Sometimes, present-me speaks to present-me.
Sometimes, present-me speaks to me-of-the-past. Those conversations go something like this:
Dumb! Dumb! Dumb! Soooo dumb!Me-of-the-past is usually not allowed to talk, lest she try to make lame excuses for her silliness.
Ugh. That was so embarrassing!
Please don't ever do that again.
Future-me is a strange one. She visits once in a while.
She visited me at around week-four after Emeth's birth.
The days were long and dark. The jaundice. The blood tests, needle after needle into my newborn's heels. The endless feedings. The pain and the weariness and the questions and confusion as to why my child did not fit the descriptions in the books I read about newborns! Did I mention the endless feedings? A little person who demanded me, me, and more of me.
She said to me (in a very serious tone),
Not too long from now, Emeth will cry and there will be nothing you can do for him. When he is 7, 17, 67, his heart will break in ways you cannot mend. He will desire things your arms will not satisfy.
Right now, he just wants you.Suddenly, the endless feedings didn't seem so bad.
He is hungry? I can feed him.
He needs to be held? I have arms.
He wants me? I have me!
Spring broke open in my darkness.
You have me, little ones.
You will always have me.