Playing hooky

I haven’t done anything.

I’ve done way too much.

The last few weeks have been a blur. No, wait, all five months of my daughter’s life have been a blur.

Tonight was the first parent meeting at my son’s school since we started going there in fall 2008 that we have missed. My son has been sick, then my husband got sick, and after days of me putting off everything (and not catching up from holiday break of no childcare), I could not keep pushing ahead. And my baby wasn’t going to let me anyway.

Last night I tried to go see the documentary Lunch Line at Busboys & Poets downtown. I’d been cooped up all weekend and knew my son would be staying home again, so I figured I deserved to go out for something that might contribute to some writing, and certainly to my own understanding of an important issue.

I arrived at 8:05 just after the film started, and, at 9:05, just before it ended, my phone did a little dance on the table. Sitting in the back, I was able to duck down and answer long enough to hear my daughter screaming on the other end.  I hung up and confirmed by text that I was summoned.

So tonight, when she hadn’t napped well, I pretty much decided to bail on the meeting. I even had the teacher’s blessing. But still. We were actually going to sew something I’d otherwise have to do at home alone: not my strong suit.

So I still thought I might rally. But after the baby had resisted my first two attempts to put her down, I gave in. And then, when her weight shifted from a being who needed soothing to a hefty lump that would not stir, I just sat there and felt the fuzzy weight of her, warm in my arms.

Yes, I would still go sit in front of a light box for another few hours before I would creep back into the room and spend most of the night with her nestled in my armpit. But for those few moments, holding her in the rocking chair reminded me what the word bliss means.