which way do the clocks turn?
By lucindasmith03 on March 12, 2014
last sunday's wake up call sounded to the thppppbth, bakabakabaka, thppppbth coming from the crib in the room next door. there is no "sleeping in" on the weekends when you have a baby. not unless your partner decides to take one for the team, leaving you the whole bed and an extra hour to snooze. that there is what you call a clutch performance and it was HUGE since daylight savings was saying it was six a.m. when it was actually only five. heroics like that make you want to do something really special for a person. you know, to show your profound gratitude. so around seven, i shuffled out of the bedroom, traded off with my husband and left him the whole house while it was still dark and quiet enough for to salvage some sleep.
i loaded the baby into the car and we headed to abuelita's house for the day. it's the same house i grew up in and the place my siblings and i now call "the family home". the drive is not that far - only a few towns over - but it feels like another world; another time. the visit was unplanned, so when i walked in - baby on left hip and tray of coffees in right hand - to an empty house, i was only mildly surprised.she must be at church. we passed the time exploring the ol' homestead. memories were ignited by each room: my dad's office, where the desk lamp burned late every night as he prepared work for the next day; my sister's bedroom, where the wall-to-wall bookshelves make an impressive private library and a good source for some classic children's books; the loft, where we flipped through family photos my mother keeps in a wooden chest; and my bedroom, where we played with the same stuffed animals that sat on the pillows when i was a kid. walking around the home where you lived your childhood with your OWN child is kind of mind-blowing.
when my mom came home she had bagels and more coffee, which we enjoyed while helping the baby discover his food's route from table to mouth (a tricky and silly adventure that has its own story for another time). he barely finished his banana, smashing the last chunk into his eye as he rubbed it with sleep. once he was down for his nap, i left him in my mom's care while i went out for a run. running on the c&o canal brings back such vivid memories of my father. it's like he's with me whenever i'm there. i got lost in my mind with thoughts about runs we did together that one summer after my freshman year in college. as i approached the turn-around point, i remembered how he'd come home after having run to that same spot, bragging about finishing "just an easy thirteen [miles]" and had stopped midway to watch the kayakers navigate the white waters below. when i was done, i sat and stretched in the same gravel parking lot where he and i had stretched after every run together. only i have *these* memories of him. they're mine. my brother and sisters have their own intimate memories of him; my mother has countless more. but those moments are for each of us to cherish - gifts from my dad.
funny how everyone was springing forward while i spent the day slipping back.
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