Yesterday I washed all the tiny clothes we’ve got so far for the LD in Ivory Snow—apparently a must-do for babies’ sensitive skin. I put them into the cold cycle to avoid shrinkage (though I cannot imagine how they could possibly get smaller), transferred them into the dryer on low heat, then pulled them out and dumped them in the hamper. The scent that wafted up with that last step blew me away. I may have little to no experience with babies, but even for me, Ivory Snow casts a powerful spell.
I kept my nose close to the hamper as I waddled up the stairs—the many, many stairs—to our bedroom, lifting it only to empty the clothes onto our bed for folding. Except I couldn't fold. Not yet. In slow motion, I obeyed some deep instinct and sank my head into the middle of the fluffy pile of onesies and sleepers. Soft fuzzy pastel creatures—or were they clouds shaped like creatures?—surrounded me, and I seemed to float in a bubble of baby powder. I wanted to hug a teddy bear, and wondered when the little white Persian kittens would come tumbling into the room to join me. Wrong commercial, but that’s what I was thinking.
Then, at the edge of my consciousness came a groggy suspicion: that threatening this clean, soft wonderfulness was something more urgent, less delicious … that part-and-parcel of this intoxicating smell was the certainty of it morphing … into the unmistakable pong of a poopy diaper. Yes, I was sure of it: Ivory Snow = imminent diaper changing.
And still … still I felt awash in tender, loving feelings. As I finally lifted my head from the bed, suddenly I knew that with Ivory Snow, I could face the poopiest of poos and come out smiling. I could be an Ivory Snow woman.
So third trimester dementia has set in nicely. My nesting urges are fierce and undeniable (poor Craig); most of the weekend was spent in preparation for the LD. Except for about an hour today.
At about 4 p.m., I crawled up to the bedroom from a marathon of cooking, pulled the covers back from the bed, and tucked in. Mid- to late-afternoon is a glorious time to be in this bed. A skylight directly overtop of it lets in either hypnotic, gentle sun or murky, soothing grey. Two cats inevitably jump in, one on either side of me, and purr their most luxurious purrs. It was raining today, and heavy drops drummed rhythmically against the skylight. Outside, a lone bird kept up a happy song. Amid these sounds, I fell into a light snooze, made all the more decadent by the understanding that soon, soon, such quiet, indulgent naps will be rare treats, rather than the sort of thing I can do whenever I want.
I know this and I am ready for it. But I love right now, too. I love this odd, dreamy land between what was and is, and what will be.
I too washed a few things in IVORY SNOW but I dried them outdoors to get that special East Coast salt air aroma to introduce LD to his roots. Love meme
Posted by: joan riggs | March 17, 2008 at 12:39 PM