The Book of Ruth Chapter 9: Wet Behind the Ears
1,2,3 JUMP! I raise her above my head and splash her into the water.
She beams. Excited. Invigorated. We swim. Our favourite. I twirl her around and she tries to catch her breath from all the excitement.
I bounce her in and out of the water. She growls her deep, ferocious Ruth growl. These are some of the best moments of my life. Swimming with my daughter. Just the two of us. Present. Here. Together. As we splishy splashy around, I keep feeling these pangs. That inner clock chimes, telling me change is just around the river bend.
She will be 1 on the 8th. 1. One whole year will have passed.
She doesn’t just look at me anymore. She looks out into the world. She is taking it all in. She has different cries instead of one big shriek. She is. So. Spicy. Her somewhat fiery personality is bursting through. Like when the levee breaks, there’s no going back. She smiles. Wide. Showing off her Ruthie toothies. But lets you know when she does. Not. Like. Something. She has this smirk. Her half-mouth smile. I hope she doesn’t adopt my melancholy. I want her to be gleeful like her dad.
Soon I will not be enough for her bubbling curiosity, her desire for peers, her gushing need for stimulation. We aren’t there yet, but I feel it coming. Soon.
As we glide through the water the world slips away. I would live here forever. If they asked us to repeat one moment for the rest of time when we go, this would be it for me. It’s one of the only times I’ve truly felt I belonged.
Ruth is water. We all are. Literally, we’re like 60% H2O. Motherhood is water. Fluid, engulfing, untamable. The emotions flow through me more than ever. Pelting down on me like a waterfall. Sometimes I feel I may drown but mostly the stream washes over me and I am somehow stronger, refreshed. And exhausted from all the effort.
I hear the rain setting of her sound machine when I’m not at home. Phantom noises eddying me back to my babies. Ruth and Brisket. I long to be alone, but I can’t stay away long. That’s just me.
From the tears I cried while pregnant and depressed to the water that broke to get her here, to the tears of joy that spring to my eyes whenever anyone asks me when her first birthday is. The 8th. August 8th. She forms big real tears of her own now. They roll down her face when she bonks her head while trying to pull herself up. ‘That must have startled you! I know, I know it hurts, baby” I coo while trying to kiss her head before she moves my hand away to try again.
I’ll never forget the nurses teaching us how to give itty-bitty-not-yet-5lb Ruth a bath in the NICU. We studied as if there’d be a test. I even bought the exact same soap they used so she would be familiar with the scent when she came home. She hated baths. At first. The temperature shift startled her. Now, bath time is one of her favourite times of the day. Her reliable, daily ritual. How quickly she changes. She reminds me I can change too. I need to stop digging my heels in and go with the flow like she does so effortlessly. Sometimes with a Ruthie roar, but always barreling forward, regardless of past failures, head first unto the breach.
I’ve never drank so much as when I first started breastfeeding. I couldn’t stop. My body figuring out how to supply exactly what this tiny thing needed. I was so often parched, gulping big gulps day after day. Me and my body eventually figured it out, but it taught me the importance of proper hydration. No one likes a tired and thirsty mum.
As she learned to eat solids, I kept a bowl beside me. I hate sticky fingers. I would dunk and wash her hands in it when the meal was over. We started with a tiny ramekin and as she grew, the bowl got bigger and bigger too. The water would drip onto the floor and Brisket would lick the falling baby-food laden elixir as I brought her to the sink to properly rinse off.
She started blowing raspberries on my shoulder. My arms. My thighs. She giggles to herself. She’ll sit in her high chair blowing away. The spittle rolling down her chin as she grins her prideful, crooked smile.
I don’t want to forget any of this. But I know new memories will replace the old. They will get diluted and muddy as the moments and years flow together and flood my mind.
I’m feeling a bit adrift. Out to sea as I approach year 2. A friend recently reminded me ‘eventually, we’re going to actually have to start teaching them things. You know? Like more than just ‘this is the colour yellow. And normcore is a forever aesthetic. Stuff like right from wrong, fascism, consent, big stuff.” I would be lying if I said I feel completely up to the task. I’m scared. But for now I’m holding onto this innocence. Both of ours. I focus on crawling, and falling, and big, big steps.
For me, motherhood is water. The love flows so freely, sometimes overwhelmingly. Is it safe to love anything this much? ‘
The sun beats down on us as we tread water during the heat wave that has permeated her first year. I suspect this wild weather will become our new normal. How will I explain all this to her some day? There are so many hard things we’re going to wade through as she grows. Not today though. Today we submerge ourselves in joy.
‘Keep swimming baby, keep swimming baby’, I cheerlead as she boisterously kicks and splashes. I say it to her but really, I’m saying it to myself.
