempt to get some more milk out of their soft, saggy, shapeless selves. It doesn't seem like she's getting a whole lot (but can you ever tell?) I run with her to the kitchen and grab a banana. I sit back in the nursing chair and try to give hear a few banana bits to stop her up and fill her tum. One fabulous new discovery of hers is the ability to spit her food out. She actually likes to kind of gum it, suck on it a while, and then push it through her lips like garlic going through a press. Slowly and calculated, ending in a spitty/almost liquefied mush that I then have to clean up. She starts doing the garlic press lips thing with her banana. Our clean girl is now covered in banana mush. Luckily, I'm still in my stinky, sweaty dance clothes. Super! Built in towel system. I wipe my nasty gauchos over her chin, neck and grobag, give her a few more moments with the boob, and then put her in her crib. I tell her to go to sleep. And high tail out of the room to go eat my dinner.

The wails begin. She sits up cross legged in her crib and looks at me through the bars with this pathetic, how dare you leave me here face. I can't handle it anymore. My blood sugar is at a critical low. I look at Jeff and tell him to sit in there with her. He complies, and brings the computer in. Thank god for wireless and the New York Times on line.

I turn on some music to drown out her cries and sit down at the kitchen table with my plate of food and a big glass of wine. I remember the images of Jeff and I laughing on the Mendocino beach. I remember looking at my body, so pure and unstretched, my face, so free of all the smile and wrinkle lines that I seem to be accumulating as quickly as the dust bunnies on the floor since Elie's been born. I take a big sip of wine. And I know I wouldn't change a thing.