Finn at 6 months

Sweet Finn has been here with us for just over six months now. It feels like no time at all since I was oh-so-very pregnant, sipping from that strange cocktail that is the last few days before giving birth: a combination of excitement, anxiety, anticipation, boredom and discomfort. I know I went about my life mostly as usual, shepherding Oliver through his comforting rhythm of meals and play, books and baths, songs and arguments, but my clearest memories from those days are the occasional stolen moments of quiet: pausing over a half-made bed to watch the poplars don their golden coats then let them go, leaves spinning headily across the sky; walking at night under the late-fall stars, footsteps heavy, hands resting on my taut skin; laying in the bath and watching the imprint of a foot appear and then fade.

And then he was here, sea-wet and smooth, already chubby-armed and round faced, and instantly I couldn't remember what our home was like without his sweet, serene presence. "He seems dreamy" my mom said during an early visit, and it's true. He loves to watch the world around him with quiet intensity. His brother or his daddy make the best entertainment, but the bamboo outside our bedroom window tossed on the breeze will do, or a toy held delicately in his hands, or even those hands themselves, examined from all sides, turned, stretched, fingers opened and closed. I wrote a poem a long time ago, more than a decade now, but I think it was about Finn all along. It's called Hands.

Curled spiders
all around the room,
I watch our hands.

We grow older
leave home
find god
leave god.

We hold god
in our hands,
release spiders
into the air.

That's what it looks like when he plays with his hands--as if his fingers are wrapped in an invisible spiderweb and he is pulling and stretching the shimmering strands with absolute concentration and wonder, as if he is playing with the trailing links to wherever he was before.

So Finn sits on my hip, or in the Ergo on my chest, or on the floor and watches his busy family spin around him, and I watch Finn and wonder who he will be at three, at ten, fifteen, twenty three, fifty. Or, more often, I don't--I hold him tight but stay on the move, meeting Oliver's louder needs and the pressing minutia of the day, until a jolt brings me up short and reminds me to slow down and really look at this little one, the little brother, sweet giggler, goofy-grinned guy. I meet his eyes and he gazes back with wholehearted delight.

Born into the role of little brother, I worry sometimes that he will be overshadowed by the joyous, chattering tumbleweed of his older sibling. He is so often quiet, fussing gently to remind me of his need to nurse or be changed, quickly soothed. Pushed too far, though, his wails reach deep into my primitive mother-brain, leaving me incapable of answering a simple question or carrying out a basic task until I have lifted, cuddled, quieted and can breathe again.

He is finding other ways to communicate his needs, too. Lately he has adopted a stuttering chuckle that means "I want it!", and a particular cry when the object of his attention leaves the room. Most frequently heard is his gasp of delight when Oliver appears for the first time in the morning or the 40th time of the afternoon. Daddy coming home at the end of the day is worth a full-body lunge towards the door, whole body smiling, arms held out. And when he wants Mama, only Mama will do, a sentiment conveyed by his laser-like lock on me as he tracks my every move. No complaints here--nothing sweeter than gathering in that perfect bundle of love and want and holding him in the space just over my heart.

Happy half-birthday precious Finn. We are so glad you are here.